Monthly Archives: March 2026

Epizeuxis

Posted on March 7, 2026 | Leave a comment

Epizeuxis: Repetition of the same word, with none between, for vehemence. Synonym for palilogia.

“Milkweed! Milkweed! Milkweed! Milkweed! No mow! No go! Milkweed! Milkweed! Milkweed!”

We were protesting and protesting hard! We were throwing rocks and stomping our feet. “Beltway Boomers” were poised to mow a field of milkweed. As far as we were concerned it was a crime—a crime against the Monarch Butterflies who came here every year to eat milkweed leaves, mate, and lay their eggs underneath the leaves.

Hundreds of Monarchs descended on the field every year. It was a beautiful sight—the fluttering orange wings dancing above the field, but now they were to be destroyed by “Beltway Boomers” for the sake of a “flat and tidy field.” After they mowed the field, they planned on soaking it with herbicide—totally destroying it and replacing the dead Milkweed with gravel and flowering shrubs.

The “Monarch Club” viewed “Beltway Boomers” as a criminal enterprise. Their business model was oriented toward eliminating endangered species from properties before the properties could be declared refuges. Then, they could develop the properties without fear of legal injunctions from environmentalists.

The Monarchs started arriving. The mower operators were struck by their beauty and refused to mow the Milkweed. “Beltway Boomers” went ahead and hired helicopters to spray the field with herbicide. Like the mowers, the helicopter pilots were struck by the butterflies and refused to spray. Subsequently, “Beltway Boomers” decided to soak the field with gasoline and torch it.

Boomers’ CEO, Stan Statan, showed up to “help.” He was carrying 5-gallon can of gasoline to the field, to be the first to saturate it. After all, he was the boss. He set down the can. The field’s geology littered it with flint. When CEO Statan set down the can, it’s steel bottom threw out a spark. The can exploded and set CEO Statan on fire. He looked like a big candle wearing an expensive suit. He burned to a crisp and the fire quickly burned itself out with little damage to the field.

Needless to say, the plans for the field were cancelled and it was made into a Monarch refuge. Ironically, it was named the “Stan Statan Monarch Butterfly Refuge.”

The “Monarch Club” is now protesting the mowing of all milkweed fields in the state of New Jersey. They are making some headway in the legislature on a bill that prohibits milkweed mowing everywhere.

The “Monarch Club” success has spawned a number of other anti-mowing environmentally-grounded initiatives. “Kill the Klover Kutters” (KKK) is the most radical. It includes residential properties and advocates planting land mines in lawns’ clover patches. Their theme song is a bawdy tune titled “Roll Me Over in the Clover.” One of their mines blew up a dog doing its “business” on its neighbor’s clover patch. This is being referred to as “collateral damage” by “Kill the Klover Kutters.” They sent their “thoughts and prayers” for the loss of their clover to the owners of the lawn, ignoring the loss of the dog.

Definitions courtesy of “Silva Rhetoricae” (rhetoric.byu.edu.

Daily Trope is available in an early edition on Amazon in paperback under the title of The Book of Tropes for $9.95. It is also available in Kindle format for $5.99.

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Epicrisis

Posted on March 6, 2026 | Leave a comment

Epicrisis (e-pi-cri’-sis): When a speaker quotes a certain passage and makes comment upon it.

“When the moon becomes a crusty chicken reflected in the arson-fire of life, it is time to get the fu*k out of there. You have lost your marbles and they have lost you. You are nothing. You are the void. You used to love her, but you hate her now.” Pellagra Millapapa.

Millapapa is one of the most obscure philosophers in the canon of Western thought. This is due partially to the fact that he never published a book. Rather, he would tear up small paper squares and dictate to his mistress Esmeralda who would write down what he said for “the posterior’s sake.” He would stuff his writings in toilet dispensers in public restrooms in New York, Pennsylvania, and New Jersey. His works would frequently jam the dispensers and he was wanted for vandalism.

The quotation above was found on a paper towel—Millapapa’s longest extant writing. It catalogues his struggle with mental illness and his difficult transformation from a lover to a hater. The “crusty chicken” is clearly a metonymy for his penis and his nearly life long struggles with various strains of what he called “the clap” a trope with the dual meaning of applause and gonorrhea, building a bridge between them and illustrating the complexities of human caring.

When we think of Millapapa, we must think of a man with no compass, no GPS, wandering the hills and dales of life, failing at every turn in the road, yet foolishly driving on. His writings, as they say, “stink.” The only reason we know anything about him at all is from his mistress Esmerellda’s well-publicized trial for murdering Millapapa. She claimed he made her life meaningless with his “constant bullshit. She stabbed him to death when they were planting his writings in toilet paper dispensers on the New Jersey Turnpike. She stabbed him 147 times and was going to stab herself to death too, but she slipped on Millapapa’s blood and knocked herself unconscious. She was revived by a paramedic and taken to jail.

Millapapa’s and Esmerellda’s story is tragic. It is a cliche with no redeeming qualities. It is like most of our lives, without the murder, which gives it a marginal dimension of interest. Ironically, his writings are worth 100s of dollars. Their value has led to the vandalization of numerous public toilet toilet paper dispensers in New York, Pennsylvania, and New Jersey.

Definitions courtesy of “Silva Rhetoricae” (rhetoric.byu.edu.

Daily Trope is available in an early edition on Amazon in paperback under the title of The Book of Tropes for $9.95. It is also available in Kindle format for $5.99.

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Epilogus

Posted on March 5, 2026 | Leave a comment

Epilogus (e-pi-lo’-gus): Providing an inference of what is likely to follow.

Santa was coming to town. He knows if I’ve been bad or good. “Good” was the medium of exchange for desirable high-end gifts. I had expectations. They were low.

You’ve probably figured it out: I was going to get the same shit for Christmas as I did every year. I had the crap piled in my bedroom closet. I had 9 pairs of socks, all of them with weird Nordic snowflake patterns. I had two calculators with giant buttons. One of the calculators was modeled after Tweety Bird, the cartoon character. It was the perfect gift for Son of Nerd—the Prince of Nerdville, home of the nerds pounding on their calculators and twisting their Rubic’s Cubes all day long, picking their noses, and polishing their mood rings.

The worst were the books with stupid titles like Republic, Tom Sawyer, and Clockwork Orange—the stupidest title of all. I immediately threw the books in my closet along with the other crap. I couldn’t picture myself sitting in a chair staring at a book. What a waste of time when I could be playing with fireworks at the playground, or digging for treasure down by the Passaic River where my Uncle Buzz told me pirates buried their treasure on the way back to New Jersey from plundering New York.

What I really wanted was a pellet gun and a “Saucy Susan Doll.” My reason for wanting a pellet gun almost goes without saying! I wanted to shoot things! The neighborhood squirrels loomed large on my hit list. I had a plan for baiting them with peanuts outside my bedroom window. After squirrels, it was streetlights. It was like shooting out stars—I could kill the Big Dipper! Ha ha!

I had discovered Saucy Susan in my big brother’s dresser. I wouldd look through his stuff every month or so—looking for things I could incriminate him with. Since pot had been legalized, there wasn’t anything much I could look for. I would just leave it to chance. It was by chance that Saucy Susan appeared. I pulled too hard on a drawer and it came out of the dresser. Behind where it had been, there was a rolled up flesh-colored vinyl object. When I pulled it out, it unrolled. It was a deflated naked woman! I found her nozzle and blew her up. I was stunned by what I saw.

I rolled her back up and put her back in her hiding place. I asked my brother about her. Initially he was mad because I’d been ransacking his room again. Then, he opened up and told me all about his relationship with Saucy Susan. It was lurid and weird—just what I wanted at that point in my life.

That evening the family went to Willow Tree Mall to meet with Santa and tell him what we wanted for Christmas. I told Santa I wanted a pellet gun and a Saucy Susan doll. After I was done talking to Santa, he called my parents over and they had a talk. Two days later, I met Dr. Rancho for the first time. She is my therapist and she looks a lot like Saucy Susan! She told me her weirdly shaped mouth was the result of a car accident.

Through it all, I didn’t rat out my big brother. He’s the weird one.

Definitions courtesy of “Silva Rhetoricae” (rhetoric.byu.edu.

Daily Trope is available in an early edition on Amazon in paperback under the title of The Book of Tropes for $9.95. It is also available in Kindle format for $5.99.

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Epimone

Posted on March 4, 2026 | Leave a comment

Epimone (e-pi’-mo-nee): Persistent repetition of the same plea in much the same words.

“Give me the apple! Hand over the apple! Give me the goddamn fu*king apple. Adam was going crazy for the shiny red apple that Eve was sensually rubbing up and down her slender firmly-shaped leg. she was what is called a “vixen” taunting Adam with her suggestive behavior. They were naked . . .”

My Sunday School teacher—Mr. Grauler—told it like it was—no watered-down version of the Garden of Eden. He swore. He painted an accurate portrait of the events that led Adam and Eve to get dressed and quit fooling around naked. We were only kids but we got it, much to the delight of Rev. Jones our pastor.

He had a scary gleam in his eye. The elderly church members lined up once a month to give him their Social Security checks after the Sunday service. We had hardly anything, yet Ma handed over her check. She was 70:and had a job cleaning and polishing bed pans at the county hospital. I asked her once why she gave her Social Security check to Rev. Jones. She told me that every check she gives him brings her one mile closer to heaven—12 miles per year. I did the math. Figuring she would die when she was eighty, and she was seventy now. So, she was going to die in 10 years, and she would earn 12 miles toward Heaven per year, she would be 120 miles closer to heaven.

After doing all the figuring, I realized I didn’t know how far away Heaven is. I looked in the Bible. I determined Heaven is “up” but I couldn’t find out how far up. People “ascended” to Heaven, but the Bible didn’t say how far they had to go. It didn’t seem that Ma’s 120 miles would get her to Heaven. At that point, I figured Rev. Jones was ripping her off.

I asked Rev. Jones his he was a fraud. His two minders, who always travelled with him, both reached into their suit coats. Rev. Jones said to me in a kind voivce “Adding miles is a metaphor for showing your commitment to the Lord.” I didn’t know what a metaphor was, so I asked Rev. Jones. He told me it was a non-literal construction of speech—a substitution of the usual word, that makes the speech more vivid and meaningful. In the case of “miles” they are being substituted for “commitment.”

I think I got it. But I think that that Ma and a lot of others took “miles” literally enough so it formed an incentive to fork over their Social Security checks each month.

One Sunday I went to Sunday School and nobody was there. The chairs were folded up and leaning against the wall. The stick-on cellophane “stained glass” had been removed from the windows. The candles were gone too.

We learned that Rev. Jones had fled to Belize after he had been accused of defrauding 100s of people with his “Miles to Heaven” scam. My mother was heartbroken. I vowed to hunt Rev. Jones down and bring him to justice.

I found him living in a luxury condo in Belize City. I confronted him with a baseball bat. He held up his hands and asked me if I wanted a job.

Now, I skipper a trawler off of Belize. We all know, Jesus was a fisher of men. I’m a fisher of Wahoo, MahiMahi, Tuna, etc. I have forgiven Rev. Jim his But, trespasses—to err is human. To forgive is divine. on the other hand, I’m waiting for an opportunity to drown him when he comes out fishing with me. I think that makes me a hypocrite.

Definitions courtesy of “Silva Rhetoricae” (rhetoric.byu.edu.

Daily Trope is available in an early edition on Amazon in paperback under the title of The Book of Tropes for $9.95. It is also available in Kindle format for $5.99.

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Epiplexis

Posted on March 3, 2026 | Leave a comment

Epiplexis (e-pi-plex’-is): Asking questions in order to chide, to express grief, or to inveigh. A kind of rhetorical question [–the speaker does not expect an answer].

Why do things have to change? Why does everything slip away? Why must there always be an end?

I had run over my Boss after work as I was leaving the parking lot. He was on his way to his car. He smiled and gave me a thumbs up before I swerved my SUV and ran him down, backed up, and ran over him again. I kept doing that until I was sure he was dead. Nobody saw me and I drove home without incident.

I told my wife what I had done and she said “Good job honey” and made me a gin and tonic. She made one for herself too. She told me not to worry my “handsome little head” about it.

I worked at a doorbell factory. I installed the musical ringers. We had twenty different tunes that customers could choose from. They were stylized versions of classical rock ‘n roll songs. My favorite was “Purple People Eater.” It was energetic and got you off the couch to answer the door. “Saturday Night Fever” was my second favorite. It put a dance in your step on the way to the door. My least favorite was the theme song from “Davy Crockett” which had briefly made the Top Ten some time in the 50s—I didn’t like how it praised little Davy for killing a bear “when he was only three.” It was total bullshit.

Everybody hated the Boss at the doorbell factory. He had a bowel problem and wore a diaper. He would poop with a smile on his face when you were meeting with him in his office, making it stink and making it hard to concentrate. He‘d ask “What’s the matter with you son?” and laugh, sounding like a barking squirrel. In addition, he was a sexist. He had five lawsuits pending when I killed him. He also continuously put the moves on my wife. That’s what pushed me over the edge. He invited her to his condo by herself to watch TV. I went along with her anyway. He answered the door naked and told me to “go wait” in my car. I refused. He pulled my wife inside and said “Have it your way loser” and slammed the door in my face.

I waited in the car and my wife came out about five minutes later. Her dress was torn and she told me she didn’t want to talk about it, but he was an animal. I asked her what kind of animal, and she said “probably an ape or a wolf.” That did it.

After I killed him, I took my car to the car wash to get rid of the blood. The attendant said “It looks like blood on your left fender.” I told him I had run over a deer. I didn’t notice, but the Boss’s glasses were stuck behind the front bumper. I rode around like that for a couple of months until I had my car inspected. The inspection guy found the glasses and held them up, and asked me where they had come from. I told him I had been looking for them. He gave me the glasses and I put them on. They severely blurred my vision and I ran into a tree as I left the inspection station.

I called AAA and they towed my car to “Billy Bent” a Mafia run auto-body shop. They told me they found some human hair under the chrome strip on the fender. If I was willing to make a monthly payment of $500 they would make it go away “forever.” I agreed.

I have been promoted to Boss. Everything is going well. Who says “Crime doesn’t pay?” Sure, Billy Bent keeps upping my monthly payment and I don’t sleep very well, but that doesn’t matter. I’m the Boss! What’s to complain about? Nothing.

Definitions courtesy of “Silva Rhetoricae” (rhetoric.byu.edu.

Daily Trope is available in an early edition on Amazon in paperback under the title of The Book of Tropes for $9.95. It is also available in Kindle format for $5.99.

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Epistrophe

Posted on March 2, 2026 | Leave a comment

Epistrophe (e-pis’-tro-fee): Ending a series of lines, phrases, clauses, or sentences with the same word or words.

My face looked silly. My clothes looked silly. My hair looked silly. No doubt, I was silly. I fit the dictionary definition: “lighthearted lack of seriousness.” Being silly was a serious problem. Ha ha!

It was my mother’s funeral. I decided to skip around her coffin singing “Knick Knack Paddy Wack” and jingling the little bells on my hot pants cuffs. My brother-in-law Duke didn’t think I was funny. He said, “Arnold, you are a total asshole” and punched me in the face a couple of times. As they were wheeling me to the ambulance I waved like the Queen Mother used to do and yelled “Rule Britannia!” Nobody laughed.

Nobody came to the hospital with me. My nose was broken in three places and Duke had knocked out one of my front teeth. Now that I was missing a front tooth, I talked like a hillbilly: “Can aah have uh shot a moonshaan?” I asked the nurse. I thought it was funny. She said, “Oh you poor silly man.” I pulled the sheet up from my feet, exposing my privates and saying “Peek-a-boo!” She threw my bedpan in my face and said “Peek-a-boo this you silly pervert!” My silliness was going nowhere. I had my surgery and when home.

The next day, I had to have my tooth fixed. I went to the dentist and said “I need to see the Tooth Fairy.” I was just kidding, but the receptionist asked me if I had an appointment. I told her “No” and she told me to take a seat. After a few minutes, she said “Ok silly, you can go in now. Go through that door over there.”

I thought it was a joke, but I went through the door anyway. It was a bar. I recognized the Tooth Fairy immediately. She was sitting on a stool next to Thumbelina. Then, I saw Puss ‘n Boots sipping a martini at a table with a Troll. Tinkerbell was arguing with The Boy With the Moon on His Forehead. I went up to the bar and did my missing tooth hillbilly routine for the Tooth Fairy. She looked at me like I was crazy and tapped my gum gap with her wand, said “silly” and “poof!” my tooth was restored. I thanked her, and started to leave, but I couldn’t move.

I woke up in a dentist chair. I felt my gums and my tooth was back in place! The dentist said “That anesthetic hit you pretty hard. Are you ok?” I had come back to my senses. I felt like doing something silly. I was at a loss so I just jingled my hot pants and slowly stood up. On my way to my Uber, I went up to the receptionist and gave her a quarter and told her I had found it under the dental chair’s headrest pillow. It was true. I jingled my hot pants bells and headed out the door. I was ready for another silly day doing silly things.

Definitions courtesy of “Silva Rhetoricae” (rhetoric.byu.edu.

Daily Trope is available in an early edition on Amazon in paperback under the title of The Book of Tropes for $9.95. It is also available in Kindle format for $5.99.

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Epitasis

Posted on March 1, 2026 | Leave a comment

Epitasis (e-pit’-a-sis): The addition of a concluding sentence that merely emphasizes what has already been stated. A kind of amplification. [The opposite of anesis.]

My balls wouldn’t stop itching. I took showers. I sprayed on Lotrimin, I changed my underpants three times a day. I went to a dermatologist. He gave me some blue cream that smelled like rutabagas. It didn’t do anything but stink up my crotch. Nothing worked. My balls wouldn’t stop itching.

I did some research on a Chinese commercial website called “Send Money Credit Card.” I found a “device” that was supposed to “stop the balls itching.” It was guaranteed to “cure itchy balls in people and dogs.” It looked like some kind of clamp with wires sticking out of it and two electrodes. I figured there was one electrode for each ball. The catalogue copy read: “Having the balls that itch? No more now! Clamp balls. Plug in wall! Balls smoke a little. Itch gone! Put balls in ice pack. All done. $295.00.”

I bought one of the devices. I was truly desperate. It was called the “No Scratch Balls Clamper.” it arrived one week later. I took it out of the package. The instructions were difficult to follow. I took off my pants, sat on the edge of my bed and tried to clamp it on my balls. There was a little silver hook that plugged into one of three slots. I found the right slot and the clamp was on. I unplugged the clock radio by my bed and plugged in the Clamper.

My balls were being electrocuted!

I couldn’t turn off the Clamper and couldn’t get it unplugged. My balls felt like they were on fire. Suddenly, I got a text message. I picked my phone up off the night stand. The message said: “hello electric ball! I monitor you from China. I have you credit card number and will charge $1,000 to let go your balls by remote. Don’t complain or your balls stuck electric forever.”

I was being extorted for $1, 000 to set my balls free! I felt like I was dying, so I agreed. I texted back “take money.” Almost immediately, the clamp popped open and I was freed. When the clamp first came off, my balls were swollen to the size of croquet balls. They quickly returned to normal and started itching again. I wanted to cry. I checked my credit card balance. It had been charged $1,000 for “get free.” I sat there scratching my balls and wondering what to do next.

Anyway, my daughter recommended I go to an herbalist for my balls. It was embarrassing to talk to her about it, but my daughter always gave good advice. The herbalist’s name was Ms. Carrot. I thought that was weird, but who am I the judge? She gave me capsules. I take one per day. The itch is cured. My balls swing free. Now, I’m itchin’ to have some kind of relationship with Ms. Carrot!

Definitions courtesy of “Silva Rhetoricae” (rhetoric.byu.edu.

Daily Trope is available in an early edition on Amazon in paperback under the title of The Book of Tropes for $9.95. It is also available in Kindle format for $5.99.

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