Category Archives: abbaser

Abbaser [George] Puttenham’s English term for tapinosis. Also equivalent to meiosis: reference to something with a name disproportionately lesser than its nature (a kind of litotes: deliberate understatement, especially when expressing a thought by denying its opposite)

“That cow is no weasel. That boiling kettle is no tray of ice cubes. You knew when you married me that I’m no faithful Boring Bob.” I was leading up to the end, from the weasel to Bob. We’d been married for two weeks and already I wanted out. Why?

She was irresponsible. She bought a used Toyota with our credit card. We had sworn to use bicycles for transportation. She complained because her job at the “Twirly” yo-yo factory was five miles from where we lived. What a joke. My job at the “Blessed Light” candle factory was 32 miles. I left for work at 3:00 a.m. every morning. I was only late once in my entire career. I had a sneezing fit on my bike and veered over a cliff. It was a fifty-foot drop. I broke my wrist.

Now that she’s in open rebellion with the Toyota, I’ve got to get her out of my life. If she won’t go gently, I’ll have to push her, and push her hard. I’m a man. She’s a woman. Get it?

I told her I was leaving. She asked me what had taken me so long, as if two weeks was a year, or something. I told her that initially I hadn’t seen how bossy she is and unwilling to follow most of my orders. I told her to paint our house. She said “No.” I told her to build bookcases in the living room. She said “No.” I told her to go kill us a deer for dinner. She said “No.” The list goes on. The tipping point was when she refused to watch my favorite TV show—“Gerry: Red Wing Goalie.” It is the most popular TV show here in Canada and it is on every night. It follows Gerry—his injuries, his battles with his seven former wives and his run ins with the Mounties for drunkenness, shoplifting, and murder. My favorite episode was when Gerry got dental implants. They showed the whole operation, right down to screwing in Gerry’s new teeth!

So, I sat there alone on the couch, cursing my wife in my head. She came down the stairs with two suitcases. She told me she was going to Joe’s. She said marrying me was a gigantic mistake, that she had loved Joe all along. It wouldn’t have been so bad if Joe wasn’t my older brother. He had been doing stuff like this to me all our lives. It started with him stealing my turtle, Perky. Now, he was stealing my wife, Lynette.

I got a lawyer. We couldn’t find any dirt oh her to establish infidelity as the grounds of divorce and save me a lot of money. But I was a different story. I’m in a video on the internet that is legend after only a week. It has over 1,000,000 hits. Without going into detail, I’m under a pile of 27 naked women singing “Are you lonesome tonight?” Since I got paid to do it, I don’t consider it infidelity, but I was married at the time, so there may be a problem.

Well, “Gerry: Red Wing Goalie” is coming on in five minutes. Tonight, he gets impaled on a hockey stick.

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

The 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.

Abbaser [George] Puttenham’s English term for tapinosis. Also equivalent to meiosis: reference to something with a name disproportionately lesser than its nature (a kind of litotes: deliberate understatement, especially when expressing a thought by denying its opposite)

It looks like the world is doing great—doing its lovely turning! The pollution. The endless greed. The killing of innocent people in wars. The abused women. The racism. The injustice. The poverty. Business as usual.

Why, just yesterday I pushed down a hungry homeless man. Bam! Right on the sidewalk. He jumped right in front of me and asked for a dollar. Bullshit! I had just put a dollar in the collection basket at church. Who do these people think we are? My dollar will go to somebody who actually needs it, like somebody whose lawnmower broke, or somebody who has a groundhog living under their garage. Pastor Benediction needs money too. I saw him at the liquor store. He bought a pack of Marlboro 27’s and a liter of “Fireball Whiskey.” My heart went out to him. If he runs out of cigarettes and whiskey during the week, he’ll have to wait until the first Monday after Sunday to stock up again. It is a crying shame that Pastor Benediction has to live from paycheck to paycheck. Maybe I’ll give him two dollars this Sunday. It may be my ticket to heaven!

Most of the people who go to Church have emotional problems. For example, Mrs. Gormly wears her dress backward in memory of her husband. I could see carrying his photo, but the memorial aspect of the backward dress is beyond me, and apparently Mrs. Gormly too. I asked her once and she told me not to fret, “He was in hell with the dog catcher muzzling puppies.” I think that’s somewhat crazy. Or, there’s Mr. “Barefoot” Proost. He comes to church barefoot so he can “feel the face of God” as he walks to his pew. I would think hands were better than feet for feeling God’s face. But, it’s religion—the biggest opinion fest in the universe. Centuries ago, they used to burn people for veering off course. Now, the pastors just tell them they’ve veered off course and to be cautious in uncharted waters—established religion is like Google showing the best route to heaven—the fastest, the shortest, the most scenic, the wisest. You’ve got commandments and parables to direct you and vex you, in that order.

When I was home watching “Terminator,” I realized that the man who tried to beg a dollar from me was my high school gym teacher Mr. Whistle. He had become addicted to Dairy Queen chocolate dipped jumbo-cones. He gained 70 pounds and was unable to do sit-ups anymore, or any other coach things. To prove he was still fit enough to teach, he tried to climb the rope. He got 3” up the rope and fell to the floor, tearing his track suit and exposing himself to the Sophomore class and the Principal, Ms. Thighlow. She laughed, and that was it. Mr. Whistle was done for—unfit to teach gym. It was cruel that they didn’t reassign him to “fat man” courses like Home Economics or English. Mr Whistle sued and lost. And he was pushed out onto the street by an uncaring community, including me.

I know my job at “Mel’s Ant Farm” is secure. It’s the biggest ant farm in Michigan and people come from all over to see it. Donald Trump was here last month. He kept saying “I’ve got ants in my pants, Mel.” We didn’t know what to do, so Mel put some ants in his pants. Trump started dancing around and twitching and moving his hips back and forth. It looked like he was doing “The Twist.” His Secret Service detail started clapping their hands and doing Chubby Checker imitations. He was angry and said we were “All dead!” and there wold be a Congressional hearing. Mel sprayed Raid down Trump’s pants and he left in a white Chevy Suburban with his Secret Service detail still clapping its hands.

Definition courtesy of “Silva Rhetoricae” (rhetoric.byu.edu)

The Daily Trope is available 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.