Category Archives: anacoloutha

Anacoloutha (an-a-co’-lu-tha): Substituting one word with another whose meaning is very close to the original, but in a non-reciprocal fashion; that is, one could not use the first, original word as a substitute for the second. This is the opposite of acoloutha.

It was time for bed. It was time for the couch. It awaited me, lately, like an old pal. I would just roll over from watching TV, stretch out, and go to sleep for the usual round of nightmares delivering terror and sorrow to my shattered life.

My wife was upstairs reading a book. The love of my life had turned me off like a light switch. I was person non gratis. I was a stain on the carpet. I was a bad smell. It was totally my fault. I had moved her teacup collection to make room for my “American Rifleman” magazine collection. It was a manly magazine that featured scantily clad women holding rifles. I couldn’t get enough of “Tammy” holding a Winchester .30.30 between her legs with one hand and fanning her face with the other. This is what did me in. It wasn’t enough that I had displaced my wife’s teacup collection. She burned all of my “American Rifleman” magazines and cancelled my subscription. She “sentenced” me to one month on the couch, cleaning up the kitchen, and doing the laundry, in addition to my usual chores—mowing the lawn, taking care of the garden, washing the car, etc.

As I settled in on the couch, I waited for the nightly nightmare to begin. I fell asleep.

I was in a chicken coop. I was a chicken struggling to push out an egg. The rooster was pecking me on top of my head, drawing blood and berating me for being so slow. I turned around a blew the egg in his face. It broke on his beak and dripped down his chest. The farmer came in the henhouse and saw the egg on the rooster’s beak. He yelled: “How many times have I told you to leave the eggs alone. It’s over!” He picked the rooster up by the head and swung him around over his head until the rooster’s neck was wrung. He said: “I hope you’re not tough and stringy like the last rooster was.” I scrunched down in my nest box and thanked God I wasn’t a rooster.

But I was too quick—I was a chicken, and a fox was digging under the fence. He got under and was coming toward me with murder shining brightly in his little eyes. I ran into the coop and he was right behind me. He caught me by the middle and held me up like a trophy. I could feel his teeth puncturing my thin chicken skin and crushing my ribs as he shook me around.

I woke up on the couch in a cold sweat, feeling like a badly wounded chicken. I couldn’t move and there were spots of blood on my PJs. I was dying. Then, I woke up again—this time for real. I was OK! It was just my nightly nightmare. I wanted it all to go away. I wanted my pre-“American Rifleman” pre-Tammy life back again. I had one week of my couch sentence to go. I knew I could do it, but would my wife be the same loving person when I came back to bed? Would she let me out of the house? Time will tell. Time will tell.

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.

Anacoloutha (an-a-co’-lu-tha): Substituting one word with another whose meaning is very close to the original, but in a non-reciprocal fashion; that is, one could not use the first, original word as a substitute for the second. This is the opposite of acoloutha.

He opened the door. He pushed hard. The door swung quietly on its hinges. He didn’t knock. He didn’t tap. He just pushed his way in. He tiptoed to the living room. There was his girlfriend Nell sitting in front of a crackling fire reading what looked like a magazine, but he knew it was a catalogue for men’s exercise clothing.

I was on page 24 of “Workout Meat,” sort of a “Victoria’s Secret” of scantily clad man hunks. I gave it to her to look at when she got lonely for me. I had so many muscles that I was paid to model nude at the local medical school’s anatomy classes. I was known as “Muscles Mike.” I loved to model, but I loved walking up and down the beach in my Speedo at Seaside Heights even more. The Jersey girls weren’t shy about whistling and applauding when I walked by. I loved the cat calls—“Gimme some of that pepperoni,” “Get on me big boy,” “Pull down your suit and I’ll pull down mine.” “Make me moan.”

Even with all that attention, I stayed faithful to Nell. We started dating in high school when I was a 98-pound weakling. She stood by me while I bulked up. Lately, I started taking steroids and my penis has shrunk to the point where it looks like a second belly button. Nell has cut me some slack, but lately, she has been adamant about me quitting the steroids, and we both know why—an important part of our relationship is gone. That’s why I snuck up behind her to see what picture she was looking at in “Workout Meat.” I was shocked to see she was looking at Mr. Muscle Mountain’s photo. He was my body-building rival in high school. He knew Arnold Schwarzenegger and had beaten him in a couple of body-building competitions. He was the spokesperson for “Body Propellor Protein Shakes.” He was arrogant and flexed anywhere, all the time. He’d be walking through the mall and suddenly stop and strike a pose. It was disgusting.

I quickly moved in front of Nell. Her pupils were dilated and her face was flushed. She told me: “I saw Mr. Muscle Mountain at Cliff’s today. Although he’s graying a bit, he had a nice banana bulge in his sweat pants. I couldn’t help but notice. We exchanged pleasantries, and he asked me if I wanted to take a ride with him at Motel Gaucho tonight. I told him no, that you’re my one and only love.”

I almost cried. I vowed to get off the steroids and grow my penis back. I could take human embryo shots to maintain my bulk—a lot more expensive than steroids, but Nell was worth it.

Inch by inch I grew back to proper poking size. Soon, when I wore my sweatpants to Cliff’s, I was sporting a hefty banana bump of my own when. I could make it twitch if I wanted too—only for Nell.

One afternoon, I met Mr. Muscle Mountain at Cliff’s buying beer. We faced each other and nodded, wiggled our hips, and shook our bananas at each other. I made mine twitch. His banana’s movement in his sweat pants looked fake. I could see him struggling, but he couldn’t make it twitch. I didn’t say anything.

Definitions 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.