Category Archives: anadiplosis

Anadiplosis (an’-a-di-plo’-sis): The repetition of the last word (or phrase) from the previous line, clause, or sentence at the beginning of the next. Often combined with climax.

I was struggling with gas. Gas that alienated my friends, banned me from elevators and, due to the lingering smell, department store dressing rooms. Despite the presence of the smell in real time, I had to have a chip implanted in my head that would trigger a stink alarm. It was mandated after I was convicted of stinking up public places and causing severe nasal and mental discomfort in adults and children. It was unprecedented and an unbearable burden to bear.

Even in the fresh air, my gas would stink. People on the sidewalk would wrinkle up their noses and run away coughing, some even vomiting.

Maybe the worst part of the whole thing is my butt hole. I suffer from “flaccid sphincter syndrome.” What this means is that the muscle that keeps normal peoples’ butt holes closed does not work right on me. Before going out I have to administer six or seven enimas to myself, to clear pending poops so nothing “falls out” while I’m out in public. After that, I have a special charcoal filter I push up my butt. It works really well unless I blow a really robust air biscuit and blow my cork. The blown cork will release the stench and subject me to the ire of nearby people—which can be substantial.

Once, I was riding on the subway when my cork blew. People fought to vacate the car. The man standing next to me put a handkerchief over his nose and beat me in the face with his briefcase until my nose bled. When he was done and left the subway, I reached down into the back of my pants, found my cork. and shoved it back in. Of course, it was too late, but I thought I wouldn’t blow another whopper that day.

I was wrong.

I had a blowout when I was standing in line for tickets to a Taylor Swift concert, “Rosy Posy.” It was actually fortuitous. Everybody ran away retching, and there I was at the front of the line. I took out my credit card and the salesperson, who was choking with snot pouring out of his nose, and tears streaming down his face, closed the ticket window and told me to go away.

This is typical. I’m just walking around stinking up the world. I had to do something beyond enemas and the charcoal cork up my ass. I put an ad seeking help in the “New York Post.” I got lot of responses from people who were clearly scammers. But, one seemed for real, offering a remedy for free.

She came to my stench-soaked apartment wearing a military grade gas mask and carrying a small bottle of pills labelled “Windless.” She told me to take one-a-day and I would become windless. I’ve been taking the pills for five months. My gas has abated and my sphincter has tightened up. The side effects are minimal—drooling and anal itch that cortisone does not remedy—I use a mixture of olive oil and baking soda to quell the itch. Also, there’s the tumor on my left butt cheek. All of these side effects are minimal compared to the relief “Windless” has given me.

It is wonderful living in a stink-free world. I never miss it. Every once in awhile I blow a tiny fart that reminds me of days gone by. I take my old cork out of the kitchen drawer, look at it and quickly put it away.

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.

Anadiplosis (an’-a-di-plo’-sis): The repetition of the last word (or phrase) from the previous line, clause, or sentence at the beginning of the next. Often combined with climax.

My prospects were shrinking. Shrinking to the size of an ant; the head of a pin; a grain of salt; a hummingbird’s squeaking butt, There was almost nothing left that I could do. I was kicking myself in the ass for majoring in music in college. My instrument was the bassoon, and I couldn’t play it very well. Luckily, my college graduated everybody who showed up and paid their tuition. So, at least I had a degree that I could put on my resume.

The problem was that the degree did me no good. Prospective employers would ask me, for example, “How will playing the bassoon help you work efficiently on the spice rack assembly line? Too bad you didn’t major in wood shop.” I would try to explain that my background with the bassoon would make my fingers nimble. But, I would be told “Don’t get funny with me young man. Musical instruments are not spice racks!”

There were no bassoon-player jobs anywhere in America. I tried becoming a street musician. I played The Mamas and Papas “Dancing Bear” over and over every day. It was ok, but there wasn’t much to it. Then, one day, a person dressed as a bear showed up and started dancing and singing to my bassoon. We didn’t talk. The bear-person just sang and danced. That went on for three months, and then, the bear disappeared. It destroyed my cash flow and put me back in employment panic mode.

I finally found a job, but it wasn’t playing the bassoon. “The Matthew Wilkie Memorial Museum” was opening in New York City. Wilke was one of the best bassoonists who ever lived. He could make you feel like the sun was rising in your shirt. My job was to sit on a stool holding a bassoon, dressed like Wilke, and answer customers’ questions. I wasn’t permitted to play my bassoon and that made me angry. However, it was a job.

Then one morning, I got to work early. Wilke walked in out of nowhere! He asked me to play for him. He cringed and said, “Jesus Christ! You play like shit.” I got really angry and tried to break the bassoon over my knee. I threw it on the floor and ran out of the museum.

Wilke felt bad about what he did. He got me a better job! I leave for Switzerland tomorrow. I will be playing the alphorn in the Swiss Alps. I will be stationed in Geneva, where I am provided with a free Ricola ration, and rental lederhosen to wear to mountain gigs. I am burning my bassoon tonight. I’m putting its ashes in a little brass urn. Tomorrow morning, I’m going to scatter the ashes in the gutter outside my apartment, toss the urn in the dumpster in the alley, and head for JFK.

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.

Anadiplosis (an’-a-di-plo’-sis): The repetition of the last word (or phrase) from the previous line, clause, or sentence at the beginning of the next. Often combined with climax.

My heart was broken. Broken into pieces. Pieces of love were scattered on the floor, as if my hopes had exploded, fragmented, and rained down in a torrent of loss, a deluge of disappointment, and painful precipitation.

My pet spider Ed had died. He was a banana spider from Hawaii. He had landed on my head when I was unloading papayas at SeaTac Airport. I had left him on the back porch over night. It went below 40 and he had frozen to death in his terrarium. I found him on his back with his legs curled up. His last meal of crickets had escaped death and were hopping around on his corpse. I picked them up one by one and pinched them to death for desecrating Ed.

Next, of course, I would bury him with the respect due to a close friend and confidant. When he was alive, I would sit up late with Ed and spill my fears and share my hopes. I was afraid that the IRS would catch up with me, especially after I got a letter informing me that I was being audited. I had lied about having $1,000,000 in medical bills for my loose brain—a condition where your brain is too small for your skull and it sloshes around, giving you thoughts you don’t understand. Scientifically, it is known as “Pea Brain.”

In a way, as a pea brain, you’re in an ideal position to be a philosopher, and if you get a PhD, you may succeed at being one and being a professor. The only known instance of becoming a pea brain philosopher was Dr. Huh? who taught symbolic logic and a course titled “Knowing Pink Floyd.” But anyway, the IRS determined that “Pea Brain” had been made up by Dr. Huh? in a grant proposal. Auditors charged him with fraud. Dr. Huh? argued that he did not understand and was let off with a slap on the wrist, in a way proving that “Pea Brain” was real.

My major hope was for world peace and free beer. Together, they would induce Utopia and we would live happily ever after—we would have ice cream, chocolate, scented candles and all the good things we are intended to have as human beings.

But now, it’s time to plant Ed. I dug a burrow hole six feet deep in the middle of the back yard. I stuffed him into a Romeo and Julietta cigar tube. I used a stick like a plunger. One of his legs came off, but it didn’t matter. I put the cap on and dropped him down the hole. I filled in the hole. I pushed a tongue depressor into the ground as a grave marker. It says “Here lies Ed, he is dead.” Everything was fine for two days, and then a squirrel dug up Ed’s marker and buried it somewhere.

I went back to work at the car wash yesterday. I am a rag man. I am still very sad about Ed, and feel guilt over my negligence that killed him. But there’s a saying I’ve seized on that is helping me cope: “Fu*ck it.” It’s what my mother said when my father went missing. She still says it once or twice a day. I am following her lead.

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.