Category Archives: antanaclasis

Antanaclasis (an’-ta-na-cla’-sis): The repetition of a word or phrase whose meaning changes in the second instance.

I put my cat down and put him down while doing so. Putting him down was one of the worst things I could do to him. When he was insulted the hair stood up on his back and his tail stuck straight up in the air, and he hissed too.

I had called him a “kitty litter eater”—the equivalent of “shit eater” for a person. He had spilled his water on the kitchen floor for the 10th time. I was wearing my socks around the house and I stepped right in the puddle. I slipped and fell down and hit my head on the refrigerator. I was unconscious for about five minutes. When I woke up, I let him have it, “You fu*kin’ kitty litter eater! Get the fu*k out of here or I’m taking you back to the pet shelter where you belong with all the other bad and idiot cats who can’t find a permanent home!”

He struck his insulted pose and jumped toward my face. I dodged him but he came back at my ear and raked it with his front paws. With my ear bleeding, I got up off the floor and kicked him as hard as I could. He got stuck between the refrigerator and wall. He was struggling like crazy, squirming and yowling.

There was a knock at my door. I looked out on my porch and it was Mrs. Pesky, the nosiest human on earth. She asked me what the noise was. I yelled back “My cat is stuck and I’m helping him get free.” She said in a high pitched voice “I think you are killing him.” Maybe she was right, but I told her to go away, or I would tell her niece she was up to her old tricks again—last time she was polishing peoples’ doorknobs for $2.00 with what she called her “soiled knickers.” She promptly left. She lived with her niece and needed to stay in her good graces.

I noticed Fartore (my cat) had gotten free and was rubbing up against my leg—a sure sign that amends were being made. Somehow I had to figure out how not to insult him. He was sensitive and I was insensitive. I started attending “Blurters Anonymous.” It helped people who spoke before they thought. My goal was to reach the status of “Tongue Biter.” I learned to bite my tongue before I say anything to Fartore. It works, but my tongue is sore. However, we have peace on the home front and I have discovered a mouthwash that effectively soothes my tongue. All is well. By the way, Mrs. Pesky got hit by a car

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.

Antanaclasis (an’-ta-na-cla’-sis): The repetition of a word or phrase whose meaning changes in the second instance.

The time was getting late. I was having the time of my life. I didn’t know what to do. It was close to 3:00 a.m. I was supposed to be home by 11:00 p.m. My parents were probably flipping out, maybe even looking for me at the morgue.

Here I was, sharing a joint with my best friend’s little sister. She had just turned 18 and she told me she was ready to do a lot of things that she couldn’t do before because she was too young. I thought that included sex and I was going to try to broach the topic and go crazy with her. She told me she had a passion for politics and could finally participate and “go all the way,” Hmm. It sounded like sex to me until she added “and vote.”

That’s when I went home.

When I got there, there was a police car parked outside. I heard an ambulance in the distance. My father was lying on the front lawn, unconscious, with a pair of binoculars in one hand. Neighbors were gathered around and my mother was talking to the policeman. My mother saw me and came running toward me “When you didn’t come home at eleven, we thought you were missing.” she said. My father is an avid bird watcher. He had climbed up on the roof of the house to see if he could spot me somewhere with his “lucky” binoculars—the ones he had spotted the rare pink-capped Chickadee with.

He slipped and fell off the roof. I knew I would be blamed for what had happened to my father. Mother admitted that he hadn’t taken his Lithium for a week and had started hearing voices and seeing birds circling around the dining room table. The last time he had gotten like this, he had stuck a spatula up his butt and tried to make scrambled eggs. He was severely burned and spent two months in the hospital. But, he always smiled and was always happy to see me (when he recognized me).

Later that afternoon I saw my best friend’s little sister. She said, “I’m ready for you to stuff my ballot box.” I thought “My prayers are answered!” I asked her where she wanted to do it, She said “Right here!” I was shocked. Then she pulled a little locked box with a slit on top out of her backpack. “I’m running for Prom Queen an your vote will help.” She handed me a ballot and a pen: I voted for her and stuffed my ballot into her ballot box.

When my father came out of his coma, the first thing he sad was “Smile at the little birdie.” My mother had given him a stuffed duck to comfort him while he was unconscious. Now, he was holding it. He was back!

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.

Antanaclasis (an’-ta-na-cla’-sis): The repetition of a word or phrase whose meaning changes in the second instance.

Time was flying, but I wasn’t having a good time. When time flies, it sounds like flies buzzing over a carcass. Well, I guess I can’t actually hear it, but that doesn’t mean it doesn’t have a sound. Sometimes I wish I didn’t have a sound—that I didn’t sound off all the time. I have a problem with saying out loud what I’m thinking—mostly with strangers. Yesterday I crossed paths a woman walking her dog. I yelled “That’s the ugliest goddamn mutt I’ve ever seen. Where did you get it? The ugly puppy mill somewhere outside of hell.” That earned me a “mean pervert” in return. That’s better than I’ve done other times. One time, when I was 10, I told my mother she looked like a whore. Her “boyfriend” held me over the edge of the balcony five stories up until I told her I was sorry. When I got older, I found out my mom was actually a whore and took care of most of the men in our neighborhood. She made a ton of money, so we never talked about it after my outburst.

When I was 17 I was walking down the street and saw my neighbor’s wife Mrs. Peloni bent over working on the flower bed in front of her house. I said: “Hey babes. Nice cheeks. Want to get a room at the motel.” She yelled to her husband: “Herb, it’s that crazy little bastard from down the street again!” Herb came out the front door holding a newspaper which he rolled up and beat me over the head with after he pushed me to the ground. I was starting to see stars when he let up and kicked me and told me if he ever saw my “perverted ass” within 100 yards of his home again, he would call the police and have me arrested.

I figured I had some kind of diagnosable illness. I went to the doctor, and yes, I have a disease: Blurto’s Syndrome. It is named after the 18th century priest, Father Judas Blurto. He was banned from preaching after he told his congregation that they were “A boring herd of sinful cheap-ass flesh bags with no hope for salvation.” This is something 99% of clergy believe, but never say out loud because they are able to keep their mouths shut.

There are only two known cures for Blurto’s. The first is to have your tongue cut out. The procedure is not covered by insurance because Blurto’s is not recognized by the AMA or the FDA. So, people who want their tongue excised have to be incredibly rich, or willing to go Juarez, Mexico, where the amputations are performed in delicatessens and butcher shops for $1000.00. The operation takes months to heal and patients often die from complications due to unsterile meat cleavers and butchers knives.

The preferred method of managing Blurto’s is wearing a gag—a silicone ball gag. Normally used in adult bondage activities, the ball gag is a perfect remedy for Blurto’s. It is light weight and removeable and effectively garbles your speech without removing your tongue. Also, if you feel like letting your Blurto’s lose, you can do it, although it isn’t recommended that you do so.

I wear my bondage ball in public. I wear a t-shirt that says “I have Blurto’s.” I also carry pamphlets explaining what Blurto’s is.

I met a woman in the grocery store dressed in black leather. She said: “Well, you look like a worthless little wimp. How’d you like to come hang out in my dungeon?” I shook my head “No.” She slapped me in the face and said “Move it goat butt. You always answer ‘Yes’ to Madame Spanky.” I moved it. I can’t begin to describe what we did, but when I took off my ball gag and went full Blurto, things went insane.

I’m living in the dungeon now. I have my own leather suit, leather carpet, leather-covered coffee mug, and leather sheets on my bed. Madame Spanky keeps me in line, disciplining me when I’m bad, which is all the time.

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.