Category Archives: antimetabole

Antimetabole

Posted on March 7, 2025 | Leave a comment

Antimetabole (an’-ti-me-ta’-bo-lee): Repetition of words, in successive clauses, in reverse grammatical order.

“I love you. You love I.” It wasn’t grammatically perfect, but it clearly conveyed our love. We had been going steady since high school. I wrote the little ditty as a part of Bingo’s birthday. Her real name is Martha. I nicknamed her “Bingo” because that’s what I yelled when I saw her undressing in the girl’s locker room, where I spied from a locker with a peephole drilled in it. It was one of my most successful ventures. I rented the locker for $10,00 per hour. Even Mr. Binge, the shop reacher, rented it out.

Anyhow, when I yelled “Bingo,” Bingo heard me and found me. She yanked open the locker and kissed me. I asked her to go steady, and the rest is history. It was Bingo’s 27th birthday and she was pressuring me to marry her. We still live with our parents and we still go out on dates. We were going on a “walking around” date. We just wander around town holding hands until around 11:00. Sometimes we do “it” in the thick bushes in front of the bank—mostly in summertime.

Her mother greeted me at the front door “Oh god, it’s you again. Martha’s coming right down. Why don’t you just leave her alone?” Bingo’s father was a little more creative. He had installed a fire escape with a ladder outside Bingo’s window hoping some other boys might climb up and visit her and fall in love. It didn’t work. She kept her window locked, and had a “No Trespassing” sign hanging in the window. It was a relief. Love is good and good is love! Nobody was going to steal my girl. Bingo was mine all mine.

I decided to marry her.

I worked in a sliding board factory, testing random slides for speed and smoothness. I had been working there for 15 years and made pretty good wages. Bingo skippered a fishing boat. It was a trawler and they fished for cod, haddock, and flounder. She’d be out for a week at a time with a boatload of men, but I never mistrusted her. Bingo made tons of money. So, we’d be wealthy when we combined our incomes.

We planned for months. Then, one day, in front of the bank, I ran into Mr. Binge the shop teacher who had rented my spy locker. He was bent over a walker and was drooling a little on his hand. He said “I banged her that day, and we’re still goin’ at it. I got these little blue pills. We meet in the bushes over there.” That really hurt. I thought the bushes were our special place. I ripped the walker out of Mr. Binge’s hands and he fell flat on his face yelling “You bastard!” I ran home to hide in my room. I was cleaning my .45 when there was a knock on my bedroom door. I opened the door. It was Bingo.

I was surprised my mother her let her into the house. Bingo was crying. Between sobs, she said “I ran into Mr. Binge in front of the bank today. He told me the lies he told you. Ever since that day in the locker room, he’s wanted to do ‘it’ with me. But, I said no, and I keep saying no, but he has fantasies, even at 82, and he just won’t give up. I’ve reported him for harassment several times to no avail. If you don’t believe me ask the police.”

I was calmed by what she said. I asked the police. Bingo was telling the truth. We went ahead and got married. Every once in a while I would see what looked like walker tracks heading toward the back door. but I knew they were from our son’s baby carriage and I had nothing to worry about. Nevertheless, I installed a tiny security camera and I check it every day. So far, so good.

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

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Antimetabole

Posted on June 30, 2024 | Leave a comment

Antimetabole (an’-ti-me-ta’-bo-lee): Repetition of words, in successive clauses, in reverse grammatical order.

Time stole my pants. My pants stole time. My pants were abducted by a jaunty clock poking away at the future with his lance-like hands. But then, my pants pocketed the clock and bolted out the door in a blur of blue denim. I lived in a fantasy world that gripped me instead of me gripping it. I am completely unable to function as a normal human being. I live in an animate world where everything seemed to have a soul, although they didn’t talk. They moved, and wiggled, and danced and fought with each other. Just last night I witnessed a fight between an aluminum mixing bowl and a potato masher. The bowl was burdened with a good deal of pink cake icing. But, it slowed down the masher, giving the bowl an edge. The fight was refereed by a carrot who seemed to me to be drunk. Then, I observed a bottle of vanilla extract spilled on the granite countertop—a sure sign of intoxication. The granite countertop looked like it was ready to shake the whole mess onto the floor. Of course, the floor looked angry at the prospect and rippled a little.

At that point, my mother waltzed into the kitchen smoking a “Lucky” and clutching a pint-bottle of gin (half-empty). “Cowsill! What are you up to?” she asked. In case you’re wondering, I was named after “The Cowsills” a one-hit wonder 1960’s rock band modeled after the Partridge Family. I was going to change my name to “Luger” when my mother died. I thought naming myself after a Nazi handgun would scare people and keep the bullies off my back. I had an uncle that everybody called “Slasher.” People left him alone, partially because he was in prison.

Anyway, I didn’t know what more I could say to my mother. I had told her in my head countless times that the world was alive—if the hills could be alive with the sound of music, why couldn’t everything else at least be alive, if not with music? I would hold a cocktail glass up to my mouth and start singing “Edelweiss” into it and she would sing along, half-sobbing. It didn’t help me at all.

I couldn’t tell anybody about the animate world I lived in. If I did, I’d get hauled off to the “Jerry Lewis Center.” This was a place where half my family had unwillingly stayed. Lewis’s farting shoes from “The Nutty Professor” were used therapeutically to great effect. But anyway, I kept my mouth shut. Mom’s midnight forays came close to catching me talking to the wall or a soup spoon. But, I was safe.

Then, one night, the world started talking. A dish towel told me to “Get the fu*k out of the kitchen.” Suddenly, the world fell silent again. I followed the dishtowel’s rude advice and discovered that outside of the kitchen objects are inanimate. I would go into the kitchen late at night solely for entertainment. I thanked the dishtowel, but it was it was too soon. The whole world went animate again. I went mad. I tried to poke out my eyes. My mother bought me my own farting shoes. She believes in Jerry. For my part, I’ve developed a friendship with a bedpan. We use Morse code to communicate. He can rattle out a message quite quickly. I put a dowel under him and he moves up and down like a seesaw. I facilitate his communication, like my mother did with my brother Bard, with a computer keyboard. My brother wrote a book about the benevolence of hamsters titled “Hamster Philanthropy and the Rationale of Seed-Based Economies.” He claimed to have interviewed 5,000 hamsters, but his ruse was quickly found out when he was confronted by a women holding a hamster that squeaked loudly and that Bard confessed he didn’t understand. His book booth was dismantled and all copies of his book were recalled.

Well, it’s time for bed. I just wished Pan “sweet dreams.” “Pan” is short for Bedpan. My nurse places him under my bed in case I need his help during the night.

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

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Antimetabole

Posted on November 21, 2023 | Leave a comment

Antimetabole (an’-ti-me-ta’-bo-lee): Repetition of words, in successive clauses, in reverse grammatical order.

It likes you. You like it. “Lovey Lax” works every time. As a chronically constipated bus driver, it is my saving grace. It ensures that I go before I go to work—I can’t poop on the bus, or pull over to use a public restroom. Before I was graced with “Lovey Lax,” I had a number of accidents that nearly lost me my job. One day I “went” in my bus driver pants. I didn’t know what to do. Passengers were coughing and yelling “What stinks?” I sat there with hot poop squishing from my bus driver pants, trying to act nonchalant, until I couldn’t stand it any more. I stood up and tore off my pants and threw them out the window, hitting a passing cyclist in the face. As he lost control of his bike, he ran into a mailbox and hit the pavement. I called 911 and they thought my call was a prank. I gave up and took off for my next stop. I got five feet, and all the passengers rushed the door and demanded to be let off. I told them I’d let them off at the next stop, but one of them grabbed the bus’s key, turned off the ignition, and took off out the door.

I had to be towed back to the bus depot. My boss gave me a clean pair of pants and told me he wouldn’t fire me if I did a good job of “cleaning up the shit.” I had to buy the cleaning materials out of my paycheck. When I was done, the bus was immaculate. I kept my job. I started wearing adult diapers. With my poo-poo roulette, I never knew when the time would come, so the diapers were a real help. The only problem was if I had an “event” early in my shift—I’d have to sit on it all day. You can imagine how that felt!

Then, I subscribed to AARP magazine. I was reading an article about the top ten bowel movers. The one with the highest ratings for “ease of movement” and “predicability” was “Lovey Lax.” It was endorsed by David Hasselhoff, Eric Estrada, and Keith Richards, three idols from my youth. Estrada said: “I can ride my motorcycle from Pacific Grove to Carmel without worrying about making a mess.” This was just what I needed to hear! I went on line and bought a fifty-gallon drum of “Lovey Lax.” It was delivered the next day and I became regular for the first time in 10 years. I cried when the doorbell rang and the delivery person wheeled my hopes and dreams in a drum through the front door. I take one minty spoonful at night when I go to bed. When I wake up, I hear my stomach gurgling. Then, after breakfast and 2 cups of coffee, I make my morning dash to the toilet. That’s it. The quality of my life has improved more than you can imagine. And there’s a side benefit: I haven’t farted for a year. I miss farting a little bit, but not enough to really care.

I’m shopping for a bidet now. With the heated seat, flood of warm water, and blow dryer, my “movements” will be well-orchestrated from beginning to end. Just call me “the maestro”!

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.

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Antimetabole

Posted on April 7, 2023 | Leave a comment

Antimetabole (an’-ti-me-ta’-bo-lee): Repetition of words, in successive clauses, in reverse grammatical order.

I read the book and the book read me. This sounds pretty stupid, and maybe it is. The book has no consciousness, no agency, no nothing. It’s just a paper rectangle binding together other paper rectangles (called pages), covered with words constituting grammatically-coded sentences, paragraphs, and chapters.

Books are written to be read. That’s how they read you: with surprise and suspense and plots and all the other well-travelled literary forms that read you and seduce you—that capture and keep your interest. And, as they help the text “ring true” they have woven their way into the text’s fabric of plausibility—no matter where or when it unfurls: prose, poetry, fact, fiction, whatever.

So, you decide to read a treatise on symbolic logic. You don’t understand it. You don’t like it. You take it back to the bookstore for a refund. The bookstore doesn’t give refunds. You go ballistic and throw the book at the proprietor. It hits him in the head and knocks him unconscious. Somebody calls 911. The paramedics put the proprietor on a stretcher and carry him out of the bookstore shaking their heads. The police handcuff you. You are placed in a cell. You can’t be bailed out because of your violent demeanor. You are sharing the cell with a suspected serial killer. During the night he tries to pull out your intestines with his bare hands. The guard tells him to shut up and go back to bed. The next morning you are taken to the psychiatric hospital for evaluation. They determine you are suffering from PTSD from when you were a lifeguard in charge of the kiddie pool at a high-end country club in the Hamptons. You were prescribed medication that made you slur your words. You were released from jail. You sounded drunk. You lost your job. They didn’t even give you a breathalyzer test before they kicked you you the front door and threw the plant from your desk after you.. You stagger home and dig your grandfather’s shotgun out of the back of the front hall closet. You load it with .00 buckshot.

My God! What the hell happened?

You were not the intended reader—that’s what happened—the book hadn’t read you. It had read somebody else. Books should be required to provide a brief description of who is supposed to read them so this kind of literary tragedy can be avoided.

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

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Antimetabole

Posted on August 7, 2022 | Leave a comment

Antimetabole (an’-ti-me-ta’-bo-lee): Repetition of words, in successive clauses, in reverse grammatical order.

I like my swimming pool, but my swimming pool does not like me. It fills with leaves, green slime and drowned mice. I bought a robot pool cleaner for $1,300, but all it does is bubble and ride around the bottom of the pool for hours before it automatically shuts off and I have to haul it in like a lobster trap. So, what do I like about my swimming pool?

My daughter’s 20-something friends! When they come over, they all wear scanty swimsuits and lay around in loose postures when they’re done swimming, and I take pictures with my iPhone. Sometimes they play volleyball on the court alongside the pool. I watch from my living room with binoculars, or I take videos from behind the pool house. You might think I might be a pervert, but I don’t think I am. If I was a real pervert, I would look at the pictures and videos all the time, in solitude, spinning fantasies. Instead, I hardly ever look at them, and I have friended all of my daughters friends on Facebook!

I have two Facebook pages—one the real me, the other, the fake me. I like the fake me better than the real me; fake me has 1,023 followers. Fake me is a 27 year-old test pilot for the US Air Force. Real me is a fifty-eight year-old computer programmer. I wear glasses, am overweight, and have a high-pitched voice. Fake me is 6’2’ with a broad-shouldered muscular physique. My fake me name is Captain Flash Bateson. I photoshopped my head (without glasses) over ‘Flash’s,’ using “youthification” software to make me look in my late 20s. When I log on I’m a kid again, doing something meaningful with my life, even if my life isn’t doing something meaningful with me. Then it happened.

My second wife (of three) Carmen found Captain Flash Bateson. She said he reminded her of a young version of her first husband, Marty Oswald. That was me! I couldn’t block her or she would know that something was up, so I decided to play along. Everything on the page was fake, except my cellphone number. The second I realized this, my phone rang. Trying to talk in a low gravelly voice, I answered. It was her. I told her I had retired from the Air Force and that I was terminally ill—my voice started to squeak as I told her I was bedridden and would probably die next week. She said: “My God. Marty, is that you?” I said “What? Who’s Marty? This is Captain Flash Bateson laying in bed waiting to die.” She hung up.

I liked fake me so much more than real me. Facebook had liberated me—freed me every night from dumb-ass Marty the computer programmer. I changed my cellphone number and booted up my Captain Flash page. With 1,023 followers, there there was surely somebody there to talk to, heaping praise on me for my service to our country, my bravery, and my good looks. It may be fake, but it beats being Marty. I got my first message in seconds. It was from “Fleshy MaMa”—a new admirer. I looked at her profile picture: Holy crap! It was Carmen when she was 25, before she turned into a fatty and started dying her hair bright red. “How’s it hangin’ Big Boy,” she asked. “A little to the left Golden Buns,” I answered, getting ready to fly into the wild blue yonder.

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

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Antimetabole

Posted on December 17, 2021 | Comments Off

Antimetabole (an’-ti-me-ta’-bo-lee): Repetition of words, in successive clauses, in reverse grammatical order.

I look at my Facebook page, and my Facebook page looks at me. It has a consciousness of my life’s triviality, the causes I’ve championed, the countless memes I’ve posted: none of them truly loved, none of them striking a chord, none of them shared. Every day I ask”How do I get 5,000 likes?” “How do I go viral?” “Should do a Tik-Tok dance covered with Nutella, with a Roman candle firing out my ass?” Oh? Too cliched. Begging for attention. Not cool. Been done already by a Tibetan monk? Oh.

Then, there are all the hot-looking women who want to be my friend. Why? They’ll know I’m stupid and desperate if and when I friend them. Even though I am stupid and desperate, I don’t friend them. They are not friends, they are enemies, at least I can figure that out. They would ruin my marriage and bankrupt me if we became friends: How ironic that friends can be enemies on Facebook. And anyway, I don’t want to be their friends, simply because they are evil.

But on the other side, Facebook archives many positive memories and makes new experiences for me: family and genuine friends. Also, my news streams keep me posted. It is hard to believe that Trump got re-elected.

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

Buy a print edition of The Daily Trope! The print edition is entitled The Book of Tropes and is available on Amazon for $9.99.

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Antimetabole

Posted on April 4, 2021 | Comments Off

Antimetabole (an’-ti-me-ta’-bo-lee): Repetition of words, in successive clauses, in reverse grammatical order.

When we look into the darkness, darkness looks into us. It knows our fears. It leads us astray. It makes us fall. It hurts us. Nevertheless, darkness has a seductive beauty. It hides us. It comforts us. It diminishes all of our horizons—it makes them disappear, providing a glimpse of infinity, which is nothing’s preferred name.

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

Buy a print edition of The Daily Trope! The print edition is entitled The Book of Tropes and is available on Amazon for $9.99.

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Antimetabole

Posted on March 5, 2018 | Leave a comment

Antimetabole (an’-ti-me-ta’-bo-lee): Repetition of words, in successive clauses, in reverse grammatical order.

We go forward, we go back. We go back, we go forward. Again and again. Nothing gets resolved. “Resolved” gets nothing.

He said, “Promises are made to be kept” and he kept promising and the promises were never kept. He said at the Town Hall Meeting: “Ask not what I promised, but promise what I ask.” We all looked at each other, stunned. What he had said seemed to carry some deep meaning.

But I didn’t care what meaning it carried. I was hungry and angry!

Tonight, I wave my axe handle and move along with the crowd. We are storming the White House. We are seeking justice for the lies we had been told. We don’t have a chance of breaking down the fence, but we are moving ahead anyway.

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

Buy a print edition of The Daily Trope! The print edition is entitled The Book of Tropes and is available on Amazon for $9.99.

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Antimetabole

Posted on April 1, 2017 | Leave a comment

Antimetabole (an’-ti-me-ta’-bo-lee): Repetition of words, in successive clauses, in reverse grammatical order.

Troubles are problems! Problems are troubles! No problems, no troubles. No troubles, no problems.

But so much of contemporary life in the USA is just one big troubling problem, especially with current Presidential politics.

What seems like every day, there is at least one Executive Order signed by President Trump that dismantles common sense and undermines compassion and is solely premised on the power of the Presidential pen: the power to erase each and every vestige of the policies enacted by Obama during his Presidency.

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

Buy a print edition of The Daily Trope! The print edition is entitled The Book of Tropes and is available on Amazon for $9.99.

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Antimetabole

Posted on June 21, 2015 | Leave a comment

Antimetabole (an’-ti-me-ta’-bo-lee): Repetition of words, in successive clauses, in reverse grammatical order.

Me: Being for now is the time being. But is the time being now being?

You: Yes, for now, but not before or after.

Me: Before or after what?

You: The time being.

Me: This is pointless!

You: Yes! This is the point!

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

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Antimetabole

Posted on April 3, 2013 | Leave a comment

Antimetabole (an’-ti-me-ta’-bo-lee): Repetition of words, in successive clauses, in reverse grammatical order.

Plant what you can. Can what you plant. You’ll save a bundle at the grocery store!

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

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Antimetabole

Posted on September 26, 2012 | Leave a comment

Antimetabole (an’-ti-me-ta’-bo-lee): Repetition of words, in successive clauses, in reverse grammatical order.

Sow and harvest. Harvest and sow. If you sow the seed of love, and cultivate it, you may harvest joy and feed your soul. When your joy is nearly all exhausted, it’s time to sow the seed of love again, and cultivate it, and help it grow. Nurtured by the joy produced, you sow the seed of love again, and cultivate it, and harvest joy, and start all over again! Love and joy. Joy and love. You may harvest what you need from the seed you sow.