Category Archives: aporia

Aporia (a-po’-ri-a): Deliberating with oneself as though in doubt over some matter; asking oneself (or rhetorically asking one’s hearers) what is the best or appropriate way to approach something [=diaporesis].

I was in a quandary. There were competing points of view plaguing my head. I couldn’t ignore them. I had to make a choice. But this wasn’t the usual choice like a red tie vs. a blue-striped tie. Sure, there’s a difference that needs to be resolved with the ties, but it is trivial, innocuous, of minor consequence.

But now, I was saddled with a decision from hell—the kind you read about in novels or see on TV detective shows.

I am damned if I do and damned if I don’t.

If I rat out my boss I lose my job. If I don’t rat out my boss, I go to jail. It seems like losing my job is a small price to pay vs. going to jail. But it isn’t. Losing my job comes with the possibly, the strong likelihood, of being whacked by one of the boss’s pistol-packing thugs. So there: the possibility of being hit should push me way far away from taking the jail option. People get whacked in jail all the time. So what’s so safe about that anyway?

I had been working in the meth lab for the past 8 years. Why the hell should I want to see it busted and closed down? It was all about “Bombo” the boss’s son. I was jealous. I made $600,000 per year. Bombo made a million. He did nothing for the money. He took no risks and just sat on his ass surrounded by 100-dollar bills. I, on the other hand, was out on the street collecting from dealers and kicking their asses when they couldn’t pay, and making them disappear when stiffing me became a habit. I risked life in prison while Bombo played video games and went shopping for custom-tailored suits.

Bingo! Get rid of Bombo, get rid of my problem. I can’t believe I didn’t think about this before. I invited Bombo to my place in the Adirondacks for a couple days of fishing on Cranberry Lake. He got off his ass and packed his bags and was ready to go the next day. He was grateful. He loved fishing.

We got to the dock early the morning, untied the boat and headed out on the lake. When we got around the middle of the lake, I pulled a gun and shot him until I was sure he was dead.

Since I killed Bombo, life is much better. His absence is a source of happiness for me. I’ve been questioned several times by the police, but they’ve got nothing on me. Bombo’s body washed up near my place. I told everybody I knew nothing about it and they believed me—especially Bombo’s father who seemed relieved by Bombo’s disappearance.

So now, I’ve got another murder on my resume. It has worked out well for me. It broke my double bind. It was the right decision.

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.

Aporia (a-po’-ri-a): Deliberating with oneself as though in doubt over some matter; asking oneself (or rhetorically asking one’s hearers) what is the best or appropriate way to approach something [=diaporesis].

I’ve got to get married before I turn 21 or I lose the 12 billion dollars my grandpa left me. He had the biggest meth lab on the East Coast. He was responsible for a myriad of ruined lives and senseless deaths, unless you’re addicted to meth—then it makes perfect sense. Grandpa was never arrested or suspected. He lived a straight and quiet life and never went near the lab. Uncle Eddy ran it it. He had gone to the Wharton School of Business and graduated at the top of his class.

The lab was disguised as a huge tomato canning facility, and was, in a way a cornerstone of the community. They actually produced canned tomatoes and mixed canned meth into their shipments. It was foolproof. Grandpa died of “old age” in the “Flying Angel” nursing home, which he owned. He bought it when Grandma had to be put there after she started eating dog biscuits and made the pool boy paint her a different color every day. The pool boy squealed on her, and that was that.

I was turning 21 in three months, so I needed to get to work on getting married. I had met a matchmaker named Henna Marsnip. I thought “Can this work? Can this get me in under the finish line?”

Ms. Marsnip had me fill out an extensive questionnaire—everything from my favorite movie to my shoe size. She knew that billions of dollars were riding on this. All the women she lined up for me had one thing in in common; they were gold diggers.

Then, one day I left my briefcase at Henna’s. I rang her door bell. She answered the door wearing only a bathrobe. She looked in my eyes and opened the robe! She was naked underneath. She smiled: “I’m not a gold digger,” she said through a beautiful beaming smile. She invited me in and handed me my briefcase. She said, “Please stay awhile.” I stayed more than awhile. She’s five years older than me, but it isn’t a problem. We got married the day before my 21st birthday. I asked myself over and over “Can this work?” Finally, I just quit asking and decided to enjoy Henna’s wonderful presence in my life.

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.

Aporia (a-po’-ri-a): Deliberating with oneself as though in doubt over some matter; asking oneself (or rhetorically asking one’s hearers) what is the best or appropriate way to approach something [=diaporesis].

“Do you like women out on work release?” That’s what it said on the dating site “Dating the Damned.” It was sponsored by the New York State Department of Corrections. It was believed that forming relationships would help rehabilitate offenders. The name of the site was offensive, but it had been coined by the Director who is known for his insensitivity, hollowness, and broken sense of humor, He has a chair in his office labeled “The Chair,” after the electric chair, a banned form of execution due to its cruelty and frequent malfunctioning, where for example victims would smoke and bounce around and survive, only to be re-executed the following day. And then, if he has negative feedback, you “get the chair” by being made to sit in the chair while he yells at you.

So I say to myself, “Should I give the woman on work release a spin? What could be the possible benefit? There’s only one way to find out.” I contacted her. Her name was Martha Muzzle. We made a date to meet at I-Hop. She ordered the Pink Pirate pancakes. She poured ketchup on them and spit n them and stabbed them repeatedly with a knife. She had a twisted look on her face and said “you bastard” over and over as she stabbed the pancakes. I told her I thought she was she was filled with emotion and it was beautiful. She pointed the knife at me and said “Good. How’d you like to be my next bastard?” I looked at my watch and said “Wo! It’s time for you to get back to the half-way house. I’ll drive you.” As we drove along, I noticed she had stolen the knife from I-Hop, and it was pointing at my leg. She said “Feel like bleeding?” Without waiting for my answer, she jammed the knife into my leg and said, “The halfway house is right there. I’ll get out and walk. I hope we can have another date.” She kissed me on the cheek and hopped out of my car.

I drove myself to the hospital. They asked what had happened. As I told them they nodded their heads and told me I was the fifth victim that month. I called the police. They told me she was about to go back to prison and that she would be tried for multiple stabbings, none of them fatal. I couldn’t contain my anger. I got my old baseball bat out of my garage and went to the halfway house to beat her to death. She opened the door and stabbed me in the stomach. I fell to the floor and she yelled “You bastard!” and kicked me in the stomach. Luckily, one of the residents called the police and an ambulance.

I’ve healed, but I’m lonely. For some reason “Dating the DamnEd” still appeals to me. In a way Martha Muzzle was exciting, even though she almost cost me my life. My new interest is Bongos Beatty. I’ve bought a Glock to take on our first date. Self defense is always a good excuse for murder.

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.

Aporia (a-po’-ri-a): Deliberating with oneself as though in doubt over some matter; asking oneself (or rhetorically asking one’s hearers) what is the best or appropriate way to approach something [=diaporesis].

You’ve heard of a Leprechaun. What about a Supercon? His empire of lies stretches around world. The is no rainbow or pot gold—there’s just a thick fog and a crock of shit.

What is the power he has over people? How does he get them to join him in his mad conspiracy theories and everything else? How does he get people to march on the capital with bullhorns blaring, beating up police, and breaking windows?

I believe it is his hair and dentures. His dentures are as white as shaved ice. Each tooth is an idol to a god or goddess of oral hygiene and beauty, and together, to the Smile God that they all share a common interest in as the Oral Pantheon. They have no fillings or gaps, or other defects deemed unsatisfactory by the One Great God of human beauty.

His dentures project an air of respectfulness, like an expensive car or a boat. This “Denture Power” attracts people like an expensive car or a boat. There is longing that, like a magnet, pulls people along is his wake. One problem he has with this, is people following him can’t see his dentures from behind and their desire for him begins to wane. This is where his hair comes into play.

Combed and stiffened, it looks like a complex freeway clover leaf, feeding into a circular race track running uphill into a wing, finally ending in a wave rolling back to the top of his head. His hair can be seen and work its magic from 360 degrees. No front or rear, its bright blond aura is everywhere. Its intricate comb-job belies the fact that it is a pile of hair—its greatest power stems from this fact: it looks like Mt. Sinai. One can imagine Moses climbing it, undaunted by the stiffener and the comb-rows. One may believe that his hair has a sacred aspect; that it may feed his brain with divinely-mandated commandments, that may supplement or alter the original ten. So there is a quality of piety aroused by the hair, and a feeling of religiosity from following the hair. The First Commandment has already been changed: “You shall have no other hair before me.” Some theologians have objected. They are missing and it is feared they have “climbed the stairway to heaven.”

So, the entanglement of religion and beauty through perfect dentures and a mountain of blond hair induces fervent allegiance to the bearer of the teeth and hair. if somebody stole his dentures and shaved his head, his reign would come to and end. A plot to do just this was uncovered in New York. A small cabal of dentists and hairdressers was conspiring to take the teeth and the hair. Their plan was to rush the stage at a rally, carrying M-15s, rope, and a folding chair. As soon as he was tied to the chair, the dentist would remove his dentures. Then, the hairdresser would fire up his rechargeable clippers and shave the villain’s head. Sitting there toothless and bald, it was the conspirators’ hope that the scales would fall from the audience’s eyes and they would rush the stage and kill him. Well, it wasn’t meant to be, The conspirators’ lair in the back room of a local Speedy Lube was raided by local police before they could execute their plan. When the conspirators raised the hands they were shot for making threatening gestures. One was found with his middle finger raised.

Well, there you have it. Is this what happens when truth speaks to power? Are we stuck with beautiful teeth and mountainous hair as inducements to vote for their bearers? Is democracy in trouble?

George Washington had wooden teeth and wore a wig. He did a damn good job. What is the significance of this?

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.