Category Archives: assumptio

Assumptio (as-sump’-ti’o): The introduction of a point to be considered, especially an extraneous argument. 

See proslepsis (When paralipsis [stating and drawing attention to something in the very act of pretending to pass it over] is taken to its extreme. The speaker provides full details.).

We’ll have to work all night to get this order of jelly donuts done for the town donut fest. 1,000 donuts is a record, a record that is too difficult to achieve. What is it about night-time jelly donut-making that is appealing? Is it the sweet smell of raspberry jam in the calm night air? It is! Take it away and there’s just dough and powdered sugar—which does have, but will never eclipse the heavenly smell of—the sweet heavenly smell—of the angel-scented jam, injected into the donuts like a vaccine permeating the donut’s doughy body and providing a barrier against a bittersweet nexus of flavor causing pain to the tastebuds and producing a dreary oral cave, dripping spoiled saliva and other sorts of indigestible mucous.

On to the jelly donuts now! On to victory! Knead. Sprinkle. Squirt. It’s 11.00 and we’ve knocked off only 85 donuts. You all have jelly on your lips. You are licking the jelly! Not only is it unsanitary, but it is slowing you down. So—stop it! If I catch you licking the jelly, I will give you a heavy blow on the head with my marble rolling pin. It is likely to kill you, but there is a lot at stake here—without this contract we go out of business—after 200 years, gone!

Three baker’s helpers were killed that night. The poor fools just couldn’t resist licking the jelly. They were brutally beaten in front of the other workers. The beatings put the jelly donut factory further off schedule.

The Foreman gave each worker 3 large cups of espresso to speed them up. The workers became like windmills spinning out jelly donuts at an unprecedented rate. The Foreman couldn’t slow them down. Dawn was breaking. The workers were up to their necks in donuts—they couldn’t move their arms, but that didn’t matter. The foreman and his wife drank 6 large cups of espresso and started boxing jelly donuts. They were champion boxers, winning the boxing prize at the state fair year after year.

They went wild boxing. Soon, the 1,000 donuts were boxed and being wheeled to the waiting delivery trucks. The sun had peeked over the factory wall, casting a shadow on the parking lot. “Roll ‘em!” hollered the Foreman. The trucks took off in a line on time.

The business was saved! The three murdered workers were rolled up in chains and dumped into the bay from the Foreman’s new cabin cruiser. Nobody said a word. Everybody got a pay raise.

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.

Assumptio (as-sump’-ti’o): The introduction of a point to be considered, especially an extraneous argument. 

See proslepsis (When paralipsis [stating and drawing attention to something in the very act of pretending to pass it over] is taken to its extreme. The speaker provides full details.).

I was headed to Pennsylvania to see where our nation was born in Philadelphia. I had become convinced from the podcast “Nothing is True” that the so-called “founding fathers” were a hoax. That they were a self-appointed gang of miscreants who “faked” democracy and installed George Washington as the secret king, whose real “Hello Address” promised not be a despot and to do his best to trick people into believing he was President. The king-term would parallel the President-term of four years.

This brings up an important point: the throne. There is no throne per se to be found anywhere where he reigned. But “Nothing is True” has answered that question, with an answer so simple, a child could make it up. The throne was disguised so cleverly that it took a real long time to find out where it is. The throne, my friends, sat in Independence Hall. It was the Medieval folding chair sitting unobtrusively, and kept folded, by the men’s room door.

The chair belonged to William the Conquerer. He used it when he was lonely and needed a place to sit outside the throne room, so he could hang out informally with his pals and drink some ale. It was stolen by his errant nephew, Prince Dorian the Dissolute. He brought the chair to London where it resided in Dissolute’s hereditary estate for hundreds of years. It was removed to the American Colonies by Tricky Trent, an antique dealer who purchased it at an auction from the Dissolute estate when the estate drifted into penury and needed to raise cash to pay the lenders lined up at their front porch gates. The chair was purchased at a jumble sale in Scranton, PA by Ben Franklin’s father Bill Franklin. Bill gave it to Ben for his birthday. Ben would relax in the chair before he went to bed wearing his mogul’s breeches and reading by candlelight. His favorite book was Dante’s Inferno. His favorite level of hell was the eighth—the place for swindlers—liars and fraudsters. It inspired his famous saying “Remember that credit is money.”

When the secret cabal met in Independence Hall’s basement to plan the secret monarchy, Ben Franklin brought his folding chair. He did not want to sit on a wooden crate that had been used to carry chickens to market. That’s when it was decided to make Ben’s folding chair into King Washington’s secret throne.

Nobody knows what secret undertakings the King of America pursues. They are deeply held secrets that will never be revealed. After Independence Hall, for as long as it has existed, the White House has housed the secret throne. Recently though, the throne has been removed from the basement and relocated to the Oval Office. According to “Nothing is True” we will witness, incrementally, the King making himself known and destroying the myth of democracy that has kept the people docile and sheep-like for 248 years. “Nothing is True” reports that the current King is an idiot with no common sense. His most revered activity is showing off his power without a well-considered reason—its just about showing off.

Thankfully, the King only serves for four years. The cabal is concerned he will proclaim his Kingship for life and, make it self-evident that democracy has been a sham all these years. Some say he must be stopped. “Nothing is True” has offered nine-million dollars for his pinkie (right or left). Although they have issued a disclaimer stating that the offer is for “literary reasons only” and will not be honored under any circumstances. This makes me suspect the veracity of their entire story. Is it true that nothing is true? I am at a loss to answer that question.

When I get to Philadelphia, I will be channeling Ben Franklin alongside Madame Cookie the famous medium who was regularly consulted by Nancy Reagan, Johnny Carson, Fidel Castro and many. Many more. She uses a walker now and nods off during readings, but she’s still as sharp as an axe. We will set up outside the men’s room in Independence Hall. We hope to conjure Ben Franklin’s spirit to ask him directly about the chair/throne. Before we even got set up we both smelled fish and a heard a hearty bass voice coming from the men’s room asking “Are you visitors or guests?”

We knew we were onto something! Ben’s spirit floated through the men’s room door. He sniffed the air and said “Ah, you just got here.” I said, “I have a question Ben. Does America have a secret king?” He laughed and adjusted his spectacles. He said, “No. the answer is unequivocally no. If there was such a cabal, do you think the current President would ever been elected? No, my friends, it is the result of the electorate’s deep disrepair—the loss of its vision of the true, the good, and the beautiful: the key commitments of citizens of a republic. If a majority values lies, injustice, and bullying, it all goes to hell. After all these years, democracy’s fatal flaw (the majority wins) has come to fruition. I’m sorry.”

After what he said, Ben’s spirit evaporated. Madame Cookie and I looked at each other, stunned. My drive back to Elk’s Hole, Wyoming was filled with alternating bouts of joy and despair. Somehow, the majority of the electorate’s ethos needs to change and bear a commitment to the true truth, the good, and the beautiful.

But, what do we target? How do we target it?

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.

Assumptio (as-sump’-ti’o): The introduction of a point to be considered, especially an extraneous argument. 

See proslepsis (When paralipsis [stating and drawing attention to something in the very act of pretending to pass it over] is taken to its extreme. The speaker provides full details.)

A: I don’t understand your obsession with “Oh Susana.” You don’t even own a banjo and never travel anywhere. But most important: you don’t know anybody named Susana who is your “true love.” I don’t think you even know what a true love is. The closest you come is petting the dog. So, next time you’re taking a shower why not sing “The Who” song about rain? It will help preserve my sanity.

B: Well, I’m not going to respond to your criticism, but you don’t know very much about music, “Oh Susana” was number one on the “Freaky 50 Song List” for 70 years. It was knocked off by “Incense and Peppermint” in the late 1960s. The line “the sun was so hot I froze to death” is a definitive piece of psychedelia, fascinating trippers for 100s of years. The band “Cream” claimed it as their primary inspiration with its spaced-out lyrics and wah wah banjo—an innovation rivaling the fuzz box and the pedal steel guitar. Little Stevie Foster, who wrote the song, was known for his use of controlled substances. He would sit down by the Swanee River with his minstrel buddies smoking pot and fishing for catfish. It is said he wrote “Hard Times Come No More” after he caught a 50 pound catfish on a trot line. He also coined “wow man” as a response to things that moved him. In fact, he died at his desk composing a song titled “Wow Man.” From what we can gather, and what musicologists assert, the song was inspired by a ladybug that had crawled up Little Stevie’s pant leg when he was reading the Bible as he sat on a log in the woods.

Well, there you have it. There is no good reason to criticize my frequent singing of “Oh Susana.” It is a classic. It has mind-bending psychedelic overtones. And, I did’t go into depth on the exemplary image of love it portrays, which alone should give you pause and open your heart.

A. I never realized how mentally disturbed you are. Your rationale for singing “Oh Susana” all the time is grounded in looney musings that completely evade the facts. You defame Stephen Foster. I don’t know what to do.

B: Let’s sing “Oh Susana.”

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.