Category Archives: brachylogia

Brachylogia (brach-y-lo’-gi-a): The absence of conjunctions between single words. Compare asyndeton. The effect of brachylogia is a broken, hurried delivery.

Goddamn hell bastard dog butt accordion! It blew out again. I shouldn’t have bought the cheap-ass brand “Paper Pumper.” I had had it patched 18 times—it was turning into one big patch. But I couldn’t afford a better brand like the “Supreme Squeezer” made totally by hand in Italy for $1,200.00. My pumper cost $12.95 at WalMart. They were displayed in a big bin with a sign saying “$12.99 today only.” “Today only” was every day, every season, every hour, every minute. The repair kits were for sale on the shelf behind them. The kits were $15.00. Every time I went to get one I thought “What a scam!” But what did I do about it? Nothing. Nothing. Nothing. I went with the flow, put a repair kit in my shopping cart and headed for the check-out register. So far I had spent over $620.00 on “Paper Pumper” repair kits. I could’ve had a “Supreme Squeezer” for another $580.00, but I could never afford it unless I burned my “Paper Pumper” and stopped paying for repairs. With a modest savings plan, I could have a “Supreme Squeezer” in 5-7 years.

That was too long.

They kept the “Supreme Squeezers” at WalMart in a special bulletproof, bombproof, fireproof showcase. It had golden columns and a gold vine motif winding around the doors. If you touched it an alarm went off and it became electrified. It could kill you. Taking all this into account, I came to the conclusion that robbing the “Supreme Squeezer” showcase would be a suicide mission. So, I got a credit card with a $2,000.00 credit limit.

I bought a “Supreme Squeezer” and some music sheets. My favorite is “That’s Amore” sung by Dean Martin back in the day. Then, wouldn’t you know it, my “Supreme Squeezer” ripped. Here I was in debt up to my ass, and the damn thing ripped. I went to WalMart and showed them the ripped accordion and demanded a replacement. They laughed a told me the 2-day warranty had run out. I pushed the clerk up against the electrified showcase and he started to smoke and scream. He burst into flames and ran out the front entrance. He didn’t make it across the parking lot before he fell into a smoking heap on the asphalt.

I’m sitting in a small uncomfortable cell with my “Supreme Squeezer.” I repaired it with a piece of duct tape. Now, it works again. I am awaiting trial for manslaughter. My lawyer tells me, given the circumstances, I’ll only get 8 to 10 years.

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.

Brachylogia (brach-y-lo’-gi-a): The absence of conjunctions between single words. Compare asyndeton. The effect of brachylogia is a broken, hurried delivery.

“Pile, car, laying.” It was his last gasp. They were his final words as he lay there bleeding under his lawnmower. We had been hunting Mr. Scarzone for 2 years. He had stolen Prince Charles’ beloved polo mallet. Charles believed it brought him luck on the Royal Field of glory. Scarzone was adept at evading capture. He had hidden the stolen polo mallet and vowed he never reveal where it was hidden. When he was on the run, he would email cryptic messages to taunt us about its whereabouts. They were all adventures in misdirection, but we had to follow them for the sake of the Prince, who had become, more than usual, an intolerable whining twit—a boundless rotter.

Two weeks before he committed rotary mower suicide, as Director of the “Mallet Recovery Task Force,” I received another email from him. It said simply “High Marks.” After hours of deliberation, we were sure that the “High” was the “High” in “High Gate Cemetery,” where all the famous miscreants are buried. “Marks” referred to “Karl Marx” who is one of the famous miscreants buried there. We jumped in our police cars and with sirens blaring we headed for High Gate.

Nothing was disturbed around Marx’s grave. We searched the woods adjoining the grave, believing the mallet would be disguised as a small tree. It wasn’t. We had been misled again. I was infuriated, but there was nothing I could do.

In the meantime, the Prince purchased a new polo mallet that he believed was bringing him good luck. He found a woman who was “miles better” than his current “hag of a wife” and his watercolors had improved. So, the task force was to be disbanded the following week.

Even though we were disbanded long ago—eight years ago to be exact—I’ve been trying to decipher Scarezone’s last words. I have failed. I have given up. The polo mallet is forever lost.

I was getting ready to retire and was going to have a car boot sale and get rid of the junk that had been accumulating in my garage for the past twenty years. I had bundles of “Police Gazette” magazine piled up five feet high. I was thinking about how stupid it was to save them. Then, I saw something that looked like a broomstick in the two-inch space between a couple of stacks of “Gazettes.” I pushed them back, and you guessed it: it was the missing polo mallet. Goddamn it! Mr. Scarzone had hidden the polo mallet in my garage. Bastard! I sawed it up into one-foot pieces, and burned it in my back yard.

Fu*k everybody.

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

A 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.

Brachylogia (brach-y-lo’-gi-a): The absence of conjunctions between single words. Compare asyndeton. The effect of brachylogia is a broken, hurried delivery.

Big, huge, gigantic, humongous, gigundo, massive, gargantuan, enormous, immense, massive, mammoth. I wish I wasn’t talking about my credit card bill. I wish I was talking about my apartment or TV, but I’m not. I owe $123,000 dollars on my credit card with 19% interest. My friend Eddy told me about the card and talked me into applying for it. Eddy’s not my friend any more.

I should have known something was amiss when I filled out the application for my “Sheister Card.” You apply for a $150,000 line of credit with no background check. I was making $300.00 per week towel- drying cars at the car wash.

The card came two days after I mailed the application. I signed the back and went shopping. The mall was packed as usual, and as usual, people were “just looking” or hanging out. Since the Lucky Whip whipped cream factory had closed, nobody had any money and almost everybody was on welfare. I went into Dick’s—it was one of the giant Dick’s from the 1980s. A crowd of people followed me in, eager to see a purchase take place. They saw my card in my hand and smelled a “buy” coming on. They followed be around as I looked for something to buy. The crown chanted “Corn Hole, Corn Hole, Corn Hole.” I pulled a Corn Hole off the stack and hoisted it onto my cart. When I handed my credit card to the cashier, she held it up and looked at it and handed it back and told me just tap it on the credit card reader. The transaction went through.

When I got home, I set the corn hole up in my living room and called up some friends for a Corn Hole party. I bought 20 bottles of Don Perignon, five pounds of caviar, and a two-pound wheel of Winnimere cheese. Once I started buying crap, I couldn’t stop. I had a fan club at the mall who got a vicarious thrill watching me buy stuff. I kept going to Dick’s working my way through the aisles until I came to the firearms counter. I bought 3 assault rifles and, 20 magazines, and 500 rounds of ammo. My fans cheered—and that’s what I lived for!

When I reached 3 months behind on my credit card payments, there was a loud knock at my door. It was the salesgirl from Dick’s. She told me my credit card is a scam run by organized crime to draw me into debt and extort everything I own, and blackmail me into doing their bidding. She told me she took one look at me and knew I was a sucker and I would be burned. She told me her father ran the scam and she would get me off the hook. I was so shocked and grateful that I told her I loved her & we went into the next room, where we played a few rounds of Corn Hole.

POSTSCRIPT

She got him a job working for her father. She bought him a set of brass knuckles, and had them engraved: “My Midnight Rambler.” They teamed up, “retired” her father, and took over the business. They retired when they made their first billion. They moved to Las Vegas were, as a hobby, they took up managing the grandchildren of famous singers. Wayne Newton’s grandson, Duane, was their greatest success.

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