Category Archives: catachresis

Catachresis (kat-a-kree’-sis): The use of a word in a context that differs from its proper application. This figure is generally considered a vice; however, Quintilian defends its use as a way by which one adapts existing terms to applications where a proper term does not exist.

The sun fell into my sandwich, fluttering and making growling sounds. the white bread curled up like a mayonnaise-soaked baby bonnet, prepared to shield the bald child’s little head from the wicked rays of the sun, the big shining frisbee arcing through the sky, headed west for sundown, sinking into the horizon like a foundering ship slipping into the depths of the silent blue Pacific and beyond, beyond the scope of time with the visions of angels seeing the deity sitting on a throne where the buffalos roam and the beer and the antlers play. You don’t know it, but this is heaven.

I died of cancer and I made it to the Big H—that’s Heaven, not Hell. I should know the difference since I’m not in flames. I’m reclined on a large powder puff that smells like jasmine, settling in for the eternal good smell and absence of bodily functions, and they’ve changed my name from “Mack the Screwdriver” to “Carl Pinkston.” It feels good to be dead. But nevertheless, memories of living have become 3-D versions of Hell that I have to learn to cope with. I am going to classes where I learn to say “That isn’t real” when I have a fantasy, a dream, or a vision. That doesn’t leave much to the imagination. What’s not left is tap dancing lilies, water turning into wine, dead people coming back to life and going for a hike across a desert for a swim in the Red Sea, buying new hair-on calf skin sandals and hiking back to their powder puff to relax and watch TV.

Their Favorite show?

“Moses of Mayberry” every time. It’s about a rural oasis where Moses is a chariot mechanic who fights crime. In the most recent episode, Mayberry’s shibboleth is altered by a suspected teenaged vandal so nobody can get into downtown Mayberry to shop any more. Moses has to recreate the code from memory by yelling in a well many combinations of letters and recording the echoes as they lurch back up at him. Finally, after thirty days and thirty nights, the right combination arises from the well. Moses writes it down and hides it under his bed disguised as a Joyvah Sesame Crunch wrapper. That will keep it safe from thieves. He leaves his bedroom and goes to sit by his pool. He forgets his sun screen and goes back inside to get it. There is his fat-assed wife rummaging around under his bed. She is the thief! He texts God and she goes up in a cloud of dust.

What an episode!

God, what must Hell be like? I’m so glad I followed the Ten Commandments (most of the time). I coveted my neighbor’s wife 50 or 60 times. That was my only transgression, and clearly, it didn’t matter. Here I am in Heaven, living the good afterlife.

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.

Catachresis (kat-a-kree’-sis): The use of a word in a context that differs from its proper application. This figure is generally considered a vice; however, Quintilian defends its use as a way by which one adapts existing terms to applications where a proper term does not exist.

Every time I hear “AI,” I think of the Carmen Miranda song: “AI, AI, I love you very much, AI, AI, I, think I do.” I see a woman dancing with a basket of fruit on her head somewhere in South America, most likely, Argentina. But this is my problem, not yours. I don’t know what AI is. “Artificial Intelligence” seems like an oxymoron to me, like “jumbo shrimp” or “alone together.”

My bony brain is turned to lava by the hot heavens of technology. In other words, I don’t understand. I recover from my fruitless musings by eating the banana resting in a bowl on my kitchen’s granite- topped island—disjoined from the kitchen counters, adrift in the center of the kitchen with pendant lights above casting their beams on the banana in the bowl below—yellow, with a few brown spots, at its peak as an edible.

AI, AI, I love you very much!

As far as I know, “Rod Johnson” was the first AI-driven animatronic being. He was introduced in the early 1950s to supplement the teaching of health-related topics in 9th grade classes across America, until the “League of Decent Citizens” lobbied to have him removed and burned. There is only one known Ron Johnson remaining. He is housed in the “Museum for the History of Visual Aids” in Iceland, adjacent to the famous Penis Museum in Reykjavik.

Rod’s mechanism: since he was deployed in the 1950s, there is only a heterosexual version of Rod. You plug him in. You slide the switch on the back of his neck to the “On” position. Rod’s eyes open wide. Choose one of the soft-core XXX pictures from the pile stacked in front of him. Hold the picture in front of Rod’s eyes. Then, pop goes the weasel, and there is a tent in Rod’s pants. Rod was supposed to be used in Health Class Units devoted to the male erection, its causes, and effects.

Things went wrong. Even though the pictures were locked in the principal’s office at the end of the day, it was rumored that teachers were staying after school and “doing things” that made the Rod Doll pop up. It was never proven, but nevertheless, the Rod Johnson dolls were confiscated and burned. Many people thought it was jealousy about the reliability of Rod’s pop-up function that led to his demise. Many men felt threatened by his 100% average.

But here we are today. A Japanese company is working on a life size Rod Johnson animatronic companion. It comes with three different size penises, a variable-speed humper function, and a heated variable-speed twirling tongue. Currently, they are back-ordered to 2031.

AI, AI, I love you very much!

So, without knowing what it is that I’m talking about, I’ve rambled way off point and probably angered and disgusted some of you. But, on balance disgust peeks from my soul’s basement, from the dank inner sphere of its deteriorating French dam cracked by anger as it floods—floods, floods, floods. That’s what I think.

Keep reading.

Rod! Bring me a robot brownie so I may eat the future for dessert. No?

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.

Catachresis (kat-a-kree’-sis): The use of a word in a context that differs from its proper application. This figure is generally considered a vice; however, Quintilian defends its use as a way by which one adapts existing terms to applications where a proper term does not exist.

I was reticent to jump out the window. It was three feet to the ground where mother’s beloved flower bed was filled with color, the result of years of hard labor, and the consequence of an unhealthy rivalry with Mrs. Better across the street. But why the hell was I even hesitating? Grandpa was in flames in his living room chair and he was headed toward lighting the entire living room on fire. “Everclear” and a “Swisher Sweet” cigar were a bad combination. It was inevitable, but I didn’t think it would be today. I felt the heat of the flames, and I jumped, landing in the rich well-turned loam and crushing four different-colored tulips.

The fire department came and they quickly put the fire out—it didn’t spread much from Grandpa, scorching the carpet and chair and burning up the table by the chair with Grandpa’s medication and where his Rubic’s cube usually was. He loved that Rubic’s cube. He never solved it, but he said it kept his wrists limber. Where was it?

He was put in a black rubber bag and and zipped it up. I couldn’t watch him being bagged. Suddenly there was movement inside the bag. The EMT unzipped it and there was dead Grandpa holding his Rubic’s cube with his hand twitching in post-morten convulsions. In death, he had nearly solved the puzzle, but his convulsions stopped before he could finish. It was the most amazing thing I’ve ever seen in my entire life. The EMTs zipped Grandpa’s bag back up and wheeled him out the door.

My mother came storming in holding the tulips I had crushed. “What were you thinking stupid boy? These tulips came straight from Amsterdam. A client gave them to me as a special bonus. You know that’s where I met your father when I put my butt up to the glass and he licked it, winning my heart and making me his wife. So, you should know how much pain you’ve caused by crushing them!” With that, she started slapping me across the face with them until they turned to juice. I reminded Mom that the tulip bulbs were unharmed and the tulips would come back next year. She didn’t care. She started throwing dirt balls at me. One hit me in the eye and enraged me. I wanted to kill her. I threw Grandpa’s “Everclear” bottle at her and hit het a glancing blow to the head. The rubber mask flew off. Holy shit! It was Grandpa. “Jesus Grandpa! Who was that in your chair?” Grandpa said, “My twin brother Florio. I didn’t know he existed. He showed up here 3 months ago and tied me up in the bomb shelter in the basement. He has been collecting my Social Security checks and stole your poor dead dad’s coin collection and guns and sold them for half of what they’re worth,”

I was shocked: “God Grandpa! Where the hell is Mom?” Where did you get the Mom mask? Grandpa said, “Mom lives next door and visits every day. Up until my twin brother showed up, everything worked fine. He is dangerous a kept one of your dad’s guns in the chair with him. I got loose from the bomb shelter, but was afraid to confront him or contact the police. I have 100s of parking tickets. So, I resurrected the Mom mask I had made so your mother could cheat on your father. I disguised myself as her and pretended to be her when she went next door for her trysts. There’s more to the story, but enough is enough.”

“Are you sure you’re my real grandpa?” I asked. “Grandpa” looked at me and headed for the door. He pulled the Mom mask back on and said he was going to buy a new Rubic’s cube at the toy store.

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