Category Archives: climax

Climax (cli’-max): Generally, the arrangement of words, phrases, or clauses in an order of increasing importance, often in parallel structure.

I woke up with a slight headache. When I was eating breakfast it started to throb. By lunch it was banging in my head like a hammer driving a nail into my brain. I passed out. I woke up again about five minutes later. I was on the floor. I pulled myself up and stumbled to my phone. I couldn’t remember how it worked. I went out on my front porch and started yelling “Help! I think I’m dying.” The first person walking by ignored me, so did the second and third. My neighbor the cat lady came out and asked me over the fence what was wrong with me. I told her I was dying and I needed an ambulance. She shook her head and said, “I don’t know what the kitties will think with all that siren noise. I just don’t know.”

I begged her to call 911 and she did. She went inside and pulled down all her shades. When the ambulance came with sirens blaring, the cats went crazy, climbing up and shredding the window shades into ribbons. It was horrific.

I climbed onto my comfy gurney and headed out to the hospital. When I got there, I filled out a pile of paper and sat and waited. A teen-aged looking girl pushing a wheelchair told me to get on, we were going for a “little” ride. We got to a room that had a big machine-looking thing in it. Another teen-aged looking girl told me to get in the machine and get like a horsy on my hands and knees and put the black hat with wires sticking out on my head and pull it down tight. I told them I was claustrophobic and they told that was too bad, but don’t pull off the black hat when the machine’s running or your hair will burn off. Before I had a chance to say anything, the machine was switched on. Jimi Hendrix was singing “Purple Haze” on a low budget stereo set. I think it was relevant to my problem—“purple haze all around my brain.” I was feeling well taken care of.

I got out of the machine just as the doctor arrived to diagnose me. He told me they had run the Hendroscopic Diagnosis to determine the state of my brain—whether it was up or down. They had determined that it was perfectly normal—nob purple haze or whatever.

I was skeptical. I caught an Uber home. When I got home, there was a note on my front door from the cat lady. It was a bill for $400.00 for her shredded window shades.

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.

Climax (cli’-max): Generally, the arrangement of words, phrases, or clauses in an order of increasing importance, often in parallel structure.

“1, 2, 3, Reality!” A rabbit was supposed to come out of my hat, but instead, it was a bill from the Japanese company whose snack service I had been subscribed to by my daughter for my 78th birthday. I received a box of Japanese snacks each month. It was hard to decide which one to eat. The wrappers were undecipherable with lots of stylized Japanese writing, and pictures of Pokémon-like creatures smiling and dancing. There could also be a picture of an item on the wrapper that hinted at what the snack was inside—but it was never enough to use it as a guide to make a choice. So, I just dove in!

When I opened the first snack it looked like pieces of string on a flat piece of cardboard. There was a mound of sugar on the string as well as what looked like red BBs. The wrapper had a message printed inside in Japanese, ending with three exclamation points. I should’ve taken heed: three exclamation points surely meant something, but foolish me ignored their potential as a warning. I took a bite. Nothing happened. The candy was delicious, but the BB sprinkles were a bit too crunchy for me.

My daughter called me down for dinner. After eating the candy, I wasn’t too hungry, but I went down anyway. We were having meatloaf—my favorite. When I walked into the dining room there was panic. My daughter picked up a knife while my grandson and granddaughter ran into the living room screaming. My drunken son-in-law said “What’s the fush, I mean, fuss?” And proceeded to take a bite of his meatloaf and another gulp of wine.

My daughter said “Don’t you see? He has turned into a mini-Godzilla—a Japanese fire-breathing monster. He’s 78 and he’ll be terrorizing major cities. He will probably be killed by drones. Father, what should we do?” I looked in the mirror on the wall at the end of the table. It was the same old me. I was confused beyond belief. In all my years on planet earth, with the exception of Woodstock, this was the weirdest experience I had ever had. Then, the doorbell rang. I answered the door and there were two Japanese men dressed in black standing on the porch. One of them was holding a box. Held it out to me and said “This is your snacks. Take!” I was just about to tell him what had happened when he asked “Where first shipment of snacks now?” I took them both up to my bedroom and pointed to the open box on my bed. One of them put on a mask and rubber gloves and picked up the box and dropped it in a silver-colored bag the other one was holding. There was a muffled explosion and flash of light. They bowed and then left through the front door, they threw the smoking bag in the trunk of their Toyota and took off, burning rubber, yelling “Sayonara,” and waving their arms out the rolled- down windows as they fish-tailed away.

I no longer looked like a mini-Godzilla to my daughter and grandchildren. Our meatloaf had gotten cold, but it still tasted good. My son-in-law was passed out on the couch. I was looking forward to digging into my new box of snacks. Things could only get better.

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.

Climax (cli’-max): Generally, the arrangement of words, phrases, or clauses in an order of increasing importance, often in parallel structure.

I was angry. I was outraged. I was ready to go ballistic, somebody had stolen my pin cushion. It looked like a strawberry and it had been in my family for 800 years. Betsy Ross had rented it from my ancestors during the American Revolution when she was sewing the flag. She said it’s strawberry motif worked to motivate her to “keep going” in the face of Ben Franklin’s “incessant” overtures. He was overweight and the creepy glasses he wore repulsed her. She said Tommy Jefferson would’ve been a real catch, but he already had a girlfriend.

Then, we got into the wedding dress business. Great-Great Grandmother “Lippy” used the pincushion when she made wedding dresses for rich people. One dress is especially interesting p. It was for Duchess Binger of the tiny European Duchy of Droppenstain. Duchess Binger was known far and wide for her dishonesty. She had “dishonest” breasts stitched into the dress. Her soon-to-be husband, the Duke of Earl, would be none the wiser. He was blind. She was taking a huge risk. If he touched them he would know—he had touched them when they first met. He knew how big they were. The Duchess had to keep him at bay until the wedding was over. When Grandmother Lippy asked her why she “was ding this,” she said she didn’t know. That was normal for the Duchess. Nobody had ever taken the time to teach her how to make good decisions. People believed that her unlimited wealth would shield her from the consequences of her bad decisions. For example, recently she had salted the manor’s fields, rendering them unsuitable for farming. She believed salting the earth would make food taste better.

But enough of this—where the hell is the pin cushion now?

Holy crap! The dog had gotten ahold of it! It was soaked with saliva and he looked like he had had an altercation with porcupine. My wife sat on him while I pulled out the pins and needles with a pair of pliers. After I got him straightened out I put the pin cushion up on the mantle on a dish towel to dry out.

This was the closest the pin cushion had come to being destroyed. The only other incident I’m aware of was Uncle Zombro’s carrying the pin cushion during the Civil War as a lucky charm. His diary recounts many time how it saved his life. For example, at the battle of Knuckle Ridge, he was juggling the pin cushion, a crumpled piece of paper and a rock. A Rebel sniper who was going to shoot him was so impressed he came down from his tree and asked Zombro to show him how to juggle. Zombro shot him in the head and took his boots, which were in great shape for a Rebel’s boots.

Well, the family heirloom is home! We’ve had it appraised and it is worth $25. That’s not much, but it’s ours. To family it’s worth $25,000,000. It’s packed with history, like a suitcase full of time. When the pin cushion dries out, I’m going to put it in a showcase and insure it for $50.

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.

Climax (cli’-max): Generally, the arrangement of words, phrases, or clauses in an order of increasing importance, often in parallel structure.

Bottom, middle, top. Where do we draw the line? How do we draw the line? What does the line consist of? But, most important, why do we cross the line?

I was brainstorming topics for my PhD dissertation in geometry. I had had a vision when I was visiting Egypt. Standing in the shadow of Cheops in the late afternoon, I was chatting up a fellow tourist, to get her to go to dinner and to bed with me. I told her she was fascinating and beautiful. She said, “I’ve heard that line before.” Suddenly, the world started spinning around and when it stopped abruptly, our guide had turned into Moses and she had turned into a golden calf. Moses looked like he always does: white hair, white beard, wild eyes. The golden calf fellow tourist looked even better made out of gold. I made a fist and knocked on her and she made a beautiful thudding sound. “24kt” I thought. I decided to call Moses “Moe” to test his take on hierarchies and formailities. Did he see himself as a Big Shot because of all the favors God had done him, not to mention making the Red Sea into a freeway and giving him ten short, easy to remember commandments to keep him and the rest of world on track toward salvation.

Me: Moe, do you have any idea why my fellow tourist got turned into a golden calf?

Moses: I would appreciate it if you called me Moses. The golden calf thing crops up as a symbol of misdirected affection—either putting God in second place (Commandment 1 violated), or caring only for the way people look and not how they act. In your case, it has to do with your desire for the flesh and not the person—you cared only about getting laid in your cheap hotel room, by plying your fellow tourist with a meal and drinks. For shame!

Me: But Moses, that’s life. It’s how the world turns. it is called “courtship.”

Moses: idiot! It’s courtshit, not courtship. It’s like the diabolical game show “Dating For Satan” that’s on Channel 666 all day Saturday and Sunday, drawing people away from worship to watch displays of wantonness, lust, and debauchery that Satan slips past the FCC in the United States and other regulatory bodies around the world. Wake up! Your penis does not communicate with your soul. It is an unreliable source of motivation for nothing but urination and procreation. Men who call their penis their “tool” are living by the right metaphor.

Me: You turn my hierarchy of the good upside down. I will think about calling my penis my tool. I have in mind a “screw-driver.” Ha ha! Pretty funny, huh?

Aside: With that, his penis caught on fire—just his penis, not his garments. It turned into a smoking screwdriver. Moses held out a handful of screws and said, “here. Have fun.”

Me: Yeeeow! I get it. I get it. It’s a metaphor. It’s a tool—peeing and procreating tool, not a toy, not for fun. A tool. (Moses snapped his fingers). Ahhhh. It’s back, unscathed. That was hell! So Moses, why are you here?

Moses: To show you where to draw the line. First, you should always carry a marking device: a chisel, a hoe, a marker pen, a ballpoint pen, a pencil and even a stick—especially good for drawing a line in the sand. Now, when deciding where to draw the line your first consideration should be what’s going to be contained on the line’s other side. Then, you must consider whether your line crosses somebody else’s line. Finally, you put up “No Trespassing” signs and punish anybody who crosses your line. Follow these simple steps and everything will line up.

Me: At that point I passed out and woke up in my sleazy hotel room. There was my fellow tourist, naked and snoring loudly, shaking the drapes. I came to the sudden realization that I had crossed the line. But, recalling my vision, Moses made it seem literally a bad thing to cross the line. Then, things started to click. I knew I had crossed the line, but whose line was it? My line? Society’s line? Then I remembered a TV show I loved to watch as a kid: “What’s My Line?” There would be three panelists. Two would lie about what they did for a living, with the remaining panelist actually telling the truth. Flash: Now that my penis was a metaphoric tool, I could see that “line” was a metaphor too!

TWO MONTHS LATER

I finished my dissertation and submitted it, against the advice of the committee Chair. The title is “My Tool is a Line.” In it, I transgress the deeply cultured lines that meanings draw, taking a Mosaic turn toward the utilization of recursiveness in surveying my “tool” and the syncretic obviation of its functional flexibility obscured by its metonymic iteration as a tool, and the line it draws, masking its recreational function and the threat it poses as “other” to the dominant trope of monogamy.

I am currently writing a new dissertation.

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.