Category Archives: colon

Colon (ko’-lon): Roughly equivalent to “clause” in English, except that the emphasis is on seeing this part of a sentence as needing completion, either with a second colon (or membrum) or with two others (forming a tricolon). When cola (or membra) are of equal length, they form isocolon.

I ran. I fell. I bled. This happened all the time. My jeans all had blood stains on the knees. All my friends called me Old Faller, like the dog “Old Yeller” in the exceedingly sad book. In it, Old Yeller gets sick and has to get shot dead by the boy who took him for a pet. Nobody had to shoot me dead, but I felt like it. I was clumsy and fell down all the time. I told everybody that I had sea legs. I didn’t know what it meant, but it went with my aspirations. I would yell “Yo Ho! Yo Ho!Yo Ho!!” at cars when they drove down my street,

Whenever my sister was with me she carried a big bottle of iodine. She would dribble it on my knees whenever I fell. It stung so badly it sent lightening flashes through my head. The bottle had a Skull and Crossbones on it. My sister told me in addition to being healing medicine, it was pirate cologne—they splashed it on their faces when they went on dates.

She never should’ve told me about the pirates. As you may have gathered, I loved pirates—their hats, their boots, the Skull and Crossbones, but especially, their dating skill. They were always dancing in a bar with a beautiful woman in the books I read. Pirate Cologne was a necessity if I ever got a date, to enhance the experience.

The girl next store, Peggy Martin, wore high black boots and a black bandanna on her head with skulls printed on it. She was two years older than me. With my “Pirate Cologne,” I would win her in a second. The smell of the cologne would make her as pliant as a piece of cooked spaghetti. I asked her to go to the “Sugar Bowl” with me. It was a candy store where we ate candy and danced like maniacs to the Rock ‘n Roll music they played. Music like “Great Balls of Fire.”

We arrived at the Sugar Bowl. We walked onto the dance floor. I splashed on my Pirate Cologne.

My face smelled like one of my cuts. Once again my lying sister had done her work. But, Peggy tilted her head back and took a big smell. She said, “God that smells good!” She felt my face and said “You’re a magic man.” I went into the men’s restroom and looked in the bathroom mirror. My face was stained from the iodine with what looked like a robust orange birthmark.

I went back on the dance floor and Peggy wanted to dance all night. I complied and we danced at the Sugar Bowl until it closed at 10.00. In our last dance I rubbed my cheek on hers and the gathered crowd went wild. We bowed to their applause and hoots. Peggy’s Mom picked us up out front.

Pirate Face (my brand of face stain) has become very popular. For example, the facial birthmark look has taken off among hospital orderlies. They say it looks “medical” and makes them more comfortable consulting with patients, who may be stained too.

I have forgiven my sister, but she still plays pranks on me. Last week, she chained me to the steering wheel of a golf cart, put a lead ingot on the gas pedal and turned on the key. I ran over a goose and landed in the lake. I crawled out covered with leeches. It was a pretty bad experience. I wrestled my sister to the ground and fed her one of my wiggly leeches. That evened the score. We went our separate ways laughing. No matter what my psychotic sister does, I will always love her for introducing me to Pirate Cologne. Despite her near-death experience drinking it mixed with gin, she’s a survivor.

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.

Colon (ko’-lon): Roughly equivalent to “clause” in English, except that the emphasis is on seeing this part of a sentence as needing completion, either with a second colon (or membrum) or with two others (forming a tricolon). When cola (or membra) are of equal length, they form isocolon.

“I am happy. I am lovin,’ I am Pappy.“ This was Daddy’s favorite saying. He’d sit on a log in front of our two-room shack singing his favorite songs, tipping his little brown jug, and smokin’ hand rolleds out of his special homemade brand of tobacco he called “Whacky Backy.” Daddy didn’t work. He told us God had released him of that responsibility and given him four healthy sons all in one burst outta Ma. We all had jobs, such as they were.

I commuted down to the flat lands seven days a week to muck Mr. Windbark’s horse stalls and brush his horses too. He had 25 thoroughbreds, so I had to get to work at 5:00 am, and work until 10:00 pm every day. I had biceps the size of cinderblocks, and I could imitate all the birds I would hear outside the stalls while I was workin’. Mt favorite was the cardinal.

One day, Mr. Windbark’s brother-in-law was visiting him. He was checking out the horses down at the barn when he heard my bird calls. He invited me up to Mr. Windbark’s mansion. He told me to listen to what he played on the piano, and then, whistle it back at him. He played some French song called “Clear the Loon.” I whistled it back and a couple of Mr. Wingback’s female guests swooned. Even though I smelled like horse shit, a number of them embraced me, kissed my neck, and handed me notes. I’m illiterate, but I think they were invitations of some kind. Mr. Windback’s daughter looked me in the eyes and said “I am yours. I will never leave you.” I was dumbfounded.

Mr. Wingback’s brother-in-law had a traveling vaudeville show. They toured the Northeast and featured entertainers of all kinds—from snake charmers to contortionists. He offered me a job whistling in his show and I took it. I was to be a featured act in “The Wing-Zing Traveling Vaudeville Show.” I was to go on after “Madame Cruncher” who was fed spoonfuls of gravel while she quacked like a duck.

When I told Daddy, all he did was tell me to send him half of my payscheck every month. Ma gave me a pair of mittens, and my three brothers pooled their resources and bought me a used vintage suitcase—the kind with no wheels.

I was billed as “Whistler’s Brother.” I would begin my act with bird calls, followed by a repertoire of well-known songs like “Are You Lonesome Tonight?” The audience favorite was always “Stairway to Heaven.” Then, I would take requests from the audience. A favorite request was Blue Oyster Cult’s “Don’t Fear the Reaper.” Then, I’d finish the show with The Village People’s “YMCA.” I’d do a little dance with my fists in the air. The audience always went wild.

I became a wealthy man. Mr. Windback’s daughter was true to her word. We love our life together, especially now, since our first child is due in two months. Unfortunately, Daddy died. His liver exploded when he was competing in a hog calling contest over in Booker’s Hollow. Ma said he should’ve just stayed on his log and not become involved with “them hog callin’ people.”

I gave Ma money to build an addition on our shack and make it into a bed and breakfast. It’s on the main track between Hellbore’s Ridge and Hunchback Mountain, so, Ma is pretty busy. The B&B is called “Whistlers.”

My brothers work in the B&B but spend most of their time sitting on what they affectionately call “Daddy’s Log.” We buried Daddy behind the shack, in the middle of his “Whacky Backy” patch. His headstone is a big flat piece of river rock from Stinky Creek. We had it engraved and his epitaph reads: “I am happy. I am lovin,’ I am Daddy.” Even though he used to say “I am Pappy,” we figured “I am Daddy” is more of a tribute to him. I whistled “Leader of the Pack” at his funeral, while my brothers made motorcycle sounds. It was his favorite song.

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.

Colon (ko’-lon): Roughly equivalent to “clause” in English, except that the emphasis is on seeing this part of a sentence as needing completion, either with a second colon (or membrum) or with two others (forming a tricolon). When cola (or membra) are of equal length, they form isocolon.

There was a time before time—no time, no measure of duration, no deadlines. People lived and then they died—no yesterday, no tomorrow. Just now. this is how you live. I’ve known you for 22 years and you’ve never been on time. I remember when we were going on vacation together. You were driving. You were two days late picking me up. I waited with my suitcase on my front lawn. When you finally showed up it was pouring rain. I was wrapped in a plastic tablecloth I pulled off the picnic table in the garage. It leaked and my head got wet. When you finally got there you didn’t apologize because you didn’t know what “late” means.

The time has come. Cuckoo cuckoo me and you are going to Switzerland. Enough is enough. There is a clinic in Geneva—“The Max Plonk Clinic.” They have developed a foolproof surgical procedure for awakening your time onsciousness—to get the ticker in your head tocking. Phil was opposed to it at first. But when I pointed out how being bereft of time consciousness had negatively affected his life, he capitulated. I had reminded him how he was 3 years late for his daughter’s birth and almost destroyed his family. So, we took off for Switzerland.

I made sure we were on time to the Max Plonk Clinic. It was still beyond Phil. The surgery was bizarre. Dr. Chronoveaux cut a slot in Phil’s head like a piggy bank slot. It was about the size of a quarter. he dropped a watch the size of a quarter into the slot. And then pugged it with a little rubber plug. For purposes of battery changing, he implanted a small spring that would enable the watch to pop up like a little piece of toast when the skull plug is removed. As far as the way the mechanism works, it is a mystery to me. Dr. Chronoveaux would only say, “It puts zee time in zee head. Ha, ha, Zo vunny to me!”

That didn’t help. But when the watch was inserted in Herb’s head, he started tapping his fingers and his eyes darted around. At one point he looked at his wrist like he was wearing a wristwatch. When he fully woke up he asked what time it was. Success! but then, he asked again in five minutes, and again in five minutes. It needed to be fixed. They sedated Phil and used the toast popper function to remove the watch. There was a picture of Mickey Mouse on the watch’s face. “Vee must upgrade!” Said Dr. Chronoveaux. He went to the Mall and came back in around 30 minutes. He had a small watch with Taylor Swift embossed on the face. The Doctor dropped it in the slot and Phil was repaired! Aside from wanting to time nearly everything, Phil is just fine now. He is on time most of the time and he apologizes if he’s late by saying “Taylor and I apologize— it’s really not her fault.”

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.

Colon (ko’-lon): Roughly equivalent to “clause” in English, except that the emphasis is on seeing this part of a sentence as needing completion, either with a second colon (or membrum) or with two others (forming a tricolon). When cola (or membra) are of equal length, they form isocolon.

“I came, I saw, I farted.” I thought that was so funny the first time I thought of it, substituting “farted” for “conquered” in Caesar’s famous tricolon. I even had a T-shirt made that said “I came, I saw, I farted” in Latin with a picture of Caesar bent over, obviously blowing wind. People would ask me what it meant. When I told them, they would look at me with an “I pity you” look on their face. But that didn’t deter me. If anything, it motivated me to produce more witty t-shirts and make a lot of money, and to ensure that I would, I would only use English—no more Latin or anything else.

My first creation was Biblical, in a way: “The meek shall inherit the Porta-Potties.” It had a picture of a meek-looking person in sandals and a robe hugging a Porta-Pottie, smiling with joy, realizing he got what he deserved at the end of time. I thought the irony would strike people as exceedingly funny, but it didn’t. The name of my business was “Mr. T’s.” People started calling it “Mr. Traducer’s” and held a vigil in the street in front of my store. They chanted “Leave the meek alone” and “1, 2, 3, 4 we won’t shop at Satan’s store.” When I went outside to apologize, they threw kitty litter at me, followed by water balloons. They yelled “Traducer! Traducer! Caffeinated beverage user!” This chant I didn’t understand, so I yelled back “What do you mean?” Their leader yelled back, “If you don’t know, I’m not going to tell you.” Then, they dispersed after setting fire to the Porta-Pottie they had carried to the protest. It smelled terrible and it took three days to clean up the mess.

I wasn’t to be thwarted. My sacred First Amendment rights were being violated. I felt oppressed. I felt angry. Mother’s Day was just around the corner. We needed to make a Mother’s Day T-shirt with a message from the hearts of sons and daughters throughout the land. I asked my workers for suggestions. I got things like a giant heart with “MOM” written across it, “A mother is like glue, holding the family together,” “My mother is a walking miracle”—two-bit cliches with no discernible oomph. I couldn’t depend on my idiot employees to come up with anything worthy of the company’s name.

I went out to my car, taking my sketch pad. I sketched a voluptuous woman stretched out in a bathing suit in a 1950’s pin-up style. After smoking a couple of unfiltered Lucky Strikes, I came up with a saying expressing and summing up men’s and women’s heartfelt honest feelings for their mothers: “Mom, I love you more than Dad.” We marketed the t-shirt for sale as a special Mother’s Day gift cutting through the usual drivel, and striking at the heart of the special day. We were confident of blockbuster sales. We sold 2 t-shirts which were burned live on the nightly news.

Undaunted, I forged ahead. I hired somebody else to design our t-shirts. My new employee had a perfectly round head. It was very cool. His first design, aside from the color, looked like a self portrait. It was a big smiling yellow head with eyes. I thought it was the stupidest thing I had ever seen. But, after my string of fiascos, I had started mistrusting my judgment, so I had my employees decide whether they wanted to produce “Smiling Face” t-shirts. I was the only dissenting vote, so we put “Smiling Face” up on the web and waited for orders. In the first 2 hours, we had over 10,000 orders. We changed the name to “Smiley Face” and put them on everything we could think of—from cigarette lighters to underpants.

The basic lesson here is hard the fathom. I failed miserably, but I tried again and failed again. I never really succeeded. The guy I hired succeeded though, which sort of made me succeed, even though I voted against printing his design. So, what is the lesson? I don’t know, but I’ve become convinced that my designer is a “one horse Harry.” Since the “Smiley Face,” all of his designs have gone straight to the trash bin. For example, who would want a t-shirt with a thing that looks like a chicken’s footprint with a circle around it, or a hand making a WWII victory sign?

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.