Category Archives: commoratio

Commoratio (kom-mor-a’-ti-o): Dwelling on or returning to one’s strongest argument. Latin equivalent for epimone.

I didn’t want to go to the butcher shop again for mother. I told her it smelled like dead animal fat. I told her the bones sticking out were disgusting. I told the animal organs made me want to puke. And the pickled feet. My God! And the baloney—it looks like a giant condom injected with pink blood. Pease Mom, make Charmin go! She wants to be a biologist. I want to be a race car driver. Like I sad, the butcher’s shop smells like dead animal fat.

Mother told me to shut up and “No more condom talk.” She said I was too young to make those kinds of references.

She gave me $15.00 and sent me off to “Harry Heinz’s Modern Butcher Shop.“ I was supposed to buy 3 pig kidneys. When she told me I almost puked. It was dad’s birthday. Last year we had tripe. We had Italian tripe soup. The edible inner lining of an animal’s stomach for a birthday dinner put me wretching on the floor—I was faking it, but it could’ve been real.

Now, we were going to have kidneys. Mom was going to stuff them in a duck and bake them. It was called kid-duckin. It was an old family recipe from when our family resided in Scotland. Sheep would get run over all the time and my family would scrape them up, slice them open, and squeeze their organs out and wash them off. Then, they would strangle a couple of ducks, stuff a kidney or two into the ducks, and dine on them, giving thanks to God above.

Also, the birthday cake has persisted for hundreds of years. It is made from grass, wild apples, milkweed, and molasses. Dad eats it once a year and claims it restores him to his youth. After we sing happy birthday, he acts like a six year old, throwing a tantrum on the kitchen from, kicking his feet and calling mother a “Big poo-poo head,” which is clearly a return to his youth.

Anyway, I made it to the butcher shop. Mr. Heinz was waiting by the door with three kidneys in a plastic bag. I gave him the money and he told me when he squeezed the the kidneys, they felt like my mother’s ass. When he said it he had a juicy leer on his face.

I thought about what he said on the way home. I squeezed the kidneys too. I didn’t know for sure, but they probably felt like my mother’s ass like Mr. Heinz had said. As a butcher, he would be in a good position to judge their comparison.

When I got home, I handed Mom the kidneys and asked her if Mr. Heinz had ever squeezed her ass. She said, “Yes. Two or three times, I don’t recall exactly. Mr. Heinz is a very attractive man.”

I couldn’t believe it! My mother was fooling around with the butcher and admitted it without hesitation. I didn’t tell Dad, but I think he knew. He started spanking her in the living room. My sister and I enjoyed it and took a couple of swats when Dad said it was ok. We were an unhealthy family.

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.

Commoratio (kom-mor-a’-ti-o): Dwelling on or returning to one’s strongest argument. Latin equivalent for epimone.

I told you so. Now that our brother Nigel and his whole family have been deported back to the UK, maybe you’ll believe me. They made no attempt to conceal their Brittyness. For example, when they complained that the grocery store didn’t carry “Spotted Dick.” They caused near-riot at the butcher’s counter. They were called cannibals and perverts. The butcher called them “pasty-faced limeys,” a dead giveaway to the accuracy of his assumptions regarding their nationality.

Nigel, talking to the guy sitting next to him on the subway said “You look like a hard-working bloke” and almost got the shit beaten out of him. The guy, a typical New Yorker, responded: “Are you talkin’ to me? What the fu*k is a bloke? Call me that again, and I’ll kick your ass. So shut the fu*k up!” Another subway adventure happened when your son Dudley asked the woman sitting next to him to if she wanted to “budge up.” We know it means “move over” but she thought differently. She thought it had some kind of sexual connotation. She hit him twice in the face and moved her seat.

Aside from the foods, and idioms, the worst giveaway is your accent. I’ve bought you a subscription to “Talking American.” I used it, and now I sound like I’m from Kansas. It’s web-based so you can access it with any of your internet enabled devices. Here’s how it works: you mimic the speaker on the site for three hours a day until your accent is gone and you’re able to go undetected as an illegal immigrant. You should prolly change your first name too. I switched from Alastair to Pete. Mom might roll over in her grave, but we’ve got to do what we can do to stay in the USA.

But remember, it’s your accent more than anything that’s going to get you nailed and deported.

It’s all in the voice—in your accent. Start using “Talking American” today!

POSTSCRIPT

His brother grabbed the “Talking. American” box and exclaimed, “I’m chuffed now!” Then, he scooped up a giant spoonful of Trifle and shoved it in his mouth.

He was deported two days later, while his brother’s American accent left him undetected to continue pursuing his criminal activities as an undocumented alien— feeding homeless people at his neighborhood shelter, and reading books to elderly people.

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.

Commoratio (kom-mor-a’-ti-o): Dwelling on or returning to one’s strongest argument. Latin equivalent for epimone.

I am right. Do you understand me? I know the answer. My answer is the “right answer”always—even if I’m wrong. And it does not matter. No matter how wrong you think I am, it is you who’re wrong. You might think there is something beyond the wall of convention that makes you right. Well, I’ve taken a few bricks out of that wall in anticipation of change. We are not talking natural order here. We’re talking about everything else. Do you remember when marajuana was illegal? Well, it is not illegal any more. It is wrong to call it illegal. What about abortion? Now it is illegal. What about gay marriage? Now it is legal.

So, if you have a hope, you may be able to induce a change. This is how democracy works. Nobody is %100 in favor of everything, so there’s always a chance for change—for better and for worse. Accepting the status quo is functional if you’ve thought about it and it aligns with your values—what you think is right. Just because it is true that abortion is illegal, it does not make it right that it is illegal.

This is all pretty basic, but it opens the portals of change. So you reflect on what keeps you party to the status quo. What motivates whre you reside? Laziness? Happiness? Trapped? Lack of vision? Fear? Every motive term you can imagine is operative here. And then, on the other side are the motives for change. We live in the grip of motives. They fuel our choice making. They are the foundation of our character. As you make your trajectory through life they answer the question “Why?” They answer to our conscience internally, and externally to people who care about the meaning of our actions. Of course, as Kenneth Burke tells us, we avow motives and others impute motives to derive meaning—the why. For example, the meaning of a handshake isn’t in the handshake, it’s in what motivates it.

Anyway, I am right. Whatever I project on the screen of social reality is in some way right. I don’t know why. I just think it. Thinking it does not make me wrong. It makes me like everybody else.

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.

Commoratio (kom-mor-a’-ti-o): Dwelling on or returning to one’s strongest argument. Latin equivalent for epimone.

This is it—all that we have been waiting for since we turned vegetarian, rebuffing family and friends and living on whole grains, green leaves and supplements. Although our book “Meat Me in Hell” was a total failure, it got us a lot of attention. Soon, we’re going to give our cookbook a shot—“Leaf Me”—it has ten good recipes for ten good dishes. Spaghetti with applesauce sauce is a favorite in our home, as is grapefruit and eggplant wedges on tofu, with a ramekin of pearl onions blended with lotus seeds and sprinkled with crushed peppercorns on the side.

We’ve been vegetarians since we were in high school, where we were shunned and subjected to harsh ridicule— like “Moo Moo“ and “Have you found your roots yet?” That was fifty years ago—and it bears witness to longevity as the key benefit of being a vegetarian—that, and not committing murder for a meal. Our consciences and our colons are clear.

What about our classmates from high school who didn’t hoe same the row that we did? Class reunion was bleak. They’re nearly all dead or in nursing homes, while we continue to plow into the future with our rutabegas held high, while the non-vegheads limp, push walkers and roll in electric wheelchairs with bleary eyes and gravy stains on their clothing.

Somehow, animal organ eating, pot-smoking, acid dropping, beer guzzling Billy Gote went all these years unscathed. Go figure! By all rights he should be dead or bedridden. But, he had his fifth set of triplets with his new wife Velda just last week. So what! Who cares! Look at us! We can still stand! We can still feed ourselves! We can use a remote control. And best of all, we still drive, albeit 10 miles per hour under the speed limit— to the great chagrin of the young hooligans who try to run us off the road, or blow their horns and give us the finger.

Longevity is the aim and a meatless menu will get you there. The five of us haven’t sucked blood from char-broiled cows, boiled chickens in oil, or had ground-up pig leg on a bun for so long I can’t remember, and we look and we feel great. In fact, Raymond has started growing roots from the soles of his feet. They look somewhat like carrots without the orange glow. Raymond will be checking into the “Center for Mutant Studies” on Monday where he will become a subject in a scientific study.

So Raymond, this one’s for you, “May your roots take hold in the soil of life, and keep you steady in the years to come.”

I have prepared a celebratory lunch for us according to a recipe from our (hopefully) forthcoming cookbook. it’s called “Ants and Uncles.” It consists of batter-dipped ants, lightly seasoned with sea salt and garnished with chopped clover. The batter-dipped ants are “sequestered” on a “hill” of stir-fried brown rice “punctuated” with diced durian.

The next time you see one of our former classmates wobbling along behind their walker, give them a shove to help move them along their way. If you see Billy Gote, ask him what he’s doing Friday night.

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.