Category Archives: diaporesis

Diaporesis: Deliberating with oneself as though in doubt over some matter; asking oneself (or rhetorically asking one’s hearers) what is the best or appropriate way to approach something [=aporia].

“Should I stay, or should I go?” I really wanted to know. But there I was mumbling to myself. I did this too often. Why didn’t I just ask somebody? I resolved to ask other people and shut off the deliberation valve in my head that was getting me nowhere with its steady stream of bullshit. What I made in my head was puzzling, irresolute, and foggy.

That night I was going to my girlfriend’s for dinner. After dinner and tree glasses of really good red wine, I said “Do you want me to stick it in?” She gasped and smiled. “Yes! Stick it in me now! Oh Johnny! You’re so romantic.” She yelled. I was off to a good start. Countless times, I had deliberated with myself about sticking it in. Asking my girlfriend whether she wanted me to, was a game-changer. No more time-wasting head trips! I was on a fast track to my sex-tination. Woo hoo!

Like all cool dudes from New Jersey, I had more than one girlfriend. Cheating was an acceptable lifestyle. In fact, friends would cheat each on their girlfriends with each other’s girlfriends. I had reserved a motel room at the “Pigeon Coop” motel on Rte 22. This was a well-known cheaters’ roost. I got there early. I lit a scented candle and sprayed some Fabreze on the bedspread. I hung a “Little Pine” air freshener from each of the bed-side lamps.

There was a soft knock on the door. It was Caroline. I had changed into my playboy bathrobe. I was naked underneath. I opened the door with the front of my bathrobe open. I said “Do you want me to stick it in?” She looked down at my equipment and said “Why do you think I’m here big boy? Let’s get to it!” Woo hoo!

I was on the fast track again! We took the ride to paradise. I didn’t waste any brain power getting where I wanted to go. I started calling my new tactic “Just Ask.” After 100s of encounters, I wrote a book and sold t-shirts that said “Do you want me to stick it in?” It became a popular catch phrase on television shows and was the title of a movie about me.

Although I was generally successful at fast-tracking sex, I had a number of encounters that failed. But, that’s to be expected. There is a lot of diversity out there. The worst I had was with my buddy Ralph’s grandmother. She was a babe. Her blue hair was like a magical tumbleweed riding on top of her head. She had a cane wrapped with red reflective tape. She wore a black track suit that made her look like a mature Ninja. She aroused my passion. So, I asked her “Do you want me to stick it in?”

She pulled a Derringer out of her track suit and shot me. She yelled “You fu*kin’ goddamn sex creep!” The first shot missed. The second one got me in the arm. There were a couple more incidents like this. Then, I realized my technique only worked with women I had already done it with. Once I realized that, I haven’t had any more incidents. A disclaimer has been printed on the cover of my book and the money keeps rolling in.

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.

Diaporesis: Deliberating with oneself as though in doubt over some matter; asking oneself (or rhetorically asking one’s hearers) what is the best or appropriate way to approach something [=aporia].

Do you really enjoy having bad breath? What about your sagging ass? Oh, and we can’t forget farting. Do you like to fart and stink up a ten-foot radius with your naturally-produced stench? I don’t think so.

All of these things have been deeply studied by NASA scientists. You may be saying to yourself “What the hell does my sagging ass have to do with space travel?”

What? You have to ask?

The “sagging ass” has posed a serious problem to spacesuit safety ever since John Glen’s sagging ass almost got him killed when his left cheek’s sag pinched his spacesuit’s air transportation system on his second orbit of earth. He passed out and floated to his capsule’s hatch where his butt lodged on a bolt and pulled the pinch out of his spacesuit, restoring the flow of air and saving the mission.

To keep this from happening again, NASA scientists developed a butt-firming supplement tablet that also included organic ingredients to combat bad breath and farting, two maladies that are anathema to working with others in enclosed spaces. The first space mission was nearly scrapped due to Robert Crippen’s bad breath and John Young’s farting problem. Neither of them wanted to spend one minute together flying around in the Space Shuttle, STS-1.

Working day and night in the weeks before the shuttle launch, NASA hired experimental test subjects from all walks of life. A major breakthrough on an anti-farting medication was enabled by the famous flatulist Lars Pow. Pow farted “Flight of the Bumblebee” while NASA scientists observed his sphincter and tested rubbing various substances on it as it expanded and contracted. They found a supplement that would open the sphincter very wide, and affect the gas’s oder too. The open sphincter would also allow farts to blow noiselessly, allowing people to stay focused, being unaware of the fart’s presence. This breakthrough was made possible only days before the shuttle’s launch.

The same was the case with bad breath. NASA scientists tried everything from a bottle-brush like tool that scrubbed the inside of the mouth, to a mouth-mounted breath filtering device. None of the mechanical devices proved efficient. Then, one of the scientists on the team from Bolivia, told the team that there were natives living along the Amazon who were known as the “Sweet Breath People.” NASA dispatched the Bolivian and two other team members to find out what made their breaths sweet. They discovered that the natives cultivated a plant whose leaves they chewed. Bingo! The NASA scientists bought one kilo of the plant’s leaves, and 100 live plants to grow in their laboratories.

Upon their return they discovered that the leaves’ special properties could only be released by chewing—by mixing with the mouth’s saliva. The scientists scrapped the tablets they earlier created and worked day and night on a chewing gum. They succeeded, and then added the remedies for sagging ass and farting to the breath gum. They called the all-in-one gum “NASA All in One Gum.”

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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.

Diaporesis: Deliberating with oneself as though in doubt over some matter; asking oneself (or rhetorically asking one’s hearers) what is the best or appropriate way to approach something [=aporia].

There I was standing in front of at least 200 people who had come to hear what I think. I do public performances of what I am thinking. No holds barred. Whatever I’m thinking comes out of my mouth. I signaled the start of the performance by clapping my hands twice. Here I go, “Clap, clap.”

“My tooth hurts. What’s for lunch? I need to adjust my underpants. No! Not here. I really don’t care about my shriveled parents in the nursing home. When are they going to die—oh—not today, please I need to get a haircut. You need a haircut? What about your famous ponytail? Where did that go? To hell with everything else in your life. I wet my pants in my car last week on my way to my daughter’s graduation. I couldn’t go with wet pants. Maybe that’s why I wet my pants. She’s been a pain in the ass ever since she came screaming into the house as an infant. Don’t you love your daughter? No! I’ll be glad when she goes off to the third-rate college she got into, somewhere in Montana. You are a true-blue asshole. So, these are my thoughts. Unfiltered, asocial, they can’t be judged. There’s no reflection here. Give me a break “other voice” blah, blah. I need to sit down, but there’s no chair. What’s the matter sissy boy? Can’t stand up for a half-hour? Eat me! I was scared in the war. Do I need a new car? No. Will it rain? I don’t give a shit. That woman in the third row is really fine looking. Jeez! I hope I get paid for this set by next week. My bookie is getting aggressive. Maybe I’ll have Sal take care of him. What? You’re going to hire a hit man? Maybe, but not likely. I am custodian of my fading parents’ assets, which are huge. I think I’ll go out for sushi tonight. Where do they get all that fish from? Should I go to this year’s Halloween party? Pagan craziness. No way. I think I’m having a mild heart attack. Let’s take a break.”

The audience gasped. I passed out and dreamed of a wedding. It was mine. I was marrying Alice in Wonderland’s divorced mother. She was banging me on the chest and yelling “come on!” It was like having sex with my first wife. She was rough. I had an Apple Lightning port in my chest, and she plugged me into a wall outlet. I felt a massive electric shock and I woke up, or at least I thought I woke up. I saw a tunnel, sort of like the Holland Tunnel, with a light at the end of it. I ran into the tunnel, toward the light. When I came out into the light, there was a squeegee man standing there. He sprayed me with window cleaner and started squeegeeing my hospital gown. Then, I really did wake up. There was a man in white holding a thing that looked like a squeegee and dragging it around on my chest. He looked at me and said “Sonogram.”

What? Stranger things had happened than men having babies. The man in white elaborated, “The Sonogram is of your heart. Nobody knows why you’re alive. We must study you, with your permission, of course.” So now, I’ve become a professional scientific study subject. I have a suite next to the “rat room” with all the amenities, including a hot tub. Each day a group of scientists gather around my leather-upholstered recliner and argue with each other. They’ve even gotten into shoving matches. As far as I can tell my heartbeat has gone away. Instead, my heart has become more like a leaf blower, blowing my blood through my veins and arteries. My IQ has gone through the roof and I am able to write beautiful, meaningful poetry that makes my nurses cry and fight over tucking me in at night.

So, anyway. Here I am, a certified anomaly. I’m thinking of joining a sideshow where I project the live sonogram of my leaf-blower heart, while I sing “I Left My Heart In San Fransisco,” “Heart and Soul,” “Heart Breaker” and possibly, a few others. I would perform in front of a giant screen, singing and dancing. In the dance I would be laying on the stage making pumping motions with my arms (like a normal heart). I would stop and then slowly stand making swirling leaf-blower motions with my hands, recovering from my heart attack, and finishing my act vibrantly with “Heart Breaker,” waving a handgun and leaping and strutting around the stage Mick Jagger style. I know this sounds corny, but that’s what will make it a success. Oh, I will wear a red full-body leotard with a black silhouette of a leaf blower on the chest. Too bad “Heart” is already taken as a stage name, or I’d take it. I’m thinking of “Infraction,” or maybe “Heart Attack,” or “Cardiac Arrest.”

Definition courtesy of “Silva Rhetoricae” (rhetoric.byu.edu). Bracketed text added by Gorgias.

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.