Category Archives: dicaeologia

Dicaeologia (di-kay-o-lo’-gi-a): Admitting what’s charged against one, but excusing it by necessity.

“I cannot tell a lie. I chopped down the cherry tree. It was blocking my view of Ms. Tuckwiler’s bedroom window. What more can I say Dad?” I was trying to do my best George Washington imitation. My father saw right through it and told my mother. Dad cut a branch off the tree and whipped my butt. It hurt like hell, but at least I knew my view of Ms. Tuckwiler undressing wouldn’t be blocked for another ten years.

My father called me a pervert and my mother insisted I go into therapy and get these “scandalous” ideas wiped out of my head. I didn’t protest. I knew I would always be a pervert, so therapy wouldn’t do anything at all. But, it might be fun talking about my disgusting thoughts to a complete stranger.

My mom dropped me off at the “Mental Changes Clinic.” I was late so I went straight into my therapist’s office. I opened the door and there was Ms. Tuckwiler sitting behind her desk! Obviously, she didn’t know I was her perverted neighbor. This was like a dream come true. Maybe I could talk her into taking off her clothes!

Without naming her, I told her, in the most salacious terms I could summon, why I was there. I talked about watching the unnamed woman take off her clothes and “do things” that were unspeakably sexy. As I spoke, a buzzing sound started coming from under Ms. Tuckwiler’s desk. I thought nothing of it.

She told me I should make an attempt to get to know the mystery woman. If we could develop a friendship, perhaps my lewd thoughts and inappropriate peeping would go away. “Ok” I said imagining how it might be when I showed up at her door.

That evening I went straight to her house and rang the bell. When she answered, she didn’t seem surprised at all. She told me to shut up and get down on my hands and knees. She got on my back and told me to give her a ride to her bedroom. There was Dad on the bed. She said, “Your father is faster and better than you are. He’s the pervert, not you. Get out!”

I was cured! It was like a wave of asexuality washed through my body. I decided right then and there to become a Presbyterian Minister, a calling perfectly suited to a cured pervert. I graduated from Harvard Divinity Shool with highest honors for my dissertation “Who Wants to Be a Big Pervert Right Now?” It reviews the literature of “Off-Sides Thinking” as well as “Being Disgusting” and “Going to Jail on a Yellow School Bus.”

To further my cure, I married Ms. Tuckwiler’s daughter Mary. She’s 18 and I’m 32. It is a match made in heaven. By the way, the replanted cherry tree is only 4 feet tall. It doesn’t block the view.

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.

Dicaeologia (di-kay-o-lo’-gi-a): Admitting what’s charged against one, but excusing it by necessity.

I held up ten fingers. It wasn’t a gesture. I was looking at my fingernails. I had cut them two days ago. They had grown an eighth of an inch already. I was sick of clipping them, so I let them go. Now, they were one inch long. I couldn’t push buttons—I couldn’t open the trunk of my car, I couldn’t turn on my blender, I couldn’t pet my cat, but at least I could scratch him. My claws were better than his. I thought about getting a scratching post to keep my nails in line, but they weren’t abrasive enough. Eventually, I settled on a rasp which is a mega-file. I got a 10″ Flat Bastard Cut Wood Rasp, designed to quickly make its way through wood-working projects.

Although the rasp worked like a charm, it was still a pain having to tend to my fingernails every day. Then I remembered that veterinarians did surgery on cats where they removed their claws. Maybe that would work for me. I told Morty’s (my cat) veterinarian about my problem and asked her to remove my fingernails. I showed her my hand. She put her hand over her mouth, gasped, backed up against the wall, and pulled out her cell phone. I told her I was only kidding—who would want to do that? She laughed uncomfortably, put her cellphone away, and told me our appointment was over.

My nails kept growing and I kept rasping. My life was miserable. I remembered seeing a movie where a Japanese soldier pulled out fingernails as a form of torture during interrogation. I went to a Sushi restaurant. I asked if any WW II vets worked there who knew how to extract fingernails. The waiter yelled “Asshole!” and hit me over the head with a chair. The other employees formed a circle, put me in it and took turns hitting me in the face. Clearly, I had insulted them. They threw me out into the street, where my foot was run over by a motorcycle returning from a delivery.

I crawled the 5 blocks home, leaving a trail of blood behind like a wounded animal. The next morning my head was swollen up like a pumpkin from being beaten, my foot was sore, and my nails had grown again. I started crying, picked up my rasp, and headed to Morty’s vet.

I burst into her front office brandishing my rasp. I dragged her into the surgery with my rasp to her throat. “Pull ‘em” I yelled “Or I’ll file your nose off.” She told me to calm down and sprayed my hand with lidocaine. She got a pair of surgical pliers out of a drawer behind her. She told me to put my hand flat on the operating table.

Suddenly there was a pounding on the door. “Open up! Police.” I said, “I will kill Dr. Leah if that door moves. I am desperate.” The pounding stopped.

She pulled out my thumbnail. The pain was horrible, but fleeting. She did all ten fingers and bandaged my hands. I put down the rasp, opened the door and was arrested.

I was charged with false imprisonment, disregarding police orders and making death threats. During the trial, I told my fingernail story, and how, since I had them removed, I was living a normal and productive life working as a masseur, where having no fingernails was a real advantage.

I was found guilty. In his sentencing, the judge cited mitigating circumstances and gave me two weeks of home confinement.

I noticed the judge had longer than normal fingernails.

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.

Dicaeologia (di-kay-o-lo’-gi-a): Admitting what’s charged against one, but excusing it by necessity.

Some enchanted evening I met a perfect stranger and I ran her over in the parking lot at “Mickey Finn,” the bar outside of town built in the abandoned coal mine that used to sustain the community with a quality of lower class brutality mixed with smugness and relentless name-calling. One resident, William “Billow” Blondini, held the world record for saying “fu*ck you” non-stop for 3 years straight. He quit when he was hit in the face with a baseball bat by Mayor Wiffy’s son Eshmail. Now he experiences excruciating facial pain, even when he speaks through the AmpoBox strapped to his disfigured lips. He “eats” through a tube in his left nostril. Somehow he taught himself to play the harmonica though his nose and travels around giving talks on the pitfalls of fame. He always ends his harmonica set with Roy Orbison’s “Crying.” His book “Saving Face” will be published “sometime.” Eshmail wasn’t even arrested for smashing Billow’s face. That’s what it was like back then when the mines were booming. Having a thug for a son would increase your chances of being re-elected.

But now, it’s a different story. “Dan’s Crotch“ is no more. The town changed its name to “Tulip Town.” That was about all it took. Now, there’s a software development company located in the old Lutheran church. Marijuana fields surround the town, there’s a craft distillery opening in the now-vacant middle school. And then, there’s the new construction. They’re flattening out ten acres on the edge of town for the word’s biggest used car lot. There’s also a huge mall going up called “Karma.” The food courts will serve only vegetarian and vegan dishes. No fur or leather will sold either, not even shoes. Then there’s “one of biggest Dick’s in North America” specializing in polo, croquet, and cricket equipment.

But anyway, back to the woman in the parking lot. She was a stranger, yes, and she resisted my harmless advances. I had followed her into the ladies room and shot an extremely short video of her in the toilet stall. She objected, and came roaring out of the stall, ripped the soap dispenser off the wall, and beat me over the head with it. I dropped my phone and she picked it up and threw it in the toilet. I tried to tell her I was a scientist and she kicked between legs. She ripped my wallet out of my pants pocket and yelled, looking at my driver’s license, “You’ll be hearing from the cops Lawrence Baker!” as she ran out the door.

As far as I was concerned, I had done nothing wrong. It was a classic case of entrapment. She had gone into the restroom, I simply followed her. There must’ve been some kind of misunderstanding. When I saw her in the parking lot, I was on my way home to make my mom some hot cocoa, and then, tuck her in. The woman saw me and jumped in front of my car. I was so shocked I pressed the gas pedal instead of the brake pedal. It wasn’t like I made a choice.

This can’t be hit and run on my part. She hit my car and didn’t run. It’s too bad she’s in a coma. If she could talk, she’d probably sound like she’s directly quoting me.

Definition courtesy of “Silva Rhetoricae” (rhetoric.byu.edu).

A paper edition of The Daily Trope, entitled The Book of Tropes, is available for purchase on Amazon for $9.99 USD. It contains over 200 schemes and tropes with their definitions and examples. There is also a Kindle edition available for $5.99.