Category Archives: epimone

Epimone (e-pi’-mo-nee): Persistent repetition of the same plea in much the same words.

“Give me liberty or give me death” was just the start of the display of bravery hurled at his Redcoat executioners by Patrick Henry. After “give me liberty” he said “Let me be free or make me dangle,” then “Give me a walk or stretch my neck,” followed by “Ben Franklin did it.” This last phrase shocked even his executioners. They were about to turn him loose and hunt down Ben Franklin when Benedict Arnold came along—riding his white stallion with its silver- encrusted tack. He had mink saddlebags and polished walnut stirrups. His “ride” was like an 18th century Cadillac fit for a well-paid traitor. The Brits were wary of giving him any kind of military assignment, so all he did was walk his horse Nelly around the town square all day, every day.

The town square is where hangings took place, some times 3 or 4 per day. Just as the Redcoats were ready to release Patrick Henry and track down Franklin, Arnold pulled up. He said “Not so fast. This guy’s a liar and a traitor to the Crown. We both served on the Continental New England Regional Hockey Team before I defected to Mother England to serve the Crown. He said rude things about the King and he sang ‘Yankee Doodle’ on street corners raising money for the Colonies’ revolution. He is close friends with Thomas Paine—the sniveling twit who donates mittens to the Traitor Army, bought with proceeds from his slanderous book Common Sense—a book fit for drooling teens bent on destroying all we love and live for. Clearly, he’s a traitor. Blaming Ben Franklin for his traitorous deeds is not so clever a ruse. It is fit for an idiot.”

The executioners were aghast. Henry smiled wryly and said to Arnold “You can’t forget the high school debating society where I humiliated you every time we went toe-to-toe. You are a wimp and a sniveling liar. You just want revenge for the humiliation I inflicted on you every week for four years. You are still an ass and will always be an ass. I still say ‘Give me liberty or give me death!’ No matter how twisted and untrue your accusations are, I am a patriot bound to the revolutionary cause! Forget about Franklin and hang me dickheads!”

Arnold yelled, “Yes, that’s the ticket. Debate this motion: ‘This House would hang the Cretan traitor.’ Ha ha ha! The Empire will be grateful, I will earn a medal, and this human stain will be six feet under the ground. Ha ha ha! Bye bye Patty boy!

Henry was led to the gallows. A bag was pulled over his head and he was hanged. When the trap door dropped, Arnold’s startled horse reared up and Arnold fell off, landing in a pile of fresh steaming horse manure.

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.

Epimone (e-pi’-mo-nee): Persistent repetition of the same plea in much the same words.

“Give it to me! Hand it over! Come on! It’s mine! At least let’s share the damn thing.”

Charlie’s piece of shit cabin cruiser’s hull had split and we sank somewhere in the middle of the ocean between Florida and Bimini. We were fugitives. We had left our wives. We filed for divorce and jumped on “Ball Joint” and sailed off to paradise. Charle repaired cars’ front ends for a living so he named the piece of shit boat “Ball Joint.” He had taken it in trade from a guy who couldn’t pay his repair bill. The boat was tied up at the marina and Charlie never had it checked for seaworthiness. The Coast Guard had never inspected it it because Charlie had left it registered to the previous owner.

I realized the boat was sinking when I looked below and saw a bunch of stuff floating around. We had to abandon ship with a couple of bottles of water and a fishing pole. The “lifeboat” was the size of a bathtub and was powered by oars. Luckily, I had rowed a boat before at the lake at the Jacksonville City Park. It was when my wife and I had first started dating. How ironic!

The fishing pole belonged to Charlie’s kid, Devon. It was literally a Mickey Mouse rig. The push-button reel was shaped like Mickey’s head. The rod was around three feet long and it was light blue. The lure was a silver jig with red and yellow feathers. I had to retie it. Basically, Devon had tied a slip knot!

We were hungry. I yelled “Sushi!” and cast the lure out into the ocean. Bam! Something hit the lure. I set the hook and started reeling. The little rod was bent double. Despite that, I could tell the fish wasn’t very big. But it was something to eat. I hauled it in and flipped it over the gunwale. Charlie caught it one-handed. It was a Speckled Sea Trout. I had caught 100s of them in my life. I knew they ran in schools and we could probably catch more. Charlie wouldn’t let go of the fish.

He pulled a flare gun out from behind his back, aimed it at me, and yelled “Fu*k off or I’ll burn a hole in you!” He started eating the fish right off the hook. He hooked himself. He tried to twist the hook out of his lip and it got even worse and hooked into his gums.

“Why didn’t you tell me we had a flare gun, asshole?” He was crying and saying “God forgive me!” Over and over again. What he did next shocked me. It was totally unexpected—he shot himself in the head with the flare gun. He almost missed! He blew the corner off his head and the flare kept going. It was seen by a Coast Guard vessel and I was rescued.

When they saw Charlie, they shook their heads and frowned. “How did he manage that?” said the Coast Guard skipper. I told the skipper that it started when we were in high school: “He always took more than he deserved and panicked for no good reason. For example, we were playing “Hide and Go Seek” one night. His flashlight battery went dead and he kept hearing noises. He freaked out and grabbed my flashlight and ran straight into a huge cactus. He had to go to the Emergency Room and spend the night having cactus needles pulled out. This is just one example of many I could cite.” The Skipper said to me: “Yeah, I know. A lot of people in the Coast Guard are like Charlie.”

He asked me if I wanted to continue on to Bimini and I said “Hell yes.”

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.

Epimone (e-pi’-mo-nee): Persistent repetition of the same plea in much the same words.

“Give me another chance. Please! Once more! Only once!” I was begging. If I didn’t do five push-ups my father wouldn’t let me drive the family car. I was almost 18 and was ready to get behind the wheel. But, I could only do four-and-a-half push-ups. I had injured my shoulder playing football ball and it did not work right any more—it made a grinding sound when I flapped my arm like a wing.

Verna Bangwink had a car. She was 18 and I was pretty sure she liked me. She had a red Corvette and she claimed that Prince had written “Little Red Corvette” for her after they had taken a “ride.” I called Verna and asked her if I could drive her car. She said “It’s Saturday night, and that makes it all right.” We agreed to meet in the K-Mart parking lot.

The parking lot was pretty much empty. She came roaring at me and pulled the emergency brake. The car spun in a circle and came to stop. She stepped out wearing white go-go boots and a skin tight red dress that matched the color of the Corvette. She said, “Come on little guy, let’s practice.”

We got into the car. I was in the driver’s seat. The car was in Park, with the engine running. I put it into “D” and pressed the gas. We took off like a bat out of hell—tires billowing smoke. Verna yelled “Stop” and we switched positions in the car. We didn’t talk for an hour. I asked her where we were going. She said “Vegas.” All I knew about Las Vegas was in the Elvis Presley song—it sounded like a pretty wild place. Verna wanted to be a blackjack dealer. I felt like I was being kidnapped, but I didn’t care. Verna was so cool.

I think we made record time from Summit, New Jersey to Las Vegas, Nevada. I had turned 18 that morning, so maybe I could get a job. Verna got a job at one of the casinos and they sent her to blackjack school. I looked and looked and landed a job a Clark County Library. I shelved books five days per week.

Verna and I rented an apartment and talked about getting married. There were so many options! I liked the one where you rode an elephant down the aisle. I called my dad and he told me he would kill me if I didn’t come home. I didn’t go home. He didn’t kill me.

Now, Verna was pregnant. Jubilation ensued! We have a lovely little girl. I’ve been promoted to “due date stamper” at the library and Verna is one of the most successful dealers at the casino. The other night we had dinner with Cher and 400 of her friends.

Our families are coming to Las Vegas for Thanksgiving. We think it will be a total disaster, but family’s family. Oh, we still have the Corvette, but just bought a Subaru Forrester.

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.

Epimone (e-pi’-mo-nee): Persistent repetition of the same plea in much the same words.

Get vaccinated. Wear a mask. You don’t want to kill your wife and elderly neighbors. You don’t want to commit suicide. You don’t want a ventilator jammed down your throat.

Get the shots. Cover your mouth and nose. Listen to your doctor. Listen to the CDC. Don’t be a victim of misinformation. The lies being told that have influenced you are tantamount to manslaughter. Believe them, and your chances of surviving the pandemic are reduced.

Get vaccinated. Wear a mask. Don’t kill yourself and don’t kill the people you love. Do it.

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

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