Category Archives: epitasis

Epitasis (e-pit’-a-sis): The addition of a concluding sentence that merely emphasizes what has already been stated. A kind of amplification. [The opposite of anesis.]

Time was pushing. It was running into the future. It was consuming the present. Time was making me older. Time was pushing—pushing hard.

I hated it. Now that I was almost 80, I really hated it. My peers are dying. Mostly gruesomely. Mostly from cancer. Bald from chemo, spaced out on pain pills, bristling with tubes, gaunt, jaundiced, and hollow-eyed, like they’re undergoing daily torture, laying there quietly awaiting the removal of an organ or two, and then dying.

And here I am. A robust old man. I hike, I swim, I ride my motorcycle, I play Corn Hole, I mow the lawn, I work in my garden. I go hiking. I have sex with my wife. I eat ice cream. I smoke cigars. The list goes on and on. My doctor tells me it’s good genes that enable me to blast through death, into the the waiting future.

Today, my friend Bill called me. He was crying. He had just been diagnosed with bladder cancer. His doctor has given him 2 months to live.

I was getting really tired of the “Hello. I’m dying” phone calls. I was getting tired of trying to console people who couldn’t be consoled. I lost it. I asked Bill why the hell he called me to tell me he’s dying. He told me he didn’t know—he was calling everybody. I told him to take me off his fu*king list and tell his wife not to get in touch when he died. I immediately felt better. I hung up. Not a shred of guilt.

Then my cellphone rang. It was Eddie calling. He was crying and told me he had been diagnosed with terminal brain cancer. At best, he had one week to live. I hung up without saying goodbye. I felt good. Free of another burden!

I lit a cigar and looked up the stars. “Time will tell” I thought to myself. It’s all about time crushing some people and caressing others. Eddie and Bill were going to die of cancer, just like everybody else I knew. I was going to live. I finished my cigar and went inside and had sex with my wife. It was good. It never gets old.

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.

Epitasis (e-pit’-a-sis): The addition of a concluding sentence that merely emphasizes what has already been stated. A kind of amplification. [The opposite of anesis.]

They grew up together in Tuscany in the small village of Collodi. Piccola, aka the “Elf on a Shelf,” came from a long line of spies working for Santa Claus keeping children under surveillance from shelves in their houses. Pinocchio was a walking talking wooden marionette made by his father who was Tuscany’s premier puppet maker. He had made Pinocchio when his wife had left him for a cuckoo clock repairman and they ran away to Germany’s Black Forest. So, he made the boy because he was lonely. As a single father he was exemplary. He cooked, did the laundry, cleaned the house and bought a lotto ticket every Friday, hoping he would win so Pinocchio could go to college.

Piccolo was a cripple. It was hereditary in his family due to hundreds of years of inbreeding. Piccolo, his father, and his uncles were born in a squatting position. It was ideal for sitting on a shelf for days at a time, but it made it difficult to walk. Piccolo, like his relatives, walked like a duck in a squatting position. It was exhausting, but his friend Pinocchio would help him out. Pinocchio would carry Piccolo on his back. Pinocchio’s sturdy wooden legs could carry Piccolo everywhere.

They frequently went to Gino’s Gelatos. Pinocchio would set Piccolo down in a chair across from him. They would talk and Pinocchio would talk about his most cherished topic: How do I become a real boy? He was tired of his life as a glorified piece of lumber. Piccolo tried to to console him but it was to no avail. Sometimes Pinocchio would stick a fork in his wooden head to prove his point.

Then one day an incredibly beautiful girl walked into Gino’s. She had black, black hair, light blue eyes, and skin like Ascolana del Piceno olives. The boys invited her to sit. She did, and told them her name was Bianca Cardanelle and had just moved to Collodi from Rome. Her father “made bad things go away” for a living.

She ordered a chocolate gelato grande. Picollo and Pinocchio argued over who would pay for it. She pointed at Picollo and gave him a little smile. Pinoccocio was upset. He told Picollo he was going home. If he waned a ride it was time to go. They left Bianca sitting there alone. On the way home Pinocchio “slipped” and dropped Picollo off a cliff with a ten-foot drop and walked away laughing. Picollo was stuck there until his family found him the next morning.

The friendship was over.

Clearly, Pinocchio had become a psychopath. Since the 7th grade he started falling apart. His obsession with becoming a real boy had turned him bad. Jealousy and paranoia were his two key characteristics. In short, he was dangerous—Picollo had urged him to go into counseling, but he refused and slapped Piccolo in the crotch.

Now it was war.

Pinocchio wasn’t a real boy, so there would be no penalty for whatever Picollo did to him. The first football game of the year was coming up. There would be a bonfire. It gave Picollo a crafty plan. He would stuff Pinnochio into the middle of the woodpile and watch him burn. Picollo enlisted the help of his big brother. His nickname was “Chadrool.” He had giant biceps and could waddle up to 29 MPH.

The brothers put on their balaclavas and headed to “Gino’s Galaţos” where Pinocchio had been spending all his time hanging out with Bianca. Bianca hated him and wanted to help the brothers get rid of him. She was sick about hearing about his “wood” and would do anything to get him off her back. The day before the bonfire, they told her to keep him at Gino’s the following day, until they showed up. The next day the brothers burst through Gino’s door at full throttle waddle and tied and gagged Pinocchio and threw him in a canvas bag. They dragged him to the football field and shoved him deep into the pile of wood.

The time came.

It was 8:00 pm and soon Pinocchio would be ashes. As Beauty Queen, Bianca had the honor of lighting the fire. The Principal poured gasoline on it and Bianca lit it. It was burning with great gusto when Pinocchio came running out of the flames blazing like a comet. He ran across the goal line and collapsed into a pile of smoking embers.

They had once been friends.

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.

Epitasis (e-pit’-a-sis): The addition of a concluding sentence that merely emphasizes what has already been stated. A kind of amplification. [The opposite of anesis.]

I was 7.2 Sheets to the wind. I was semi-drunk, but not that drunk. I was just a little tipsy.

I was a member of a drinking club called “The Town Drunks.” I knew my limits. We all aspired to be MDs or chemists. We had worked out a calculus for measuring our degree of intoxication. We called it “Sheets” based on the sailing term that would gauge the speed of a sailing vessel by the number of sails (sheets) it had facing the wind.

When we drank we took blood samples from each other every 20 minutes to measure our Sheets. We determined that nine Sheets would be unsafe for driving. So, I drove home. But something was wrong. I felt like Josie had mismeasured my Sheets and I was higher than 7.2.

Things were a little blurry as I turned into my driveway and ran over my neighbor’s prized rose bushes instead. She called the police. I was still in my car when they arrived. I was having trouble unbuckling my seatbelt. The policeman motioned me to roll down my window. He told me to shut off the car and then he asked me if I had been drinking. I told him yes, but I was only measuring a 7.2. I held up my syringe, and test tube with the surgical tubing hanging out the end, and the modified swimming pool chlorine-level strips we used to measure Sheets. Before I could explain what everything was he said in a very stern tone: “Exit the vehicle, now, hands over your head!” I was still having trouble unhooking the seatbelt. He said: “Don’t play games. With me,” he reached across me and unhooked the belt. “Step out of the vehicle and hand your paraphernalia to my partner!” he said. “Should I still put my hands over my head?” I asked. That made him mad: “Just exit the goddamn vehicle—hands over your head.”

I got out of my car—I was starting to feel kind of sober. I said, let me blow in one of those alcohol testers, and you’ll see as plain as day that I’m stone cold sober.” He said, “I left my breathalyzer at the Station, we’re going to have to do a field sobriety test. Lay down on your back and pretend you’re riding a bicycle.” I complied, then he told me to sit up and pretend I was rowing a boat. Then, he had me skip around his patrol car. Last, his partner hoisted me up on his shoulders and instructed me to cluck like a chicken laying an egg. I passed the sobriety test.

Next, the policeman asked: “What’s that contraption you showed me? Tell the truth! We’ve had reports of mobile meth labs, turning whole neighborhoods into meth-heads. In one neighborhood a FedEx driver became addicted after making three deliveries to the same street. The mobile labs are reportedly located in nondescript brown Toyotas just like yours, sir.” “Do I look like a drug dealer?” I asked sarcastically. “Yes you do. Your baggy pants give you away, not to mention your portable lab. Put your hands behind your back, please.”

They handcuffed me and took me to the Station on suspicion of drug trafficking.

They released me the next day. I was free to go and they withdrew the charges. I was so tired. I got no sleep due to guy in the next cell who sang Bobby Vinton’s “Blue Velvet” all night long. It was beyond creepy.

The police drove me home and gave me back my Sheet measurer. They should’ve known you need fire to cook meth. Then I remembered “The Town Drunks” had recently inducted a man named “Mashy.” He was as thin as a rail and was missing a number of teeth. Not only that, he was the Mayor’s son! He kept his Sheets measurer in a cheap cardboard suitcase with chains wrapped around it, locked.

I was singing “Blue Velvet” as I called the police with my suspicions about Mashy. But, I was too late. Mashy’s portable meth lab blew up and he was burned to crisp behind the wheel of his nondescript brown Toyota.

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.

Epitasis (e-pit’-a-sis): The addition of a concluding sentence that merely emphasizes what has already been stated. A kind of amplification. [The opposite of anesis.]

“You’re as big as a horse, as wide as a tractor trailer truck. You are big.” That’s what my gym teacher said whenever I squeezed through the locker room door. I looked like everybody in my family, with the exception of my mother, but no one else. Our roots ran back antiquity. Once believed to exist only in fairy tales, a group of us was discovered living in the Watchung Mountains of central New @Jersey—near the Short Hills Mall. They lived off the land—raccoons and deer, and apples and walnuts. They also grew small garden plots that were surrounded by blackberry brambles. For shelter, they lived in abandoned Colonial iron mines. But then, in the 1960s, when the world was loosening up, they came out of the woods to be accepted into the community. People yelled Trolls to your holes!” And “You smell.!” My grandfather Elton Gruff led the charge to a better future.

He mainstreamed: he got a passport, a job as a bouncer at a topless pole dancing joint, He shopped at the local Acme supermarket. He got a car with a front seat that went all the way to the back seat so he could fit. He met a woman on the roller coaster at Olympic Park—she was a “regular” person. They fell in love and got married. People protested, but they won their case in court and received a huge settlement from the state of New Jersey. Once they got married, they moved to Irvington and settled in a middle class neighborhood, nobody bothered them and thy lived a happy life.

I’ve done well. My biggest a best accomplishment, aside from getting all A’s in all my classes, is football. When coach talks about my size, he’s complimenting me. I am one of the team’s “biggest” assets. I play tackle—defensive and offensive. My major move on defense is standing up when the ball is snapped—like a stone column. I hold my arms out and I’m like an immovable broken turnstile. Every once-awhile I have to pick someday up and throw them back over the line of scrimmage. I love the thudding sound they make when they hit the ground. I try not to draw blood, but sometimes it just happens. On offense, I walk directly to the quarterback and push him down. If he throws a pass, I reach up and catch it. For a hand-off, I do a karate chop, often deflating the foot ball. I usually let lateral passes go, to make the game more exciting.

They installed a special seat for me in the school bus we take to away games and that I take to school. In addition, there are also big desks in all the classrooms. I think I owe it all to my grandfather.

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.

Epitasis (e-pit’-a-sis): The addition of a concluding sentence that merely emphasizes what has already been stated. A kind of amplification. [The opposite of anesis.]

I was looking for love in all the wrong places—the grocery store, CVS, Dick’s, the library and everywhere else where the prospect of finding romance is less than zero. Except, I did hear about a guy who started a romance with a woman he met et Lowes. But, after a week she killed him with paint stripper she had flavored with Mentos. As the police took her away, she yelled “This is my best DYI project ever!” So, there you have it: all the wrong places!

But, help is on the way. There’s a club opening down the street named “Sleezers.” It has a sign over the entrance depicting two women wiggling their butts. Between them there’s a flashing sign that says “Hook Up.”

After I paid my $200 membership fee and bought my mandatory t-shirt, I was allowed to enter. The place was huge inside, but there was only one other patron inside. She was dressed like Cinderella and leaning on the bar with a beer in her hand. She asked, “Are you my Prince Charming?” My heart nearly stopped. She shook her scepter at me and said, “Come on baby let’s hook up.” I said “Sure, let’s go my place.” She made me carry her piggy back. It was only four blocks, so it wasn’t a problem.

We were sitting in my living room. She was telling me about her crackpot stepmother and mean stepsisters. Suddenly she jumped up and lifter her dress over head and said, “you better hurry up. My coach will be here any minute.” I wasn’t fast enough. A horn blew the Stones’ “Parachute Girl.” My Cinderella ran out the front door where there was a giant fiberglass pumpkin mounted on a small flatbed truck. She got into the pumpkin and the truck took off blowing “Someday My Prince Will Come.”

I was devastated. I had felt that I had found the one. It might’ve been a snap judgment, but when you’re desperate, snap judgment is all you’ve got. My inability to make snap judgments had left me alone. I was too picky and that’s how I ended up looking for love in all wrong places. Since I paid my $200 membership fee, I kept going back to Sleezers. I hooked up with Dr. Bob’s daughter. He is the Presbyterian Minister. She was wearing a see-through dress and holding a Bible. Evidently, she was conflicted. Our eyes locked. She nodded her head, and we rook off to my place. She read Paul’s Epistles to us in a low and sultry voice. I told her I loved her and proposed. She laughed and said, “Yes, of course.” We got married. She has twenty transparent dresses. That’s all she wears. She still carries a Bible and her father wants to kill me for letting her dress like a “whore”. When he says that, I get mad.

So, I looked for love in all the wrong places and actually found love in a wrong place—Sleezers.

POSTSCRIPT

When he got home from work that evening she had gone. She sent him a selfie of her wearing overhauls, a flannel shirt and Blundstones. There was a note on the kitchen table that said: “You’re boring and I’ve had 146 affairs since we’ve been married. My boyfriend Buck is picking me up and we’re opening a tattoo parlor in Short Hills, New Jersey, where I grew up. Buck will kill you if you bother us.”

He certainly did look for love in all the wrong places. But, where are the right places? I think it’s about people, not places.

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.