Category Archives: epizeugma

Epizeugma (ep-i-zoog’-ma): Placing the verb that holds together the entire sentence (made up of multiple parts that depend upon that verb) either at the very beginning or the very ending of that sentence.

Going to the liquor store, library, and my daughter’s school play was an unusual sequence to say the least. Usually, I just went to the liquor store, bought the cheapest vodka in the universe, went home, cracked out some ice cubes, dropped them in my giant tumbler, covered them with vodka, threw in a couple of olives, and sat in my raggedy old chair and listened to rock classics on my blue tooth earbuds that I stole off somebody’s seat on the bus from Toledo. I loved Blue Oyster Cult and put “Burnin’ For You” on repeat until I passed out. My wife would wake me up when she went to pee around 3:00 a.m. She would prod me with a spatula until I woke up. Then, with my arm over her shoulder, she would lead me to bed. Once, I ended up on the front porch. It was cold, and I got a mild case of frostbite on my toes. My wife told me she couldn’t find me in my chair, so she figured I had gotten lost somewhere and she would find me “tomorrow.”

After the frostbite incident, I decided to just stay in my chair all night. I decided to start reading books. The TV was too loud, books were a perfect solution. So, after the liquor store, I started going to the library and checking out the night’s book. I needed something short so I could finish it between waking up and passing out again. I hit on children’s books as the perfect thing to read. I started with “Little Red Riding Hood.” Without going into detail, the story scared the shit out of me. I had to have two more vodkas to get back to sleep. And the story made me think of my own daughter. She had red hair, and we called her red. That night I decided, for the sake of my daughter, to clean up my act. Now, when I go to the liquor store, it’s to get Bloody Mary Mix—I make virgin Bloody Marys—no vodka. I go to the library to get a book to read to my daughter. I love mimicking the characters in the stories—like Billy Goat Gruff.

Tonight she’s playing a nondescript role in her school play. She plays a fruit-monger with a basket of apples. She walks across the stage once yelling “Apples for sale!” That’s the sum total of her role. She thinks it is great. She’s so cute. She’s our little star.

If I hadn’t stopped drinking, I’d probably be dead. “Little Red Riding Hood” saved my life. Next, I’m going to get a job.

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

Buy a print edition of The Daily Trope! The print edition is entitled The Book of Tropes and is available on Amazon for $9.99. There is a Kindle edition available for $5.99.

Epizeugma (ep-i-zoog’-ma): Placing the verb that holds together the entire sentence (made up of multiple parts that depend upon that verb) either at the very beginning or the very ending of that sentence.

My teakettle squeals. It sounds like somebody stuck a cat’s tail in in it when it hit a rolling boil. It gives me nightmares. But it’s a gift from my sister—my sister from hell. She gives me bad news gifts every Christmas. Last year she gave me one of those Chinese finger puzzles—you know you stick an index finger in each end. If you try to pull out your fingers, it tightens. You get free by pushing your fingers toward each other and then slowly pulling out. Well, the one my sister gave me said “Advanced Capture” on the box. So, I stuck in my fingers thinking it would be like all the other finger puzzles. I couldn’t get free no matter what I did, and worse, there were no instructions on, or in, the box. We Googled it and couldn’t find anything. My sister told me she bought it at a crusty little shop in Chinatown, in New York. So, we piled into the car and headed into the City. It was about a 20 minute drive from where we live in New Jersey. We found the shop. It’s name is “Funny Puzzle Shop” (yǒuqù de pīntú diàn). I didn’t think the puzzle on my fingers was funny—with my hands stuck together I couldn’t even put my coat on, and the puzzle was made of metal—I couldn’t just use a pair scissors to cut it off.

The proprietor came out of the back room. When he saw me he gasped. Then he laughed and said, “Which finger do you want to cut off?” I said “Neither!” He said he was just kidding. “Actually, it will unlock by itself in seven hours. If you had the instructions you would’ve known.” I looked at my sister with all the malice I could muster. “Oh,” she said, “I didn’t think you’d need instructions for a finger puzzle, so I threw them away when I wrapped your gift. Sorry.” There was a letter opener on the counter. For a second, I considered grabbing it and putting a non-fatal hole in her, but I didn’t. I let it ride.

Now, I’ve got the screaming/howling tea kettle to deal with. I have no idea how to mute it, but when I use it my dog rolls around on the floor howling and my cat climbs up on the dining room table, arches his back, bares his teeth and makes a horrible yowling sound I can’t describe. I’m going to have to throw the tea kettle away, or only use it to make tea when my sister comes to visit.

I am already dreading Christmas 2023. I think I’m going to try to talk my sister into donating the money she would’ve spent on my gift to a charity of my choosing. It probably won’t work.

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

Buy a print edition of The Daily Trope! The print edition is entitled The Book of Tropes and is available on Amazon for $9.99. There is a Kindle edition available for $5.99.