Category Archives: eucharistia

Eucharistia (eu-cha-ris’-ti-a): Giving thanks for a benefit received, sometimes adding one’s inability to repay.

“Thank-you so much for this gold USB cable. It is a fitting tribute to my work in AI and the impact it has had on the golf games of millions of middle aged men. There’s no way I can repay this honor. Thank-you.”

Some guy in the front row wearing a faded Pink Floyd T-shirt stood up and yelled “Bullshit!” The audience gasped and Security headed for him. I was thinking “How the hell did that miscreant make it to the front row?” as he was dragged up the aisle, into the lobby, and out the front door. At the last minute, I realized I he was my wife’s brother Rambo—a nickname he had given to himself. In all my years of marriage I never found out his real name—to me he was just Rambo.

Rambo didn’t like me solely because I went to college. For some reason he deeply resented my education. For example, one time when he was visiting, he took my Harvard diploma off of my office wall and peed on it in the back yard. He yelled “Hey shitstain, it’s raining on your parade!” “Shocked” is too mild a word to describe how I felt.

I asked my wife Ruby what the hell was going on with him, aside from the obvious insanity, there had to be a backstory. She told me that Rambo went in the Army solely for the GI Bill’s educational benefits. He went to war and was awarded a Purple Heart for combat wounds and a Bronze Star with a “V” for valor. Along with the medals came PTSD. For some reason, the squishing sound of a marker on a whiteboard would trigger him. He would mimic talking on a AN/PRC-148 radio and say “Tractor Goat, this is Inkblot, I need a pepperoni pizza at the following grid coordinates, I kak . . .”

His uncontrollable actions were deemed disruptive and he was booted from the community college. Hearing the story from Ruby, I wanted to help him. I completed college on the GI Bill and knew where he was coming from—I had my fair share of problems related to my service and the VA had helped me. I got Rambo to go to the VA for his PTSD. Now, he has coping strategies and the community college has accommodated him, using chalkboards instead of whiteboards in the classes he takes.

Rambo has started calling himself Billy—the name his parents gave him.

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.

Eucharistia (eu-cha-ris’-ti-a): Giving thanks for a benefit received, sometimes adding one’s inability to repay.

“Strawberry Fields Forever” was what I thought when I looked at the berry farm from a nearby hill. I was an illegal immigrant from Panama. I had come to the US to study English Language and Literature at Mickey Mill University. I was 45 and going bald in my freshman year. In Panama all you can do is money laundering or working on the canal. Neither option appealed to me. I wanted to teach English Composition. Even though I was a little old, I knew I could complete the degree and live out my dream.

I was so grateful for the student visa. I’ll never be able to repay America for the chance it has given me.

But it was all a ruse. I left Mickey Mill behind after one day. I had been planted in the US by my government to start a movement to sell the Panama Canal back to the US. The Canal had become a white elephant. It was hemorrhaging more money than Panama could cover. Panama was headed for bankruptcy.

Now that Trump had been elected, I might be able to turn things around. Biden wouldn’t even talk to me. I had been in the US illegally for 6 years. I begged my government for envoy status so I could operate more freely. They refused. They thought I needed to stay under cover. I was getting paid. It could’ve been worse. They sent a bag man once a month with a pillowcase filled with Panamanian balboas. I converted it to dollars at Newark Airport and nobody asked any questions.

After a month of trying, I got a meeting with Trump. Although I spoke English, he had a translator translate what I said into a New York City accent. I didn’t how it sounded to Trump, but I had to live with it.

We started. I said, “Do you want to buy the Panama Canal?” The translator sad “Do youse wanna buy the friggin’ Panama Canal?” Trump said, “Yeah, sure. How much?” I said “$650 billion dollars.” Trump said “That’s too fu*kin’ much. How about 625?” I said “Ok.” The translator said, “Fu*kin’ A!” The deal was done. We sealed it with a handshake—his tiny hand was disconcerting, but I didn’t flinch. Trump told me my check was in the mail. I didn’t believe him, but I went along with him anyway.

The check arrived in Panama two weeks later. It bounced. We tried to deposit it five times, each time Trump’s Secretary assuring us there were sufficient funds. It was like throwing a tennis ball at a wall and having it bounce back and hit you in the face.

Not since the days of Manuel Noriega, aka Pineapple Face, had Panama seen such militarization. Tanks rumbling. Troops marching. It is rumored we are going to invade the US and force Trump to pay what he owes. Every Panamanian over 12 is eligible for the draft. Iran is supplying drones free of charge. North Korean seamstresses are working overtime to supply uniforms.

POSTSCRIPT

After a successful glider invasion, Panamanian troops are occupying the US border from Texas to California. Under Trump’s command, the US military is in disarray, with troops standing by on the Canadian border, as Trump’s horoscope supposedly advises.

Finally, we got a check from the US that cleared. We’re going to play nice and welcome the US back to Panama. We are also considering withdrawing from the southern US border. We are grateful for the aid proffered by Iran and N. Korea. We can never repay them.

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.

Eucharistia (eu-cha-ris’-ti-a): Giving thanks for a benefit received, sometimes adding one’s inability to repay.

“My life is a long and convoluted adventure in making decisions, most of them bad. Well truthfully, most of them have been catastrophic, ruining peoples’ lives almost with a snap of my fingers. But finally, after all the destruction I’ve caused, this decision is bound to go right and it’s all because of you. I never believed I could kidnap 50 people and hold them hostage in my late father’s beautifully built warehouse. There are drains built into the floor that will come in handy if I need to hose down the floor, if loved ones don’t come through with the ransom.”

“I hope this doesn’t make you mad, but children are being ransomed at a higher rate than adults, with ransoms receding the older the hostages get, to the point that people over 80 are being ransomed for $5.00. I’m sorry, but this is just the way of the world—the older you get, the less valuable you are. End of story. So, please let my colleagues examine your driver’s licenses so we can determine what your price tag will say. Also fill out the name tag and hang it around your neck. My colleagues will take care of the children’s tags.”

“Now, we’re going to play ‘Don’t Fear the Reaper,’ and you’re going to sing along.”

(After the song)

“There! Don’t you feel good? Fearing death could really make this kidnap experience a real bummer. Oh—we’re starting to get some phone queries. Ed Jones—your wife called and told us she’s not paying Jack Shit—that we can go ahead and blow you away. But before that, we are letting all the children go. Their whining is driving me crazy. We’re going to load them up in a truck and drop them off ten miles away from here.“

“Ok Ed, come on up! Anything to say?” Ed: “This is crazy. My wife’s bullshit shouldn’t determine my fate. I am Manager of ‘Tidy Fries’ at the mall. I . . .”

“BLAM!” Ed flopped to the floor. The Kidnapper-in-Chief kicked Ed’s lifeless body and started crying. Then he started singing Roy Orbison’s song “Crying.” He put his pistol to his head and pulled the trigger.

The police arrived and streamed into the warehouse, guns drawn. After things settled down a bit, one of them said, “He had a good idea, but he didn’t have the class to pull it off.” The cop standing next to him said, “Are you fu*king crazy?” And shot him in the head. All hell broke loose. Nobody knew who to trust. Gunfire was erupting throughout the warehouse. Ed came back to life, picked up a gun and yelled “I’m better off dead. No more mortgage and car payments, no more feeding and clothing my ungrateful kid, no more wife from hell, no more income taxes.”

“BLAM!”

It was a mess. None of it made any sense. It was so incomprehensible it wasn’t reported in the news. In fact, nobody believed it really happened. Except this guy: “My name is Ed, I was there, and it really happened. I have two holes in my head to prove it.”

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.