Category Archives: eutrepismus

Eutrepismus (eu-tre-pis’-mus): Numbering and ordering the parts under consideration. A figure of division, and of ordering.

First, I put on my pants. Second, I put on my socks. Third, I put on my t-shirt. Fourth, I . . . dammit I forgot to put on my underpants. They should’ve been number one, before my pants. Now, I had to start over. I was glad I hadn’t put on my shoes yet! They’re usually number four, before my wristwatch and coat.

I pulled off my pants, then my socks, then my t-shirt. Then, I started over. It was getting a little late, dawn was breaking, and I was hoping I’d make it to the duel on time. So, first I put on my underpants. Second, I put on my pants. Third, I put on my socks. Fourth, I put on my T-shirt. Fifth, I put on my shoes. Sixth, I put on my wristwatch. Seventh, I put on my jacket. Eighth, I put on my Kevlar vest over my jacket, just in case.

The duel was scheduled to take place at the county landfill. If somebody was killed, they could just be rolled onto the mountain of garbage and forgotten about.

“Duels” were unheard of in the 21st century, but I had crossed paths with the wrong person. He had a permanent role off Broadway in “Gone With the Pies.” He played an 18th-century pie delivery man who steals pies to save his starving family. He is caught and hanged without a trial, and consequently, the benefit of an attorney. His dying words were “The apple pie was best.” A fitting taunt for a pie thief.

He had played the role for so long, he had affected an 18-century demeanor. Hence, the duel. I had made the mistake of telling him I thought his daughter Nell was “hot.” He hit me in the face with a slice of apple pie and challenged me to a duel for his daughter’s honor. I was so shocked I just said, “Whatever.”

Nobody was going to be killed—I don’t know what the landfill thing was about. We were going to hurl pies at each other. We were back to back with our pies hoisted high. We were to take five steps, turn, and hurl. I turned. He was pointing a small handgun at me—clearly .22 caliber. He fired once and hit my pie. He fired again and hit my Kevlar vest. He yelled “You ruddy blighter!” and threw the gun on the ground, and ran into the rising sun taking a bite out of his pie.

He was clearly operating over the rainbow. The man was nuts. I never should’ve gone along with him. I thought it was some kind of joke, but it wasn’t. I didn’t press charges for attempted murder on the condition he let me date his daughter. He said I could marry her if I wanted to.

“Gone With the Pies” is still running off Broadway. I’ll be marrying Nell in two weeks. After I told her about the thing with her father, she got “HOT” tattooed on her lower back.

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.

Eutrepismus (eu-tre-pis’-mus): Numbering and ordering the parts under consideration. A figure of division, and of ordering.

It was as easy as 1, 2, 3! First: Open the tube of “Super Glue.” Second: Spill some my fingertips. Three: Press fingertips together. Congratulations! In three easy steps you’ve glued your fingers together! You’re going to have to put off gluing your chopsticks back together as you try to figure out how to unglue your fingers without tearing the flesh off. Hmm—time to Google remedies. Here are a few:

1. Grit your teeth and rip your fingers apart.

2. Soak your hand in diluted sulphuric acid.

3. Cover your hand with rubber bands.

4. Leave it alone. It will fix itself.

I chose leave it alone because it seemed the least painful and the least intrusive. I’ve been “leaving it alone” for 3 months now. I have become left-handed. My glued hand has a strong unpleasant smell—sort of like a combination of a clogged drain and cooking rutabaga. I’ve put cologne on it to mask the stink, but it only lasts five minutes and the stink comes back. So, I’ve given up on cologne and am experimenting with Febreeze. This involves pulling on an over-sized mitten and soaking the mitten with Fabreze. I carry a bottle of Febreeze hooked to one of my belt loops.

I finally went to my Doctor. She removed my mitten and gagged. “Your hand is rotting! We must take immediate action or the rot will spread and poison you! It could be fatal. I will put your hand in this sterile glass box and sprinkle your hand with bacteria-eating spores.” They were “found” on the men’s room floor at the Schuyler rest stop on the NY Thruway. It didn’t work. My hand blew up to the size a a watermelon, breaking the glass box and spraying green goo out of my fingertips.

Later that morning we received a phone call from Nick Tourjob, an employee of “Bonaface Solvents.” He said he had heard of my plight and could put a few drops of Number 92 solvent on my fingertips, and it would cut right through the Super Glue. He did what he said he’d do and the Super Glue melted away. I was free! Nick was sitting close to me. He lit a cigarette and my hand went up in flames. I put it out in the kitchen sink. No harm done. Nick apologized and asked me out to dinner. I was so lonely I almost would’ve gone out with somebody’s grandfather, blind, with a dog and a walker. I went out once with Nick. He was too weird—he wanted to rub solvent on me as a kind of foreplay. What a creep!

Since my ordeal, I’ve stayed left-handed. I feel special.

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.