Category Archives: homoeoprophoron

Homoeopropophoron: Alliteration taken to an extreme where nearly every word in a sentence begins with the same consonant. Sometimes, simply a synonym for alliteration or paroemion [a stylistic vice].

“Bubble ball biscuits.” “Bouncing blobs of bratwurst”. “Blundering baloney bubbles.” This is food. Their recipes are published in the new cook book published by our overlords: “Eat It!” The recipes are required to be made and consumed, no matter how disgusting and inedible. The recipes are meant to induce “glowing health.” We are supposed to live longer and be more productive, working in the lithium mines and making batteries for our overlords’ mechanical devices, which we play a role in producing too. Earthlings have ceased producing any of the usual goods, we just mine Lithium and work in the factories making things that are for our overseers. They, in turn, supply us with food, shelter, and clothing. The “food” accords with “Eat It!” It all has clever names. This is because our overseers speak in alliterations, or even homoeopropophoron, where nearly every word in a sentence begins with the same consonant.

Tonight, everybody in the world is having “Dark Dough Doodle Donuts.” These we’re far better than most of the crap we’re forced to make and eat: you take 3 packages of ready-made biscuit dough and mix it with rye flour. Then, you roll it into a 3 foot long cylinder. Then, stretch it into a circle like a donut and place it on a cookie sheet. Sprinkle anchovies and cheese doodles on the encircled dough. Heat oven to 400 degrees. Bake for ten minutes. Remove from oven. Soak in hot chocolate. Garnish with 3 packets of strawberry Kool-Aid powder. Liquify in blender. Heat in microwave. Serve in soup bowls with black coffee on the side (optional).

Our overlords showed up 5 years ago. Hundreds of space ships landed all around the world. There was no defense against them. Nobody got hurt, but the world’s arsenals were destroyed, along with police weapons and personal weapons, including knives. Although people were still punching and kicking each other, and wrestling, there was peace on earth, if not goodwill toward men and women. This was a relief to the world’s population. But now we were slaves—all work a no pay. Our overlords also did something to women: they shortened the term of pregnancy to three weeks, and they made babies mature to the age of 18 in six months. This was done to ensure there would be a ready supply of people to work in the mines and factories. They also instituted the death penalty for anyone who complained more than three times about anything. There were CCTV surveillance sites all over the place; at least 8 cameras in every house, and every ten feet outside—on streets, sidewalks, and in public places, and stores too. But, we had peace on earth.

Our overlords all looked exactly the same—males looked like Perry Mason, females looked like Mason’s assistant Della Street. They had different sounding voices. I guess that’s what enabled them to tell each other apart. Once, I got a glimpse of an overseer without his Perry Mason suit. His body was like a broomstick with arms and tiny hands. His head was round like a pumpkin with different-colored lights blinking under his skin. His eyes were as big as yo-yos. His nose had one nostril, lined by what looked like pink ceramic. His mouth looked like an anus. It was red around the edges. I couldn’t see if he had any teeth. His feet were covered with spotted fur, sort of like a leopard. I was totally shocked and scurried away as quickly as I could. I went home and sat in the basement for the rest of the day. But, I thought, at least we have peace on earth.

Then, there was a pounding on my door. It was an overlord. He told me that I had been chosen to take a spaceship ride. I’d been designated “Slave of the Month” for my productivity on the battery manufacturing line. He put his hand on my forehead, and boom, we were in the rocket ship. I strapped in and we blasted off. I looked out the window and there was the world below. It bristled with rocket ships and there was smoke billowing out of the North Pole. Boom. We we’re back on Earth in two seconds.

I went directly home and heated up some leftover “Apple Adder Aspic.” It wasn’t that bad—it tasted like chicken. “Ha ha!” I thought, “That’s a joke.” Actually, it tasted like a fried diaper. I know that’s disgusting, but everything is disgusting—the food, the clothing, the shelter. I wake up on the floor in the morning and put on the same clothes I’ve been wearing for the past six months. I smell like elephant shit. My home is a wasteland—no electricity, no water. Just a battery-powered oven, battery-powered microwave, and battery-powered refrigerator the size of a small cardboard box. No heat. No air conditioning. I get my water out of the fountain in the park. My wife and children have disappeared.

“Oh well,” I thought, “At least we have world peace.”

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

Excerpts from the Daily Trope are available on Kindle under the title The Book of Tropes.