Category Archives: horismus

Horismus

Posted on July 6, 2025 | Leave a comment

Horismus (hor-is’-mus): Providing a clear, brief definition, especially by explaining differences between associated terms.

Llife is not death. Up is not down. At the same time, death is not life and down is not up, hut.”These are the kinds of things I said when I was on the high school football team. I had a burning inferno of desire to make my mark as Crystal Valley’s high school quarterback. I wanted to give the team something to think about when the center snapped the ball. It would distract the team and I would often fumble the snap leading to a turn-over that lost the game.

A few of my favorites were: “In the valley of the blind, the one-eyed man is king, hut,” “It’s down at the end of lonely street, it’s heartbreak hotel, hut,” “The answer my friend is blowin’ in the wind, but.” These were mega-distractorators. After I said “hut” the team would sit down in a contemplative posture, pick a blade of grass, and stare at it. Before they could put it down, the opposing team would trample them, grab my fumble, and score.

Nobody ever caught on. I was working for Tony Squingili. He ran all North Jersey’s betting operations. Our high school football games were his biggest book. He made enough off them to spend winters in Florida at his bungalow on Bird Key in Sarasota. I made one grand per game and gave forty dollars to each team member. I kept the rest for myself.

Cheating as a lifestyle had been drummed into my head when I was a kid. My father was an accountant. I used to hang out when he met with his clients and “cheat,” “cheating,” “cheated,” and “cheater” were repeated over and over by my father. All the men he worked for drove Cadillacs. So, I thought anything with “cheat” in it was the road to success. So far, it was true. I cheated on tests. I cheated at cards. I cheated at dice. I cheated on my girlfriend. I cheated at hide and seek. I even managed to cheat at horseshoes and ping pong!

I went to law school and became a criminal defense attorney. Guess what? I specialized in cheaters. In my closing argument I’d use my quarterback trick to throw off juries, and it worked. My big problem was with wives. I had been divorced seven times due to cheating. It was a compulsion stemming from my work. I hired a wife-cheating minder to follow me around and make sure I didn’t cheat. I fell in love with her and cheated on my 8th wife, and got divorced. Now, I’m married to my minder as wife number nine. She even follows me into the men’s room, like I’m gonna’ have an affair while I’m taking a leak. But, we’ve been married for five years and have a little girl we nicknamed “Queenie.”

It’s inconvenient, but having my wife as my cheating minder works. I’m am grateful.

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.

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Horismus

Posted on October 30, 2024 | Leave a comment

Horismus (hor-is’-mus): Providing a clear, brief definition, especially by explaining differences between associated terms.

“Love is not liking. Love is not doing it with another person. Love is not wanting. Love is not giving or receiving gifts. Love is not promising to be faithful. Love is not anything at all. If it is anything, it is a fool’s trap. A major con job. A joke that causes despair, and suffering, and pain.” This was Miss Eve Macintosh teaching our fifth grade health class. This week’s topic was “Love Stinks.”

Miss Macintosh’s boyfriend, Chip Wild, had been gruesomely murdered. He had been clubbed, stabbed, shot and run over. The police said the person who did it was deranged and filled hatred for Mr. Wild. He had a note pinned to his blood-soaked shirt that said: “You prick.” it was made out of letters cut from a magazine, like a ransom note. It was the worse thing that ever happened in our little town—Coal Town was aghast. People came from all over to see the blood stains on the sidewalk in front of Miss Macintosh’s house. People pitied Miss Macintosh, having her boy friend killed right in front of her house. They found the murder weapons in her kitchen where she put them for safekeeping until the police arrived. Chief Pesto expressed his gratitude for her community spirit and bravery.

Miss Macintosh didn’t go to Chip’s funeral. We understood how sad she was and how she couldn’t handle the pain. There were a half-dozen young women at the funeral who cried enough to make up for her not being there. Everybody was grateful.

They caught Lewis Other later that week. He was lurking around the crime scene with his hands in his pockets. He was wearing his liberal Blundstones, and his expensive Cartier wrist watch with a crocodile skin band. He was drinking a “Pink Lady Apple” Kombucha. Everybody knew he was a liberal, and the liberals were all murderous psychopaths who would lash out at right wing conservatives, unprovoked. They wanted to burn down churches, and “save” the environment, and tear down shopping malls and turn the parking lots into gardens of rare and endangered weeds. Chip Wild was Lewis Other’s opposite. Chip wanted to legalize hunting illegal immigrants, drill for oil in everybody’s back yard, require watching 2hrs of Fox News every day, beat up homeless people, place Bibles in all public restrooms, and build a meth lab in the high school’s chemistry classroom, and more. In short, Chip was one of us, Lewis was one of them.

Lewis was arrested at the crime scene. He was chained with a dog collar around his neck and paraded to the police station with cheering crowds lining the street. He was booked and thrown into a cell with the local nutcase, Pluto LaForge. One of the arresting officers had super glued a sign to Lewis’s back saying “Kick Me, I Murdered Chip.”

Coal Town had sold its courthouse in a bankruptcy settlement. Lewis’s trial was held on the High School football field. He couldn’t afford a lawyer, and bankrupt Coal Town did’t have the money to provide him with one. The remaining funds had been used to lease the mayor a new Cadillac.

Lewis Other was convicted of murder by a jury of Chip’s best friends and sentenced to be hanged. He was hanged later that day from a big oak tree in the town square. He climbed up on a bar stool with the rope around his neck. Miss Macintosh kicked the stool out from under him. He was wearing no bag over his head so you could see his stretch and hear it go “Pop.” It was gross, but justice had been served.

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.

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Horismus

Posted on March 16, 2024 | Leave a comment

Horismus (hor-is’-mus): Providing a clear, brief definition, especially by explaining differences between associated terms.

“Time is conscious of waiting.” It does not go “tick tock” or hum. It is not about day or night. Time is used as a measure called “per” or before or after, late or early or on time.

I was thinking about time because I had gotten a wristwatch for my 12th birthday. It was a Timex Boy Scout watch. It had glow-in-the-dark numbers, a sweep second hand, and a little square with the date in it. It was Boy Scout green and waterproof to 200 feet. It was also shock proof and anti-magnetic. It ran on batteries and was made in Japan.

I wasn’t a Boy Scout, but I still loved the watch. I wore it to school the day after I got it. I wore my sleeves rolled up so I could show it off. I was even ready to join the Boy Scouts—the BSA—the Boy Scouts of America. Then, Louie Pezzo showed up wearing a solid gold Rolex. His father was into crime and could get anything for Louie. That included alligator shoes, fireworks, a color TV, an electric popcorn maker, and more. Louie always had to one-up somebody. He had 100-plus-upped my Boy Scout watch with his Rolex. I was hurt, but I didn’t show it. Instead, I asked him if he wanted to join the Boy Scouts with me. Since he had no friends, and everybody hated him, he jumped at the chance.

Mr. Bangholtz was our Scoutmaster. Louie and I were the newest members of the troop. Already members were: Floyd Leash who lived at the edge of the swamp, Rollo Bing who lived in a mansion on a hill, Pardor Scanson who just sat in a corner sharpening his knife, and Bulgy Branford who was morbidly obese. It was very unusual, but I was the most normal person there.

Mr. Bangholz told us he was going to show us how to light a fire so we’d be ready for next week’s camporee. He picked up a red Jerry can and a boom box and told us to follow him to the parking lot out behind the YMCA. We got out there and there was a pile of wood about five feet high. Mr. Bangholz doused it with gasoline from the Jerry can and lit it. Then, he pressed the play button on the boom box and “Fire,” the weird 60s song, started to play. Mr. Bangholz started skipping around the flaming wood pile waving a lit road flare over his head. Floyd Leash yelled “I’m going to home.” Louie said “You’re a dead man.” Bulgy yelled that he wanted a snack “immediately.”

We heard sirens. It was fire trucks coming to put out the fire! “Who’s in charge here?” asked the firefighter. I am,” Mr Bangholz sobbed as he stood in front of the fireman’s hose and begged “cleanse me, I am filth, I have sinned.” The firefighter yelled “Get out of the way you friggin’ lunatic!” Mr. Bangholz made a sound like a train whistle and jumped into the fire. He had doused himself with gasoline and quickly went up in flames. Luckily, the firefighters were there and were able to quickly douse the flames. He lived.

In court, Mr. Bangholz testified that he had planned to give us a surprise tutorial on dealing with burn victims, but it got out of control. He was found not guilty of lighting a bonfire in a private parking lot. We found out later that he was divorced four times and refurbished used bicycles in his basement for a living. He suffered from bi-polar disease and took medication for it, but that he hadn’t taken his medication for three weeks and had been talking angrily to himself.

We sued the Boys Scouts for not properly vetting Mr. Bangholz. We won. Now the Boy Scouts ask prospective Scoutmasters three key questions: 1. What year is it?; 2. Can you tie a square knot?; 3. Do you eat your spinach?

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.

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Horismus

Posted on August 6, 2023 | Leave a comment

Horismus (hor-is’-mus): Providing a clear, brief definition, especially by explaining differences between associated terms.

“Car, car c-a-r. Stick your head in a jelly jar.” It was my first taunt, and I had authored it my self. I was nine and I yelled it out the car window when my mother was driving me home from school.

At nine, taunts were the coin of the realm. More aesthetically pleasing than teasing, some of them even rhymed like my jelly jar taunts. Most important, they presented a challenge, tending to induce anger, not shame or embarrassment like their weaker, more mean-spirited cousin, teasing.

In the late 50s we’d hang out at Charlie’s Soda Shoppe taunting each other after school. Charlie’s was a perfect replica of the Waverly Tavern down the street. It functioned as a training ground for hanging out at the bar when we got older. You could get a shot of ginger ale, and all of Charlie’s sundaes were modeled after the mixed drinks at the bar. For example, the Singapore Sundae: strawberry ice cream drizzled with Grenadine syrup, topped with a cherry and an orange slice alongside an umbrella. You’d learn how to nonchalantly remove the umbrella and politely pull the fruit laden toothpick out of the ice cream, slide the cherry and orange slice off the toothpick and slowly eat them, being careful not to bite into the orange peel. That was called a “smooth landing.”

Then, one day everything changed. Bruce Flanger asked George Bigelow if his mother had a mustache. It was a simple question, but George took it as taunt and threw his Vanilla Sour at Bruce and yelled “Your mother is so fat, when she wears high heels they poke holes in the sidewalk.” Bruce shot back: “You mother smells like the men’ room at exit 35 on the Parkway.” The Exit 35 men’s room was fabled for it’s stench. Some people believed it had been built over a mafia burial ground. Others believed it had been cursed by John Spellman, the “Farting King” from Union, NJ who used his trombone-sounding stench to clear convenience stores, and then rob them. He had been caught in the Exit 36 men’s room preparing for a robbery. State Police stormed the men’s room wearing army surplus gas masks. That’s when Spellman supposedly hurled his curse: “I swear this place will stink forever” and then he blew one that lasted for two minutes. The state police said the cloud coming out of Spellman’s pants had “a life of its own, altering the color of the wall tiles and becoming a part of the men’s room structure.”

Back to Charlie’s: The “your mother” give-and-take was starting to spiral out of control. Voices were raised, postures were angry. Then, Berty Russel raised his hands and made a conciliatory gesture. He said: “I like taunting as much as the next guy, but I’m a registered pacifist and don’t want to see it escalate into violence. I propose we view the ‘your mother’ taunt as a jest intended to elicit undirected laughter where ‘your mother’ is the ‘primordial mother,’ the ‘every mother.’ Moreover, the first known ‘your mother’ joke is 3,500 years old and inscribed on a Babylonian tablet: ‘Your mother is by the one who has intercourse with her. What/who is it?’ We must respect these ancient origins. Any taunt that is substantively true, will be understood as an affront, and measures will be taken, For example; your mother is so fat she’s n a wheelchair. Expect violence.” Berty was nearly making sense for once. He was from England.

So, ignoring Berty’s BS history lesson, as far as we were concerned, the “your mother” jest was born that day at Charlie’s Soda Shoppe. It has held its own into the 21st century, and will continue being used as long as there are mothers. Just then, Charlie said to nobody in particular “Your mother has a mustache.” Everybody looked at him. Five guys stood up ready to let Charlie have it, George Bigelow threw his Strawberry Mary at Charlie and we all laughed as it streamed down Charlie’s chin and dripped on his shirt.

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

A print edition of The Daily Trope is available from Amazon under the title of The Book of Tropes.

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Horismus

Posted on December 10, 2022 | Leave a comment

Horismus (hor-is’-mus): Providing a clear, brief definition, especially by explaining differences between associated terms.

Rock and roll. It is a type of dance performed by adolescent males and females as a part of Western cultures’ mating rituals. Rock and roll also refers to the music accompanying and stimulating the ritual dancing. I was a teen-aged victim of rock and roll’s carnal allure, wiggling provocatively on the high school gym dance floor, trying to attract a mate to go steady with. Then, I noticed a girl wiggling in my direction. She was with a group of friends, but only she was wiggling. I ducked into the boys room to check my hair and the fake sideburns I started wearing after Elvis became popular. I used pomade to keep my hair in place. It was an elaborate curling swell, like a wave crashing down on my forehead at high tide. My hair was my salvation, it’s grandeur eclipsed all of my imperfections—my unibrow, my big feet, my acne, my big ears, my mole, my chubbiness. My hair took them all down—it was a beacon of coolness. It was a shining light showing the babes the way into my arms. At least, that’s what I imagined.

I went back out to the gym. “Leader of the Pack” was playing. I loved the motorcycle sound. I looked across the gym and she was gone. “Damn, if my hair wasn’t so high maintenance, maybe I could’ve met her, and possibly fallen in love,” I thought as I headed outside for a Lucky. Luckies we’re my brand—l.s.m.f.t.—Lucky Strike Means Fine Tobacco. Back then, you could buy smokes when you were 12 and they only cost 25 cents a pack. I lit up and looked down the sidewalk. There she was smoking what looked like a Marlboro. I gave my curl a little twist and walked down the sidewalk toward her. She took a big drag on her smoke, smiled, and blew the smoke in my face. I choked on her smoke and she said “What’s the matter baby? Can’t you take it?” I laughed my tough guy laugh and asked her “Were you wiggling at me back in there?” “What if I was, baby?” She asked, and slowly licked her lips. This made me crazy.

I threw down my cigarette and shook my head a little—it was like my hair was sweet-talking her, saying “be my little baby, my only baby.” The girl heard my hair and stepped closer to me. Then, suddenly a gust of wind blew my hair askew. It was like the girl awakened from a trance. She stepped back and looked at me with her nose curled up like I smelled. She threw her cigarette on the ground and angrily said “You’re one of those hair boys my mother told me about.—all hair, no soul. You worship rock and roll.” “It’s not like that baby, my hair is just a hobby of mine like my electric trains or doing picture puzzles. I just finished the Grand Canyon yesterday. Intellectually challenging.”

She calmed down and asked me my name: “Roger” I said. She told me her name was Betsy. The wind had died down. I knew as soon as I got my hair back in place, that she would be mine, all mine. I stepped behind a tree and pulled out my tortoise shell comb and pocket mirror. I worked my hair like pasta primavera—tossing it vigorously. When I got to the wave I said the “Hair Prayer” and, gently twisting the comb, resurrected the shining wave. When I popped out from behind the tree she looked at me and walked slowly toward me. “Hair we go!” I thought as she neared me. Then, another gust of wind flattened my wave. The spell was broken for the second time. “Ewwww” said Betsy as she turned and headed back to the gym.

I had to get something more powerful to hold my hair in place. I heard there was an old bearded man in the park selling “Rock Juice.” Supposedly, it would harden your hair in place like a rock. I bought some and tried it. It hardened my hair all right, but it was made from clear lacquer diluted with turpentine. I should’ve known when I smelled it, but I was in a hurry to try it out. My parents had my head shaved, so did a lot of others whose sons had tried “Rock Juice.” Now, the shaved head look has caught on, especially since Yul Brenner shaved his head for “The King and I.” I saw Betsy again and she asked if she could rub my head.

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

A print edition of The Daily Trope is available from Amazon under the title of The Book of Tropes.

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Horismus

Posted on April 21, 2022 | Comments Off on Horismus

Horismus (hor-is’-mus): Providing a clear, brief definition, especially by explaining differences between associated terms.

“How now brown cow.” I think that’s s a line from a Steely Dan song, something about admonishing somebody to leave after drinking their big brown cow. It’s not a direct quote, but in the echoing halls of intertextuality two words are enough, as is the potential for allusion captured by the same two words. There aren’t very many songs including cows— “Farmer in the Dell” leaps out. There are the obscure “Mooo” and “Cows With Guns,” and “Out on the Western Plain” and a dozen or so more. But there’s more to cows than female grass-eating milk-making bovines. Of course, they’re not bulls or calves. “Cow” can be used to refer to any large female mammal. There are elephant cows, moose cows, and whale cows. But it gets worse—an obese middle-aged woman can be called a cow. I don’t like this. My wife is obese and middle-aged. If I called her a cow she would mooove out—somewhere on the other side of the fence where the grass is greener and she can graze on Hershey Bars 24/7 if she wants to. She was so svelte when we first met. Giving birth to six children took a toll on her body. Along with her poor eating habits, now she tips the scales at 247 lbs. I learned awhile back not to say anything about her weight. So, I’ve learned to love her for what she is, a kind, generous, loving cow.

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

A print edition of The Daily Trope is available from Amazon under the title of The Book of Tropes.

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Horismus

Posted on August 25, 2021 | Comments Off on Horismus

Horismus (hor-is’-mus): Providing a clear, brief definition, especially by explaining differences between associated terms.

As you become more deeply involved with “hunting” you should know the difference between a bullet and a pellet. A bullet is a single projectile, often called a slug. When well-aimed it will blow a hole through its target causing blood to spurt out if a heart shot, or ooze out, if the strike is elsewhere. For example, it may blow off a leg, become lodged in the rump, or somewhere along the spine, causing a slower bleed-out and a more agonizing death.

A pellet is a lead sphere. It comes in different sizes, from bird shot, to upland game, to buckshot— which comes in different sizes, the largest of which is called “00 Buck.” Coming from a shotgun, pellets are sprayed in a lethal pattern, mutilating one’s prey, or blowing a big hole in it, if fired from close range.

Remember, if you’re going to kill animals, you should choose the right projectile. You should only kill people in self defense (broadly defined).

Instant killing is a fun thing to do, but you might want to consider wounding your prey so you can have the satisfaction of tracking it’s blood trail and finding its dead body somewhere in the woods. Imagine, wounding a rabbit and trying to find it. What a challenge, building the character attributes of patience and perseverance as you crawl through a thicket in your camo overhauls, dragging your new Remington over and under beside you.

Bullets and pellets. Vehicles of death, makers of meals: deer, squirrels, ducks, raccoons, pigeons, chipmunks (if you’re really hungry). Remember, that Bible commandment about killing is just about killing people. If there’s a season on it, it’s fair game. Unless it’s a cow or a chicken, you can kill it. Cows and chickens can be killed any time, but you, unless the chickens or cows are feral, should let the farmers do the killing. Don’t worry. You can get farmer-killed meat at the grocery store!

Now, you’re one step closer to being a hunter. Every time you load up, take aim, pull the trigger, and kill a living creature you become a better person.

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

A print edition of The Daily Trope is available from Amazon under the title of The Book of Tropes.

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Horismus

Posted on October 15, 2016 | Leave a comment

Horismus (hor-is’-mus): Providing a clear, brief definition, especially by explaining differences between associated terms

CLEAR: Time is change given utility by its humanly crafted measures (i.e., seconds, years, etc.). Additionally, time may be an opening providing the rationale for what happens/happened next  (i.e., season, opportunity, etc.).

CONVOLUTED: Time is a feature of human consciousness creating and comparing differences within archetypal oppositions of now and then afforded by memory and imagination; where accounts of experience are scripted as mechanical increments and organic openings–where actions are constrained by the ever-present confluence of chronology and opportunity constituting circumstances and the application of deeply cultured ideals of what is fitting as motives to decision.

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

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Horismus

Posted on January 15, 2008 | Leave a comment

Horismus (hor-is’-mus): Providing a clear, brief definition, especially by explaining differences between associated terms.

The future, unlike the present, is yet to come, and the past is gone forever. Tomorrow. Today. Yesterday. The sum of all time.

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

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