Category Archives: intimation

Intimation: Hinting at a meaning but not stating it explicitly.

“I’m goin’ to the go-go if you know what I mean. Don’t worry, I’ll be back.” My nursing home cohort was on a day trip to the Museum of Natural History. We were viewing some giant dinosaur skeleton when it hit me. My walker was tied with a piece of clothesline rope to my partner Mitzi’s. It was supposed to keep us from getting separated and lost.

I didn’t want to embarrass her by dragging her into the go-go while I did my business. I pulled out my switchblade that I kept from my years on the streets of New York—they had been recently legalized by Cuomo before he got the boot. I had a fishing license in my wallet which allowed me to carry it concealed.

Mitzi screamed, thinking I was going to finish her off in the middle of the museum. I was only going to cut the rope. I cut the rope and took off with my walker, running as best as I could. I didn’t make it. My sweat pants had a big wet circle on the front. The museum guards had called the police when Mitzi screamed. I was being handcuffed.

Mitzi was crying and apologized. She told me if I was more straightforward and had just said I needed to take a leak, none of this would’ve happed. She talked the police out of arresting me and we went AWOL from our cohort. They would be panic stricken at “Shady Lakes Nursing Home” when they couldn’t find us.p, but I needed some dry pants.

Mitzi managed to find a Salvation Army Family Store. We bought me a used pair of sweatpants. They were pink and said “Villanova” in huge blue letters up the right leg. I liked them and so did Mitzi. She paid for the sweatpants—she could afford them. She was a millionaire whose children had put her away so they could get their hands on her money. Her husband had died in in 1990 after making a fortune in the 70s in the coke spoon and disco suit business, importing the spoons and suits from China and marking them up %1,000.

Mitzi’s children, Buck and Lola, were classic children of wealth—selfish, lazy, and privileged. Mitzi was 92 and they’d been mooching from her for decades. They never had a job or did anything for humanity. They just laid about drinking expensive champagne, complimenting each other on their good taste, and plotting ways to steal their mother’s money.

Mitzi and I decided to “visit” them. I would threaten them with my knife and they would leave Mitzi alone. We revved up our walkers and took off for their posh condo.

When we got there, they weren’t home. There was a message on their doorbell cam saying “We’ve gone to Greenland and we have insurance.”

Mitzi called an Uber and we went back to Shady Lakes. Mission unaccomplished.

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.

Intimation: Hinting at a meaning but not stating it explicitly.

“I don’t know where I am. I don’t know where I’m going. My bowling ball is green. Do you get it?” She cocked her head and barked twice. “You’re so smart,” I told her. “Smarter than the goddamn idiot I trust my money with.” I was losing faith in my financial planner. He takes a shitload of money from me every month and invests in his latest “picks.” He says I’m young so the time is right to build a high risk portfolio. I’m 64 years old. I guess with the high life expectancy afforded by the 21st century, I could be considered young. Last month, he invested my money in a company called “Angel Soles” that makes “rechargeable” shoes. He did inadequate research into the company. I Googled it and found out that “rechargeable shoes” are shoes made of leather that can be shined when they lose their luster. Not much innovation going on here—just a new name for the same old thing. That’s unacceptable. Two months ago, he invested in a company that makes “environmentally sustainable paper mache household goods.” The company’s named “Paper Trails” and they offer to do an audit and replace everything in your home with paper mache “equivalents.” The paper mache blender caught my eye. I ordered one. It came in a box with a note explaining that it was intended as a decorative kitchen ornament to “make your kitchen a quieter more gentle place, without the annoying whirring of a conventional blender.” “Paper Trails” holds the record for quickest bankruptcy in the history of capitalism.

I’ve got to do something about the herraging of my retirement money. “Wiggly” Johnson, my financial planner, has been handling my family’s finances for as long as I can remember, starting with my grandfather, who died in penury, but swore by Wiggly, nevertheless. Wiggly is 91 years old and lives in a nursing home, where his office is located. He uses “Golden Glades” phone to do business. He uses offenders assigned on work release to Golden Glades as his “staff.” Most recently, his “Secretary” was a jaywalker who taunted motorists to “come and get her” after she stepped in front of their cars or trucks.

I set up a meeting with Whirly. I was going to tell him it was all over. He was sitting by a window holding his signature unlit cigar. He pointed it at me and said, “Cohiba.” I told him, “You’ve been the family’s financial planner for many, many years. You have invested millions on our behalf. In life, we say hello, and we say goodbye. We wave or shake hands and walk away. It’s normal. It’s expected. It’s life. I think . . .” Wiggly interrupted and said, “I know where you’re going you little shitbird. Just get the hell out of here and never come back. Fu*ck you.”

I stood up and said “Fu*k you too,” and left. I was relieved. Finally, I had gotten out from under the losing proposition. Wiggly was history. I called my new financial planner, “Red Pylon,” a 35 year-old financial wizard—so it said on his web page. I told him my finances were all his. He took me literally and liquidated all my accounts and took off with all my assets. Now, I was really screwed. I worked out the numbers and determined that I can’t retire until I’m 112. In anticipation of my future, I dress up like a homeless man and hold out a styrofoam cup on Main Street. In my despair, I call this financial planning.

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.