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Martyria

Posted on June 26, 2025 | Leave a comment

Martyria (mar-tir’-i-a): Confirming something by referring to one’s own experience.

You want to know what this is all about? Ha! You came to the right place buddy. I’ve been using a screwdriver since I was 16. I started working at “Sal’s Auto Repair” when I was still in high school. That was forty years ago. You may have noticed it’s named “Big John’s Auto Repair” now—after me, the proud owner and proprietor.

I love the smell of lithium grease in the morning. Holding a cup of coffee in one hand and a grease gun in the other, lubing a ball joint, is one of my favorite things—it’s like inoculating the ball joint with some kind of vaccine to keep it lively and lithe, sucking up the turns and bumps like nobody’s business—rejuvenating it—like slopping a dollop of RediMove on your knee or shoulder!

Anyway, getting under the lift with a car posed above is like being some kind of voyeur. I’m not ashamed to say it gives me a thrill to look up from underneath at a chassis—the tailpipe, the gas tank, the drive shaft, the brake lines, the transmission, the brakes, the coil springs all give me a thrill. I like going under the hood too.

Everything’s right there. The engine! My God. A massive machine, running on explosions, rotating a crankshaft and propelling the entire car wherever you want it to go, producing swirling exhaust fumes and making the exhaust pipe growl like an angry bear.

I wield my screwdrivers all over a car—one for slotted screws (“regular” screws) and phillips head screws—screws with star-shaped slots in their heads. I grip the screwdriver by its handle, stick its tip in the slot and twist—one direction to screw the screw in, and the opposite direction to unscrew it. Sometimes the screw is rusted in. In that case, I spray the screw with WD-40, a rust-busting solvent that smells almost as good as grease does!

Today, I’m taking the license plates off a car for my friend Ralphy. When he dropped it off he said “Where else can you get a new Caddy for five grand?” I didn’t ask him where he got it. It’s none of my business.

I’ll be using my standard screwdriver to do the job. There’s no rust so it ought to go pretty easy. I’m replacing the Cadillac’s plates with the plates from Ralphy’’s mother’s car. It might be illegal, but I’m just screwing the screws, four out, four in—out and in, the “ways” of the screwdriver.

The screwdriver is a tool with one specific intended use—screwing. But, screwdrivers offer an invitation to misuse, like everything else that people use.

Some people misuse screwdrivers by using them as chisels! But the worst: using a phillips head screwdriver to stab somebody! Its pointed dagger-like tip readily penetrates skin, making a wound capable of murder. I am opposed to this.

So, despite its occasional misuse, the screwdriver is one of my favorite tools in my toolbox. With a twist of the wrist, it binds things together and takes them apart. They were first used in the fifteenth-century for armor maintenance. The phillips head was invented in the early 1930s.

Well, there you have it. Here, take my screwdriver and give it a try.

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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Martyria

Posted on October 18, 2024 | Leave a comment

Martyria (mar-tir’-i-a): Confirming something by referring to one’s own experience.

I know that war is hell. When I was in Vietnam, I got clap four times from the same whore! As a nineteen year old maniac I made a lot of mistakes. My job was guarding the docks at Cam Ranh Bay. I stood watch every night. She came by every night around 3:00 am and we did it on the ground on my poncho behind a cargo container. She was beautiful. Her name was “Beaucoup Bang Bang”. In addition to paying her $10.00 per ride, I bought her cartons of cigarettes, bottles. of cognac, and jewelry from the PX. I even bought her a Yashica camera, an eight-track tape deck, and a set of Noritake dinnerware. When the camera was found on a VC captured at Phantom Rang, it was tracked back to the PX, and then, to me.

Colonel TZ ( “Twilight Zone”) Cambell had me hauled in by the MPs for questioning about collaborating and giving comfort and aid to the enemy. I told him I had purchased the camera for a very nice whore I had met when she had lost her dog outside the church I attend. He said, “Bullshit soldier! The medics have told me about your pecker problems. Beaucoup Bang Bang is known for infecting you troopers with clap. Have you ever heard of a condom boy? Don’t you realize that she’s a VC agent?” I’d been in Vietnam for 2 months and didn’t even know the VC had agents, and I wasn’t sure what a VC was either. “Sir” I said, “What is a condom, Sir?” I figured if I played dumb, I’d somehow get off the hook. Colonel TZ pulled out his penis —he was wearing a condom. He said, “See this? I wear one of these all the time, except when I’m takin’ a leak. You will too. Do you hear me soldier?” I yelled “Yes sir! Wilco!”

Now, I was being shadowed by a CIA operator. I was suspected of being a VC agent. After my meeting with Col. TZ a VC bunker had been discovered with a Noritake formal dinnerware service for twelve laid out on a rustic table, an 8-track cassette tape player on a shelf dug out of the dirt, alongside five cartons of Luckies, and a bottle of cognac. The tape player had a serial number that was traced to me.

The CIA operator’s name was Nadir—surely a fake name. He wore black pajamas and carried a .45 on each hip. He had a really soft voice and a skull ring on his left hand. He literally followed 3 feet behind me everywhere I went. I missed Boom Boom so much I considered killing Nadit so I could visit her at the “Reindeer Chicken” where she was a “Saigon Tea” girl during the day.

Then it happened. From wearing a condom all the time, my penis started to smell and developed pustules. It was worse than the clap. I went to the hospital. When the doctor saw my penis, he said “Wo! We had a case just like yours 2 months ago. We had to amputate the Colonel’s member.” As soon as he said “Colonel” I knew who it was. “We had to emergency medivac him to Manila where they lopped it off and gave him a fake weiner bigger than the old one.”I was ready to burst into tears when the doctor told me, “But you’re in better shape than the Colonel. With the proper antibiotics and rigorous hygiene, you’ll be back on duty in 3 weeks. In the meantime, we’re sending you to Hawaii for R&R. See you in a month!” I was given a government provided condo on the island of Kauai in Kilauea overlooking Kauai Bay. I underwent penis therapy every day. The nurse would knock on my door and yell “It’s me! I’m here to give you a hand!” Her name was Lithium, “Lith” for short. She made me laugh, and I forgot about Boom Boom.

I went back to Vietnam and was reassigned to the base mail room. I wrote to Lith nearly every day and she wrote back to me. I was totally rehabilitated and made a pact with myself to stay away from the hookers. There was a place on base called “Handy House” where I could get what I wanted without worrying about contracting an STD. When my tour was up in Vietnam, I went to Hawaii and Lith and I got married. After a year of total bliss, and the beginning of Lith’s pregnancy, a new nail salon opened called “Boom Boom Nails.” I was walking past it, and guess what? Yup, you got it. I looked in the window, and It was her. She motioned me in. She told me she got married, but did not have any children. She showed me a photo of her husband. It was Colonel XT! I was shocked, but that’s life. I had a pretty good idea why Boom Boom didn’t have any children, but she seemed happy. Life is complex. You never know what’s going to happen next.

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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Martyria

Posted on March 4, 2024 | Leave a comment

Martyria (mar-tir’-i-a): Confirming something by referring to one’s own experience.

What gave me my ideas? My experience! Where else could they come from? We can’t be born with them or we’d all think alike. We’d all like Elvis. We’d all like ice cream. But, we don’t, and we may be considered crazy as a consequence. What is experience? It is anything you’re conscious of, and then, think about, which is a kind of experience too. So, you can’t be wrong just because your experience isn’t the same as somebody else’s: I look at the sunset and have a fit and start running around in circles. You look at the so-called same sunset and you take a picture and write a bullshit poem. Same sunset, different experiences. This is a problem with eyewitnesses, but it is too complicated to discuss here.

I used to spend a lot of time crushing insects with my hammer. I carried my hammer in my backpack. When I saw an insect, say an ant, I would stop and pull out my hammer and slam slam the ant. It’s crushed and gooey carcass made me happy, like a hug from my mother or a piece of chocolate cake. I would carefully clean off my hammer, preparing it for its next slam. It didn’t take much courage to kill insects, just viciousness and a lack of remorse.

But, it did take courage to kill the black widow in the wood pile. The surface was uneven and the Black Widow was suspended in a web with about 2” between it and woodpile. If my blow landed unevenly, there was a chance that the spider would fall on my naked leg (I was wearing shorts) and get me. As I swung my hammer, the spider jumped and landed on my wrist. I brushed it off before it could bite me. I stomped it under my Birkenstock, put my hammer away and ran home.

I still felt the Black Widow on my wrist. I opened my bedroom door and my bedroom was filled with spiders. They formed into a phalanx and came toward me. I ran outside screaming and locked myself in the family car. My mother unlocked it. I was slapping myself and yelling gibberish. An ambulance was summoned to take me to “Crystal Ribbon Sanatorium” for one week’s “observation.” After a week of being hosed down, taking hot baths, electric shocks, and wearing pajamas 24/7, I was released. I couldn’t remember anything and I drooled a lot and drew pictures of crushed insects. I asked for my hammer and my mother gave me a rubber one from a child’s toy tool set.

It’s been ten years since the black widow incident. I still hardly remember it, but I got a big black widow tattooed on the back of my neck. I still enjoy crushing insects and discover that the rubber hammer my mother gave me works quite well. It doesn’t mar surfaces. When I smash an insect and hear its exoskeleton crunch, I feel free. Sometimes I say the “Pledge of Allegiance” after a kill, with my hand over my heart.

This is but one example of how “experiences” have structured my life. Some other time we can discuss my performance art—shooting myself in the arm with a .22 caliber pistol, or windshield diving—colliding with trees not wearing a seatbelt. I also might talk about cockroach ranching. My apartment is my lone prarie.

Currently, I’m full time at “Crystal Ribbon.” I’m in the criminally insane wing. I became known as “Hammer Man” before I turned myself in. I didn’t kill anybody, but I tried. The rubber jammer didn’t do the job. It just left lumps and bruises.

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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Martyria

Posted on July 25, 2023 | Leave a comment

Martyria (mar-tir’-i-a): Confirming something by referring to one’s own experience.

“I’ve seen it all now.” That’s what my father would say when he saw something that was unusual, or he hadn’t seen before. Or, he might say “l’ll be” leaving off the “damned” out of respect for Mother, who did not allow swearing within 15 feet of wherever she was. I was frequently the target of Dad’s wonder. He hardly paid attention to me otherwise, smoking cigarettes and sipping gin and tonics—in the living room, on the porch, in the yard, in the car. We got an automatic shift car just so he could drink and drive with fewer hassles. He never drove fast, keeping it under 10 mph. Once we hit a tree on the way to Cliffs and it didn’t even damages the car. People would blow their horns at us, but Dad would just give them the finger out the window and motion them to pass.

In my continuing quest to get his attention, I tried for an “I’ll be” from Dad every day.

I had found dad’s loaded shotgun in the basement and decided I would shoot one of the songbirds that frequented the trees in our yard. I took the gun up to my room and looked for an article on how to shoot a gun in my back issues of Boy’s Life Magazine. I looked and looked and couldn’t find anything. No luck. But I remembered that my “Cisco Kid” comics had a lot of gun play. I got the basic idea—you aim and pull what is called “the trigger.” I was ready. I came out the front door carrying the gun. Mom and Aunt Ethyl screamed and ran away. I aimed at the tree in the front yard and Dad said “I’ll be.” I pulled the trigger, but it wouldn’t move. There was a little thing that looked like a slider button. I lowered the gun and pushed it toward the front of the gun. Then, I pulled the trigger without thinking about aiming. The gun went off. It blew a 3” hole in the door of our Chevy coupe. You could see a carton of Luckies on seat through the hole. I dropped the gun and started running to the The Church of the Genuine Icon where I would seek sanctuary from my father and the police, like the hunchback in the movie. Father Pringle told me the church wasn’t allowed to offer sanctuary anymore due to the flood of maladjusted teens that had begun overwhelming the church in the late 1940s. “Those WW11 vets were a wild bunch,” said Father Pringle shaking his head. “Gee Father Pringle, that doesn’t help me!” He said, “Ok, ok. Go in the men’s room and rapidly pull three sheets from the toilet paper dispenser at the same time as you flush the toilet. A secret passage will open.” I did as he told me, and boom, a passage opened. I could hide for a couple of days while things cooled off.

I was sitting there wondering who kept the torches lit when the secret door swung open and there was Dad. He said “I’ll be. Son, you’re gonna have to work after school until you can pay for a new car door.” Then, he started laughing—his laughter echoed off the catacomb walls—built and doubled and tripled, and suddenly we were surrounded by spirits in motorcycle jackets and boots wearing Levi prototypes and pastel-colored motorcycle hats emblazoned with winged motorcycle tires. They were holding chains and tire irons. Father Pringle came running through the door and flipped on the electric lights. The spirits vanished.

Father Pringle apologized for not telling me to flip on the lights to ward off the spirits. I told him I didn’t care and Dad said “I’ll be.” It had been a banner day, from start to finish. I stood there looking at the Church of the Genuine Icon. I turned to Dad and said “I’ll be.” He smiled at me and said, “I’ve seen it all now.”

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

Buy a print edition of The Daily Trope! The print edition is entitled The Book of Tropes and is available on Amazon.

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Martyria

Posted on November 28, 2022 | Leave a comment

Martyria (mar-tir’-i-a): Confirming something by referring to one’s own experience.

What the hell is experience? Is it something you go through with your body? Your mind? Both? And what is it good for? Does it make you an authority? Is it really the “best teacher”?

We all have at least 1,000,000 experiences per day. Seeing, walking, breathing, talking, listening, sitting, getting dressed, having a beer, driving to the mall. This list could easily extend to five or six feet in 10pt. font. But there are experiences, and then there are EXPERIENCES. Upper-case experiences are memorable, often as first-times. I remember the one and only time I got run over by a car.

I was in the 7th grade. I was carrying a paper flag I had made as a part of a class project showing the history of the American Flag. I took a shortcut home because I was in a hurry to get home to show my mother my flag. I skipped the intersection with the crossing guard and crossed where there were no crosswalks. I was j-walking. I had been told it was dangerous, but I didn’t care. I was in a hurry. I stepped into street without looking and was clipped by a big blue Oldsmobile that looked a lot like my neighbor’s car. It didn’t blow its horn. It didn’t slow down. It tore my paper flag out of my hand and I lost my balance and fell down on the pavement crying. Then, I got up, and this time, I looked both ways before I crossed the street.

I got home, and I was right, the blue Oldsmobile was parked in my neighbor’s driveway! My neighbor, and my best friend Billy, came running across the yard. He asked if I was ok, then he told me he had taken the family car joyriding while his father and mother were sleeping off one of their many binges. Eddie Baskle, an older kid, had talked him into it, like he always did: getting younger gullible kids in trouble: he was a menace. He had stayed back so many times, he was eligible to vote in the 7th grade.

After I punched Billy in the stomach for what he had done to me, we decided to “take care” of Eddie, but we couldn’t decide what to do. First, we considered pushing him out in traffic so he would be run over. But we decided we did not want to kill hm. Then, we considered a couple of non-fatal accident scenarios. We would tell him about the glory hole that was located in the Speedy Mart men’s room. It would be fake—me and Billy would make it. My dad had recently purchased a set of hedge clippers so, when he was sober, he could cut back our out-of-control hedge. Our plan was to lop off Eddie’s wiener with the hedge clippers. Then, we realized it was too crazy and too violent, even for us. It was like a scene out of a horror movie. Finally, we settled on x-lax, a chocolate candy-like laxative. We’d wrap it in foil and tell Eddie it was candy. We would make sure he ate it at the start of school in the morning, so the laxative would take effect around noon. And it did!

We did as planned. Eddie jumped up from the lunchroom table he was sitting at and ran to the boys room with a steaming brown stain on the back of his pants and down his pants leg. He made a squishy noise as he ran, crying and swearing at the same time. The school nurse gave Eddie a gown to wear until his mom could drop off some clean pants, socks and underwear. Eddie had an important math test that he couldn’t miss and had to wear the gown to the test. He was mercilessly taunted by his classmates and earned the nickname “King Poop.”

Eddie knew it was me and Billy who put him in poopy hell, but he never retaliated. His x-lax experience had taught him a lesson. Now, he volunteers at a nearby soup kitchen where, unfortunately, they have recurring outbreaks of intestinal flu. So far, Eddie has managed to evade the runs. There are suspicions.

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

Buy a print edition of The Daily Trope! The print edition is entitled The Book of Tropes and is availa

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Martyria

Posted on April 9, 2022 | Comments Off on Martyria

Martyria (mar-tir’-i-a): Confirming something by referring to one’s own experience.

I’ve been to many places and seen so many things—babies being born, a train demolishing a car, a 12 pound cucumber, a book burning, finding buried treasure, a barbecue grill explode, an army buddy drink beer out of his artificial leg. I’ve tried to learn from my experience, but the list is so long, it is nearly impossible to align a current experience and derive a lesson from a past experience. Even so, a couple of things stand out as lessons worthy of attention. There are two things, based on my experiences: 1. Cheating on my income taxes. 2. Getting married. I did one year in jail and paid a $5,000.00 fine for lying to the IRS. I thought I was so clever, inflating my overhead expenses so I only made a $9.00 profit, and then donating the $9.00 profit to the Girl Scouts. When I was in prison I joined a gang: The Blues Brothers. We spent our free time discussing Belushi and Akyroyd’s performance. We all agreed that making what they did “a mission from God” was inspiring and could be used to further any cause, except sinning.

Then there’s marriage. I was married four times. Each divorce put me further into the hole financially. The fist marriage was pretty good. The rest of them were horror shows. Wife two was a big spender. Wife three was in a constant state of war. Wife four was a runner—she’d disappear for weeks at a time and frequently brought home a case of the clap when she returned.

So, it’s life we’re talking about here. My experience adds up to life. I probably have an answer for every question you have about life. Just remember, though, answers can be right or wrong, or irrelevant.

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

Buy a print edition of The Daily Trope! The print edition is entitled The Book of Tropes and is availa

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Martyria

Posted on August 12, 2021 | Comments Off on Martyria

Martyria (mar-tir’-i-a): Confirming something by referring to one’s own experience.

I have been lied to. I have been cheated. I have been slandered. I have felt the gap between what is and what isn’t narrow into nothingness and throw me into an abyss that took years to claw my way out of: first with alcohol; then with opioids, and finally, with lithium and a caring therapist. Please understand: I have zero tolerance for liars. Zero. That’s it.

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

Buy a print edition of The Daily Trope! The print edition is entitled The Book of Tropes and is available on Amazon for $9.99. A Kindle edition is available for $5.99.

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Martyria

Posted on February 25, 2020 | Leave a comment

Martyria (mar-tir’-i-a): Confirming something by referring to one’s own experience.

I have had a beard ever since I had pubic hair. Well, maybe a few years after I started to sprout. Many women have loved my beard. My daughter loved pulling on my beard when she was a toddler. I always got compliments. I was beard proud!

One of the best things about having a beard is no more shaving every morning. You wake up. You look in the mirror. There’s that beautiful clump of hair looking back at you. No whiskers. No problems! You’re ready to go after giving your hair a comb (of course, you might want to shower too).

Grow a beard. You’ll never regret it. If you do regret it, just shave it off!

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

Buy a print edition of The Daily Trope! The print edition is entitled The Book of Tropes and is available on Amazon for $9.99. A Kindle edition is available for $5.99.

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Martyria

Posted on August 2, 2017 | Leave a comment

Martyria (mar-tir’-i-a): Confirming something by referring to one’s own experience.

See this tattoo?

I got it when I turned 18. It didn’t hurt and the colors have lasted beautifully for 10 years: good old Sponge Bob. Now that I’m 40, he’s better than ever! I keep it covered at work, but other than that, Bob’s free to see the light of day.

If you get the right image, a tattoo tells a story and is good to look at too!

I think you should get one. You like layer cake–a layer cake with pink frosting would be cool!

Go for it! Take my word for it–you’ll be happy you did.

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

Buy a print edition of The Daily Trope! The print edition is entitled The Book of Tropes and is available on Amazon for $9.99. A Kindle edition is available for $5.99.

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Martyria

Posted on July 22, 2016 | Leave a comment

Martyria (mar-tir’-i-a): Confirming something by referring to one’s own experience.

See this scar?

It’s a token of pain. A trace of violence. An image of risk. A jagged lesson scribbled across my belly in slicing intersected strokes.

Clearly, I’m alive. Clearly, I survived the angry blade. Clearly, I fought back, or I would’t be here right now; I wouldn’t be standing right here, alive and well and ready to show you my plan–the plan that saved my life!

Simple! Here it is: It’s called a Glock. I emptied the magazine into the lunatic who was attacking me.

Problem solved!

I encourage you to try my plan!

If you can pull the trigger, you can defend yourself with a Glock!

Fire away!

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

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Martyria

Posted on May 11, 2014 | Leave a comment

Martyria (mar-tir’-i-a): Confirming something by referring to one’s own experience.

I took my belt in another notch. That’s twelve notches in three weeks. It wasn’t Jenny Craig, Nutrisystems, Medi-fast, diet pills or anything else that slimmed me down.

It was the ultimate weight-loss program!

 It was Lost in the Woods™

Three weeks ago, as agreed, my Lost in the Woods™ Near Death Coach (NDC), Ronald “Mad Cow” Zombinski-McGiver pushed me out of a helicopter hovering ten feet off the ground somewhere in Southwestern Oregon. Somewhere deep, maybe too deep, in the woods.

Ronald is a new breed of leading-edge dieticians who see being lost in the woods for three weeks shoeless, wearing only boxer shorts, and equipped solely with a signal mirror, as a natural, purely organic alternative to the weight loss gimmicks advertised in what Ronald calls “the commie  infomercials” on cable television pitched by Dan “The Dupe” Marino and Marie “Mata Hari” Osmond.

And now, here I am: Lost in the Woods™ I’m starving. I’m smelly. I’m shoeless, my heart is barely beating, BUT I’ve lost inches of useless fat faster than you can say “Bruised, blistered, burned, and bitten!”

I hear the thumping sound of the helicopter. It’s getting closer.  Soon, I will be raised from the forest, slender boxer-shorted stud that Lost in the Woods™ has made me!

I flash my mirror. I can hear the helicopter getting closer. There it is! Right over my head! I can see Mad Cow looking down from the door, leaning forward like he dosen’t care whether he falls out!  He’s got a huge smile on his face.

The prop wash knocks me on my back. There’s a little red dot on my chest. Through the swirling dust and pine needles I can see Mad Cow’s pistol and the purple writing on his t-shirt: Disappeared in the Woods™ . . .

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

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Martyria

Posted on January 17, 2008 | Leave a comment

Martyria (mar-tir’-i-a): Confirming something by referring to one’s own experience.

She keeps referring to her 35 years of experience as a reason to vote for her. Well, I have experience too, and what’s more, I learned something from it–how to bring people together, inspire confidence, and make lasting positive change.

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

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