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Medela

Posted on June 24, 2025 | Leave a comment

Medela (me-de’-la): When you can’t deny or defend friends’ faults and seek to heal them with good words.

Bill was the worst. He smelled like marinated onions topping a piece of boiled cabbage. Every other word was fu*k or fu*kin’. He borrowed money from me and never paid it back. He tried to talk me into doing crazy shit, like planting opium poppies in my back yard, or robbing a convenience store: “Steal those scratch-offs. You’re bound to hit it big. Do it!” I almost did, but my wife talked me out of it.

Everybody tried to talk me into dumping Bill as a friend, but I couldn’t bring myself to do it. He had saved my life several times and I owed him. Somehow we ended up together in the 173rd Airborne in Vietnam. We were pulling an all-nighter on a listening post. We had been given doses of speed to keep us awake. It had a powerful effect on me. I couldn’t sit still and I kept laughing maniacally. Bill thought it was funny to tell me his “best of” knock-knock jokes and see me roll around on the ground laughing hysterically. Given my state, he was going to radio back to camp to have me extracted. That’s when we heard the unmistakable sound of AK 47s locking and loading. 4 VC popped out of the underbrush with weapons aimed straight at us.

I still couldn’t stop laughing. One of them asked in broken English “What the hell you do? I hear way over there.” Bill said “I tell jokes, make him laugh.” Then he unloaded a knock-knock joke. The VC who could speak English translated and the four started laughing hysterically, until one started choking. The other three dropped their weapons and went to help him. How stupid. Bill picked up his weapon and shot each of them once, making sure to give them non-fatal wounds. Under the circumstances. He couldn’t bring himself to kill them—they were obvious raw recruits who had been turned loose with no training.

Bill radioed and we were extracted and didn’t say anything about the VC. We probably would’ve been Court Martialed if we did. So, Bill’s jokes saved my life. I’ll never be able to repay him.

Another time, we were getting drunk in a biker bar in Salinas, CA. Foolishly, I told this biker his girlfriend looked like well-plowed field. I don’t think he understood what I meant, but he got really mad. He said “I’m gonna kill ya, ya little piece of shit.” He pulled out a 10-inch stiletto. Bill grabbed the basket our nachos had come in and held it up like a shield between me and the biker. The knife got stuck in the basket and I was saved. Bill was carrying a .45 auto and it helped us get out of the bar alive. We sped off in Bill’s red Corvair. I looked out the back window and we were being followed by at least twenty bikers. I fired a couple of shots at them and they peeled off. Saved again! There are a lot more examples, but these two should suffice make my point.

Despite Bill’s ghastly smell and hellish demeanor, and all the rest, I owe him my life, and I’ll be his friend forever. So, leave him alone.

Just ask him to tell you a knock knock joke.

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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Medela

Posted on October 16, 2024 | Leave a comment

Medela (me-de’-la): When you can’t deny or defend friends’ faults and seek to heal them with good words.

When Joey chewed it sounded like scotch tape being pulled off of cardboard, but it has a 1-2 beat. He never used silverware. He would drink his soup from the bowl and shoved his food off his plate into his mouth, using his hand like a plow. When I asked him why he ate that way he told me he was in a hurry. He was really good with finger food, so whenever we went out to eat together, I made sure beforehand that there was nothing on the menu requiring a knife, fork, or spoon.

Today, we were at “Gill’s Burger Bunker.” Gill was a bi-polar former CIA Agent. He had spent 10 years in Saigon. After the war, he was stationed “somewhere” in South America in infiltrating Communist cells and radioing encoded reports back to Langley, where they were routinely ignored or misplaced. Gill didn’t care. He was having a great time. He learned how to tango, make ceviche, how to barbecue a guinea pig, how to ride a horse and braid whips. There’s more, but suffice it to say, Gill’s CIA stint in South America was a lot of fun. He married a Peruvian woman. They were married on the beach in Lima and have 9 children. Five of the children help out at the “Bunker.” The other five are in “government service.” That’s all Gill will say.

So anyway, we ordered lunch. I ordered fried scallops and a draft beer. Joey ordered batter-dipped shrimp and the “Aztec Whacker.” It was called the AW and it was advertised as the world’s largest coke. If you could finish it without peeing before you finished it, it was free. It came in a stone jug and cost $25.00. Gill had gotten the idea from touring Aztec ruins when he was stationed in South America. The jugs factored into the Aztec’s sacrificial rituals. The person being sacrificed drank from the jug which was filled with pulque (made from the sap of the agave plant) and peyote.

Joey had been trying to “beat the jug” ever since I knew him. He was never able to do it. Joey went to work on the Aztec Whacker. It sounded like I was sitting across the table from a hog trough. I said to Joey “Eating with you is like witnessing an atrocity, but your persistence with the ‘Aztec Whacker’ is commendable. By my count, you’re in it for $600. It’s like you’re trying to climb Mt. Everest. You know you haven’t got a chance, but you keep on trying anyway.” Joey put down the jug and smiled. He said, “Thanks Sal. You’re a true friend.”

I thought, if I was a true friend, I’d encourage him to get help and start eating like a normal person. But, I was working on a documentary about Joey. It was called “American Slob.” I had been using my cellphone to video Joey eating. The best video so far is Joey shoving a post Thanksgiving turkey croquet into his mouth with one hand while he pours gravy in his mouth at the same time.with the other hand. He chokes on the gravy and half-chewed turkey croquet is expelled, hitting his grandmother in the forehead. Joey is scolded by his mother and they résumé eating.

At some point I’ll tell Joey what I’m up to, but not yet.

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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Medela

Posted on July 23, 2023 | Leave a comment

Medela (me-de’-la): When you can’t deny or defend friends’ faults and seek to heal them with good words.

You’re not funny. With all your comedy stylings the only thing that’s made me laugh is your ineptitude. You can’t even do a knock knock joke right. Like this one you recently told at a party: “A man with a kaleidoscope walks into a bar. Who’s there?” Somebody said: “A man with a kaleidoscope?” Everybody laughed at you. The was no knock knock. You should stop telling jokes.

There are so many other things that you’re good at. One thing’s for sure, you’re good at using your electric can opener! You can make a can rotate without spilling a drop! Same goes for pop tops. POW! Goes the soda can when you pull the ring. Same goes for sardines—I’ve seen you pop a sardine can with sardines packed in mustard without dripping it all over the kitchen counter like Joey does. He’s such a slob—he never wipes up his trail of spills. The cat ends up licking it up and puking in a corner of the living room.

Another thing: you’re good at walking. You go in a solid straight line, unless there are obstacles in your way, like your baby Buster playing on the floor, or a toy, or a pair of shoes, or an empty gin bottle—you go around them. You’ve only stumbled over Buster once, and that was at night. Remember? You forgot to put him in his crib when you passed out on the couch. When you got up to pee, you kicked him a across the living room. At least you didn’t step on him. That might’ve killed him. But you know, you learned a lesson from nearly killing Buster, and that’s really good.

But, do you know what you are really, really good at? Being a contentious pain in the ass. When was the last time you agreed with me about anything? You want to argue about the day of the week, the time of day, how old you really are. It is maddening, but it has made me a better attorney. When I point out that everything is contestable, the prosecution is visibly shaken. When the prosecution says “The defendant was seen exiting the liquor store waving a pistol with one hand and clutching a wad of cash and lotto tickets with the other,” I say “Everything is contestable. Try and prove it. I bet you can’t. Nah! Nah! I’m waiting. Cat got your tongue bumpy butt?” It never works, but it makes me feel tough and strong. Being in contempt of court is a badge of honor for me and a testament to the positive influence your craziness exerts on me. That brings me to your talking to yourself, or should I say to “Sir Dottlescone” your imaginary lord protector from the 15th century.

When you converse, your British accent is quite good. I don’t know about Sir Dottlescone, because I can’t hear him. But, I believe he frequently tells you to do naughty things like steal cars and stand naked in your bedroom window. Our cul-de-sac has been packed with hooting teenagers and neighbors have been standing on their sidewalks in awe for 2 weeks now. Thank God, Sir Dottlescone hasn’t told you to kill anybody. Although I did hear you say something about “the rude shelf stocker at Wegmans” and how he should be flayed. But your dramatic skills are admirable—the one-sided impromptu dialogues with nobody who is actually there, are amazing. It’s like a two-sided soliloquy.

Anyway, now you can see—you stink at comedy, but you’re great at other things. We’ll keep you off of your medication so you can continue to pursue those “other things” without missing a beat. Can you ask Sir Dottlescone where my credit card is?

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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Medela

Posted on November 26, 2022 | Leave a comment

Medela (me-de’-la): When you can’t deny or defend friends’ faults and seek to heal them with good words.

We are friends. So, I can tell you everything that’s wrong with you, and possibly, lay out a remedy for each of your faults. I read somewhere that this sort of exercise is what friends are for. If you don’t want to hear it from a friend, who else will you listen to? Dr. Needleton? Ha ha. He thinks advice is asking questions, like “How did you sleep last night?” You answer “Good.” He says “Uh huh” and then asks you another question, like “Do you hate your mother?” You answer “Yes.” He says “Uh huh” and he asks you another question. This goes for 30 minutes. Then he says, “Good, good. You’re making progress.” Progress on what? Your dirty habits? No. Your irresponsibility? No. Your fear of the dark? No. I could go on forever with your defects and phobias, but let’s try to focus.

Number 1. Your are selfish piece of shit. The remedy is simple. Make a will that leaves everything to me. Here’s the paperwork. Just sign where it says signature. Very good. Now you’re not a selfish piece of shit any more.

Number 2. You are a coward. The remedy is simple. Light your neighbor’s house on fire and run inside to save their cat Rompus. But, you might say, “I’m a coward, I can’t do that.” No problem. We can get you a fire retardant suit. Voila! Now you’re brave.

Number 3. You are a slob. The remedy is simple. Hire a housekeeper and a live-in masseuse: the housekeeper will straighten things up and the masseuse will clean and rub you every day, Abracadabra! You are not a slob any more.

Number 4. You are afraid of spiders. The remedy is simple. This is a Brown Recluse. Eat it before it gets away. Ok, I’ll “feed” it to you. I have the spider in the jar in this hand, and I have a Smith & Wesson aimed at you with this hand. Eat the spider. I call this “tough love.” Eat the spider now! You’ll never be afraid of spiders again. Come on! First, let’s make sure you signed the will. After all, I am your best friend and wouldn’t want to miss out on inheriting your wealth! Ok, everything’s in good order. Don’t forget to chew before you swallow. Bon voyage asshole.

All this may seem rather harsh to a person who has never had a really good friend with a pile of problems. If they are unable to see the benefits of suicide, the next best thing is to murder them. Sure, you can pose remedies. In the example above, I only cited a handful of problems. If I had cited them all, I would still be writing. “Asshole” is a catch-all that holds all of a given person’s problems together—no matter how many, or how few, “asshole” contains it.

If you don’t want kill your problem-encumbered friend, or try to talk them into suicide, you can unfriend them, just like on Facebook. Make sure you call them an “asshole” when you unfriend them, so they will understand the rationale of your unfriending. No matter how much they whine and beg, just keep repeating “because you’re an asshole” over and over again. This could go on for weeks. The best thing to do is record “because you’re an asshole” on your phone’s voicemail greeting. Make sure to tell your other non-asshole friends and colleagues what you’re up to. If they’ve read my book, “Good-Bye Asshole,” they’ll know what you’re up to and will applaud you for your courage. If you see your former friend, make sure to use the word “asshole” in your greeting, like, “Hey asshole. What’s up?” If your car gets keyed, or other acts of vandalism are directed toward your property, simply report your former friend to the police. If you’ve had to “asshole” more than one person, make sure to report them all.

You’re right. I am harsh. I have zero empathy. My major problem in life is that assholes are attracted to me in droves. Is that because I’m an asshole?

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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Medela

Posted on April 7, 2022 | Comments Off on Medela

Medela (me-de’-la): When you can’t deny or defend friends’ faults and seek to heal them with good words.

Life is too complicated for anybody to evade failure or making mistakes. I’m 67 years old, each year is an anniversary of some kind of screw up. I’m a little higher than average on the goof-o-meter, but that’s just the way it is. Like I said, I’m 67. I’m still here and I generally enjoy life. I’ve got a key here that you might want use to unlock your problems and walk away free. You need to develop a strategy you can use that will allow you to learn from your mistakes and forgive yourself whenever you can. If you are wrong, admit it. Do not bear malice toward those who rightfully accuse you.

The latest thing: stealing nine carrots from your neighbor’s garden plot. If you think about your reason for doing it, it would be like cutting water with a knife—silly. So you need to admit it to Molly. Apologize, and volunteer to help in her garden. Prove yourself worthy of her friendship. Redeem yourself by helping her in the garden.

Who knows, you may become friends. That’s how I met your mother. She wouldn’t look at me and I was mad for her. So, I ripped wires out of her car, from under the hood. I planned to come to her rescue and fix what I broke. It didn’t work. As soon as I asked if I could fix her car, she knew it was me who ripped out the wires. She reported me to the police and I was convicted of the wanton destruction of another person’s property. I was tried and convicted and spent thirty days in jail. I’ll tell you another time how we hooked up and ended up getting married. I’ll give you a hint: we went on a “job” together after I had apologized and fixed her car.

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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Medela

Posted on August 10, 2021 | Comments Off on Medela

Medela (me-de’-la): When you can’t deny or defend friends’ faults and seek to heal them with good words.

Look, nobody’s perfect. Twelve minor traffic accidents in twelve months. Nobody got killed. That’s a blessing. It’s probably not a record either. The traffic around here is crazy anyway. I’m surprised everybody doesn’t have more accidents. Chin up! Everything will be ok. While you’re waiting to hear whether your license is revoked, consider Uber. It’ll make things way easier. Why not let somebody else drive you around? You can work on your laptop in the back seat!

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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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Medela

Posted on February 21, 2020 | Leave a comment

Medela (me-de’-la): When you can’t deny or defend friends’ faults and seek to heal them with good words.

I know it’s not entirely your fault. You can’t help your excessive farting. Maybe if you became a vegetarian they wouldn’t smell so horrific? I read somewhere that there’s a pill you can take that makes your farts smell like lavender. I’m going to Google it & we’ll see if we can use it to overcome your case of Satan’s Wind. In the meantime, please don’t stand near me. Nothing personal.

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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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Medela

Posted on July 20, 2016 | Leave a comment

Medela (me-de’-la): When you can’t deny or defend friends’ faults and seek to heal them with good words.

Ok, ok. They may not appear to be completely her words, but the sentiments she expressed with them are certainly hers–she’s a loving wife and mother, and a respectful daughter with solid values and high moral ideals. She loves America and is probably deeply pained by what she’s accused of. Let’s give her a break and try to help mend her broken heart. Let’s focus on the sentiments and not who expressed them first. Originality isn’t the issue. In fact, just the opposite is the case.

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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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Medela

Posted on May 8, 2014 | Leave a comment

Medela (me-de’-la): When you can’t deny or defend friends’ faults and seek to heal them with good words.

The guy with brown shorts, brown shirt, brown belt, brown hat, brown socks and black shoes dropped the package on my back porch. He didn’t even ring the doorbell. Well, he might’ve tried to ring the doorbell.

Ever since we had the house built seven years ago the front and back doorbells don’t work right. I always try to look on the bright side though.  God only knows how many times we’ve been graced by the broken bells and left Jehovah’s Witnesses, Born Again Christians, and Mormons standing on our porch, tracts in hand, anxiously waiting to save our souls. I love it when they leave complimentary tracts stuck behind the storm door.

One of my favorites is the “Lady Gaga Tract.” It’s a postcard with a gorgeous picture of Lady Gaga on the front.  On the back it says encouraging things like: “In an interview with Larry King, [Lady Gaga] admitted that she thinks about death a lot and even dreams about it. Is there life after death? If so, where will Lady Gaga go? Or, MORE IMPORTANTLY FOR YOU, where will you go? The Bible says that people will either spend eternity in Hell or in the Kingdom of God/Heaven.”

The forward slash between God and Heaven prompted me to ask “What is the Kingdom of God/Heaven? Or more specifically, “What is God/Heaven?” What exactly does the forward slash mean?  Why didn’t the evangelical postcard use an ampersand, or an equal sign, or a plus sign or one of the other punctuation marks lined up across the top, the side and the bottom of the scribe’s keyboard? What about God$Heaven? What about God\Heaven? What about God^Heaven? What about God@Heaven?

The front and back doorbell began ringing at the same time, filling my home with a joyous noise! “Just as I was thinking about God/Heaven, the doorbells began working! It’s a miracle!” I cried.

I ran to the front door.  Nobody there. I ran to the back door.  Nobody there. Suddenly a beam of light shot from above illuminating one of the Adirondack chairs by the swimming pool. As the blinding light began to dim, the shadowy figure of a naked woman began to appear. I looked toward the sky, held my hands above my head and shouted: “Thank-you dear God/Heaven!” Even though I hadn’t prayed specifically for it,  I was sure when the light refocused that I would behold Lady Gaga lounging naked by the pool.

A weird sounding female voice cracked the air:

“I am Special Agent Hoskins of the IRS. I am not really totally nude. I am wearing a synthetic bulletproof flesh body suit and rubber meat-wig helmet.  I’m speaking through a government issued Autotune Bull Horn. That’s why I sound like Cher.”

“You may remember, even after years of sucking up vodka and smoking pot, that we were married in 1973. I was a high school senior and you were a playground equipment salesman. I remarried after the divorce, and yet, I still love you and I still consider you a friend despite the decades of self-doubt that haunt my marriage to my wonderful husband Elvis Dakota George Washington Hoskins, Vice President of  ‘Bolo Ties ‘N Brisket’ the largest chain of Western Wear/Fast-Food restaurants North America.”

I was awe struck. It was Wife Number Two! The bane of my existence. The wine-box sucking loser I married on acid somewhere in Colorado. To say the least, her recollection of our meeting and marriage were a little off!  She was a pole-dancer in a Chinese restaurant and I was working as a urine sample collector for the LAPD. They called me Captain Pee Pee.

There was a brief moment of silence and the now tearful Former Wife/Special Agent Hoskins slowly put the Autotune bull-thing to her quivering lips.

The beam of light turned red.

Raising her free hand in a clenched fist she sobbed:

“Despite all that, and with no regrets, I am here to officially inform you that the United States Government has placed a tax lien on your property.”

I knew something was sure to come up when I tried to pay my Federal Income Tax with Bitcoins. But this! Wino Wife Number Two in a rubber nudy-suit! An IRS agent? Damn!

“Put your hands over your head and get down on your knees!” she said like an animal tamer at the zoo.

“I can’t do that. Can’t I put one hand on the ground first and then kneel?” I whined.

“NO! And do you want to know why?”

“I guess so?” I ventured.

“Because it’s your birthday Big Boy!”

The next thing I knew fireworks started going off and a giant smoking mocha bundt cake pulled up to the pool!

‘Wife Number Two’ tore off her rubber nudy-suit and meat wig. Oh my God! It was actually Wife Number Four–The Brown-Eyed Prankster!

Wo!

Before I even had time to soil my linens, ex-wives One, Two, Three and Five popped out of the smoking bundt cake’s hole, each waving a pair of J.A. Henckels Twin L Kitchen Shears over their heads.

Suddenly, the smoke cleared, the red light went out and it was so quiet I could hear the crickets chirping. It was so dark that I couldn’t see anything. There was a rustling sound right in front of me, and then the sound of kitchen shears making snipping sounds! The light came on and there they were! Five naked ex-wives. Five pairs of kitchen shears pointed at my crotch.

They were chanting in solemn unity: “Cut them off. Cut them off. Cut them off.” I was terrified. I was cornered. “Ok!” I said, and then I played my trump card.

Trembling, I yelled “If you cut them off, I’ll cut you off–no more Country Club. No more Mercedes. No more “Blue-eyed Svens” to stroke your egos!”

They stopped chanting! They looked at each other, nodding their heads. Wife Number Four raised her kitchen shears and, looking up at the shears, she quietly said: “I’ve got your alimony right here, Big Boy!”

Without warning, my one-armed accountant Elmo “Scarlet” Shagrug stumbled out of the pool house. He called the pool house the “Tax Shack” and had been “staying” there for about two weeks “takin’ a break from life,” reading and memorizing Adam Smith’s Wealth of Nations, drinking his way through all the Johnny Walker colors, and eating sushi delivered in dog packs by his Corka-doodle Beaver. When I saw him yesterday he told me that the “invisible hand” had given him the finger.

He looked like a cracked-out 1941 Maureen O’Hara with a beard and Marty Feldman eyes.

Shirtless, with his drool-stained cravat ruche carefully centered on his hairy chest, barely able to stand, and with his one arm aiming the Parker shotgun my grandfather had given me when I was a little boy, Elmo shouted (quoting Aristotle):  “At his best, man is the noblest of all animals; separated from law and justice he is the worst.”

He fired both barrels into the air, fell over backwards and passed out.

In unison The Five Former Wives began chanting again: “Cut them off. Cut them off. Cut them off.” They were moving toward me in a mini phalanx.

“This is it!” I yelled as loudly and boldly as I was able.

I pulled down my pajama pants, and to everybody’s shock, awe, and amazement my . . .

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

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Medela

Posted on January 18, 2008 | Leave a comment

Medela (me-de’-la): When you can’t deny or defend friends’ faults and seek to heal them with good words.

You’ve got to stop saying things like that–you must, even after all these years, try to find a way to hold your tongue.  Your enthusiasm is what we need. What we don’t need are the misdirected outbursts.  They don’t help.  Go home for awhile, get some rest, spend some quality time with your family, and think it over. We need you, and you’ve always been there when we’ve needed you. We’ll see you in Florida in a little while. Keep the faith. Give my best to your wonderful wife and kids. Get some R&R.

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

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