Category Archives: metaphor

Metaphor (met’-a-phor): A comparison made by referring to one thing as another.

His ass was a desert. Nothing was there. It was flat. It was an embarrassment.

He was the Duke of Ruddyville, and basically, he was assless. It was 16th century England and an ass was imperative, especially for a Royal who made many public appearances where his ass, although covered by trousers, was put on display. The Duke suffered from ass absentia.

It was a malady acquired from eating pickled butterflies in excess. Once acquired, the malady became permanent. The ass cheeks atrophied creating a flat plane stretching from the lower back to the upper legs. The flatness presented trousers with no protrusion to rest upon. Hence, the Duke’s trousers continuously fell down—on every occasion, even occasions expected to be conducted with the utmost gravity, such as his daughter’s wedding.

He was escorting the Lady of Ruddyville down the aisle at the most ostentatious wedding ever conducted in the history of the realm. The aisle had been trimmed in gold brocade. The flowers bedecking the altar had been imported from Nederduytsch (Holland) at a cost greater than the lifetime earnings of a typical peasant. They were called “toylips” and came in every color.

As the Duke slowly walked down the aisle, his trousers fell down. It happened so quickly he tripped over them and fell down upon his face breaking his nose and dislocating his left shoulder. His daughter helped him up. Clutching the waistband of his trousers with his right hand, and with a rivulet of blood dripping off his chin, he buried the pain of his dislocated shoulder and continued his march down the aisle. The wedding was completed. He drank an ounce of laudanum and continued on to the reception where the court surgeon relocated his arm and set his nose.

The Duke was humiliated, but his subjects acted as if nothing untoward had transpired. They knew there would be a price to pay for showing anything other than blank-faced stares at the Duke’s plight.

The Duke decided to seek a remedy for his asslessness. He had his woodcutter fashion a 10-foot pole, not unlike the one the he used for punting. He had his blacksmith fashion a hook and affix it to the end of the 10-foot pole. Then, his seamstress sewed a buttonhole in the back of the waistband of each of his trousers. Finally, he assigned a page to insert the pole’s hook in his trousers and walk or stand behind him holding up his trousers with the pole. It worked! It was acclaimed far and wide as “Duke Ruddyville’s Pants Pole” and was adopted by ass absentia sufferers throughout the land.

One month later, a farrier from Norlyfield tied a piece of rope around his waist to hang his tongs from. To his great delight, the rope held up his trousers! The Duke heard of the new pants-holding remedy. He was delighted and obtained a length of rope for himself. The device was called “belt” after the Latin word for girdle. The farrier was knighted. He sold his “belts” as “Sir Prichard’s Trouser Lifters.”

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.

Metaphor (met’-a-phor): A comparison made by referring to one thing as another.

My face is a bowl of Crisco—round and pale with a slightly greasy sheen. I cleanse it four times a day with a special soap designed to clean away the vegetable-shortening look. It’s primarily for people like me. I’ve been locked up in Mount Rockefeller State Prison for 45 years. I have another 300 hundred years to go. Obviously, I’ll never be free again—free to murder some more people—maybe 6 or 7—kidnap children, and literally burn bridges.

When I was running wild, I almost succeeded in burning down the Bayonne Bridge! At the time, it was the longest bridge in the world. I wasn’t fooling around. The plan was to drive a tanker truck loaded with gasoline over the bridge, stop in the middle of the bridge, and light the truck on fire, but I forgot my lighter. I tried to flag people down to ask for a light. One of hose people was Detective Stromboli “on his way home from work.” He arrested me.

We found out during my trial for “attempted wanton destruction of public property” that he was actually on his way home from his girlfriend’s in Jersey. That was the highlight of my trial! The destruction of Stromboli’s marriage was more than I could hope for. Both his wife and his girlfriend were in the courtroom. The girlfriend’s name was Victoria Comer and the wife’s name was Shirley—Shirley Stromboli. Officer Stromboli’s testimony was an earthquake, a tornado, and a hurricane all rolled into one.

When, under questioning, Officer Stromboli revealed his affair, Shirley Stromboli went berserk. She started pulling things out of her purse and throwing them at him, yelling “Motherf*ker” with every item she threw—she hit him in the face with a set of car keys, the rest of the stuff sailed past him, leaving him unscathed. The bailiff wrested Mrs. Stromboli’s purse from her and escorted her from the courtroom. In the meantime, in true Jersey-girl style, Victoria hurled insults at Shirley: “You dried up banana peel!” “You pickle-brained pig slop.” “Scumbag.” “Your mother’s a chicken’s ass.” Victoria was escorted out of the courtroom yelling all the way.

The two women met in the hallway and started throwing punches and kicking each other. Victoria clocked Shirley with right cross and knocked her out cold. Her head hit a radiator as she went down. An ambulance was called. Victoria laughed and gave Shirley the finger as she was wheeled to the waiting ambulance. As a consequence of the blow to her head, Shirley suffered permanent memory loss. Her entire life, until she woke up in the hospital, was erased. That included marrying Detective Stromboli. There were photographs and papers documenting their marriage that Stromboli found and destroyed.

Stromboli and Comer got married and Stromboli was busted for bigamy as they left the church. Stromboli had failed to realize that his original marriage certificate was permanently filed with the Town Clerk in Richmond, Staten Island. Not only that, there were at least 50 witnesses to the marriage.

Stromboli was a pea-brained nitwit. His poor wife. It was like she landed on planet earth for the first time when she woke up in the hospital. When he was incarcerated, she quickly got a divorce from pea-brain with the help of a sympathetic lawyer.

I see the light every day for about an hour. I walk around in circles in the exercise yard. The story of my trial and conviction gives me solace as I fade into oblivion. That motherfu*ker Stombli’s life was ruined by my trial. Post-trial, as the well-known king of chumps, he had a hard time putting his life back together. Victoria would have nothing to do with him and ended up marrying a meat cutter from Jersey City. Stromboli, a convicted bigamist, ended up working as a busboy in a mob-owned restaurant in Bayonne named “Nero’s.” He was shot dead in a botched hit attempt. Nobody cares but me. Ha! Ha!

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.

Metaphor (met’-a-phor): A comparison made by referring to one thing as another.

“Time is a doorknob. Life is a laundromat. Truth is a pedicure. Candy is dandy. All aboard the ham-hock express. Smile out the window. We’re all being watched. By God. By the Conductor. By CCTV. The seat is hard, so I stand: baby buggy bumpers bobbing beneath by my blouse.”

She sat down. She had read her metaphor assignment with such power and conviction that I was still on my knees holding my hands in a prayerful position—like clapping, but not moving—pressed together, worshiping her reading. How did she discover these words in her brain’s synapses—all gemlike in their resplendence?

Now I knew why I was taking Creative Writing. It was Francine—the Francine of my dreams. The tower of words. The stronghold of poetic rigor. The bejeweled tongue. The golden lips. The smooth fingerless hand injured in a farming accident. I did not look at it. Instead, I listened to her words. They covered over her scars.

Prof. Roman told me to get “the hell” off the floor and stop acting like a fool. I thought of talking back, but I was a grown up now. I was in college. The rest of the class was looking at me with their mouths open—like they were stunned by my behavior. I’d show them! I was next in line to read. Prof. Roman looked at me like I smelled and said “Ok Milton, it’s your turn.” I was related to John Milton, so Mrs. Roman expected too much from me. I turned out the classroom lights and began;

“I like Piña coladas—they are the dreams of my days, my lost shakers of salt, my stolen hound dogs. My bank account is a bundle of worms, the crow of the roost, a bicycle pump with a hose that is loose.” I finished and sat down. My fellow students were laughing and booing. Prof. Roman said calmly, “Get out.” Francine said from the back of the room, “If he goes, I go.” All the students said “Ooooh!” Prof. Roman relented. Me and Francine were the alpha and omega of the Creative Writing class. When I read my assignments everybody but Francine would leave the classroom. Prof. Roman encouraged them to leave.

Our last assignment was to write about our favorite pet. I never had a pet, so I made one up. It was a rabbit with 7 legs that ran the 50-yard dash in competitions around New Jersey. He never lost a single race and he died of a heart attack comfortably in his hutch when he was 9. My father had him stuffed and he rides on the dashboard everywhere my father goes. His name is “Hoppy” after Hopalong Cassidy the famous 1950s TV cowboy. Prof. Roman said my story “paralleled” “My Friend Flicka” too closely and gave me an “F”. I didn’t even know what My Friend Flicka was. I was angry. REALLY angry.

I swore I would get her—I was innocent. She just didn’t like me. I Googled her for three days straight! Nothing! I decided to stalk her—it was risky, but I had to do it. I discovered she was the flasher lady who stood outside the school, on a hill, giving everybody a peek. Faculty, staff and students enjoyed it, and nobody complained. She had perfected her “reveal” so it looked like an accident—usually the wind blowing up her skirt. Every once in awhile, her blouse would blow open. Now that I knew her “accidental” reveal was a carefully orchestrated ruse, I could threaten to reveal the truth. I told her I would squeal on her if she didn’t change my grade to an “A” and write me letters of recommendation for MFA programs. She agreed and I was set.

POSTSCRIPT

The story of my fake racing rabbit was made into a movie entitled “My Friend Flick: Vampire Racing Rabbit.” A sequel is under production right now entitled “Flick 2.” Francine has written a book entitled “My Special Jerk.” It is about our college days together. It is selling well. Prof. Roman has been promoted to Dean of College and bought an expensive fast car that she takes drag racing in Pennsylvania on the weekends wearing fireproof red shorts and a Pink Floyd t-shirt.

Francine and I are still together. I was hired into Prof. Roman’s position. Francine is teaching at the community college and comes up for tenure next year.

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.