Category Archives: metaplasm

Metaplasm (met’-a-plazm): A general term for orthographical figures (changes to the spelling of words). This includes alteration of the letters or syllables in single words, including additions, omissions, inversions, and substitutions. Such changes are considered conscious choices made by the artist or orator for the sake of eloquence or meter, in contrast to the same kinds of changes done accidentally and discussed by grammarians as vices (see barbarism). See: antisthecon, aphaeresis, apocope, epenthesis, paragoge, synaloepha.

The wa-wa tumbled over the cliff making a beautiful wa-wa fall. It crashed on the rocks 100 feet below. When I was a toddler my mother taught me to call water “wa-wa.” She would say “Drink your wa-wa Johnny so you can be big and strong.” I’m 28 and I’m not big and strong and I routinely embarrass myself by calling water wa-wa. For example, in a bar ordering a whiskey and wa-wa. Or, “more wa-wa” in a restaurant, or a bottled wa-wa at Cliff’s. I always thought of George Harrison’s “wah-wah” pedal when I was drinking a glass of wa-wa and wished I could play the guitar like him. I tried. I started saying “It’s me the wah-wah bloke.” It didn’t work. People just looked at me and shook their heads.

Then, I found out I was suffering from “Baby Speak;” the fixation on baby talk. For example sufferers would say “potty” instead of toilet, or “tootyburger” instead of poop, or “choo choo” instead of train, or “ba ba” instead of bottle. When I looked at the list of words, I realized I said choo-choo and ba-ba all the time. Wa-wa wasn’t my only vice. I needed help!

I Googled my malady and found a doctor in North Carolina. Almost immediately, I took a choo-choo to Raleigh. I was greeted by Doctor Ima Bigboy at the choo-choo station. My therapy consisted in living in a hospital maternity ward for one month. Dr. Bigboy called it “aversion therapy.” I would get so sick of hearing baby talk that I would stop using it. After a month, I was clear.

Dr. Bigboy charged Mr $10,000, but it was worth it. My life is completely different. I have friends and a girlfriend named Barbara. I call her “Ba-Ba” for short.

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

Daily Trope is available in an early edition 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.

Metaplasm (met’-a-plazm): A general term for orthographical figures (changes to the spelling of words). This includes alteration of the letters or syllables in single words, including additions, omissions, inversions, and substitutions. Such changes are considered conscious choices made by the artist or orator for the sake of eloquence or meter, in contrast to the same kinds of changes done accidentally and discussed by grammarians as vices (see barbarism). See: antisthecon, aphaeresis, apocope, epenthesis, paragoge, synaloepha.

I was a “Blipper.” I blew tiny farts that no one could detect. I coulda’ farted in an elevator and nobody could tell. Blippers did not smell like ordinary farts—that’s why people couldn’t detect them as farts. They would think they were part of the olfactory ambience of wherever they were. For example, if I ate a Mounds Bar, my Blipper would smell like coconut. People would say “Mmmm, what’s that smell? Mmmm.” I would never eat cabbage, beans, broccoli or things like that.

I enjoyed bringing pleasure and monitored my food intake accordingly. My farts were delicious smelling. If I could’ve drank cologne or perfume, I would’ve done so. But there were Blippers who took their “gift” to the dark side and specialized in “silent but deadly” farting. They took sadistic pleasure in stinking things up undetected. They drank tea from a rare plant grown in the Amazon jungle. Its scientific name was stenchus leaficus. It made farts that smelled like rotting flesh. They could actually make people vomit and writhe around on the floor or ground.

Once it was determined that the sadistic Blippers took pleasure in blowing death-smelling farts, they were required to register their intestinal tracts and their farts were made illegal with a $1000 fine and six months in jail. The ingredients in rotting flesh tea were outlawed, but they were easily smuggled, so the tea was still readily available. People were willing to risk jail to stink up small venues.

This is where I came in. I invented the anus filter, a small lubricated charcoal filter the size of a wine bottle cork. Convicted and registered stench makers were required to insert a fresh one every day. They were randomly screened to assure compliance. Failure to comply would earn them another six months in jail and $1000 fine. Of course, I started my business “Anal Filtration” one week after the FDA approved them. I am on my way to becoming a millionaire.

I receive death threats daily. The scariest one is “See you in the elevator, traitor.”

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.

Metaplasm (met’-a-plazm): A general term for orthographical figures (changes to the spelling of words). This includes alteration of the letters or syllables in single words, including additions, omissions, inversions, and substitutions. Such changes are considered conscious choices made by the artist or orator for the sake of eloquence or meter, in contrast to the same kinds of changes done accidentally and discussed by grammarians as vices (see barbarism). See: antisthecon, aphaeresis, apocope, epenthesis, paragoge, synaloepha.

He was fallened, flat as a pancake—never knew what hit ‘em, boom time on to the next incarnation. His walker was a little mangled, but I grabbed it thinking I could hang my underwear on it to dry. I hoisted it over my head and started walking home. My husband “Lousy Joe” was sure to ask me where I got it from. I was going tell him it was in a trash pile out in front of somebody’s house. I’d tell him the pile had a “free” sign stuck in it.

When I got home Lousy Joe was standing on the sidewalk waiting for me. “What the hell is that?” He asked. “I found it in a trash pile—it’s an old-fashioned laundry hanger,” I told hm. “Oh no you don’t. I’m going to use it as a step ladder, Hand it over.” We could share it, but he never would. He confiscated everything I brought home. Last week it was a tennis ball. He grabbed it and threw it at the living room wall and put a dent in the wall. Once I found a rubber boot by the creek. He took it from me and pulled it on one foot although it was way too small. He wore it on one foot until his foot got really sore and started to smell. His foot was so swollen we had to cut the boot off and go to the emergency room. He had to have is toes amputated. It was pitiful. He cried like a baby and actually thought I would try to comfort him. Instead, I went out side and smoked a half-pack of cigarettes and met a guy whose wife had fallen down the stairs during an argument and fractured her skull. I told him why I was there and he thought it was funny—my husband limping around in one boot with his foot rotting. I told him I thought it was pretty funny too. Since we shared so much in common, I asked if he wanted to go for a drink. He said, “No. I’ve got to get out of here. I think my wife is going to die.” I said, “Oh, that’s a shame.” He mumbled, “I planned it. I had a mannequin that I practiced with for a month when my wife was at work. I got really good at pushing it down the stairs, until finally I could make it land on its head every time.” All of a sudden a woman walked out of the hospital and told hm she was cleared to go home. It was his wife. He was really angry. His plan had been thwarted.

He told her to wait by the curb. An old pickup truck came roaring toward her. Her husband was driving. He barely missed her. You could him swearing in the truck. Her turned around and came back, and missed again. The third time was not charmed. He missed again, drove up on the sidewalk and hit a concrete barrier. He flew through the truck’s front windshield. There was hole in the windshield where he had flow through. He was lying on his face, still alive.

I was completely shocked, but I envied her. There was a good chance her husband would die, and she didn’t have to kill him. I wasn’t so lucky. So, I bought a mannequin, and hid it in the basement.

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.