Category Archives: oxymoron

Oxymoron (ox-y-mo’-ron): Placing two ordinarily opposing terms adjacent to one another. A compressed paradox.

My “Cold Hots” were a total failure. I envisioned them when I was little, growing up in Foster’s Creek, New Jersey which had a Foster Freeze factory that employed the whole town, including my dad. He’d come home smelling like ice cream with a bucket of vanilla ice cream on his arm. It was his daily ration—a token of goodwill from Foster’s. After 20 years of faithful service employees were granted one bucket per day. Dad had just achieved the twenty year mark and we were reveling in the ice cream. Some days we’d have ice cream for dinner. Mom would make it into soup—boiling in carrots, potatoes, and on special occasions, raccoon or rabbit Dad picked up off the side of the road on his weekly “hunting trips” on Rte. 10. They were always fresh and delicious. Dad would say “The nose knows” and laugh so hard snot would come out his nose. Then, we’d all laugh, for like ten minutes, until we couldn’t breathe! Sometimes we had to give Dad CPR to get hm up and running again. Mom always took charge of that. She had taken first aid at Farley Gibbins Middle School as part of her adult improvement regime. Her wood-shop skills came in handy when the front porch collapsed due to a carpenter ant infestation. She exterminated the ants with a bunch of spray cans of ant killer—it gave my little brother Jolly a rash that comes and goes, and a crooked leg, As mom said “It goes with the turf.” She rebuilt the parch out of used pallet boards—sturdy oak that will last forever. There were some stray gaps between the boards. You just had to watch out, or you’d fall through. Our mailman got his foot stuck. Now we are required to put a mail box at the end of the sidewalk. Mom says, “No big deal, he’s a wimp.” I agree—a disgrace to the uniform.

I am working on a new candy called “Chewy Rocks.” It is gooey chrunchtastic—like broken glass mixed with honey. I drool every time I think of it. The “rock” will be candy rocks. They will look like granite pebbles. They will be injected with fruit flavored chewing gum. The box will have a picture of my brother Jolly with his crutch on the cover wearing a toga and sunglasses with his fist raised, signifying how “Chewy Rocks” make him optimistic about his “hopeless future.” He is endlessly bitter about the “accident” and threatens to kill Mom at least twice a week. Mom says he’s been threatening since he was eight “and it’s not going to happen now. He’s a wimp.”

So, some little candy sho up in Maine is suing me for infringing on their patent for “Stone Candy.” So, I backed off of ”Chewy Rocks.” But don’t worry. I’ve got another idea: “Weightless Gravity: The Flying Beer.” It comes in an airplane–shaped can with the pilot waving out the window. When you empty it, you can throw it and it glides.

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.

Oxymoron (ox-y-mo’-ron): Placing two ordinarily opposing terms adjacent to one another. A compressed paradox.

He was wildly calm. He was openly closed. He covered for evil—he was like a blanket from hell—or more like a quilt with cryptic designs—toilet seats, bacon, weeds and scotch whiskey bottles with Johnny Walker on their label dressed as a priest giving a sermon. What would it be about? Most likely, the benefits of drunkenness for family, friends, and work.

But anyway, “he” was off the rails. He did every bad thing you can imagine. For example, he stole a whole carton of Sticky Notes from Staples. He stuck one on each stop sign in the city. Each note said “scratching your crotch.” He was playing on painting “war” on stop signs like they did in the 60s: “Stop War.” His message was “Stop scratching your crotch.” The campaign was completely ineffective. One rainstorm and the sticky note washed away. Not only that, “stop scratching your crotch” was a message of irrelevant interest to most people. First, most peoples’ crotches did not itch, hence they didn’t scratch them. Second, if they did scratch their crotch, it was so rare that it did not make a difference. Third: there were people who chronically scratched, but with proper medication, the itching would abate and didn’t need scratching after one or two days.

This is just one of hundreds of examples. He was so far off the rails that the train was headed to Topeka sideways. This went on for years, he was bad and he failed, failed, failed. I’ll never know how he evaded jail, but he did. Then, it happened,

THE INVENTION

There is no accounting for it. I always believed he was willing to kill somebody for their idea. I gave up trying to figure out where the ideas came from. Bottom line: they all failed. In my view, the invention was so stupid and unnecessary, that it should’ve been rejected by any responsible manufacturer, and it was, until he brought the idea to Japan—the land of quirky crazy shit. “Shaper Image Ltd.” took it on. The product was a hand-held electric tuna salad maker. The condiments were stored in the handle. It was called “Tuna Wand” giving it a magical quality. The Tuna Wand opened the can of tuna fish, lifted the tuna from the can and started mixing it when the operator squeezed the handle. When they hit the market in Japan, they sold out immediately, becoming a fad— a secondary market emerged: Tuna Wand holsters, so people could display their tuna wands on their hips, and also, to free up their hands in the kitchen. He made millions from his invention.

Why am I telling you this story? Because, I am him. That’s right. I am trying to inspire you with my story of persistence, hope, and vulnerability, and make sure you know that I did not murder the guy they found dead that had some papers in his hand that looked a lot like plans for the Tuna Wand. I’ve been bad, but not that bad. Sure, I’ve confessed to stealing Sticky Notes from Staples. But the statute of limitations has passed. Thank-you for your support.

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.