Category Archives: palilogia

Palilogia: Repetition of the same word, with none between, for vehemence. Synonym for epizeuxis.

“Dive! Dive! Dive!” I was a boxing coach and I specialized in having my boxers throw matches. “Dive”is a jargon word for “Hit the mat.” It was sort of poetic. I didn’t actually yell it. That would’ve given me away. Instead, I used hand signals, like a diver diving into a swimming pool. I’d put my hands together like I was praying and rock them up and down and silently mouth “dive, dive, dive.” It worked every time.

After throwing matches for 10 years, I decided I wanted to recruit and train a champ. I found this guy fighting off three thugs outside a bar. The thugs had their asses kicked—bloody noses, missing teeth, swollen heads, bruised necks. I thought “This guy is my meal ticket. Together, we’ll make millions!” His name was Peter Varniski. He was at least 6’7” and weighed nearly 300 lbs. He had a very pleasant demeanor and was a bird watcher. He wrote love poems and always had fresh red roses in his apartment. He was a vegetarian and his mother lived with him. She cooked, did the laundry, and kept the place clean. They watched “Monk” reruns together every night, when Peter was home. He had a pet hamster named “Hammy” that had a hamster tube running around the apartment. He and his mother, “Ma” enjoyed watching Hammy run through his tube.

I quickly found out that Peter was not a fighter. I was disappointed until I found out what put him in the fighting mood. The guys he had nearly beaten to death had called his mother a whore. He had exploded with rage. Anything bad said about his mother would send him into an unstoppable rage. I exploited this. Right before he climbed over the ropes I would whisper in his ear “That guy called your mother a whore.” He’d hit the ring swinging and knock out his opponent in 1-3 minutes. I had to hire two minders to get him out of the ring after each fight. If I hadn’t, he would’ve beat his opponent to death on the mat. He’d calm down when he got back home, playing “Candyland” with his mom after taking a shower, and drinking a cup of tea.

I managed Peter for five years. We were undefeated and we made a good buck. I retired and became a Blackjack dealer at “Rolling Moon,” the local gambling casino run by the mafia and managed by Sal Martino. I knew Sal from high school. One day, he told me he needed an enforcer for his loan business. The previous one, he told me had “Walked into a bullet.”

I told him about Peter. “Just say ‘Your mother’s a whore’ to him and he’ll beat the total shit out of somebody.” It was too late when I remembered that you had to claim that somebody else had said “Your mother’s a whore,” and point them out to Peter. Now, Sal was in a coma and Peter was in jail.

I had really screwed up. I learned a big lesson. Don’t say “Your mother’s a whore” to anybody ever. Just leave it alone. Mothers are a sensitive topic.

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.

Palilogia: Repetition of the same word, with none between, for vehemence. Synonym for epizeuxis.

Proof, proof, proof! I thought I had finally found the proof I needed to have my father arrested. I was 11 years old and hell bent on seeing him put away. Ever since first grade, I’ve been looking for something to pin on him. He had done so many bad things, but up until now I didn’t have the proof I needed to have him arrested, tried, convicted, and imprisoned for a good long time.

Ironically, I had gotten a Junior detective kit for Christmas. It consisted of a hat like Sherlock Holmes’ hat, a big magnifying glass, and a plaid cape. It also included a plastic pipe that was “suitable for children.” I had been using the kit relentlessly since Christmas to nail my father. I knew he was guilty of something. He had a sinister laugh and a furtive look that was clearly the gaze of a secret wrongdoer. One thing he would do was take our dog Carmen for late night walks. He would be gone for an hour and would look tired like he’d been up to something when he got back. I wasn’t allowed out late at night or I would’ve shadowed him and taken pictures of his criminal activities with my cellphone and messaged them to the police.

One time he came home with a book he said he found by somebody’s garbage can. It was titled “The Munsters Go To Mexico.” I clearly saw the international twist and expected that he would be leaving home, and traveling with the Munsters to Mexico City. But he didn’t leave. He stayed at home, which was probably part of his cover—I was beginning to think he was a Mexican spy. He had a real fondness for burritos and tacos—demonstrating a strong link to Mexican culture, and consequently, working for the Mexican government. He would be an agent for Centro Nacional de Inteligencia (CNI)—the Mexican CIA. Wikipedia told me all I needed to know about the possibility.

I decided to climb out my bedroom window and follow my father on his nightly walk where he would gather information to share with his minder, most likely, at the bus station or Buck’s Bar and Grill—a notoriously unpatriotic establishment that served beer and wine from other countries, and hard liquor from foreign countries too. Also, their most popular drinks were from other countries, like martinis. My Uncle Flip shared this information with me, helping me out.

I stayed well behind my father so he wouldn’t see me. But he did. He ran back, grabbed me by the throat and pinned me to the wall with one hand. In his other hand he was clutching a burrito. He yelled: “See this bean burrito? It is soaked with cyanide and I’m going to stuff it down your ungrateful throat! You have blown my cover all to hell! I have no choice but to eliminate you. Your mother will throw a fit. She thinks I’m an asshole already anyway.”

I peed my pants and started begging. I reminded Dad what a good team we made at Cornhole and how I helped him around the yard. He lowered the burrito. “Why didn’t I think of that? We can both become traitors and work for the aMexican government. You’ll have the learn Spanish and where to fatally stab people on the first thrust. As soon as I know what our first mission is, I’ll let you know. I think it’s going to be sabotage—putting jalapeño peppers in the Portland, ME water supply.

As soon as I got home, I called the FBI.

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.