Category Archives: prolepsis

Prolepsis (pro-lep’-sis): (1) A synonym for procatalepsis [refuting anticipated objections]; (2) speaking of something future as though already done or existing. A figure of anticipatio.

I am not a fool.

I don’t wear a cap with bells on it, or carry a wand with a model of my head mounted on it. I do carry some jingle bells, but only around Christmas for celebratory purposes—not jesting.

Although I like Rodney Dangerfield, levity is not my game. I am characteristically grave. I usually talk about deaths in my family, as you well know from last week when my sister collapsed, went into a coma and died of a brain hemorrhage. I told everybody about it, in detail. People took off running when they saw me coming so they wouldn’t have to listen to me.

No levity here!

But maybe by “fool” you mean unwise—a sucker and poor decision maker. Ha! Ha! Have you missed the point! My wisdom is illustrated in my practice of putting open cans of tuna slurry cat food in my refrigerator to preserve them. This makes my refrigerator stink, but in my wisdom, it saves me money on cat food: stink vs. money is a classic dilemma. I have resolved it in favor of stink ‘for the money.’ But that’s not the end of it. With soap, for example, you willingly spend the money to keep your stink at bay. That goes for scented toilet paper too.

One must be flexible.

I’m sure you’re dazzled by my reasoning skills—at my prowess as a decision maker!

But maybe you think I’m gullible like all fools are. I spent a long time digging holes in my back yard—mostly at night. My older sister had told me Dean Martin’s bow tie from his tuxedo was “out there” somewhere. After two weeks of digging, I found the bow tie. Anybody watching me dig would think I was gullible, but I wasn’t. Before I started digging I did some research. Looking at my mother’s diary, I found out she had an affair with Dean Martin that went on for years.

On New Years Eve 1959, they went wild, wearing formal attire to “Bambino’s.” They got totally drunk and went back to my house. Dad was on the night shift at the firehouse. They went out in the back yard to look at the stars. They were lying there looking up when Dean passed out and his bow tie fell off.

He left in the morning before Mom got up so Dad wouldn’t catch him. When she got up, she went out in the backyard to say good morning to Dean and sure he made his getaway, but he was gone. However, his bow tie was lying there. In his haste, Martin had left it behind. Worried that Dad would see it and ask questions, Mom buried it in a zip-lock bag in the little garden plot she tended in the back corner of the yard.

So, where’s the gullibility there? I sold the bow tie on Etsy for $60,000! It paid for college.

Excuse me, but I’ve got to go home now and tend to my on-line transactions. I’ve got my banking information here, right from the bank. Now, I can give Vladimir the information he needs to deposit the $200,000 I’ve been granted to remodel my bathroom, buy a generator, and pay off my mortgage. I feel blessed to have met Vladimir. He sent me a text message informing me of my good luck. The rest is history! I’m waiting!

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.

Prolepsis (pro-lep’-sis): (1) A synonym for procatalepsis [refuting anticipated objections]; (2) speaking of something future as though already done or existing. A figure of anticipation.

Struggling walking. Vision dimming. Old person smell. These are the burdens we bear. As we imagine their inevitability, we feel their echoes from the future and assume the state of mind their presence induces. What possible benefit can accrue from thinking about one’s demise and ultimate death? What good can it possibly do to dwell on the inevitable end?

I want to live forever—drink a beer when I’m 300. Sometimes I feel like I’ve already hit 300 when I talk to people 30 and younger. I know this is a well-worn topic, but it still has some traction. I have a friend Bart who is 80. On New Years 1970 he froze his life in 1970. He rode a motorcycle and was covered with tattoos. He said “I don’t give a shit. I’m staying right here.” That would be with the “Beatles” and bellbottoms and love beads, and cheap beer, and hash. He never got married because he couldn’t find a woman willing to live his dream. He still works in the Chevy plant making car doors fit with a breaker bar. Oh, he wears Beatle boots with his bellbottoms. Now, they’re called “Chelsea Boots.”

I went to visit him. When he answered the door, I was shocked to see that he had gone completely bald since I had seen him last week. He laughed and told me he had shaved his head like Kojak. He was tired of the naked ring on top of his head. He said he had already gotten some “action” since he had shaved his head. An elderly woman had given him a cherry tootsie pop and had said “Who loves ya baby,” Bart was going to make his move, but these guys in white coats took her by the arms and walked her away. This would be a cliche if it wasn’t true!

Bart’s tattoos had turned into blurs of color—totally obscured. Time had obscured them. Luckily, when they started to go, Burt drew a map with a key explaining what each one was. For example, the tattoo he had of Elizabeth Montgomery (“Bewitched”) on his chest had turned into a maelstrom of color seemingly dripping toward his his belly button. But, it was clearly displayed on the map, with a brief synopsis of “Bewitched.” On his back there was a tattoo of Niagara Falls, running out of his shoulders down to his butt. It was almost discernible, except for the barrel with Bart riding it over the falls.

I asked him what it was like to be frozen in 1970. He told me it was like 1970. Oh, I thought that was pretty insightful. He asked me if I knew where he could “score” some bellbottoms. I said, “Maybe at the Salvation Army thrift store.” He laughed and then told me “They’re tapped out.” He told me he had heard of a place called “Internet” that sold things on computers, but he didn’t have a computer. I told him I’d have a look there and let him know.

“Do you remember the disco song ‘Funky Town?” He asked. I old him “Vaguely.” He jammed a cassette tape into his player, and “Funky Town” started playing. Bart started dancing, he was busting some sweet moves, twirling one hand like a lasso over his head and clutching his crotch with the other hand, sweating. Living the 70s. Suddenly, he grabbed his chest, cursing in pain, falling to the floor. I called 911. By the time the EMTs got there, Bart was dead. Heart attack.

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.

Prolepsis (pro-lep’-sis): (1) A synonym for procatalepsis [refuting anticipated objections]; (2) speaking of something future as though already done or existing. A figure of anticipation.

“This is the dawning of the age of aquarium.” I thought that was so funny, my pun on “Aquarius”—the play “Hair’s” theme song with long- haired people prancing around naked in the audience singing. It was the 60s.

It was crazy. I took acid and joined a cult called the “Tony Balonies.” Tony Baloney was a clockmaker whose clocks were always fast. People adjusted to the clock’s miscalculation and believed they lived 15 minutes in the future. For us, as Baloneyists, the future was now. When it was Monday, for us, it was Tuesday. We couldn’t hold jobs because we were never on time.

We had a school bus. It belonged to our leader Be-bop-a-Lulah. He was a multi-millionaire who had inherited his wealth from “Napalm Saviors” when his grandfather died and the company was sold. His real name was Billy Jean and he liked to dance on the dance floor and around, but as the Big Baloney he spent his time taking care of us. So, we didn’t need jobs. We rode in our bus and lived in it and followed a rock band in it. The band’s name was “Spanx.” They were unpopular and the audiences for their concerts frequently consisted solely of us. The band consisted of four bass guitarists, three accordions, a triangle and two drummers. I liked the triangle solos, especially the theme song to “All in the Family.” It was like the version Johnny Rotten played, but it was edgier.

Spanx had a conservative orientation. Their playlist included “Falling Dominoes,” “Bomb Hanoi,” “Secret Agent Orange Man,” and “Nixon Our Savior.” I didn’t particularly like any of Spanx’s songs, but for the free ride I was getting, I pretended I was a fan. But, we got a reputation and were called “The Rolling Fascists” and were unwelcome at most concerts. We barely escaped death at a Grateful Dead concert. The fans put a bomb under our bus. It fell off as we drove away and blew a five-foot deep hole in the field. With a fight, I got off the bus at the next stop.

I was free! I got a job in a gourmet beer bar. We sold beer like “Thistle Mist,” “Foam on the Range,” and “Roman Nose.” I had to learn a menu of 150 craft beers. I loved it. I had my own apartment where I could take showers, cook and watch TV. Then Be-bop-a-Lulah showed up with two thugs demanding I pay him mileage for all the times I rode around in his bus. He claimed I owed him $50.00. I had that much cash in my wallet. I paid him and he left. It was so weird, but not out of character for Be-bop-a-Lulah. I read in the newspaper two days later that he perished when his bus hit a bridge abutment. In a way, I felt relieved.

Then I met Candy Girl. The Four Seasons had a hit song named after her. She sets my heart a-whirl, just like the song. She told me I made her heart go “boom, boom, boom.” We got married and live in a rock n’ roll fantasy. Our daughter, Sherry Baby, is smart, creative, and kind.

The three of us are happy as “time keeps on slippin’ into the future” and we’re always 15 minutes off.

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.