Category Archives: prozeugma

Prozeugma

Prozeugma (pro-zoog’-ma): A series of clauses in which the verb employed in the first is elided (and thus implied) in the others.


I went to the mall. The bar, the Bronze Goblet. Then the motel, Mr. Mattress. I met a woman—Norah—at the Goblet. She was beautiful. She was smart. We talked about the relative actual value of car batteries based on the material their positive and negative poles are made of. She presented a compelling case for lead. Then, we talked about the epistemic significance of sock patterns—what they can teach us about the wearer’s ontological grounding and ethical sensibilities.

After three or four whiskey sours, we went to Mr. Mattress—it was across the street from the Bronze Goblet. We both got naked and jumped into bed. We snuggled up. She was soft and warm and smelled like lavender. I felt like this was the high point of my life so far. Maybe Norah was the one!

I rolled over on my side to embrace her and she jumped out of bed. She stood at the end of the bed and said, “Before we embark on this sexual activity, we need to know about its history and practice to pave the way toward the success of our screwing.” When she said “screwing” she squeezed her breasts and laughed.

She began at the beginning with Adam and Eve. She said the serpent that tempted Eve was Adam’s penis. Eating the apple was a metaphor for Adam giving head to Eve. I was shocked. But, I stuck it out because when she was done, I’d get laid. I’d crawl through broken glass if I had to.

Then, there was Heloise and Abelard. Heloise was Abelard’s student. He knocked her up and she went away to have her baby. Abelard was a philosopher so he used this episode in his life to find the truth. While he was compiling his notes in his room the monk J.D. Leviticus broke in and cut off Abelard’s penis. Abelard decided that, since he was now dickless, he should become a monk. Heloise opened a book store in Bruge specializing in infant care, healthy relationships and befriending monks. She raised the baby Pontious, and married a man named Joseph who wore a coat of many colors and played the accordion in a traveling folk band. He was arrogant and made a lot of enemies, but Heloise loved him.

Then, Norah warned me to wear a condom or I’d end up like Abelard. I agreed that it was a good idea for birth control, and also, thwarting STDs. She looked a little angry at my mention of STDs, but we marched on.

We had come to Sonny and Cher. She started droning on about the rhetorical significance of the lyrics of their songs. She was talking about “I got you babe” and how they saw each other as things canned goods that are stocked on the shelves at the grocery store—maybe like cans of tuna or boxes of macaroni. As interchangeable objects that satisfy a hunger.

That’s when I fell asleep. It was 3:00 a,m. and I couldn’t stay awake any longer. When I woke up the next morning she was gone. She left a condom on her pillow and a note that said: “Maybe next time.” Also, there was a box of store-brand macaroni under the pillow.

I heard she was the most controversial professor in the history of Carl Perkins University where, I found out, she teaches acting and held the Andy Griffith Chair.

I didn’t know what to do so I crashed one of her classes and held up a box of Macaroni. She blushed and asked me to meet her at the Bronze Goblet that night. I put the box of macaroni, a can of tuna, and a condom in my backpack I anticipation of ending up at Mr. Mattress. As I walked up to the Bronze Goblet, Norah jumped out from behind a shrub and yelled “I’ll never be yours!” and hurled a can of baked beans at me, hitting me in the head and knocking me out.

When I regained consciousness, I was propped up with pillows in Norah’s bed. There was a bowl of steaming baked beans on a tray on my lap. She said “Eat your beans baby. We’ve got a big night ahead of us!” I said “I’ve got a headache.” She laughed and said “I’m supposed to say that, ha, h, ha! Eat your beans!”


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.

Prozeugma

Prozeugma (pro-zoog’-ma): A series of clauses in which the verb employed in the first is elided (and thus implied) in the others.


I’m goin’ to Kansas City. Kansas City, what a place. On a train. On a plane. On a skateboard. On my feet. On a chopper. On an electric bicycle. It’s all the same to me. I’m goin’ to Kansas City. They got some grease- drippin’ barbecue there and I’m gonna’ get me some. I might have the beef. I might have the pork. I hope my boss lets me take two days off work, so I can go to Kansas City and have my tastebuds transmit the holy flavor to my head. I’ll eat ten sandwiches and then go home—home from Kansas City, back to my boring meaningless life; no house, no car, no wife. Maybe I’ll stay in Kansas City permanently. I’ll work in a barbecue van and make my mark.

Now, I work at a marble factory in a former Dodge motor car assembly plant in Detroit. The marbles are made in China. We just put them in cardboard boxes with our brand on them. The brand is “Dynamite Dubs.” It signifies our marbles’ ability to knock out two or more opponents’ marbles with a single shot. My job is to tuck in the box’s flap in to keep the marbles from falling out. It is a boring job, but the pay is good. I eat out at MacDonald’s every night. Sometimes, I splurge on a Value Meal. I weigh 320 lbs., just like the President. At least I can be proud of something!

The boss told me I couldn’t take two days off. In fact, he told me he needed me 24/7 to help guard the plant when the tariffs kicked in. He was certain there would be violence when the price of marbles went up 145%. Already, there was talk on the street. He was issuing everybody an M-16. He had gotten permission from “Bullet” Bassey (Detroit’s Police Chief) to shoot anybody standing outside the marble plant. He said they were a “national security threat” and we were authorized to “kill ‘em all.” We were supplied ammunition by ICE, and, as a bonus, five boxes of hand grenades to be used at the “slightest provocation.” Bob, the center fielder for the plant’s softball team, was elated. He could reach home plate every time with his “canon arm.” He said, “My arm has a whole new meaning! I can’t wait.” ICE also told us it was Ok to shoot children, as long as we didn’t aim for the head. ICE was concerned that the “mess” a head shot makes might arouse the ire of the commie libtards and cause them to post unflattering things on social media.

I was freaking out. Now I knew first-hand what the Twilight Zone was all about. I quit my job. I charged up my bicycle and headed for Kansas City. I arrived one week later. I had gotten two flat tires along the way, and had to charge up five times. The first thing I did when I got to Kansas City, was have four pork barbecue sandwiches. Then, I went looking for a job. I got a job in a barbecue van. It was perfect. My biggest hope fulfilled!

I was eating up to 9 barbecue sandwiches per day. I know it sounds insane, but I couldn’t help myself. I shot up to 400lbs and started to waddle like a giant duck. Then, one day I had a King-Kong sized heart attack. I died and came back to life three times in the ambulance. They say my heart looks like a big lump of Crisco, and if I don’t stop pigging out on barbecue sandwichs, I’ll die. I’ve cut back to 4 barbecue sandwiches a day. In one month, I’ve lost 3 pounds. I feel fit.

At night, I dream I am a giant barbecue sandwich being eaten by Taylor Swift. Her teeth caress my bun and she bites and chews me up slowly and seductively in little loving nibbles. I am having my name legally changed to Barbecue Sandwich. But most important, I have developed a men’s barbecue sandwich scented cologne called “Face Sauce.” Our slogan is “Lick my face. Zero calories.” It’s selling like crazy.

So, I just read the newspaper. Detroit is in flames. No children killed yet.


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.

Prozeugma

Prozeugma (pro-zoog’-ma): A series of clauses in which the verb employed in the first is elided (and thus implied) in the others.


Before I got ‘corrected’ I bought things impulsively that I didn’t need or couldn’t afford, or both. The internet was like a Satanic voice calling me to buy. Crazy disparate objects and intangibles. Big things, little things, cheap things, expensive things, and in between, in my shopping cart, in the mail.

FEDEX and UPS drivers could find their way to my house with their eyes closed. Some days there was a cue in the driveway. While the the drivers waited, they would get out of their trucks and smoke, and talk, and play frisbee on my lawn. I would tell them to “keep a box” as a tip. I bought so much stuff, I did not know what was in the boxes, and I didn’t care. Whenever I opened a box, it was like Christmas—the contents were always a surprise. One time I “got” a drone. I had trouble figuring out how to set it up and use it, but with patience and practice, I figured it out. I used it to spy on my neighbors. I would hover about 100 feet above their hot tub. They would just sit there with the water bubbling around them and then it looked like they were almost always arguing. Then, there was only the husband sitting there all alone. Then, my neighbor shot down my drone and that was that. Once I opened a box with holes poked in the sides, and there was a baby raccoon in it. I named him Norbert and put him outside with some table scraps in a bowl. The next morning I looked outside and saw Norbert curled up asleep on the porch next to the empty bowl. He woke up and I let him in for awhile. I got him a double dish—one side water, the other side food. I put him outside at night. Once I saw his picture on a wanted poster for rummaging in garbage cans. I don’t care what he does on his own time. When we’re together he is a perfect gentleman. There are thousands more box-opening stories, but these two should give you an idea of how whacked-out I am.

Eventually, I had so far exceeded my credit limits on my 15 charge cards, a collection agency was put on my tail. I got phone calls. I got letters. I got weird-looking men knocking on my door. They all threatened to destroy my credit rating if I didn’t pay up. I didn’t pay up, but I made a deal. I taken by the credit agency to Silicon Valley to a tech company called “Thwart.” There, I had a micro-chip implanted in the back of my right hand (I’m right-handed). If I say or write the words “borrow,” “loan,” “credit,” or any of their derivatives or synonyms, my hand twitches uncontrollably and I receive mild pulsing shocks for two minutes. I tried it out right after I got it. Let me tell you, my borrowing days are over. I tried to hire a surrogate, but it didn’t work. The hand-chip caught me.

Next week, I am going to go to Argentina to have the implant removed. My guess is “Thwart” will detect the removal and the chase will be on again. After Argentina, I’m headed for Switzerland where I’ll have a total body alteration done—my height, my weight—everything. There, I can have my US passport altered as well, including a change of name, guaranteed to be valid and pass through passport control no questions asked. All my expenses are being paid by “Credit Crashers,” an NGO located in North Korea.


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.

Prozeugma

Prozeugma (pro-zoog’-ma): A series of clauses in which the verb employed in the first is elided (and thus implied) in the others.


Today I’m going to the grocery store. I’m out of pita chips. And next to the pet cemetary to visit Buffo my long-dead pet box turtle who they say died trying to save my life when I wandered into the street. He was squished flat by the Good Humor man ice cream truck. It was disgusting. It gave me PTSD. And next to the crayon factory where I used to work—where they unfairly terminated me for “inventing” my own colors. I’m visiting my girlfriend who still works there as my undercover mole. I will be investigating different ways of torching the place. Right now I’m thinking “premium gasoline at dawn.” It has a dramatic flair, and of course, premium gas will make an inferno. And next to “The Raining Dog Bar and Grill.” There’s a stuffed German Shepard behind the bar. It takes up a lot of space, so it must be important. It has a clock mechanism that makes it slobber every hour. The slobbering triggers a 15-minute happy hour, where all of the worst drinks are half-price.

After doing my chores and errands, I arrived at the “Raining Dog.” I ordered a double Fireball martini with 2 acorns. The bartender told me it’s what squirrels drink before they run out in front of cars. I pretended I believed him just to see the look on his face. I drank 2 more martinis.

I was very drunk. I swallowed one of the acorns. It made me feel different. Holy shit! I had turned into a squirrel. I looked around and could see all these places where acorns were buried. it was like the Matrix. All I could do was sit on the curb and make a chattering noise. It was a cry for help. Then, a dog was coming toward me. It was on a leash, but still, I panicked and ran into the street. A beautiful woman on a bicycle ran over me. I knew I was going to die. I could barely breathe. The woman wrapped me in her scarf and we took off. We ended up at the landfill where she unwrapped me and threw me onto the garbage pile. Two hungry homeless people came by and saw me. They decided to eat me. When one of them picked me up something went “Snap!” In my back. I was miraculously restored. I bit the homeless man on the finger and scampered away. Believe it or not, the next morning I was me again. I had a little pain in my back, and a wicked hangover, but otherwise, I was well.

I wanted to find the woman who had thrown me on the landfill. I wanted to kill her. I hung out on the street where she ran me over. Then one day I saw her. I jumped in front of her bicycle and yelled “You would’ve killed me!” She slammed on her brakes and went over the handlebars. Immediately, I regretted what I had done. I helped her up and asked her if she wanted to go to “The Raining Dog” for a drink. She said “Not with you, creep!” So, I went by myself. I got half drunk and decided to eat dinner. Strangely, fried squirrel with carrots and squash were the night’s dinner special. It could’ve been me on the menu, I thought, as I disjointed a hind leg, pulled it off, and took a big bite of nicely done squirrel.


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

Prozeugma

Prozeugma (pro-zoog’-ma): A series of clauses in which the verb employed in the first is elided (and thus implied) in the others.


I was making a difference. As I was, I was hoping the world was becoming a better place. One year ago, I had spent the day writing a poem about a cloned rabbit that was sure to be published in the literary magazine I subscribed to. The magazine was titled “Elevator News” and it was devoted to publishing “all forms of writing that lift us up.” They had been publishing since 1908. Their most famous editor was Robert Ice. He published “Mt Foot Fell Off.” It was a poem written by a WWI soldier who had endured the travails of trench warfare. It’s gripping portrayal of the soldier hopping across the train platform to embrace his girlfriend when he returns from the war, captures the cruelty of absence when he falls and bloodies his nose and his girlfriend, backing away in horror, falls off the platform and is crushed by the Lakeshore Limited, on which, her father is a Conductor. He is clutching a little toy bear—a gift for his illegitimate little daughter who lives in Utica, New York with her gin-soaked diseased prostitute mother.

When I read this I cried for twenty minutes. Robert Ice was himself a genius elevating the “maudlin” to heretofore impossible heights. Sylvia Plath’s “Daddy” marks the apogee of maudlinism’s movement. My poem about the death and eating of a child’s cloned rabbit—“Rabbit Dinner”— attempts to forcefully resurrect Ice’s maudlinism by naming the rabbit “Gene” and portraying the boy’s tortured employment of heirloom silverware to dismember, slice up, and consume the rabbit, sopping up its gravy with a buttered piece of his mother’s homemade sourdough bread. After eating Gene and cleaning his plate, the boy looks at his reflection in his bread-burnished dish, seeing only his satisfied face crowned by Gene’s yellowish-gray femur. The boy goes to bed, goes to sleep, and dreams he is a truck driver.

I must admit, as I write this synopsis of “Rabbit Dinner,“ I am reminded of the poem’s excellence and perfect fit to maudlinism’s key rubrics. It vividly exemplifies the historical place of the rabbit in the food chain, and achieving the status of pet, and even given a name, it may nevertheless be eaten without a second thought—like a leek or a tomato.

We slaughter cows, pigs, chickens, rabbits, ducks, goats and the rest of the barnyard animals. Why? Because we eat them. If we don’t intend to eat it, we simply kill it and deprive it of it’s life. I killed a newborn kitten by stepping on it accidentally. I killed a deer and a raccoon too—I ate them. The kitten I couldn’t eat. I wrapped it in plastic wrap and buried it out in the woods behind my house. It’s mother didn’t care. If somebody had stepped on me when I was a baby, my mother would’ve cared. Or would she?

Oh, enough of this neurotic rambling. I apologize for pushing this piece of writing downhill. I just hope the current editor of “Elevator News” isn’t a stupid ass like the editors of “Literary Fortune,” “Wet Metaphors,” “No Rhyme,” “The Canyon Review,” and the 18 additional literary journals who rejected “Rabbit Dinner.” I will not give up. After reading “Rabbit Dinner” one of the critics said “A picture is worth 1,000 of your words.” That hurt. I wrote back, “You don’t know 1,000 words. Haha!” That’s the kind of wit I will be famous for.


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

Buy a print edition of The Daily Trope! The print edition is entitled The Book of Tropes and is available on Amazon for $9.99. There’s a Kindle edition available too.

Prozeugma

Prozeugma (pro-zoog’-ma): A series of clauses in which the verb employed in the first is elided (and thus implied) in the others.


I can’t thank you enough for the food. I love Big Macs. The clothing. I haven’t had bell-bottoms for years. The shelter. I can fit the tent in my pocket when I fold it up. The job cleaning bedpans at the hospital. I have a fondness for stainless steel. The certificate of achievement for just being me (emblazoned with gold stars). It makes my Perfect Attendance certificate from Little Imps Day Care look like a used paper towel. The invitation to a camping adventure in your back yard. Scary! The free membership in the Deep Valley pinochle club. I don’t know what pinochle is. It sounds like some kind of candy. I can’t wait to try some. But I don’t understand where this is coming from. I have a job. I have food. I have a home. Look at me—do I look like I need clothes? The certificate is just as meaningless as every other certificate I was ever rewarded with. A few gold stars on a piece of paper just for showing up is almost like getting a prize for breathing. And a membership in a peanut brittle club is too bizarre to even comment on. I know you are Maslowites—wearing pyramid hats on your heads here on Main Street is a dead giveaway. I know you have to recruit two new members before you each Self-Actualize. You’ve come to the wrong person.

I learned about Maslow’s Hierarchy of Needs in college and thought I was justified in beating up my art teacher for what he said about my painting of a dump truck. He assaulted my self-esteem. I went to jail for hitting him with a canvas stretcher and trying to stab him with a paintbrush. The weasel was promoted to Full Professor, and eventually, to Dean of Faculty. He uses the story of being beat up as a foundation for lame-ass parables he feeds to the faculty, especially when the news is bad, like it is most of the time. He begins “This is like the time I was beaten to within an inch of my life . . .” The opening reference is a point of departure for his lamentations about the reduction of 2 faculty parking spaces due to the relocation of the Chemistry Department’s dumpster, the elimination of ice cream from the dining hall’s menu, or the banning of faculty wearing short pants. My neighbor’s wife is my spy. She’s the Dean’s secretary and she shares the news with me when we meet at the Gallopin’ Around motel on Friday afternoons. Our meetings are very productive. Now, you pyramid hat-wearing fanatics have brought it all back—yes, while I was in jail, I scaled the Pyramid’s levels, thinking deeply, pacing around, lifting weights, and making firewood carriers to sell in the prison store “Barred Goods.”

I wish I could call the Buddha on my cellphone. He would tell me exactly what to do, if anything at all. He would probably tell me to love all sentient beings, and accordingly, to become a vegetarian, but that’s not me. I am a whiskey-drinking, meat eating, cigar-smoking, womanizing, son-of-a-bitch. Nevertheless, here I am at the pinnacle, where the Maslowites strive to be—you think you need to recruit two new members, but it is significantly more complicated than that. You must discover your unique destiny.

We must ask, “What is the point of my existence, the niche I am to fill?” I will ask the question to myself on my way to the Oneida Nation smoke shop to get a box of Cohibas. I love them. The smell alone of the inside of the box makes me deeply grateful for my sense of smell. Next stop will be Utopia Liquors for a bottle of Johnny Walker Blue. It’s the only whiskey I’ve ever had in place orange juice with my breakfast. It is the smoothest and most softly intoxicating beverage on the planet. Next, I’ll call Marlene for “A Good Time”. We’ve been hooking up on weekends and lunch breaks for the past 9 years. I would marry her, but then, all the fun would go out of our relationship. Marlene agrees. We are a non-traditional couple. This evening we’re going to Norla’s— the best restaurant in our little town. It’s the only restaurant too. We are so lucky that it’s the best. I will have a jumbo porterhouse steak. Marlene will have her usual 5 vodka martinis and calamari. As usual, she gets pretty drunk and we do it behind the gazebo in the park across the street from Narla’s. One time we tried doing it in the winter and Marlene was concerned that the tattoo of party dip & chips would fall off her ass. She’s perfect.

Ok, see you around Maslowites. Even if you are over-committed, and probably should be committed, I still like you.

Ahh. Home at last.

Now, it’s back to self-actualization as I sit in my living room smoking a cigar, sipping Johnny Walker and listening to Marlene snore and fart in my bedroom.

What makes me unique? I don’t know. What is the puzzle I fit into as the “one and only unique piece?” I don’t know. In a way I feel myself sliding down the side of Maslow’s pyramid. I feel my pants catching on fire from the friction as I fly past self esteem. Oh my god! I dropped my cigar in my lap! My pants are really on fire. I run out the back door and jump into the swimming pool. I get out of the pool and take off my pants and then take everything off and jump back into the pool. I climb up on my inflatable floatie and lay on my back. The Milky Way is strewn across the night sky. Whenever I see it I am thrilled by the density of its stars and the endless ribbon of light they weave across the sky. I fall asleep.

I dream I am riding an escalator up and away from earth. As I pass the constellations, they acknowledge me in accord with their capacities: snorting, waving, hissing, clicking, calling out. Calling out? Oh hell. It’s Marlene! I run into my burning house and find Marlene curled up like a ball in a corner of the living room. I pick her up and carry her outside just as the fire trucks arrive. We’re both ok. I ask her to marry me. She says yes.

Am I self-actualized yet? Probably not. Saving a life is a fleeting thing. Besides, I lit the fire.


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

Buy a print edition of The Daily Trope! The print edition is entitled The Book of Tropes and is available on Amazon for $9.99. There’s a Kindle edition available too.

Prozeugma

Prozeugma (pro-zoog’-ma): A series of clauses in which the verb employed in the first is elided (and thus implied) in the others.


A. I took the money. The big screen TV. The microwave. The laptop. The coffee grinder. The rubber gloves.

B. Why did you take the rubber gloves Mr. Tronski?

A. I had intended to wash the dishes, so I put on the rubber gloves. When I left, I forgot to take them off. I forgot to wash the dishes too.

B. What were you going to do with what you had in your possession?

A. I was going to donate it to the nursing home where my mother lives. The money will be used for magazine subscriptions. The TV, entertainment. The microwave, popcorn & mac and cheese. The laptop, writing letters and receiving letters, and playing Wordscape. The coffee grinder goes without saying. The rubber gloves, thrown away.


B. Ok Tronski, we are charging you with burglary and locking you up.

A: What? I took all that stuff from my own home—it’s all mine. Just because my insane neighbor calls 911 and you “catch” me with a carload of stuff, doesn’t mean I stole it. Now I understand why I’m here.

B. My apologies Mr. Tronski. You are free to go.

A. No problem.

Mr. Tronski sped away from the police station. He was laughing at the police officer’s total stupidity. He had, indeed, committed burglary and now he was on his way to sell the stuff he had robbed. Then, he heard sirens and saw flashing lights behind him.

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

Buy a print edition of The Daily Trope! The print edition is entitled The Book of Tropes and is available on Amazon for $9.99. There’s a Kindle edition available too.

Prozeugma

Prozeugma (pro-zoog’-ma): A series of clauses in which the verb employed in the first is elided (and thus implied) in the others.


I went into town. To the farmer’s market. To the hardware store. To the library. To the police station, where I turned myself in.

As I was sitting in my cell, I could hear the police laughing and talking about me. They kept saying, “Who’s he trying to kid? There’s no way he did it.” Maybe it was true, but I had woken up with a Box Turtle in my bed and there was urine on my kitchen floor. Also, I couldn’t find my fountain pen or my new stainless steel taco holders. Put it all together and it spells crime. But, when the police finally asked me what I had done that was criminal, I couldn’t tell them.

“Did you kill the mayor?” one of them asked. “No” I answered. They all laughed and one of them to told me to go home, and I did.


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

Buy a print edition of The Daily Trope! The print edition is entitled The Book of Tropes and is available on Amazon for $9.99. There’s a Kindle edition available too.

Prozeugma

Prozeugma (pro-zoog’-ma): A series of clauses in which the verb employed in the first is elided (and thus implied) in the others.

I listened to the hearings. The fairytale context setting stories. The invited guests’ narratives with no foundations in fact. The sad excuses for lawyers and elected officials representing Republican interests. The sideshow with one pitiful side and one praiseworthy side.

I wonder what the outcome will be. I know what it should be.

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

Buy a print edition of The Daily Trope! The print edition is entitled The Book of Tropes and is available on Amazon for $9.99. There’s a Kindle edition available too.

Prozeugma

Prozeugma (pro-zoog’-ma): A series of clauses in which the verb employed in the first is elided (and thus implied) in the others.

I tried the gourmet beer. High end suds. Pint of heaven. Perfection in a glass.

I love this stuff!

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

Buy a print edition of The Daily Trope! The print edition is entitled The Book of Tropes and is available on Amazon for $9.99.

Prozeugma

Prozeugma (pro-zoog’-ma): A series of clauses in which the verb employed in the first is elided (and thus implied) in the others.

I went to the celebration. The lost souls convention. The GPS-less disembodied spirit ball. Partners wafting through each other. No direction. No bitterness. No regrets. The place of can’t remember. The place of can’t forget.

Silent night. Silent applause. Magic dragons. Little wooden toys. Everything and nothing. Nothing without end. Endless friendless fog. Spirits without shame. No hope. No fear. No name.

  • Post your own prozeugma on the “Comments” page!

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

Prozeugma

Prozeugma (pro-zoog’-ma): A series of clauses in which the verb employed in the first is elided (and thus implied) in the others.

Ousted Ukrainian President Viktor Yanukovych had a palace–ee-yi–ee-yi-oh. With a life-size painted plastic horse here and a golf course there–ee-yi-ee-yi-oh. With pirate ship restaurant here and a big live ostrich there–ee-yi-ee-yi-oh.

Ousted Ukrainian President Viktor Yanukovych had a palace–ee-yi–ee-yi-oh. With a helipad here and a rare breed of pig there. A car collection here and some bottles of Viktor Vodka there–ee-yi-ee-yi-oh.

Oh-yi! Oh! Oh! Oh! Where the heck did Yanukovych go?

Vladimir Putin had a hideout–ee-yi-ee-yi-oh. With a Yanukovych there and . . .

  • Post your own prozeugma on the “Comments” page!

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

Prozeugma

Prozeugma (pro-zoog’-ma): A series of clauses in which the verb employed in the first is elided (and thus implied) in the others.

Spring is up north somewhere. Summer, right here in my little yard! Fall, somewhere in the southern hemisphere. Winter, hanging out in Melbourne’s outskirts, freezing kangaroos.

  • Post your own prozeugma on the “Comments” page!

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

Prozeugma

Prozeugma (pro-zoog’-ma): A series of clauses in which the verb employed in the first is elided (and thus implied) in the others.

Time is consciousness of when. Space, of where. Me, of here and now.

  • Post your own prozeugma on the “Comments” page!

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

Prozeugma

Prozeugma (pro-zoog’-ma): A series of clauses in which the verb employed in the first is elided (and thus implied) in the others.

Selfishness thwarts charity; narrow-mindedness, learning; pride, everything else.

  • Post your own prozeugma on the “Comments” page!

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

Prozeugma

Prozeugma (pro-zoog’-ma): A series of clauses in which the verb employed in the first is elided (and thus implied) in the others.

Honesty engenders trust. Courage, loyalty. Foresight, prudence.

  • Post your own prozeugma on the “Comments” page!

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