Category Archives: pysma

Pysma (pys’-ma): The asking of multiple questions successively (which would together require a complex reply). A rhetorical use of the question.

Why is the sky blue? Why does it get cold in winter? Why am I a man? What time does the train leave? Where am I going.L Am in coming? What are these little bugs crawling around my crotch? I can answer that! They’re crotch crickets, my old friends. I’m going to observe them with my OED magnifying glass before I kill them with “Spinosad.” It costs over $300 and instantly whacks them.

I focused in and observed the crotch crickets. It looked like they were square dancing. There was no music coming from my pants, so I concluded they were marching, not dancing. Every once in a while two or three would give me a nip. it itched like a mosquito bite. I couldn’t slap them to death, their bodies were like shells. Then, they started doing acrobatics. They were tumbling and they had built a tower out of my pubic hair. They were diving off the tower into a little puddle of blood they had made from biting me.

It was disgusting and fascinating at the same time. For a couple of minutes I considered training a troupe of crotch cricket acrobats. I even thought of a name for them: “The Nice Lice Acrobats.” I would afford them a place in my crotch where they would live while we travelled the country putting on shows.

I would give audience members cheap complimentary magnifying glasses, pull down my pants and lay on a table exhibiting my crotch crickets and MC-ing the show: “Ladies and gentlemen! Turn your attention to the tower of hair as Little Carl will leap into the pool of blood from the very top of the tower!”

Then I realized something had gone wrong. It was my PTSD. It was the residue of my numerous encounters with crotch crickets when I was in the Army. The prostitutes around Ft. Bragg were al infected, but I couldn’t help myself. Every Monday I’d hit the dispensary for a can of crotch cricket killer powder—DDT—after a weekend of cavorting with bug-infested whores.

I pulled out my Spinosad, twisted the cap, pulled down my pants, and sprinkled a dose on my crotch. It worked. The crotch crickets died immediately and fell like little snowflakes to the floor. Already, I missed them—the little itchy nips and the daring acrobatics. I felt a sort of withdrawal from having an itchy crotch. I didn’t know what to do.

I went into counseling.

My psychologist kept scratching her crotch while we were talking. She called my crotch crickets “crabs” with a little smile on her face and admitted she had a case. In one of our sessions, I asked her to infect me. she sad it was unethical, but she had become fond of me and would be glad to do it. She gave me some of her crabs in her office with the door locked.

Now, she gives me crabs on Fridays, I whack them on Mondays and then go back on Friday for another dose. It is complicated, but it is therapeutic.

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.

Pysma (pys’-ma): The asking of multiple questions successively (which would together require a complex reply). A rhetorical use of the question.

If there was only one direction to go, which way would you go? Would you go right? Left? Straight? Up? Down? Or, would you just stand there, frustrated? Maybe you’d sit down and start crying. Maybe you’d just turn around and go back to where you came from—back to your little tent where you left your girlfriend sleeping, hoping to escape from her once and for all.

Your relationship has been a four-season camping trip. You have enough camping gear to open your own North Face. You have enough fleece hoodies to dress a herd of sheep. You try and wear five at a time to get your money’s worth, but you end up shedding them, leaving a trail for scavengers to follow, fighting over your discarded hoodies. It was sickening to watch—the pushing, the shoving, the cursing: these people were deeply disturbed. What was worse, they were my family. My big brother Gil always won the fight. He was 6’4” and wouldn’t hesitate to punch my mother, kick my father in the testicles, and hit my little sister in the face with a Pondorosa Pinecone—big as a shoebox with little pointy things all over it. Ouch! Gil tried to light my sister on fire one time, but she wouldn’t burn. Her clothing was fireproof—a Girl Scout uniform, and Gil didn’t have any petroleum products to get it going. That’s when he grabbed a pine cone and let her have it in the face.

My girlfriend woke up and was screaming “There’s a scorpion on my boob,” Trying to make light of it, I asked her which boob. She became furious and came running out of the tent. The scorpion fell off her boob and she calmed down. The scorpion jumped on my leg and skittered into my shorts. It tickled, but I was doomed. There was no way I could get the scorpion out of my shorts without it stinging me.

Then, Gil showed up. He grabbed the can of camp stove fuel and doused my shorts. He flicked his BIC and was about to set me on fire when the scorpion ran down my leg, apparently repelled by the camp stove fuel. I tore of my shorts and threw them on the ground. Gil yelled “Fire in the hole!” and torched them.

I had brought 22 pairs of shorts for camping. Now, I had to decide which pair to wear. I settled on the “Trail God” shorts. The seat of the shorts was made of Kevlar, in case some yahoos dragged you around in the woods before tying you to a tree and dangling a coral snake in front of your face.

The shorts have 19 numbered pockets and an APP for inventorying what’s in the pockets, by the numbers. It is unbelievably convenient, The APP displays a map of your pants on your cellphone. It’s amazing. But best of all is the “Hiker’s Safe.” It’s a keypad-operated safe on the inside of the shorts. You can safely store your valuables on the trail. It is made out of aircraft grade titanium—light weight and indestructible. I carry my credit cards and my passport in my “Hiker’s Safe” and I’ve only been robbed twice. Most hikers have been robbed 10-12 times. So, my “Hiker’s Safe” has put me ahead of the curve.

So, my family had shown up at the campsite and they were waiting for me to sprinkle the ground with unused and unwanted items to fight over. I had not thought about what to chuck, and they were looking impatient. I had to grab something fast. I grabbed a spatula from inside the tent and threw it on the ground. They looked at each other nonchalantly, and then, dove on the spatula. Gil came out of the melee holding the spatula and waving it around his head. I told them all to go home and they left mumbling.

My girlfriend and I resumed our campout. I was going to make bacon, but realized in my haste, I had given my only spatula to Gil. How stupid of me. I needed to replenish my spatula supply as soon we got home. Hello Amazon!

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.

Pysma (pys’-ma): The asking of multiple questions successively (which would together require a complex reply). A rhetorical use of the question.

“Why is my hair brown? Why do boats float? Why do knives cut? Why is sugar sweet? Why do things explode? Where do trees come from?” These are just a few of the questions my daughter asked while we had breakfast. It happened every day. Non-stop questions. She was a girl. What the hell was she doing asking all those questions? It drove me so crazy, I even inquired with Dr. Formbee whether I could have her larynx removed so she couldn’t talk any more. He told me I WAS crazy and I better shut up with talk like that—that my daughter Scarlet was a bright, inquisitive girl that deserved my love and respect.

I wracked my brain. I had to find a way. I considered duct tape, but that didn’t show love and respect. I invented a “jaw jammer.” It was a bungee chord that went under the chin and clamped her mouth shut. But, that didn’t show love and respect. Last, I had heard people say “Put a sock in it” when they wanted a person to be quiet. But, like my remedies, it didn’t show love and respect.

Then, I got an idea that DID show love and respect. I bought Scarlet an Encyclopedia Brittanica. Now, when she asked me a question, almost before the words were out of her mouth, I would tell her “Look it up in your encyclopedia.” She would go look it up and then come back and recite the answer from memory. This wasn’t an improvement over what we had, but at least she got an answer. This all happened before desktop computers were invented, or I just would’ve told Scarlet to “Google ir.” But, I didn’t have that luxury.

Eventually, she came up with a question-answer game. It was a deck of cards with the cards having a question on one side and its answer on the other. It was a two-person n game. The “Dealer” would hold up a card with the question facing the “Player.” The Player had to answer the question correctly to continue playing. When the Player couldn’t answer, or answered wrong, the Dealer would pass the deck and become the Player. The game was called “Smarty Pants.” The game took off and the rights were purchased by Milton-Bradly for $500,000 plus royalties. Eventually, Smarty Pants became a popular Tv game show with the cards turned around—with answers showing and the questions were guessed.

Scarlet became too busy with the business to constantly ask questions. I, on the other hand, have written a book titled “Shinola!” It shows how to make money from things that would otherwise be a pain in the ass. Of course, Scarlet is my key success story that undergirds the book and makes it credible. There are a number of easy steps you can take to find a niche you can profit from with “your pain in the ass.” The book is self-published on Amazon. Sale are slow, but I’m sure I’ll sell a book sooner or later.

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.

Pysma (pys’-ma): The asking of multiple questions successively (which would together require a complex reply). A rhetorical use of the question.

Who am I? What am I? Where am I? Why am I? I gave up on trying answer these question when I became a pasta machine operater when I was 19. I’d put on my white apron and little white paper hat and yell “Pasta Ho” and flip the switch. The pastas would squeeze through the die, spewing what looked like white worms. The name of the company I worked for was “Pasta Masters.” The company began when Tony Chip absconded from Naples with a pasta recipe dating back to ancient Rome. It was 1920 and Tony fled to America. He was pursued by “Tentacles” Buskini. He always got his man—that’s why he was called “Tenacles.”

Tony knew he would be chased, so, he took precautions. The two most important were growing a big bushy beard and learning to speak English with a New York accent. The ruses worked, but he was greedy. He opened a pasta factory and was tremendously successful. Tentacles heard about the factory and guessed that Tony was somehow involved. He checked and made sure his gun was loaded and took off for “Pasta Masters”:where he would find Tony and “blow a couple holes in him.”

Tentacles snuck into the factory and put on a white apron and a little white paper hat. He blended in. He found Tony’s office. Tony was on his desk with one of the workers. This was the only proven way to get a pay raise, or promotion at “Pasta Masters”. So, the desktop frolics were normal.

Tentacles kicked open the door. He didn’t even give Tony a chance to stand up. He shot him 4 times in the head. Tony died instantly. The girl underneath him started yelling at Tentacles to get Tony off of her. He complied and pushed Tony onto the floor. A medallion bearing the Caligula family crest fell out of Tony’s pocket. “Caligula” was Tony’s real surname and Tentacles’ too. Tony and Tentacles were related! Tony took out his backup pistol, wipe it down, and put it in Tony’s hand. He told the girl it was self-defense that she witnessed. People were banging on the door. Tentacles opened it. He was handcuffed, but, when the girl told the “story” of what happened, Tentacles was let go and not charged. Later, he argued in court that he was the pasta factory’s heir: he was the only known living relative of Tony, who was also a Caligula. Tentacles received ownership of the factory and it continues to be a huge success.

Tentacles is long gone, but his great-grandson “Murky” runs the factory now. Tentacles’ pistol is mounted on Murky’s office wall with a plaque under it reading: “Lead in the head puts problems to bed.”

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