Category Archives: sarcasmus

Sarcasmus (sar’kaz’-mus): Use of mockery, verbal taunts, or bitter irony.

“You look like a balloon filled with helium. I think you might float away to the trough where you spend your days snuffling. Let’s call you Pork Roll—you can’t oink your way out of this. You’ve disgusted too many people.”

He just stood there looking at me with his beady little eyes, drool dripping from his chin, his fat pink skin twitching. I admit it. I took it out on the pigs, specifically, Big Pink. He was a Hampshire pig, known for their intelligence. In WWII they were used to guard cricket pitches and ammunition dumps. If they saw something amiss, they would pull the rope on the alarm whistle, alerting nearby troops and cricket players. Supposedly, they saved 100s of lives. I didn’t believe it. All Big Pink wants to do is eat slop and roll around in the mud.

What a useless piece of crap—good to eat on special occasions, and that’s the end of it. “You’re nothing but a four-legged ham or a side of bacon, crispy and delicious.” At that, Big Pink jumped his pen and came at me, tusks dripping with saliva. I wasn’t going to apologize. I pulled my nine-inch switchblade knife. If I could get the right angle, I could poke him in the heart and kill him. As soon as he saw the knife he stopped dead, turned around, and shot a stream of pigshit at me. It hit me in the face. I almost puked, but I kept my head.

I picked up a bucket for a shield. There was an axe hanging by the pen. I grabbed it and slowly approached Big Pink. He eyed me cautiously and gave me a low-volume oink. I said, “You fat piece of shit. It’s time to go outside.” He seemed like he had calmed down. I held my hand out. He grabbed it and started chewing it. There was nothing else I could do—I split his skull with the axe.

Already, I could smell the bacon and eggs. Maybe some pancakes too. Finally, dead, Big Pink would be worth a damn. In life, he was a stinking leach, now he’s a good-tasting meal. I’m glad I killed him. I’m already looking forward to wringing some chickens’ necks.

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

The 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.

Sarcasmus (sar’kaz’-mus): Use of mockery, verbal taunts, or bitter irony.

“What’s that on top or your head? A bird’s nest? Why don’t you just give it up and accept your hairless crainium? At least you could wear fake hair that matches your eyebrows!”

I was mean. They called me “The Slasher” because I could cut anybody down to size with my buzz-saw insults. Or you could say I was a insult surgeon removing peoples’ self-esteem with my cutting remarks.

I insulted everybody I met within 3 minutes. I had an uncanny ability to see their foibles. I would hurl the insults, making them stick with my sarcastic tone of voice. Often, my attributions were wrong, but I didn’t care. Once I said them, they became a “worry” for my targets.

I told a man his nose looked like a tumor with two holes in it. He covered it with his hand and ran away. I once asked a woman if that was a pair of dice under her sweater. She sat down on the sidewalk and started speaking in tongues. I was so pleased that I asked her out to dinner. She accepted my invitation. I didn’t have much money, so we went to Burger King. Speaking in tongues, she pointed at the menu—clearly, she wanted a cheese whopper, jumbo fries and a large Coke. We sat by the window. She pointed at her sweater and said something in Aramaic, one of the languages I studied in Bible college—Holy Rose College in San Jose, California. She told me her name was Mary and she woke up here in New Jersey two days after her son came back to life and teleported into the sky.

As much as I would’ve liked to believe her, I didn’t. Although she was speaking Aramaic, her story was too far-fetched to be true. I told her so and she lifted up her dress and showed me her stretch marks from her pregnancy. I still didn’t believe her. In fact, she was starting to bother me. I left her at Burger King and headed off to the Middle School. The kids there were easy marks—easily humiliated and ridiculed. I hung out at the entrance to the school bus and hurled insults and rude comments as the kids boarded their bus.

One day, the bus driver got off the bus and beat the crap out of me. He called me a “perv” and called the police. I was charged with “damaging children’s’ self-esteem.”

I am locked up in a psychiatric facility awaiting trial. I am undergoing “nicification“ therapy. It involves singing “The Wheels on the Bus” twice a day and studying and memorizing the “Golden Book of Compliments,” I don’t think I have a chance of reform. I told my cellmate he smelled like a skunk’s ass, and he beat me with his shoe. I spent two days in the infirmary. When I got back to our cell, he asked me to teach him how to be an insulting asshole. I made up a syllabus and classes will start tomorrow with “body shaming.”

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.

Sarcasmus (sar’kaz’-mus): Use of mockery, verbal taunts, or bitter irony.

Your brain isn’t the size of a pea, because you don’t have a bran. Where’d you get those shorts? A dumpster or off a crack den floor? Your mother looks dead. Is that a nose or a mountain? Who taught you how to write? A blender? What’s that smell? Oh, I’m sorry, I didn’t see you standing there. Your dog looks like a rag with legs. Your hair is abandoning your head. What’s it scared of? Are those your shoes or x-country skis? If you get any fatter you’ll turn into a hippo.

I have no friends. I live alone. Nobody has ever loved me, not even my mother—she just gave me the basics: food, shelter, and clothing. I’ve never loved anybody either. I came close with a deaf girl until she learned to read lips. I can’t stop insulting people. My first word as a child was “asshole.” I said it to my Sunday School teacher. She screamed and I was driven home with a strip of masking tape over my mouth. I tore it off as soon as I got out of the car, and calmly said “asshole.” The driver said: “Have fun dancing in Hell with Satan you little imp!” I said “asshole” again over my shoulder as I walked up the sidewalk to my front door. My mother was waiting. She dragged me in the door by my ear. I was wearing short pants and she went into the kitchen, grabbed a meat tenderizing hammer and whacked my naked legs. It hurt, but all I could think of was developing a longer list of insults. I was nine years old.

By the time I was a teenager I had 100s of insults. I dreamt in insults. I learned how to target my insults toward people who were literally weak and wouldn’t fight back: 98-pound weaklings, elderly people, chronically ill people, fat tubs of lard, amputees, and people wearing casts. It was an insult playground. A non-stop source of delight and causing undeserved pain. I said to a guy in a cast:” It looks like you’ve been cast as bumbling idiot”; to a guy with asthma: “Why don’t you take a breather numb nuts?”

Then, one day I realized I was sick—mentally sick.. It happened when I told a little girl wearing leg braces that she looked like she had robot legs. Her mother angrily asked: “What the hell is wrong with you?” I sad: “People like you, you bleach blond bozo.” Meanwhile, the little girl was sobbing so she could hardly breathe. I ran away.

I hid out in my house for two days, resolving to do something about my insult fixation. I saw Don Rickles on TV. He made mountains of money insulting people. So, I toned down my insults and started appearing in pubs and in small clubs. I insulted my audience members—all in “good fun.” My manager got me a permanent gig in Las Vegas, and I’ve been there ever since. Now I’m wealthy enough to let my hair down and insult the hell out of a cadre of “absorbers”; a group of people who I insult and pay quite well for “taking it.” Sometimes, I put on a disguise and hit the streets for a day of insulting people. Last week I insulted Cher and she tasered me. I had said to her “What, are those boobs or tennis balls in a bag?”

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.