Category Archives: simile

Simile

Simile (si’-mi-lee): An explicit comparison, often (but not necessarily) employing “like” or “as.”


I was going to walk across the US to draw attention to the plight of wealthy people. They were like weeds that everybody but them wanted to eradicate. They were like a landfill that needed to be burned. They were like snot that needed to be wiped away. All of these sentiments were so frightening and demeaning that it causes wealthy people to live in fear and bear the painful burden of low self esteem.

So far, I had walked around 500 feet in solidarity with my rich suffering brothers and sisters. It was hot and I wasn’t used to walking very far. I was actually sweating somewhat and was thirsty. In fact, my t-shirt was nearly soaked and it’s lettering had begun to run. I had made it myself. I probably should’ve used waterproof ink, but I was in a hurry to get my show on the road. The t-shirt’s inscription “Love the Rich Walk 2023” had run to the point where it was nearly illegible.

There was a Cliff’s up ahead. I could use some A/C, a cool refreshing beverage, and perhaps a slice of pizza and a couple of lotto tickets—my favorite, “Take 5” scratch offs. I started cooling off nicely and thought about how wealthy people had to deal with their swimming pools. It took at least a week to find a competent Pool Boy or Girl, all the while suffering in the sun, stuck on a chaise slathered with lotion like a gourmet hamburger from Omaha. Very sad. Very unfair. Very humiliating.

Just then, a clearly homeless man came through the door carrying a Cliff’s styrofoam cup. The guy behind the counter said, “Hi Jerry! Need a top-up?” Jerry said “Yes” and held out his cup. He turned and looked at me and said “What’re you looking at fancy boy?” “Nothing” I said. “Whazzat say on your shirt?” I told him “Love the rich walk, 2003.” He threw his coffee on the floor, picked up a plastic fork, and came at me. Just then, a clearly rich guy came through the door, having just fueled up his Maserati, and reaching for a six-pack of Ommegang beer, he knocked Jerry to the floor and stood on his throat while he called 911 on his cellphone and held Jerry at gunpoint with a shiny new Glock. I thought about the burden this rich guy had to bear, having to stand on a homeless man’s throat and put wear and tear on his brand new handgun. Unconscionable!

After the police came, questioned everybody and took Jerry away, with trussed up like a pig with zip ties, I was going think things over before I continued my trek. There was a real nice motel about 100 feet from Cliff’s where I could rest up—loll around by the swimming pool and get a good night’s sleep. In fact, I was thinking about staying a couple of nights. They had a well-stocked bar and a lounge where they advertised live music by “Eddy and the Fel-Tones.” They played 50s and 60s rock! I was going to request “Earth Angel” and hope one would descend on me! I ordered a rum and Coke and started to scratch my lotto tickets. I expected, maybe, with some kind of luck, to win $2.00. When I got to the last scratch panel in the lower right corner of the ticket, I felt like somebody had stuck a live wire up my butt: I had won $5,555.55! Then, everybody in the bar started screaming and scrambling for the fire exits. It was Jerry and he had a sawed-off shotgun. He saw me and came straight for me. He asked, “Give me a good reason not to blow you away you useless little prick!” “How about this? It’s a winning $5,555.55 lotto ticket.” I said. He grabbed the ticket, looked at it, said “Thanks scumbag,” and turned and walked out of the bar holding the ticket over his head. There was a shotgun blast, followed by sustained automatic weapon fire. Somebody had called the police and the police had “gifted” Jerry with at least 100 rounds of 9 mm slugs. Pretty much all that was left of Jerry was his mangled head and his blood-soaked overcoat.

That was probably the closest I’ll ever come to dying. Jerry’s gruesome death woke me up! I shouldn’t be walking in solidarity with wealthy people! I should be walking in support of building pens for the homeless—like super secure chicken yards. Think of what it cost to make Jerry into a dead man. If he had been penned when he became unemployed in the first place, it never would’ve happened. I call what happened the “Tragedy of the Wasted Ammo.”


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

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Simile

Simile (si’-mi-lee): An explicit comparison, often (but not necessarily) employing “like” or “as.”


She’s like a bicycle with one wheel missing, scraping a groove in my heart. It hurts like the time she sanded my left butt cheek with #80 garnet grit sandpaper. She crumbled my butt’s smooth skin like a piece of cheddar on a cheese grater. It hurt. I think I need to get away from her before I end up in a frying pan with a couple of eggs.

But for some reason, stemming from some kind of mild mental illness, I am unable to leave her. I want to think that her propensity for inflicting pain is a passing thing. But then, I realize we’ve been together for five years and she’s been marking me up the whole time—that’s more than “passing,” it’s become officially “chronic.” Now, she wants to amputate my little toe, cure it with some kind of chemical concoction, put a hole through it, mount a jump-ring on it, thread it with a piece of rawhide, and wear it around her neck, making a fashion statement on love’s commitment. The only objection I had was that she wanted to paint my toenail “Essie—Easily Red.” I thought that shade of red was too festive. I thought “Shades of Red—Rust” was more appropriate for an amputated toe. It had a somber tone to it. After a brief argument, we settled on Rust.

The time came to amputate my toe. We decided that since I was right-handed I would miss my right toe more than my left toe, so we went with the left toe. I was wearing shorts and removed my Birkenstock from my left foot. Everything for the “operation” was laid out on the TV tray table: a zip-loc bag, a roll of surgical bandage, adhesive tape, scissors, a washcloth, and hedge clippers. Everything was fine until I saw the hedge clippers. They reminded me of the hell my father put me through clipping our twelve-foot high hedge when I was a kid. I was 14 and I would fall off the ladder, once enduring a mild concussion that set me back learning arithmetic—a setback I never quite recovered from. I would get blisters on my hands from the clippers, and knock birds’ nests to the ground at my father’s prompting. It was truly devilish work. Now, my toe was to be amputated with hedge clippers! “No!” I yelled and ran out the door and down the stairs wearing only my right Birkenstock. Halfway down, I tripped and fell and rolled onto the lawn.

I think my girlfriend had given me some kind of sedative in my Matcha to prepare me for surgery. I was having trouble moving, and through my double vision, I saw Mr. Rainy, the maintenance man, headed straight at me on his zero-turn lawnmower! He was hoisting a bottle of beer to his lips and wasn’t watching where he was going. I yelled as loud as I could, but between the engine noise and his noise-cancelling earmuffs, Mr. Rainy couldn’t hear me.

I caught a glimpse of my girlfriend standing on the stairs, doing nothing. Mr. Rainy saw me at the last second and whipped off to the left and shut the mower down. He helped me up and called a cab. I was going to stay with my friend Jessica. She was a geek—not the nerdy type, but the circus sideshow type. She raised hamsters for her act and was notorious for her performance reprising “Nightmare Alley.” We got along well. One day, I looked out the window and there was my old girlfriend down in the street slowly making a cutting motion with a a pair of hedge clippers. She did this every day for a week. Then, she disappeared forever. Luckily, I had gotten my stuff out of the apartment one day when she was at work at the tattoo parlor.

I never saw her again after what turned out to be her last hedge clipper performance. I had my life back. When I talked about her to people who asked I would say “I severed my relationship with her. I cut off all ties. It wasn’t brain surgery.” Nobody got the jokes. I didn’t care. Living with Jessica was wonderful. Her biting sense of humor headed off all my gloom.


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 is also a Kindle edition available.

Simile

Simile (si’-mi-lee): An explicit comparison, often (but not necessarily) employing “like” or “as.”


Sarah was like a noisy go-kart stuck on a slow track at the mall. Around and around we went, and we never got anywhere, and she wouldn’t shut up. I felt like a beaver with dentures, but I didn’t complain: I couldn’t complain. I was grateful to have somebody who, in my opinion, was beautiful: long blond hair, blue eyes, classic hourglass shape, the whole nine yards. However, she was the stupidest person I’ve ever known. Her brain was like a walnut. She was as articulate as a bathtub. She had the taste of a cockroach. Having a job was, to her, like having cancer.

So, why did I love her? Two reasons. (1) Her parents are filthy crazy rich; (2) She is the most trusting, giving, faithful, caring, gentle, loving human being I have ever known.

We’ll get somewhere someday. We’ll be like two pelicans pumping our wings over the Gulf of Mexico, heading to Cancun or maybe Corpus Christi. Our pelican bills will be filled with money. Our pelican hearts will be filled with joy.

Oh, a text message from Sarah: “I am like a smart shopper. I am returning you.”

I texted: “What the hell did that mean? Return me? Return me where?”

She texted me: “The bar where I found you.”

I threw my phone on the floor. It popped in half, just like me and Sarah.


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 is also a Kindle edition available.

Simile

Simile (si’-mi-lee): An explicit comparison, often (but not necessarily) employing “like” or “as.”


My preferred character is projected by my speech. It’s like a currently popular catchphrase or a buzz word: I want to utilize incentivization to maximize our leverage in the upcoming negotiations. Ha ha! That’s me! Smart! With it! Learned!

I am constantly masking my rough origins and basic dishonesty with Latinized words. In a way, I am like a brick painted with elaborate images that will eventually be hurled through somebody’s window.


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 is also a Kindle edition available.

Simile

Simile (si’-mi-lee): An explicit comparison, often (but not necessarily) employing “like” or “as.”

Trump is like a talking fart.

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

 

Simile

Simile (si’-mi-lee): An explicit comparison, often (but not necessarily) employing “like” or “as.”

Your breath smells like the River Styx.

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.

Simile

Simile (si’-mi-lee): An explicit comparison, often (but not necessarily) employing “like” or “as.”

Higher education in the 21st century at many colleges and universities does not successfully prepare its so-called liberally educated students to negotiate life’s vicissitudes; to negotiate uncertainties and strife with humane voices speaking in the light. Rather, from the “safe spaces” where they reside, they learn how to “take offense,” and how to willy nilly level charges that are always taken seriously, and always will be heard.

Like latter-day nazis, like blood-hungry wolves, they have forged their brutish howling voices into pointed blades of fear, turning “judicial hearings” into monologues where cowering judges have only to decide how, and how much, to punish whomever “some students” may anonymously deride.

Somewhere, this is the culture of academic residential life, where there are no consequences for telling lies. In this community of Kafka houses after every trial, when the gavel grants another win to their revengeful pride, “some students” have been known laugh out loud, smoke a joint, drink a couple of drinks, and piss on the wall of the stone prophylactic euphemistically called “residence hall.”

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

Simile

Simile (si’-mi-lee): An explicit comparison, often (but not necessarily) employing “like” or “as.”

We keep calling it a debt ceiling, but it’s more like a trampoline.

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

Simile

Simile (si’-mi-lee): An explicit comparison, often (but not necessarily) employing “like” or “as.”

That candidate’s position on unemployment is like a parking lot out in the middle of the desert: empty and useless.

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

Simile

Simile (si’-mi-lee): An explicit comparison, often (but not necessarily) employing “like” or “as.”

Truth is like an endless tube of toothpaste–the more you squeeze it, the more you get out of it.

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

Simile

Simile (si’-mi-lee): An explicit comparison, often (but not necessarily) employing “like” or “as.”

He was so closed-minded that trying to get him to change his mind was like trying to push an armored car up a hill with a lawn tractor.

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