Category Archives: synathroesmus

Synaloepha (sin-a-lif’-a): Omitting one of two vowels which occur together at the end of one word and the beginning of another. A contraction of neighboring syllables. A kind of metaplasm.

Th’ extra strong stench made me cough like an old man at the edge of death! It was like a giant was squatting over the city, farting prolifically, spreading his rotten-smelling gas like a blanket.

My grandfather needed fresh air in his lungs or he would die choking in his hospital bed. He had worked all of his adult life stringing beads in the back room of a head shop in San Fransisco’s Haight Ashbury district. He had gone there after returning from the Vietnam War. In Vietnam, his job was picking up litter from the front steps of CIA headquarters. He would stand watch every day and burn the trash in the Agency’s incinerator. It was believed that VC agents would clandestinely drop poisoned candy wrappers, misleading coded messages, and random trash which often consisted of 8X10 photographs of Ho Chi Minh. Additionally, green pith helmets with gold and red stars pinned on them often littered the steps in the morning.

My grandfather believed it was the poisoned candy wrappers that had affected his lungs, but he couldn’t prove it. So, the VA would not classify it as service connected, so he wasn’t granted disability compensation for his condition. It was sad, but we lived with it. We loved grandpa and would be there with hm until the end, which, given the poor quality of the air here, was very near.

I did some investigating and found out it was the new battery acid factory that was stinking up the air through its prodcton line’s ventilation system. As far as I could see, we had been conned by our Republican mayor Stewart Greedski. As soon as the deal was struck for building the plant, he showed up in a Maserati with a vanity plate saying “OOHTHESMELL.” Clearly, he was an advocate for the factory that was bringing my father’s life to a close.

First, I would assassinate the mayor, and then, burn the factory down.

Sadly, I didn’t fulfill my self-proclaimed mission. My grandfather died and it became pointless.

Our town was named Pine Cone Hamlet when it was founded. It has since been nicknamed “Stinky Town.” The battery acid factory has driven 3/4 of the residents away. I’m moving to Tuber Town on Monday. I will be working in the organic produce section of the Happy Hippy Supermarket, arranging potatoes and learning to juggle them to attract and entertain customers.

I saw my old friend Buzz at the store yesterday. He still lives in Stinky Town. He has a chronic cough and memory problems. He told me that Mayor Greedski had coughed to death in church after singing “Amazing Grace” with the choir. We both laughed. Buzz started coughing and fell to the floor dead.

Stinky Town has become a ghost town. The battery acid factory has relocated to someplace in Texas. Some people say they can hear coughing on the deserted streets of Stinky Town when the moon is full.

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.

Synathroesmus (sin-ath-res’-mus): 1. The conglomeration of many words and expressions either with similar meaning (= synonymia) or not (= congeries). 2. A gathering together of things scattered throughout a speech (= accumulatio [:Bringing together various points made throughout a speech and presenting them again in a forceful, climactic way. A blend of summary and climax.]).

I had trouble making comparisons that went anywhere, so I tried going random to see if anything would fall out. I tried: “The hammer had a tremor, like ticking jello, like a swishing metronome, a robust tick tock, a merry-making time piece, a jocular watch, a bathing suit rhythmically dripping water, the creamed beats of a drum—rump a pum pum.”

There. You see. They go nowhere, like people in a nursing home, beached polliwogs, grilled cheese Bloody Mary’s, weasels on a holiday.

Ahh! A holiday!

I finally got somewhere. I called my keeper Crispy and announced my plan. He demanded more detail, so I made some details up. Crispy had worked for my family for hundreds of years. My great great great Grandfather had liberated him from a pyramid while he was on an archeological dig in Egypt. Crispy was immortal. He had no insides and had been given a drug made of ground scarabs, powdered lapis lazuli, bullrushes, and a secret ingredient that bestowed immortality on him. Surprisingly, he did not exploit his immortality. Instead, he plodded along through the ages, serving our family faithfully out of gratitude to my great great great grandfather. He never ate, so he was cheap to keep, but he wasn’t very smart.

I told Crispy I had a plan, I told him we were going to Ukraine to fight in the war. Given his immortality, this was a perfect holiday for Crispy. But, he was concerned that I might get killed. I told him I didn’t care. He insisted we make arrangements to ship me home. I was surprised at his pessimism, but I was glad he was thinking ahead.

When we got to Ukraine. We were immediately sent to the front lines. It was hilarious seeing Crispy get shot. The bullets would knock him down, but he’d quickly get up and shake his ass at the Russians who had shot him. They’d shoot him again and he’d get up and shoot them. It was a riot seeing the looks on their faces when Crispy stood up a second time. I was a coward, so I’d always found a tree to hide behind and watch.

Then it happened.

I got shot in the butt running away from a Russian ambush. One AK round in the ass. That’s all it took. In the hospital, the nurses treated me like a god. One in particular treated me like a mega god and told me she loved me every day. Her name was Bohdan. She gave me extra ice cream and the “Tom Swift” series to me. I loved “Tom Swift and His Rocket Ship.” I vowed t build my own rocket ship when I got back to Nee Jersey. I would call it “Space ECKS” (Every Craft Knows Space) and launch it from North Jersey—maybe Newton.

I didn’t know whether Bohdan knew I was a multi-billionaire, and I didn’t care. Crispy told me to go for it, so I did. We were married. We lived in my private hotel in Atlantic City—“The Open Arms.” We slept in a different room every night, Crispy made us breakfast, and I worked on my rocket ship every day. Soon, we will land on your anus—ha ha—I mean “Uranus.”

That’s it. That’s my story.

POSTSCRIPTT

Bohdan ran off with Crispy. Crispy pushed her off a cliff and went back home to apologize for everything.

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.

Synathroesmus (sin-ath-res’-mus): 1. The conglomeration of many words and expressions either with similar meaning (= synonymia) or not (= congeries). 2. A gathering together of things scattered throughout a speech (= accumulatio [:Bringing together various points made throughout a speech and presenting them again in a forceful, climactic way. A blend of summary and climax.])

High. Tall. Statuesque. Altitude: that’s what they called me: Altitude. I was 6’ 8” in the fourth grade. I had what my mother called a “growth spurt.” School taxes went up that year so I could be accommodated. For example, I had a desk that could be jacked up and down so other kids could use it. The ceiling had to be raised in the cloakroom. I had a seat with the legs sawed halfway off that I used in the lunch room so I could fit under the table. My knees were up around my shoulders, but I got to eat with my friends.

My dad suggested I play basketball. I wasn’t very athletically inclined, but I was tall. So I played basketball. The middle school baskets were nine feet high. I just stood by the basket and waited for a pass. I’d catch it and put the ball in the basket. As many passes as I could catch, I could make as many baskets. Lewis Middle School was unbeatable. Other schools started to complain that Lewis was cheating—that I was a freak of nature with no business playing middle school basketball. The other schools agitated for the School Board to make a ruling and put a cap on player height. The School Board ruled in their favor. Lewis Middle school sued the School Board, won, and I continued to play. Fans from opposing teams would throw things at me. A favorite was little plastic toy Jolly Green Giants. The game would have to be stopped after I was bombarded so the plastic giants could be swept up. It was humiliating and made me angry.

I stopped growing in the fourth grade. I was still very tall and my height was still exploited on the basketball court. By the time I graduated from high school I was a “normal” size basketball player. I got a scholarship and actually learned how to play basketball. Then, I started growing again. I was 8’ 1” tall when I graduated from college. I was recruited by professional basketball teams, but I was burned out. I turned down 8 million dollars from one team.

Instead, I started a business changing light bulbs for the elderly and disabled. With my height I didn’t need a ladder. I had a van refitted with extra legroom. My service caught on by word of mouth. Now, I have a constant supply of clients who’re appreciative of what I do. I call my business “Light Twisters.” So far, I’ve changed over a half-million light bulbs of all kinds—flourescent, incandescent, halogen. I have started hiring disabled former NFL players, who may be rich, but who are bored sitting at home watching TV or trolling the internet.

All in all, it has been a wild ride. By the way, I’m married and have a beautiful 11 foot-tall daughter. Ha ha. Just kidding. She’s normal height.

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.