Category Archives: synecdoche

Synecdoche (si-nek’-do-kee): A whole is represented by naming one of its parts (or genus named for species), or vice versa (or species named for genus).

My 10-inch switchblade flashed in the moonlight. I was going to whack “Shoe” Bigelow, named for the exotic shoes he wore, made from different kinds of skins. He had a pair of jaguar loafers with a black nose and whiskers on each shoe. He had a pair of brogans that were stained with blood from the Battle of Gettysburg in the American Civil War. They were gruesome, but he wore them anyway to intimidate his rivals. Probably the weirdest shoe in his shoe collection was made of dodo bird skin harvested in the late seventeenth century when the dodo went extinct.

I was going to make Shoe Bigelow extinct.

I wasn’t going to club him like the dodos were clubbed. I was going to stick him in the heart for his transgressions against the “Golden Hand,” a social club managing the conduct of crime in our small town in upstate New York. We committed crime in a measured way to keep our profile low and make sure the police would take their bribes and ignore us. Shoe was running wild, trampling on the false trust we had cultivated in our community’s 175 years of existence. Shoe had stolen a baby carriage with the baby still in it. He had committed bigamy with the Mayor’s daughter. He had sold fake Christmas cards door to door. They depicted Jesus pole dancing with a cross on Calvary Hill. He dressed up like the Grim Reaper, scaring everybody out of “Booker T Elementary School,” and then, stealing the day’s lunch money and basketballs from the gym. I have word that he’s at the county flea market selling the balls.

I drove out to the flea market. I walked up to him and said “Hi Shoe.” He threw a ball at me and ran across the field. He tripped and fell on an upturned garden rake. Stabbed by the tines, he flopped around like a speared fish, bled, and died. He was wearing his dodo shoes. I grabbed them and put them in my backpack. A crowd gathered and I slowly walked away, fading back into the flea market.

I get a lot of compliments on the dodo shoes. They’re designed like Chelsea boots and have Vibram soles added in the 1970s by a rich hippie. Back in the day the dodo shoes came with a dodo beak on a lanyard that you could blow on to make dodo sounds, calling the dodos to slaughter.

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.

Synecdoche (si-nek’-do-kee): A whole is represented by naming one of its parts (or genus named for species), or vice versa (or species named for genus).

My new soles took me along the avenue, clomping along, looking through the glass at all the wonderful things for sale from agricultural implements to zebra skin throw rugs. I came to Mr. Zeldbanger’s jewelry store. He was too lazy to clear his shop’s window at night. There were watches, rings and necklaces sitting there yelling “Steal me!”

It was 2:00 am and the streets were deserted. I was pretty sure my new sneakers could get me out of there fast enough to evade arrest when Zeldbanger’s burglar alarm went off.

Yes! I was going to perform my first heist. I took out my hammer and was about ready to smash the window, when my uncle Rosco pulled up in his pimpmobile. He blew the horn and it played Blue Oyster Cult’s “Don’t Fear The Reaper.”

It was the most elaborate pimp mobile in New Jersey. It was “tomato” red with a tire mounted on the trunk lid with a picture of Al Capone painted on it with a cigar in his mouth. It said “No Law No Problem,” It had flashing blue lights in the wheel wells. it had three foot high tail fins, each with six brake lights and one back-up light. It had two specially fitted searchlights for headlights. The grill looked like a set of braces torn from a giant teenager’s mouth. The interior was upholstered in raccoon fur and there was a tanning bed in the trunk. The whole car operated as a sound system. It had a 1,200 horsepower airplane engine. The pimpmobile could go 350 MPH, but it only got 4 miles per gallon of gas.

Uncle Rosco loved his car more than anything—especially his wife and children who he characterize as “A royal pain in the ass.” He hit the automatic door opener and told me to get in the pimpmobile. His big purple hat with the mirrored hat band glistened in the beams of the interior ceiling light.

“What the f*ck are you doing?” he asked. i told him I was going to rob Mr. Zeldbanger’s jewelry store. He said “Oh, now I get it.” I showed him my hammer and told him I’d give him 10% if he’d be my getaway man. He told me he’d be honored. So, I took out my hammer, walked up to the window and smashed it. The alarm went off and I raked as much as I could from the display into my backpack. I heard police sirens and turned around. The pimpmobile was gone. “What a piece of shit” I thought as I took off running. I turned into an alley where the police cars couldn’t follow. I knew the cops were too lazy to run after me, so I got away as smooth as silk.

I saw Uncle Roscoe at the family Thanksgiving dinner a couple of weeks later. I pulled my gun and told him I would blow his balls off if he ever did something like he did at the jewelry store ever again. He said, “Get over it. If you’re going to be in the game, you’ve got to learn how to deal with betrayal. I taught you an important lesson kid.” “This is how I’m going to thank you” I said. I put my gun to his head and cocked it. Uncle Roscoe fainted face down in his mashed potatoes with gravy. Every body laughed when he came to with his face covered with mashed potatoes and gravy. Uncle Roscoe laughed too as he wiped the gravy off his purple pimp hat.

I was vindicated. I would steer clear of Uncle Roscoe and his bullshit. He was my mother’s brother. If he wasn’t, I would’ve sent him to his next incarnation, hopefully, as a pin-worm living in a dog’s ass.

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.

Synecdoche (si-nek’-do-kee): A whole is represented by naming one of its parts (or genus named for species), or vice versa (or species named for genus).

As usual, I turned in my paper late. My ballpoint rolled slow. My wheels turned to a different tune. I had the due date in front of me on the syllabus for the whole semester, yet I failed to meet it. Professor Nolo was not happy. He almost didn’t take my paper at all. Instead, he would deduct 70 of the 100 points that was worth. I missed flunking Moganomics by one point. It was a course about the interactional dynamics of the “Three Stooges.” I had written my paper on Moe’s double face slap and its failure as a corrective measure for Curly and Larry. I argued that the double slap was not focused enough and that a single punch, separately administered to Curly and Larry, would’ve been a much more effective deterrent. I presented my paper at the annual “Stooge Convention.” It was titled “slapping vs. Punching: Correcting a Stooge.” My paper won the convention’s award for “Groundbreaking Scholarship in Stoogology.”

Professor Nolo attended the conference. I told the audience how he had flunked my paper because I turned it in late. He was booed by the nearly 300 people in attendance. He stood up and yelled “I’ll get you!” He stomped out with his fist over his head.

The next semester I wanted to take “Truth in Cartoons.” Professor Nolo was teaching it. Although he had vowed to get me, I signed up for the class anyway. Our final assignment was to draw a single cartoon panel conveying a truth. I drew a picture of Professor Nolo with his pants down being spanked by Marge Simpson while Archie watched. I drew the picture before I knew what its truth was. It took me awhile. I was two days late turning it in. I titled it “Authority and Innocence.” Archie was learning about learning, Professor Nolo was paying the price for disobedience and Marge was practicing her tennis swing. The layers of meaning collided constructing a metaphor conveying the complex connection between truth and timing.

Professor Nolo took one look at my drawing, crumpled it up, and threw it away making a growling sound, like an angry dog. I tried to retrieve it and he hit me over the head with his stapler, right in front of the entire class. The class started chanting “Hit him again,” and he did., about five times. Then the class started chanting “Nolo lunatic.”

I called 911 and Professor Nolo was arrested for assaulting me. Maybe I provoked him. He was a lunatic.

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.

Synecdoche (si-nek’-do-kee): A whole is represented by naming one of its parts (or genus named for species), or vice versa (or species named for genus).

He couldn’t get a handle. There was always a gap between what he thought things were and what they were. He thought his mother’s iron was a frying pan. He thought his face was a mask. He thought his hands were those clamp things in the glass boxes, used to pick up teddy bears, at rest stops on the NYS Thruway. He thought people were dolls and he had gotten in trouble several times for molesting them. He thought fried eggs were all-seeing eyes. He thought books were animal traps—you open them and bait them.

So, he was as as crazy as a loon—he was no brain and he was so far out of touch, we called him Socrates, living in a cloud-cuckoo land of ideas, not manifest in the material world. In fact he thought he was a balloon and lived in fear of being punctured. His father, Milton Rub, was a famous and wealthy chiropractor who kept people in tune for miles around. He was able to influence local psychiatrists in their judgments of Socrates’ sanity and keep hm out of the nearby state hospital.

When Socrates turned 16, his father decided it was time to start shaving. Socrates protested that he was a balloon and shaving would be dangerous, especially with the straight razor his father wanted to use. I held Socrates’ arms behind his back while he struggled. Dr. Rub put the razor to Socrates’ throat and a farting-squealing sound came out. Socrates was losing air!

He was slowly deflating. “I need duct tape!” Dr. Rub yelled as he dropped the razor and ran to the garage. He came back in seconds with a roll of duct and tore off a piece. Socrates was nearly flat, but he could still speak. He said “I feel cold. I feel empty. I am running out of air.” “Don’t worry son, we’ll get you inflated again,” said Dr. Rub as he stuck the duct tape over the slash on Socrates’ throat. “That’s a little better Dad.” Said Socrates.

Dr. Rub had brought a bicycle pump in from the garage along with the duct tape. He told me to pull down Socrates pants. There it was! A valve stem just like on a bicycle tire! It was sticking out of Socrates’ butt. I hooked up the bicycle pump and pumped like crazy. Socrates started to inflate—his legs and arms stiffened. He stood up and pulled up his pants. “Phew” was all he could say. Dr. Rub and I looked at each other in horror. This puncturing episode was bound to happen over and over until there was nobody there to patch and pump Socrates up. Besides, Socrates was not a human being—the rules did not apply to him. Accordingly, we decided to stick a pin in him—to euthanize him slowly and painlessly. We decided to stick him in the middle of his back so he couldn’t reach the wound and patch it. At the last minute, we decided to decapitate him and keep his living head in a bell jar. We fitted the bell jar with a Bluetooth microphone and ear buds so we could communicated with hm.

The day came. We took off his head with a hot knife, sealing it at the neck at the same time so its air wouldn’t leak out. We got a nice oak plant stand to display Socrates’ head. Its craftsman look fits nicely with the living room’s decor and induces meaningful conversations. Last night we discussed the question: Is it worse to be punished for wrongdoing, or to escape punishment?” As usual Socrates dominated the discussion. Not having a body is a real advantage in these kinds of discussions.

Anyway, it is like we’re living a dream and a nightmare. We have kept Socrates a secret. If we told anybody the truth, their world would be turned upside down: the world would turned upside down. We don’t need that with all the other crap going on. At some point Socrates will start to leak due to old age. We will not patch him. We will let him “go gently into the night.”

POSTSCRIPT

I’m burying this to leave a record that will eventually be found.

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.