Category Archives: synzeugma

Synzeugma (sin-zoog’-ma): That kind of zeugma in which a verb joins (and governs) two phrases by coming between them. A synonym for mesozeugma.

“That’s how a life bereft of morals goes, bereft of edification, bereft of charity, empty as a dog dish waiting to be filled. But the emptiness bears a quality—a palpable quality, a negative quality inducing hunger—a distraction from a feeling of comfort, without the anxiety of deprecation, of lack, of absence—of the absence of something desired—warmth, physical contact, a favorite TV show—‘Andy of Mayberry,’ ‘Slow Horses,’ or ‘Carbon Dating,’ a show where contestants compete for the affections of people over 80.”

This is the opening paragraph of my creative writing assignment: “Plumb Truth.” My assignment’s tentative title is “Around the Bend: Building a Nietzschean Nest in the Valley of the Deaf.” I’m not very insightful when it comes to truth. But I feel confident that in the valley of the deaf, the one-eared man has an advantage.

My dad was a professional wrestler. Mad Dog Dynamite had bitten of his ear. He sued, and settled for 2-million dollars. So, being a one-eared man afforded him many benefits: a villa in South Beach Miami, a Rolls Royce, and countless beautiful girlfriends. Eventually he married one—Steamy Lakes. She’s my mom. Dad didn’t like it, but she was a dedicated pole dancer. We had two poles set up in the family room where mom and I danced to classics like “Disco Inferno.” These are some of my most fond memories. We would sweat and wriggle like two nervous snakes. Sometimes we would hiss just for the heck of it.

I had a girlfriend, Eloise. She said she came from Mars. She wore two antennas on her head all the time. When she was aroused they turned red. That convinced me she wasn’t faking it—that they were actually an outgrowth of her body, and possibly, tokens of her being from Mars. She could tune into radio broadcasts from anywhere in the world and channel them through her mouth. I enjoyed Radio Belize for its unbiased news reporting. Unfortunately, Eloise disappeared one day—there was a roaring sound in the yard that left a large smoking circle. I believe it was Eloise going back home. I think her parents made her leave Earth because she was getting too attached to me. I do think we loved each other. I miss her, maybe too much. I bought blueprints for a rocket ship from “Space WXYZ,” Elon Musk’s DYI space ship company.

My “Ship” came with no guarantee. It cautions that taking off in it will likely result in being burned alive. I was blinded by love, so I was willing to take a chance.

I have burns over 100% of my body.

Eloise came down from Mars and hovered over my hospital bed. Her tears dripped on my bedsheets. They were different colors—red, green, blue and purple. She lowered herself to about a foot above my body and put her hands on either side of my head. I felt like a great weight had been lifted and I was healed! I sat up and hugged Eloise. She said, “I hear my mother calling me” and disappeared.

I told my father what had happened. Now I’m on medication and seeing a counseling psychologist once a week. I can tell that she thinks I’m a total nutcase. So far, we’ve talked about my memories of being born. I told her I thought it was like a vaginal dump; that I was a crying pink poop. My therapist was visibly excited when I told her that—rubbing her hands together and saying “Yes, yes, yes!” Of course, I was lying. I had no recollections, but I wanted to give us something to talk about. We spent the next two months talking about it, then, I quit seeing her.

I was starting to worry about completing “Around the Bend: Building a Nietzschean Nest in the Valley of the Deaf.” I wish I had a deeper reservoir of experiences to draw on. I figured that a couple of all-nighters would do the trick. Adderal, Red Bull, and Marlboros would pull me through. I was confident.

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.

Synzeugma (sin-zoog’-ma): That kind of zeugma in which a verb joins (and governs) two phrases by coming between them. A synonym for mesozeugma.

My head was metaphorically furry, bleating sheepishly. I was a sheepaphile. I loved wool. Soft, luxuriant, furry, good smelling. I had a pet sheep named Bobby. Sometimes I called him Bobby Baa Baa. Sometimes I would dress up like Mary and he would follow me around our apartment. Sometimes I would dress up like Little Bo Peep. I pretended I had lost my sheep and Bobby would hide somewhere in the apartment. There was only one place to hide, so I would find him every time wedged in my closet. It was great fun.

I would try to take Bobby for a walk as often as I could, but it was hard. My neighbor had an Australian Sheep Dog. If he saw me and Bobby walk by, he would go berserk in the window until my stupid neighbor would let him out. The Sheep Dog’s name was Crikey, and no matter how loud and angrily my neighbor called him, Crikey would ignore him and crouch down on the sidewalk trying to “herd” Bobby. Bobby would bleat and paw the sidewalk as a warning. He’d give Crikey his best combat head butt. Crikey would roll over and play dead. Without a word, my neighbor Iggy would come outside, hand me a beer, and drag Crikey up the front steps and back into his apartment. This happens at least once a month. I think Iggy plans it this way. I wish he’d wear a shirt.

Then there was the “Wooly Bully,” a “mutant” sheep that lived in the woods adjacent to the park where we took our walks. On one of our walks, one day in late September, we were walking on a trail in the woods. We heard an extremely loud fart—almost like a tractor trailer truck air horn. Billy made a sound like he had never made before. It sounded more like “daa” than “baa.”

The Wooly Bully stuck its head out of the bushes. It had two big horns and a wooly jaw, just like in the song! Billy was going crazy bleating “daa, daa, daa.” Then I got it! Apparently the Wooly Bully was Billy’s estranged father. This made Billy an extremely rare cross-breed of sheep. I found out that the Wooly Bully wasn’t a mutant after all. He was a Tibetan Valley Sheep, bred for his wool and also to guard villagers against marauding Yetis. We’ll never know how the Wooly Bully got to the US. It could’ve been during the Great Tibetan Migration of 1902, when the Yaks stopped giving milk and the Tibetans faced starvation. Billy’s dad could be descended from those original Wooly Bullies who emigrated with the Tibetans.

Now, Billy visits “Wooly” once a week. They spend time butting each other and playing “Yeti Attack.” I play the Yeti and get knocked around pretty good when we play.

I was thinking about buying us a Yak. We could make Kumis and get drunk while we watch pro wrestling or Netflix. But, Yaks are hard to find in New York. Besides, I don’t know how I’d fit a Yak in the apartment along with Billy. So, I got Billy a tattoo of a Yeti on his ear to remind him of his heritage.

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.

Synzeugma (sin-zoog’-ma): That kind of zeugma in which a verb joins (and governs) two phrases by coming between them. A synonym for mesozeugma.

I was going without a second thought. I’d been watching stupid streaming Australian doctor shows on Prime TV for too long. I had developed a slight Australian accent, including learning slang. I had a pretty good idea of maladies and accidents Australians suffered from—mostly infections, broken bones and cancer. The one thing that bothered me a lot was how promiscuous they are. In one episode this woman has sex in the supply room on her first day of work. Then, she feels guilty about it and tells her son!

So, I was on my way out—on a date with an Australian woman. We rode in my Subaru Outback to Outback Steak House. I had heard they served kangaroo meat there, had dancing Kuala Bears, techno didgeridoo music, and sang “Waltzing Matilda” every half-hour. None of this was true accept for the singing. But my date Baahbrah more than made up for it. We were drinking giant cans of Foster’s beer and having a great time. She had unbuttoned her blouse half-way down and pulled it open when we sang “Waltzing Matilda.” I unbuttoned my shirt too and put my arm around her. It was great getting out and being with a live human being! I told her “Crikey, this is the most fun I’ve had in a couple of years!”

She stiffened, she frowned, and she squinted. Her fingers went white-knuckle on her Foster’s can, and she crushed it. She flipped over our table and stomped out the door, calling an Uber on her cellphone.

I called her the next day and she hung up. Finally, after a week she took my call. I asked her what the hell had happened. “It was the Crikey,” she told me. “You misused it. And what is worse, it was the last thing my father said before he died.” They were riding to shear sheep and their Land Rover ran over a didgeridoo that had somehow ended up in the middle of the road. Her Dad swerved and the Land Rover flipped over. Her Dad wasn’t buckled in and he flew 10 feet. When she got to him he said “Crikey” and died of a fractured skull. She found out that the didgeridoo was put there so he would stop and be robbed. It was the work of the “Finks,” a notorious biker gang who specialized in “stop and steal” operations. For some reason they didn’t rob Baahbrah and her father.

Although I could understand her feeling, I thought her behavior was bizarre, and that she was probably a little crazy. But I let it slide. I was so desperately lonely I would’ve dated Freddy Kruger or the Wicked Witch of the West or Ma Barker.

Every once-in-while I say “Crikey” very softly so she doesn’t know whether she’s hearing things. I ask her what’s matter and she tells me she heard a voice say “Crikey.” I assure her that can’t be true, all the time laughing to myself. I know it’s cruel, but I can’t help it. I like living on the edge.

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.