Category Archives: systrophe

Systrophe (si’-stro-fee): The listing of many qualities or descriptions of someone or something, without providing an explicit definition.

“Five foot two, eyes of blue. Big fat ass blowing gas. Feet lke logs, croak like frogs. Fingernails like knives, scratch her hives. Nose like a cliff. It can’t take a whiff.”

Has anybody seen my science project?

Her name is Frankenbarbra and she’s wandering the grounds. I know she can’t escape from Franken U. The walls are tall and electrified with enough voltage to kill a potential escapee. She was originally “harvested” from a grave in the faculty cemetery at M.I.T. (a graveyard filled with genius’s) by my idiot minion Eager. He dragged her to my lab from the cemetery—a distance of eight miles. She was a mess by the time she got here. I had Eager give her a bath and dress her in clean clothes—a nightgown imprinted with Tinkerbells and bunny rabbits. I laid her on the operating table and hooked a car battery to her ears with jumper cables. There was smoke and a little crackling sound and she sat up. She said “This is bullshit.” She tore the jumper cables off her ears and ran out of my lab. I called “Frankeenbarbara, Frankenbarbara,” out my lab’s window. There was no answer.

I grabbed Eager and we took off to find her. If we couldn’t find her, at best, I’d get a “D” on my resurrection assignment. Franken U. had rigorous standards. My professor, Carl “Dolly” Pearton, was very strict about losing subjects. He wouldn’t hesitate to cut off one of my fingers if I screwed up. One of my fellow students only had 4 fingers left after screwing up as many times. So, Eager and I went hunting for Frankenbarbara.

We found her leaning against the wall clutching an arm and a leg that had fallen off of her. This wasn’t unusual for resurrected cadavers. She wasn’t going anywhere unless she crawled. I had installed an emergency “off” switch in her head before I juiced her with the car battery. I stuck my finger in her left ear, pressed, and she went back to “deceased.” I carried her arm and leg while Eager dragged the rest of her back to my lab. Professor Pearton was waiting at the door with a meat cleaver. He checked out Frankenbarbara and determined that, despite the detached leg and arm, she was whole enough to keep experimenting on. My finger was spared.

What a relief!

During the year, I succeeded in bringing Frankenbarbara back to life! She is employed by the University and works in the University dining hall setting tables and refilling napkin holders and salt and pepper shakers. She has her own staff room and, despite her smell, has a small circle of friends making up a book club that meets on Thursday nights. Currently, they are discussing a book about belly-dancing blue-haired women. It is titled “Dancitude in Miami.”

I earned an “A” on my Frankenbarbara project. I went on to earn a degree in Mortuary Science. Every time I reach inside a dead client to yank out their guts, I think of Frankenbarbara. Although I never eviscerated her, I think she has been a real inspiration.

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.

Systrophe (si’-stro-fee): The listing of many qualities or descriptions of someone or something, without providing an explicit definition.

Exciting! Breathtaking! Mega-tremendous! Off the charts! Spectacular!

I had ridden on it 240 times. So far this summer, I added another 22 trips to the edge heaven. It seemed like it went every direction all at once.

I took acid and rode it.

Although it only took six minutes to transit its course, on acid it was like two days. I saw my high school Math teacher hanging upside down and scratching one of his armpits and saying “Two times two is nine—number nine, number nine, number nine.” He had a Beatles wig on and was dressed like Pee-Wee Herman. Then, after a breath-taking dip—a quarter-mile straight down at 100 MPH—behold: Tinker Bell! She was holding a fly swatter instead of a wand. I turn into a big fly and she pulls off my fly wings and swats me on the back of the head. Then she turns into a turnstile and says “You may pass shithead.” I speed off in my paper sky boat. It catches on fire—pretty blue and orange flames. I stand up and whip it out. My penis turns into a fire hose streaming red Kool-Aid. The fire goes out. Ahead, I see a tunnel. It has a banner hanging over the entrance saying “Love Tunnel.”

I whoosh into the tunnel. It is filled with naked women reaching for me and saying “Please” over and over again. I reach for one and she turns into a puddle of cackling yellow goo. I look down. The floor is covered with yellow goo. A cadre of school crossing guards marches into the tunnel from the other end. They use their stop sign paddles like snow shovels to shovel up the goo. I am saved! I move on.

I come out the end of the tunnel. I’m stretched out on my living room couch. I’m watching Wink Martindale beating “Tic-Tac-Dough” contestants with a tire iron.

The acid wears off. It’s been another awesome day and it’s time to go home. As I walk home picking up deposit cans off the roadside and putting them in a plastic bag, I wonder why the cans are not talking to me today.

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.

Systrophe (si’-stro-fee): The listing of many qualities or descriptions of someone or something, without providing an explicit definition.

Iron, tile, milkweed, nailgun: shacks, mowing candellabras, showers. All in a day’s work—a day’s hard work. Working with the hands sometimes slowly, sometimes fast. Toady, I’m making a cradle for the neighbor’s daughter’s newborn baby. Her name is Shane. She’s 11 and her dad’s 45. That’s quite a difference in their age, but here in Texas, the abortion ban wonderland, it happens too often. You see the middle school girls pushing baby carriages to school. The school has made no accommodations for the kiddie moms, making them bring their strollers to class and park them in the back of the classroom.

Put the unwanted pregnancies together with lax gun laws in Texas, and you haves a common sense way of dealing with things. There is a public interest group called “Bullets for Babies” that will loan out handguns for the “Never Again” movement’s mission called “Bye Bye Daddy.”

It has been successful slowing down the rate of unwanted pregnancies by eliminating repeat offenders and scaring the hell out of prospective offenders. But best of all, the US Supreme Court has declared open season on men who impregnate girls under 17. It is hoped this will balance out the strict abortion laws.

It is surprising how many men in our town have been put down. One of the first to go was Mr. Medwick the English teacher. He was young and smart, and single, and very handsome. Of course, this is a recipe for abuse. He was shot dead on the football field during half time. Susie Clen pulled the trigger, wounding him and finally getting a bullet into his head. It was gruesome, but the astroturf cleans right up and you’d never know anything happened.

Another benefit is free DNA tests. They are an infallible guide pointing directly at perpetrators. Many men have mysteriously left town after being summoned to appear at the local DNA testing center to have their saliva swabbed. Most noteworthy was Mayor Jackson. His secretary’s daughter was growing a bump and had pointed the finger the Mayor. As soon as he got notice he was seen speeding out of town in his Cadillac. His Secretary was chasing after him in her Subaru but couldn’t catch up, although she did manage to put a couple of .357 slugs into his trunk.

Anyway, as soon as I finish Shane’s cradle. I’ll hunt her father down and bring him in to the DNA testing center. I hear he’s doing the “sanctuary” thing in the local church. What a joke, after what he did. If he resists, I’ll shoot hm in the foot and then drag him to the center for testing. Chances are, he’ll take off before I can apprehend him. That’ll be a shame. He probably deserves to die. He’ll probably make a run to Oklahoma, but we have an extradition agreement. We’ll get him one way or the other. It’s ironic, but I think he’s a bastard.

Uh oh! I hear gunfire up the street. It must be another feckless father payin’ his dues.

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.