Category Archives: tasis

Tasis (ta’-sis): Sustaining the pronunciation of a word or phrase because of its pleasant sound. A figure apparent in delivery.

I was having a balll baby. Scrabble had captured my soul. My spelling was poor, so I never won. I played with my sister. She was in the sixth grade and knew a lot more words than me. It was something to do on Saturday nights.

I was in the ninth grade. I was called “differently abled.” At least I wasn’t slow, so it did not bother me. In my senior year of high school I suddenly became a genius. I don’t know what happened, but one morning I woke up and saw complex equations on the ceiling that I solved before I got out of bed. I had chicken embryos for breakfast and jumped on my four-wheeled lumber transport device and headed for the learning institution.

In history class, I recited an abridged version of the history of Long Island. My favorite part is when the Dutch are kicked out and sail back to Holland. After what they did with their tulips, they deserved it for wasting good farmland. In metal shop, I tore down and rebuilt a 1955 Ford v-8 engine. My teacher told me I could teach the class from now on. He couldn’t compete with my genius.

I learned French in one day and was awarded the school’s “French Prize.” It was an all expenses paid one week trip to Paris. Instead of going to Paris, I sold my plane ticket. The transfer fess were steep, but I still got away with $1,000.

I felt my genius fading. “Easy come, easy go” I said to myself—as I became my old self again, I couldn’t make good choices. I spent my thousand dollars on Jolly Ranchers at the “Sugar Hi” candy store across the street from school. It is a lifetime supply. They keep it for me, stored in the back room, and I go in once a month and have my candy bucket filled. It is a dream come true.

I would like to be a genius again someday and get more Jolly Ranchers—they make my bedroom smell sooo good! I’d like to learn how to set fires too!

I am back to playing Scrabble on Saturday nights with my sister. I am pretty good with three letter words: dog, hog, and, boo, con, car and so forth.

Anyway, life goes on. Nothing’s perfect. Sometimes life gives you lemons. I need to learn how to make lemonade.

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.

Tasis (ta’-sis): Sustaining the pronunciation of a word or phrase because of its pleasant sound. A figure apparent in delivery.

“Beautifullll! Wonderfullll! Over the rainbowwww!” I was looking at my reflection in the mirror. I liked what I saw. I had had the big three: eyebrows, boobs, and butt. I had my hairy old eyebrows removed. I had them replaced by snake tattoos slithering across my forehead where my eyebrows used to be. They were exotic, poetic, and cool. I named the left one “Snakey” and the right one “Serpentina.”

My boobs had always been too small. People called them “button boobs.” I got tired of that. Nobody wants a button for a boob! It’s like having a tube of lipstick for a toe, or an ashtray for a kneecap. Stupid! So I got a boob job to make them bigger—more confident, more cocky, more visible.

I had always loved Paramount Pictures. Some of my favorite movies have been produced by them. “The Godfather” and “Forest Gump” are my two favorites, but I love them all. That’s why my new boobs are modeled after the mountain on the Paramount Pictures logo. I had snow caps tattooed on them with a tiny Marlon Brando climbing the left one and a tiny Tom Hanks climbing the right one. There’s an annual tattoo convention in Vegas and I’m going to enter the “Most Innovative Tattoo” contest. I don’t think I’ll win, but it will be fun.

My butt was like my boobs. I had a pancake but. There wasn’t much there you could call a butt. It was so flat and bony when I sat on somebody’s lap it was painful for them. They’d say “Ow!” and push me off. It wasn’t very romantic. Then I heard of the “bubble butt.” I got bubble butt implants. They bring my butt up to par and more.

The implants are the size of cinder blocks. Unlike cinder blocks, the edges are rounded to look like butt cheeks. At five pounds per cheek, they are a little heavy. I can’t run. My plastic surgeon says something may tear. That would be embarrassing if I was on a date or something. Besides, I’m not about to run with my bubble butt—it would make a loud sloshing sound courtesy of the silicone in the implants. But, I love my bubble butt. Along with my snake eyebrows and mountain boobs, I am quite attractive and get the kind of attention I like. Next week I’m getting a tattoo of floating bubbles on my butt. Very cooool!

I’m thinking now of getting a nose job. I want my nose to look like the Paramount Pictures mountain, but it would be tattoo free. However, it would still coordinate nicely with my boobs.

POSTSCRIPT

She was leaving “Inked All Over” after getting the bubble tattoo. She slipped on a patch of ice and landed on her butt. Her butt exploded in a shower of silicone.

She died in the ambulance on the way to the hospital. It was tragic. Her most recent boyfriend Billy-B wanted to fly her body to Vegas and enter it in the “Most Innovative Tattoo” contest. Because of the red tape and the cost, he was unable to do so.

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.

Tasis (ta’-sis): Sustaining the pronunciation of a word or phrase because of its pleasant sound. A figure apparent in delivery.

B-I-I-I-G! The bump on my forehead had gotten the size of a small pumpkin. It was actually bigger than a bump & bigger than a lump too! It was more like a molehill without a hole. Or, half a cantaloupe. Maybe at some point it would look like a unicorn horn, and maybe explode and splatter my windshield or bathroom mirror or TV screen with whatever the hell was sloshing around inside it.

I have decided after one month of the bump, to go to the doctor and get it diagnosed and fixed. I’m sure it is some kind infection that is not fatal or I would’ve been dead already. Well, maybe not. The doctor will tell me. If I’m going to die, so be it.

I made an appointment with Dr. Dieter Stollen. He specializes in Pus-Swollen Skin Sacs. He took one look at my forehead at said “Das ist no tannenbaum!” He was trying to be humorous. He squeezed my bump and it made a squeaking sound. When it squeaked he pulled his hand away and wiped it on his pants. He reached in the drawer on his operating table and pulled out a shiny knife around ten inches long. I told him I thought it was a little big and he said “Vee vill see Mr. Know-it-all.” He told me to disrobe and lay on the table. Before I knew it, he and the nurse strapped me down. The nurse started administering me anesthesia. She laughed as she counted me down from 10 and said “Don’t worry my little puss machine.” That’s the last thing I remembered before I woke up.

The doctor was holding up a jar with what looked like a giant blue worm squirming around in it. It was at least six inches long. There was pus splattered all over the place—my gown was soaked and smelled like mayonnaise. The worm stopped wriggling and looked at me with its little black oval eyes. I couldn’t tell for sure, but it looked like it was crying.

The Doctor told me it was a Boogey Worm. it gets into your nose via picking it with an unclean pinky. Then, it climbs up your nose and makes a nest behind your forehead where it lays three little eggs that roll out your nose and into your food, where you eat them and they grow to maturity in your stomach. Once they have grown, they exit out your anus taking up residence in a sewer treatment facility or septc tank. The giant worm in my head was a breeder—very rare.

I asked him if I could keep the giant worm as a souvenir. He said: “Vi not? Just do not let him get out of da jar.” I didn’t listen. I named him Joe and got him a terrarium. I fed him Crisco and pork suet. He was flourishing. But then, I woke up one morning and Joe was gone. I searched high and low. I found him under the kitchen cabinets, but he was so fast I couldn’t catch him. Then one day, he shot out the front door and disappeared forever.

The only thing I’ve changed in my life is I use a sanitary wipe on my pinky when I pick my nose.

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.