Category Archives: tricolon

Tricolon

Tricolon (tri-co-lon): Three parallel elements of the same length occurring together in a series.


I grew up in a part of New Jersey where it was so fertile that you could plant a corn seed in the ground and yell “Corn!” and a cornstalk would start growing. If you did this in the morning, you’d be having corn on the cob with butter and salt for supper. Ok, I’m exaggerating a little, but I’m not far off the truth. We loved corn, but tomatoes were the holy grail. A big ripe red juicy tomato, warm from the sun, would make older men and women get down on their knees in front of the bush and cry. I was only 14, so I didn’t have those emotions yet. But when August came and the tomatoes ripened, there was a sort of tomato mania that swept the neighborhood.

My neighborhood was predominantly Italian. I was the only Protestant. I traced my ancestry to Scotland. Every one of my friends told me I was going to hell, yet they enjoyed it when I gave them synopses of the condemned movies I saw, that they weren’t permitted to see. We’d meet in the falling-down garage behind my house—they’d sit on dirt floor while I stood and recounted the movies, sometimes acting out scenes.

It was in the garage that our plan unfolded. Mr. Stromboli had magical tomatoes. They looked better than the tomatoes pictured on the plant markers by each plant. They were so red. They were so big. They we so beautiful. All five of us wanted to eat one, but Mr. Stromboli was stingy. Every time we asked, he’d yell “No! Get outta here you little bums!” And then he’d pet one of his tomatoes just to taunt us. So, we came up with a plan.

We would hop his little wire fence that night. There was no moon. It would be very dark and would provide us with cover. We would each carry a shaker of salt, pick a tomato, bite it, and sprinkle it with salt, and keep sprinkling and biting until the tomato was gone, throw down the remains, jump back over the fence, and go home.

That night we met at the garage, checked our salt shakers and headed off to Mr. Stromboli’s garden. I was first over the fence and landed on Mr. Stromboli. He had a tomato stake driven through his chest. He was dead. We stood there for about five seconds and then ran home. This was New Jersey where you learned at a very young age not to report, talk about, or acknowledge the existence of a murder. In short, none of us respected the law that much. All of our fathers were, in one way or another, involved in crime—from tax evasion to protection rackets. All I could think was that Mr. Stromboli was mobbed up somehow too. When I thought about how he dressed—black banlon shirts and a black stingy brim hat. He drove a black Coup de Ville, smoked Di Nobili cigars, and supposedly ran the produce stand at Fortunado’s supermarket, but he was never there.

Then, we heard that Mrs. Stromboli had torn up all the tomato plants and stomped them into the ground, without picking a single tomato. Then, we saw a young woman dressed in black wearing a veil and crying by Mr. Stromboli’s fence. I put two and two together and it added up to three. That’s the wrong number for a marriage, especially a Catholic marriage.


Definition courtesy of “Silva Rhetoricae” (rhetoric.byu.edu)

Buy a print edition of The Daily Trope! The print edition is entitled The Book of Tropes and is available on Amazon for $9.99.

Tricolon

Tricolon (tri-co-lon): Three parallel elements of the same length occurring together in a series.


I wrestled with so many likelihoods every day that I was exhausted when I got home from work. I was cranky. I was klutzy. I was jammed. It is hard to synthesize these feelings into an integral whole denoting my end-of-day self. Definitely not positive. I was angry. I was dizzy. I was stuck. It was weird.

As I was thinking about my weird state of being, somebody started ringing our doorbell and pounding on the door. “Mr. Greengenes, I have an important message for you!” Pound, pound, pound. Ring, ring, ring. Why can’t this Bozo just call me or text me like everybody else? Why was he at the door? “I’ll get it honey,” said my wife. She opened the door. There was a whooshing sound and the doorbanger was there, standing in the middle of what looked like a sideways blue tornado! My wife backed off and hid under the kitchen table. I yelled “Holy shit” and stood my ground. The little green man took out a luminous paper-like sheet, smiled, and started to read:

“Mr. Greegenes, I am pleased to inform you, on behalf of the people of the planet Nooboo, that you have been voted the alien most likely to willingly be the main dish at our annual Badda Bing Festival. In return, your wife will receive $50,000,000 tax free, a 75” LG TV, a lifetime supply of Perrier, and an excellent replacement husband. Before I could say anything, my wife came running out of the kitchen yelling “Can you throw in a Rolls Royce?”

This was insane. There’s no way I want to be eaten by space aliens, let alone be betrayed by my wife. I yelled “No!” Everything went black. I awoke to the soft hum of the Noobooian space craft cutting through time and space. As far as I could see, there was no way to escape. Just then, the little green man climbed down from the flight deck. “Mr. Greengenes, I have a proposition.”


Definition courtesy of “Silva Rhetoricae” (rhetoric.byu.edu)

Buy a print edition of The Daily Trope! The print edition is entitled The Book of Tropes and is available on Amazon for $9.99.

A video reading of the example above is posted on YouTube at Johnnie Anaphora.

Tricolon

Tricolon (tri-co-lon): Three parallel elements of the same length occurring together in a series.


I stood. I turned. I farted. As I took my laptop out of the overhead bin, I noticed the man immediately across the aisle had his head in his hands and was pounding intermittently on his forehead. I didn’t know what to do, so I sat back down and booted up my laptop and picked up where I had left off that morning, working on my speech for the International Gummy Bear Brothers, an all-male club founded in the 1970s solely for the protection and advancement of Gummy Bear culture and the free flow of Gummy Bears across international borders. It was sort of like Doctors Without Borders, only with bear-shaped candies.

I offered a Gummy Bear to the woman sitting next to me. She looked at me like I was trying to poison her. I closed my laptop. The speech can wait. I need to put my laptop in the overhead bin.

I stood. I turned. I farted.


Definition courtesy of “Silva Rhetoricae” (rhetoric.byu.edu)

Buy a print edition of The Daily Trope! The print edition is entitled The Book of Tropes and is available on Amazon for $9.99.

Tricolon

Tricolon (tri-co-lon): Three parallel elements of the same length occurring together in a series.

The tree had fallen. My house was crushed. My insurance had lapsed.

Now, what would I do?

I packed what I could in my truck. I backed out of the driveway without looking. I got hit by a bulldozer pushing branches.

No car insurance. No common sense. No Plan B.

Damn. Crap. Hell.

Definition courtesy of “Silva Rhetoricae” (rhetoric.byu.edu)

Buy a print edition of The Daily Trope! The print edition is entitled The Book of Tropes and is available on Amazon for $9.99.

Tricolon

Tricolon (tri-co-lon): Three parallel elements of the same length occurring together in a series.

I sat. I read. I slept. When I woke up later in the day I had a stiff neck and drool on the front of my shirt. That’ll teach me to sleep in chairs in libraries in the middle of the day! But those library chairs are so comfortable! I don’t think I can refrain from sitting in them–I just have to stay awake and read. Next time I’ll have some coffee before I go to the library. I hope that will work.

Definition courtesy of “Silva Rhetoricae” (rhetoric.byu.edu)

Buy a print edition of The Daily Trope! The print edition is entitled The Book of Tropes and is available on Amazon for $9.99.

Tricolon

Tricolon (tri-co-lon): Three parallel elements of the same length occurring together in a series.

I tasered him. I shot him. I killed him. Oh–I was exonerated by the grand jury–no indictment!

Clearly, to any sane person, I acted in self defense! After all, he punched me twice! The scrappy little 17-year-old boy could’ve killed me with his bare hands, or even taken my gun away from me and shot me because I was sitting on him.

Sadly and tragically and hopefully this child’s death will send a message to all the viciously aggressive, thoughtless, and reckless high beam flashers out there: If you don’t want to be dead on the pavement from seven gunshot wounds, remember,

“Put ’em on high, and you will die!”

That’s a promise.

Definition courtesy of “Silva Rhetoricae” (rhetoric.byu.edu).

Buy a print edition of The Daily Trope! The print edition is entitled The Book of Tropes and is available on Amazon for $9.99.

Tricolon

Tricolon (tri-co-lon): Three parallel elements of the same length occurring together in a series.

I Googled. I copied. I pasted.

Got caught. Got accused. Got expelled.

  • Post your own tricolon on the “Comments” page.

Definition courtesy of “Silva Rhetoricae” (rhetoric.byu.edu).

Buy a print edition of The Daily Trope! The print edition is entitled The Book of Tropes and is available on Amazon for $9.99.

Tricolon

Tricolon (tri-co-lon): Three parallel elements of the same length occurring together in a series.

You marry.  You divorce.  You pay.

Definition courtesy of “Silva Rhetoricae” (rhetoric.byu.edu).

Buy a print edition of The Daily Trope! The print edition is entitled The Book of Tropes and is available on Amazon for $9.99.

Tricolon

Tricolon (tri-co-lon): Three parallel elements of the same length occurring together in a series.

You drill.  You spill.  You kill.

Definition courtesy of “Silva Rhetoricae” (rhetoric.byu.edu).

Buy a print edition of The Daily Trope! The print edition is entitled The Book of Tropes and is available on Amazon for $9.99.

Tricolon

Tricolon (tri-co’-lon): Three parallel elements of the same length occurring together in a series.

 My wife. My life. My love!

  • Post your own tricolon on the “Comments” page.

Definition courtesy of “Silva Rhetoricae” (rhetoric.byu.edu).

Buy a print edition of The Daily Trope! The print edition is entitled The Book of Tropes and is available on Amazon for $9.99.