The Daily Trope

Prolepsis

Posted on May 11, 2025 | Leave a comment

Prolepsis (pro-lep’-sis): (1) A synonym for procatalepsis [refuting anticipated objections]; (2) speaking of something future as though already done or existing. A figure of anticipation.

What about it? Rev. Bilk told us last week that the end is near, and if we can’t dance a jig while speaking in tongues, we will be the first to go to Hell. In my mind the Raptures are here—I’m going down though, not up. I’m taking an elevator ride to Hell where I will spend eternity on a barbecue spit roasting over the fires of hell, screaming in agony and being slathered by an cackling imp with “Cardinal Newman’s Own Satanic Sauce.”

I can’t jig and I can’t speak in tongues, but Rev. Bilk has a home study course that he guarantees will provide eternal salvation by teaching me these two essential skills. It is titled “Dancing With Your Tongue.” Rev. Bilk says the $2,000 book is based on a holy manuscript he “discovered” in the Holy Land when he was there with his ministerial assistant Glenda, who he had a saintly relationship with which permitted them to lie down together in green pastures fearing no evil. They found the manuscript in “Shlomo’s Joke Shop” in Bethlehem. It was damaged, but he bought it anyway. Shlomo thought it was a joke, but the Rev. Bilk knew it was a stairway to heaven.

It had many exercises. For example, to facilitate learning how to speak in tongues, you were encouraged to go to the dentist and receive multiple injections of novocaine. As your tongue went numb and you lost control of it, you simulated speaking in tongues. It was fantastic. I sounded like a saint! After I had been to the dentist for my weekly injection, “Oogalogoo mormajog” was what I said to a police officer when I got pulled over for a broken taillight. He was about to arrest me when I wrote on a piece of paper “I am a saint speaking in tongues.”I showed it to him. He read it and smiled and made the sign of the cross and let me go as he said “Peace be with you brother.”

Well, after two years of study and practice, I’m ready for the Raptures. This time, I’ll go up instead of down. Now that I’m a Certified Saint, I can berate the sinners I’m surrounded by. I’m working on legislation to have them all put in prison where they belong.

May peace be with you. Amen.

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.

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Tagged elocutio, figures of speech, rhetoric

Protherapeia

Posted on May 10, 2025 | Leave a comment

Protherapeia (pro-ther-a-pei’-a): Preparing one’s audience for what one is about to say through conciliating words. If what is to come will be shocking, the figure is called prodiorthosis.

A lots of things happen. So many. Too many. They sneak up on us. Then, it’s too late. Pastor Anglow has disappeared. For most of us this will be our saddest day. Chief Powers called me early this morning to give me the news. The Pastor has been missing for a month. If we went to church, we would’ve known something was wrong sooner. Chief Powers had some choice words to say about that. But I told him: “Chief, just because I’m a Christian doesn’t mean I have to go to church, goddamnit. I love my neighbors and all that crap, so why do I have to go to church? Back off copper!”

I had seen a lot of detective shows on Amazon Prime, so I knew what I was doing—establishing my innocence with Chief Powers by acting like a tough guy. In the shows I watch, tough guys turn out to be kind and caring nice guys. Anyway, what could I possibly have to do with the Pastor’s disappearance? I hardly knew him.

My cellphone rang.

It was Jasmine—I mean Mrs. Anglow, the Pastor’s wife. She probably lost her cat again. She’d come looking for her cat every week. I’d let her into my house and we’d look around. She’d crawl around on her hands and knees looking for her cat. She would get dirty and sweaty and I’d let her use my shower to wash off. She had a chronic tennis injury and couldn’t wash her back. So, I got into the shower and helped her. I’d put my arms around her waist and use two washcloths to slowly and gently wash her back.

She had called me to tell me her husband was missing and she had lost her cat. I told her she was welcome to come over and look for it. She sighed and thanked me.

While we were looking for her cat, Jasmine told me her husband had won the $10,000,000 Sonic Boom Lotto and had taken off with Chief Powers’s daughter, a Junior at Pot Crank High School. Jasmine was too embarrassed to tell anybody, but her husband had given her $2,000,000 to keep her mouth shut while she was undergoing a divorce from him.

Pastor Anglow was going to marry the Chief’s daughter!

When the Chief found out about the whole thing, he vowed to pull the Pastor over for a traffic stop and shoot him in the face. That never happened. In an epic car chase after the Pastor, the Chief drove over Dead Man’s cliff. The car went up in flames, and the Chief was killed when the car exploded.

Jasmine and I got married. We have four children—three girls and a boy. We still enjoy looking for her cat.

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.

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Tagged definitions, elocutio, example, figures of speech, rhetoric, trope

Protrope

Posted on May 9, 2025 | Leave a comment

Protrope (pro-tro’-pe): A call to action, often by using threats or promises.

“If you don’t have another baby pretty soon, I’m going to leave you on somebody’s porch.” Whoops. I should’ve said “litter.” I was talking to Dinah, the poodle and queen of my puppy mill. Jaques had been after her all week, but she would run away from him or bite him, or both. This was the first time something like this had happened. Dog reproduction had always been fail safe, with nature following its course naturally and reliably.

If Dinah was done reproducing, I could give her away to somebody as a pet. My niece Joanie had been pestering me for a dog since Christmas. I checked with my brother and he said it was ok. So, I got a food dish, a bag of food, a collar, and a leash at the pet store where I sold most of my puppies, and then, headed for my brother’s with Dinah. My brother was waiting at the door. Dinah barked and wagged her tail as she went through the front door. She sniffed around the house and jumped up onto the couch with Joanie. Joanie was elated and gave Dinah a big hug.

Joanie would take Dinah for walks, bathe her, brush her, feed her and generally care of her like a doting mother.

Then it happened.

Dinah got off her leash and was “accosted” by a coyote. Joanie told me Dinah and the Coyote were “dancing together.” My God! Dinah was bred by a coyote. This was a total complete shock.

Dinah became pregnant and gave birth to a litter of four “Pooyotees.” One of the puppies had two heads! One head was Poodle, the other was Coyote. He was healthy and grew right along with the other pups. We named him Flambeau after one of the characters on “Father Brown Mysteries,” a lovable thief who made repeated appearances on the show.

Flambeau’s heads would bark at each other, and sometimes he seemed to have a hard time deciding which way to go. The heads would growl at each other and eventually make a decision. Sometimes, the heads would fight over whether to chase a ball, or sit, or shake hands. Clearly, the two heads had minds of their own that were fraught with conflict.

Flambeau was living with me, so I had to struggle with his problems. I bought him a shock collar and would give him a jolt whenever he would start fighting with himself. He would yelp and stop the fighting. One night while I was sleeping, Flambeau pulled out the bedside lamp’s plug from its outlet. He chewed the chord to bare wire about a foot up from the plug, wrapped it around my neck, and plugged it back in.

I was nearly electrocuted. To this day, I do’t know how he got the chord wrapped around my neck. I’ll ever forget the smell of my neck burning. I knew why he did it. It was retribution for the shock collar I used on him.

I discovered he was the highest dog I.Q. In the world, and that’s how I advertised him in my traveling show: “Pooyote Pacesetter: The Genius Two-Headed Dog.”

Flambeau could paint beautiful symmetrical designs with his two noses dipped in acrylic paint. He could bark-sing in harmony with himself. His favorite was “Are You Lonesome Tonight?” He could compete with himself in pulling on a chew toy. Audience members loved it when they paid $5.00 to be licked on the face by both of his heads.

We had a successful 8 year run when Flambeau dropped dead after licking an audience member’s face. Flambeau was murdered. The person was an animal rights activist who had smeared cyanide paste on his face “to liberate the dog from slavery.” I thought murder was a weird kind of liberation. The murderer, a Columbia University graduate student, was given six months in jail for animal cruelty.

I was heartbroken. Flambeau was irreplaceable. I retired and started collecting Social Security. In order to afford an apartment and eat, I have four roommates. They treat me like a dog and I like it. I have a basket by the front door.

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.

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Tagged definitions, elocutio, example, figures of speech, rhetoric, trope

Proverb

Posted on May 8, 2025 | Leave a comment

Proverb: One of several terms describing short, pithy sayings. Others include adage, apothegm, gnome, maxim, paroemia, and sententia.

I needed to go somewhere in life. All my friends from high school were raging successes—they all invented things.. Ann Banks had invented a wearable vibrator. Busy women used it for convenience sake. Driving to work, sitting in a bar on a barstool, waiting in the checkout line at the super market, at the dentist, etc. You can imagine what a success it was. Then, there was Egbert Flange who had invented the inflatable walking stick. You could deflate it, roll it up, and stick it in your pocket. It had a Co2 cartridge integrated into its design. You pressed a small button the the top and it would re-inflate as you left a theatre or the movies, or other venues where it was better not to have a walking stick in the way. Giles Goatsbreath invented a self-heating Pop Tart, no oven or microwave needed. You just pounded on it with your fist and it would heat up in 3 seconds.

So far, I had not had a successful invention. Everything I came up with was too far-fetched to be made. Like, for example, the flying swimming pool. I couldn’t get it off the ground—literally. I used a helicopter concept, but the helicopter’s prop wash blew the water out of the pool. Then, I tried a blimp attached with cables to the pool. But, the pool was so heavy, I couldn’t find a blimp big enough to lift it. So, I had a giant hot air balloon made. The balloon’s flame severely burned two of the pool’s passengers, so I gave up on the flying swimming pool.

One day, I ran across the proverb “No pain, no gain.” I started hitting myself on the thumb with a hammer, hoping the pain would grant me some gain. The thumb hammering wasn’t working so I hired my podiatrist to pinch me up and down my legs once a week. I got no gain out of that pain either. I was desperate.

I found a woman named Madam Chains on the internet. Here motto was “No Pain, No Gain!” This had to work. Clearly, she was a professional. Her avatar was a rubber SCUBA suit with a belt sander coming out the neck. If I didn’t get some gain out of Madam Chains’ ministrations, I was doomed.

She told me to stand by the side of the road and step out in front of car that looked like it was weaving, being driven by a drunk. She taught me techniques for getting hit by car and being seriously, but not fatally injured. The “drunk” behind the wheel would be held liable and I would garner a huge insurance payout.

I endured a lot of pain, but got a HUGE amount of gain: $2,000,000. I gave Madam Chains 10%. I’ve given up on inventing things. I just travel around with my girlfriend Chrissie and my pet eagle named Flamingo.

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.

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Prozeugma

Posted on May 7, 2025 | Leave a comment

Prozeugma (pro-zoog’-ma): A series of clauses in which the verb employed in the first is elided (and thus implied) in the others.

I’m goin’ to Kansas City. Kansas City, what a place. On a train. On a plane. On a skateboard. On my feet. On a chopper. On an electric bicycle. It’s all the same to me. I’m goin’ to Kansas City. They got some grease- drippin’ barbecue there and I’m gonna’ get me some. I might have the beef. I might have the pork. I hope my boss lets me take two days off work, so I can go to Kansas City and have my tastebuds transmit the holy flavor to my head. I’ll eat ten sandwiches and then go home—home from Kansas City, back to my boring meaningless life; no house, no car, no wife. Maybe I’ll stay in Kansas City permanently. I’ll work in a barbecue van and make my mark.

Now, I work at a marble factory in a former Dodge motor car assembly plant in Detroit. The marbles are made in China. We just put them in cardboard boxes with our brand on them. The brand is “Dynamite Dubs.” It signifies our marbles’ ability to knock out two or more opponents’ marbles with a single shot. My job is to tuck in the box’s flap in to keep the marbles from falling out. It is a boring job, but the pay is good. I eat out at MacDonald’s every night. Sometimes, I splurge on a Value Meal. I weigh 320 lbs., just like the President. At least I can be proud of something!

The boss told me I couldn’t take two days off. In fact, he told me he needed me 24/7 to help guard the plant when the tariffs kicked in. He was certain there would be violence when the price of marbles went up 145%. Already, there was talk on the street. He was issuing everybody an M-16. He had gotten permission from “Bullet” Bassey (Detroit’s Police Chief) to shoot anybody standing outside the marble plant. He said they were a “national security threat” and we were authorized to “kill ‘em all.” We were supplied ammunition by ICE, and, as a bonus, five boxes of hand grenades to be used at the “slightest provocation.” Bob, the center fielder for the plant’s softball team, was elated. He could reach home plate every time with his “canon arm.” He said, “My arm has a whole new meaning! I can’t wait.” ICE also told us it was Ok to shoot children, as long as we didn’t aim for the head. ICE was concerned that the “mess” a head shot makes might arouse the ire of the commie libtards and cause them to post unflattering things on social media.

I was freaking out. Now I knew first-hand what the Twilight Zone was all about. I quit my job. I charged up my bicycle and headed for Kansas City. I arrived one week later. I had gotten two flat tires along the way, and had to charge up five times. The first thing I did when I got to Kansas City, was have four pork barbecue sandwiches. Then, I went looking for a job. I got a job in a barbecue van. It was perfect. My biggest hope fulfilled!

I was eating up to 9 barbecue sandwiches per day. I know it sounds insane, but I couldn’t help myself. I shot up to 400lbs and started to waddle like a giant duck. Then, one day I had a King-Kong sized heart attack. I died and came back to life three times in the ambulance. They say my heart looks like a big lump of Crisco, and if I don’t stop pigging out on barbecue sandwichs, I’ll die. I’ve cut back to 4 barbecue sandwiches a day. In one month, I’ve lost 3 pounds. I feel fit.

At night, I dream I am a giant barbecue sandwich being eaten by Taylor Swift. Her teeth caress my bun and she bites and chews me up slowly and seductively in little loving nibbles. I am having my name legally changed to Barbecue Sandwich. But most important, I have developed a men’s barbecue sandwich scented cologne called “Face Sauce.” Our slogan is “Lick my face. Zero calories.” It’s selling like crazy.

So, I just read the newspaper. Detroit is in flames. No children killed yet.

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.

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Pysma

Posted on May 6, 2025 | Leave a comment

Pysma (pys’-ma): The asking of multiple questions successively (which would together require a complex reply). A rhetorical use of the question.

If there was only one direction to go, which way would you go? Would you go right? Left? Straight? Up? Down? Or, would you just stand there, frustrated? Maybe you’d sit down and start crying. Maybe you’d just turn around and go back to where you came from—back to your little tent where you left your girlfriend sleeping, hoping to escape from her once and for all.

Your relationship has been a four-season camping trip. You have enough camping gear to open your own North Face. You have enough fleece hoodies to dress a herd of sheep. You try and wear five at a time to get your money’s worth, but you end up shedding them, leaving a trail for scavengers to follow, fighting over your discarded hoodies. It was sickening to watch—the pushing, the shoving, the cursing: these people were deeply disturbed. What was worse, they were my family. My big brother Gil always won the fight. He was 6’4” and wouldn’t hesitate to punch my mother, kick my father in the testicles, and hit my little sister in the face with a Pondorosa Pinecone—big as a shoebox with little pointy things all over it. Ouch! Gil tried to light my sister on fire one time, but she wouldn’t burn. Her clothing was fireproof—a Girl Scout uniform, and Gil didn’t have any petroleum products to get it going. That’s when he grabbed a pine cone and let her have it in the face.

My girlfriend woke up and was screaming “There’s a scorpion on my boob,” Trying to make light of it, I asked her which boob. She became furious and came running out of the tent. The scorpion fell off her boob and she calmed down. The scorpion jumped on my leg and skittered into my shorts. It tickled, but I was doomed. There was no way I could get the scorpion out of my shorts without it stinging me.

Then, Gil showed up. He grabbed the can of camp stove fuel and doused my shorts. He flicked his BIC and was about to set me on fire when the scorpion ran down my leg, apparently repelled by the camp stove fuel. I tore of my shorts and threw them on the ground. Gil yelled “Fire in the hole!” and torched them.

I had brought 22 pairs of shorts for camping. Now, I had to decide which pair to wear. I settled on the “Trail God” shorts. The seat of the shorts was made of Kevlar, in case some yahoos dragged you around in the woods before tying you to a tree and dangling a coral snake in front of your face.

The shorts have 19 numbered pockets and an APP for inventorying what’s in the pockets, by the numbers. It is unbelievably convenient, The APP displays a map of your pants on your cellphone. It’s amazing. But best of all is the “Hiker’s Safe.” It’s a keypad-operated safe on the inside of the shorts. You can safely store your valuables on the trail. It is made out of aircraft grade titanium—light weight and indestructible. I carry my credit cards and my passport in my “Hiker’s Safe” and I’ve only been robbed twice. Most hikers have been robbed 10-12 times. So, my “Hiker’s Safe” has put me ahead of the curve.

So, my family had shown up at the campsite and they were waiting for me to sprinkle the ground with unused and unwanted items to fight over. I had not thought about what to chuck, and they were looking impatient. I had to grab something fast. I grabbed a spatula from inside the tent and threw it on the ground. They looked at each other nonchalantly, and then, dove on the spatula. Gil came out of the melee holding the spatula and waving it around his head. I told them all to go home and they left mumbling.

My girlfriend and I resumed our campout. I was going to make bacon, but realized in my haste, I had given my only spatula to Gil. How stupid of me. I needed to replenish my spatula supply as soon we got home. Hello Amazon!

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.

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Ratiocinatio

Posted on May 5, 2025 | Leave a comment

Ratiocinatio (ra’-ti-o-cin-a’-ti-o): Reasoning (typically with oneself) by asking questions. Sometimes equivalent to anthypophora. More specifically, ratiocinatio can mean making statements, then asking the reason (ratio) for such an affirmation, then answering oneself. In this latter sense ratiocinatiois closely related to aetiologia. [As a questioning strategy, it is also related to erotima {the general term for a rhetorical question}.]

There is a reason for everything. Think about it. What does it mean to say “This had to have happened for a reason”? This is often said when everybody is mystified about why something happened, as if saying “it must have happened for a reason” absolves people from looking for the reason. But, when they realize it did actually happen for a reason, they want to know what the reason is. They know they can’t do it alone. That’s when they turn to me “Cam” (short for “Camshaft”) Vontell, Private Detective: “The Truth Hunter.”

I make it clear to my clients that I have magical powers, and no matter how far-fetched it may seem to be, the results of my detecting are unerring. I suffered from acute paranoia for five years, living among a group of paranoid men at “Beaver Tail State Sanatorium” in Beavertail, Montana. We spent our days searching for truth behind everything, concealed in the invisible reasons behind everything—reasons that our Overlords cleverly and secretly had for everything that made reality tick without our awareness. When we came to the powerful insight that our awareness was unaware, we started speculating further, to retrieve our freedom and put us back in control of the secret forces propelling us through life.

The most paranoid member of our group was Bunny Manson. He invented the “Motive Game.” We would do something, and then avow a motive for doing it. I might say “I tied my shoelaces so my shoes wouldn’t fall off.” The other players would call me a liar and then think of the “real” motive, never believing the avowed motive. A player might say: “Liar! You are a narcissist!” The game prepared us to play the game of life, thinking outside the so-called box, using counter-intuition and irrational speculation to discover the “truth” in the powerful hidden causes and motives that form the foundation for the natural and social orders.

So, there’s a hidden reason for everything: Your mother died of natural causes? Ha! You dupe. She was run over and mangled by a truck. Her body was reconstructed by robot surgeons in a clandestine mortuary located in a cave somewhere in Nevada. She was transported home on a government-owned train, “The Federal Necro-Express.” Clearly, she arrived this morning, dressed for her funeral with that cute little smile on her face. Case closed. When Cam Vontell says “Case closed,” the case is closed, no questions asked. The end.

By the way, I love to say “Case closed.” It works every time to make a client think we’ve discovered the truth. I target clients that are wrapped up in conspiracy theories. They’ll believe anything. I think most of them suffer from non-clinical paranoia, but somehow, they get along, living under the dead fist of the deep state.

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.

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Repotia

Posted on May 4, 2025 | Leave a comment

Repotia (re-po’-ti-a): 1. The repetition of a phrase with slight differences in style, diction, tone, etc. 2. A discourse celebrating a wedding feast.

I don’t know why the bride and groom asked me—Hoo Doo Miller—to give this speech today. However, I do sort of remember being friends in high school. When we graduated, Thaddeus got drafted and had to leave Charlene behind when he went off to fight in the Vietnam War. When he came back home he had PTSD. We used to sneak up behind him and light off packs of firecrackers. He’d yell “You fu*kin’ gooks” and try to find a place to hide.

I avoided the draft with bone spurs, so I had no idea what he was going through. I just thought it was funny as hell. I still do. See this pack of “Black Cats”? Be ready during the reception Thad—you better find a bunker to hide under because I’m going to blow these babies off when you least expect it! So, fair warning! Ha! Ha!

So, I “took care” of Charlene when you were off fighting in the war. I promised you I would. But, I took care of her too well and she got pregnant about a month after you left. Charlene got an abortion and we went back to normal, living together and partying hard. When I lost my job at the jelly factory, Charlene came through for us. She stood outside Denny’s and would go on blind dates with men who pulled up and asked her out. She went on enough dates to earn the $325 we needed for rent. I got a job the next day selling cars and would be able to cover the rent with my salary.

Nevertheless, Charlene kept going on dates unit she got a rash “down there.” She went to the doctor and got some ointment. The rash cleared up and she never “dated” again.

When it came time for your tour of duty to end, Charlene moved back with her parents to wait for your return. She would stay over with me a couple of times a week—she always told me I made her feel like a rocket blasting off. I appreciated that. I always fancied myself as a lady’s man!

Then, there’s the tattoo, but I’m not going to talk about it in mixed company. Thad: you’ll just have to find it yourself—it’s on her body somewhere! “Seek and ye shall find.” I think it’ll be a fun thing to do on your wedding night!

Well, I’d like to propose a toast now, to the bride and the groom! Hold your glasses high!

May all your hills be downhill, your days filled with cloudless skies, and your showers steaming hot, Thaddeus, to wash away your anger and, Charlene, to wash away your shame. God bless the newlyweds.

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.

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Restrictio

Posted on May 3, 2025 | Leave a comment

Restrictio (re-strik’-ti-o): Making an exception to a previously made statement. Restricting or limiting what has already been said.

“I’m going to kill you. Well, that’s not quite true. I intend to seriously injure you. It won’t be fatal, but you’re going to be going to the ICU at Don Knots Memorial Hospital—they’ll do a great job on your lacerations, broken bones, and what’s left of your tongue after I cut it out. I want you to get out of that fetal position right now. Roll over on your back and get ready to be seriously injured.”

I was a hit man—I didn’t shoot them, actually, I literally “hit” them with fists and blunt objects—sledge hammers, barbells, baseball bats, crowbars, etc. Actually, I did some kicking too. Nothing sends a rib to hell like a good hard series of well-placed kicks.

My next hit was at the public library one town over. This guy who worked at the local shoe factory lacing shoes wanted his library fines forgiven. $16.55 didn’t seem like much to contract a hit over. I didn’t argue with him, but I thought he was crazy. I went home, put on my steel-toed boots, grabbed my Yogi Berra Louisville Slugger (I had actually hit a home run with it back in the day), my trusty balaclava, and a couple of zip ties.

I got to the library just as it was closing. I slipped in the door and hid under a table. The librarian looked like a sweet elderly woman.

I was beginning to question what I was about to do. It just didn’t seem right assaulting a granny. Then the phone rang. She said “Look, you loser bastard—you can shove your library fines up your ass. What the fu*k do you think I am, your fu*kin’ fairy godmother?”

I was shocked. After what she said, I decided to give her a light beating—maybe just a couple whacks with the baseball bat and couple of harmless, but well-placed, kicks.

I jumped out from under the table with my baseball bat raised. “Give me $16.50 or I’m going to beat the shit out of you!” She sad “Fu*k you weasel.” And threw a copy of “Infinite Jest” at me—one of the heaviest books currently in print. The book hit me in the temple and knocked me out. I awoke to the sound of sirens. The librarian was standing over me holding my baseball bat. She had used my zip ties to secure my hands behind my back. That was it. I was going to jail. I heard the police banging on the doors.

Then, she gave me a hard whack on the head.

I’ve been in a sort of coma for 22 days. I can hear what people say to me, but I can’t speak. I can only nod my head. The librarian came to visit me. She told me I got what I deserved and she hopes I’ll spend 20 years in prison. She told me library fines cannot be ignored, or especially, forgiven: they must be pad.

Library fines teach morality and personal responsibility, two pillars of Western Civilization.

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.

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Sarcasmus

Posted on May 2, 2025 | Leave a comment

Sarcasmus (sar’kaz’-mus): Use of mockery, verbal taunts, or bitter irony.

“What’s that on top or your head? A bird’s nest? Why don’t you just give it up and accept your hairless crainium? At least you could wear fake hair that matches your eyebrows!”

I was mean. They called me “The Slasher” because I could cut anybody down to size with my buzz-saw insults. Or you could say I was a insult surgeon removing peoples’ self-esteem with my cutting remarks.

I insulted everybody I met within 3 minutes. I had an uncanny ability to see their foibles. I would hurl the insults, making them stick with my sarcastic tone of voice. Often, my attributions were wrong, but I didn’t care. Once I said them, they became a “worry” for my targets.

I told a man his nose looked like a tumor with two holes in it. He covered it with his hand and ran away. I once asked a woman if that was a pair of dice under her sweater. She sat down on the sidewalk and started speaking in tongues. I was so pleased that I asked her out to dinner. She accepted my invitation. I didn’t have much money, so we went to Burger King. Speaking in tongues, she pointed at the menu—clearly, she wanted a cheese whopper, jumbo fries and a large Coke. We sat by the window. She pointed at her sweater and said something in Aramaic, one of the languages I studied in Bible college—Holy Rose College in San Jose, California. She told me her name was Mary and she woke up here in New Jersey two days after her son came back to life and teleported into the sky.

As much as I would’ve liked to believe her, I didn’t. Although she was speaking Aramaic, her story was too far-fetched to be true. I told her so and she lifted up her dress and showed me her stretch marks from her pregnancy. I still didn’t believe her. In fact, she was starting to bother me. I left her at Burger King and headed off to the Middle School. The kids there were easy marks—easily humiliated and ridiculed. I hung out at the entrance to the school bus and hurled insults and rude comments as the kids boarded their bus.

One day, the bus driver got off the bus and beat the crap out of me. He called me a “perv” and called the police. I was charged with “damaging children’s’ self-esteem.”

I am locked up in a psychiatric facility awaiting trial. I am undergoing “nicification“ therapy. It involves singing “The Wheels on the Bus” twice a day and studying and memorizing the “Golden Book of Compliments,” I don’t think I have a chance of reform. I told my cellmate he smelled like a skunk’s ass, and he beat me with his shoe. I spent two days in the infirmary. When I got back to our cell, he asked me to teach him how to be an insulting asshole. I made up a syllabus and classes will start tomorrow with “body shaming.”

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.

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Scesis Onomaton

Posted on May 1, 2025 | Leave a comment

Scesis Onomaton (ske’-sis-o-no’-ma-ton): 1. A sentence constructed only of nouns and adjectives (typically in a regular pattern). 2. A series of successive, synonymous expressions.

Big bluebird! I couldn’t believe my eyes. I dropped my binoculars and got out my bird identification guide: “Bill Birdwood’s Guide to Every Bird on Earth.”

This was no normal bluebird. The only thing it had in common with normal bluebirds was its blue body and an orange patch on its chest. I couldn’t find him in my “Guide,” so I Googled with a description: “Huge bird with bluebird plumage. He looks like a feathered basketball and makes a growling sounds like an angry dog. I haven’t see him fly, and given his girth, I’m not sure he can. He is eating discarded cigarette butts off the ground. This is an especially good place to do so—we’re at the designated smoking area for employees of the adjacent life insurance company.”

I hit return on my keyboard and got an almost instant response. It was Bill Birdwood himself! He told me the name of the bird “Blue Ball Giganticus.” He didn’t list him in his guide because the Blue Ball is considered a mythological bird—like the Phoenix. He wrote, “But, if you’ve got a live one in your sights, you better run away faster than you’ve ever run before!”

So I ran. To my horror, with much wing flapping the Blue Ball slowly took off straight up like a helicopter with a frightening growl. I tripped and fell and the Blue Ball swooped down over me, dropping a cigarette butt on my outstretched body. It landed on my chest. I sat up, grabbed it off my pant leg and threw it as far as I could—about five feet. Then, the big fat Blue Ball landed on my shoulder—which was just wide enough for him to fit on. I was terrified.

Then, he leaned toward my ear and asked: “What’s the capital of Montana?” I told him I didn’t know, and that I’m really bad at state capitals. He said “Ok ok. What is an isosceles triangle?” I didn’t know. I told him I pretty much didn’t know anything. He kept asking me similar questions for about a half-hour. I couldn’t answer any of them. He gave up and called me a “bird brain” which I thought was really weird. After all that, he asked me if my refrigerator was running.

I knew that one! I said “Yes.” Then he told me I better go catch it. He asked if I wanted a cigarette butt. I told him I didn’t and he flew away grunting and straining. Now, I could add to my list of Blue Ball characteristics: can talk, eats cigarette butts, takes off like helicopter, and is boring to spend time with. I wondered why Bill Birdwood told me to run.

I found out when I started developing a taste for cigarette butts and began picking them up off the ground and storing them in my briefcase “for later.”

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.

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Tagged elocutio, example, figures of speech, rhetoric, trope

Sententia

Posted on April 30, 2025 | Leave a comment

Sententia (sen-ten’-ti-a): One of several terms describing short, pithy sayings. Others include adage, apothegem, gnome, maxim, paroemia, and proverb.

“Stop Trying”

Yes, that’s the ticket. “If you’re tryin’ you’re dyin’” is a variation on the words of wisdon uttered by the ancient Roman philosopher Claudius Defectum. His book of sayings “Cedere” (“Give Up”) led to the fall of the Roman Empire. It will never have that regime-changing influence today, but it still inspires countless people to accept their mediocrity, or worse.

You can find Defectum’s collection of sayings in the back pockets of men and women settled, carefree, on cardboard pads, holding and waving empty styrofoam cups. They have shifted the rationale of their “trying” from greed and acquisition to the godly glow of begging. They have reduced their striving to the bare minimum— giving up and going on. A wonderful yoking of opposites that may motivate them to ask “Spare change?” as they pursue the limitless possibilities of living carefree in an alley or abandoned car. They’ve given up!

I gave up ten years ago. Fresh out of college, I went to work for a company making pearl snaps for cowboy shirts. I wasn’t a cowboy, but I could appreciate their need for shirts with or pearl snaps. Say, your shirt got caught on a cactus, you would just unsnap it and set yourself free. Or say, you’re riding the trail and you want to cool off. With your free hand, you can just unsnap your shirt, letting the cooling breeze blow across your chest.

I was put in charge of our Laotian snap factory. We churned out 5,000 snaps per day. My goal was 12,000. I had arrived at that number randomly by saying number out loud. “12,000” had a melodious tone to it—it almost had a poetic ring. I was drawn to it like a cow to grass or a fork-load of steak to my mouth.

I figured all I needed to do was make our machines go faster. The faster they went, the more snaps they’d make. “Faster! Faster,” I yelled. Everybody just looked at me and laughed. My translator told me they were calling me “silly man” behind my back. I took away their daily ration of Lao-Lao. They brought their own. I neglected to realize that home-brewing is extremely popular in Laos. My sanctions went on and on, ending with Tasering slow workers. Anyway, nothing worked, so after reading “Cedere” one more time and punching the walls in my room, I gave up. I stopped trying.

I felt a deep sense of relief and freedom. I slept like a baby. When I announced the next day that our new goal was 3,000 snaps per day, I became a hero. Sadly, I was fired for bringing the snap quota down, but I didn’t care. I went back to the States and got a job working at a Salvation Army Thrift Store. I was in charge of glassware. I did what I was told to do and had renounced all pretenses to promotion.

I had given up, and it felt damn good.

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.

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Simile

Posted on April 29, 2025 | Leave a comment

Simile (si’-mi-lee): An explicit comparison, often (but not necessarily) employing “like” or “as.”

I was going to fly like an eagle. I was off to my freshman year of college at Tony Pecker University. Pecker had made a fortune cleaning up brownfields throughout America, and then, reselling them to unwitting people. He was famous for the elementary school that was built on one of his so-called “remediated” sites. All the students came down with tumors covering 80% of their bodies. None of then got past the age of 12. Pecker was sued but he got off by claiming it wasn’t his fault. He never explained exactly why it wasn’t his fault, but that didn’t matter, it was a jury trial. The jurors showed up the second day of Pecker’s trial wearing big gold chains with big gold crosses hanging from them.

Anyway, Tony Pecker University is built on one of Pecker’s brownfield sites. Many of the students suffer from hair loss and discoloration of their teeth, neither is fatal and after graduation their hair returns and their teeth return to their normal color. So, it’s no big deal. I had had my head shaved in anticipation of losing it. My head looked like a shiny pink muskmelon.

You may wonder why I’m going to Tony Pecker University. I’m not very smart and none of my high school teachers would write me a letter of recommendation. They would tell me that “I would have to accept my limited reach,” or “College isn’t for you,” or “You’ve made me feel like a failure as a teacher.” Then, I found out that my great uncle “Ponzi” had gone to Pecker. He was extremely wealthy and bribed the Dean of Admissions to let me in. He had a horrible rash on his right hand that he had contracted when he was a student at Pecker. He credited the rash with enabling him to weasel out of bad business deals. Due to his rash, people wouldn’t shake hands with him when it came time to seal a deal. So, technically, the deal wasn’t made. He was grateful to Pecker University for the rash. He told me if I wanted a rash like his, I should wash my hands daily in the toilet bowl in the second stall from the right in the second floor men’s room in Polly Hall.

Anyway, I can read and write. I can’t do math, but who cares. As a legacy, I’m allowed to make up my own degree program. My personal program is titled “Dogs.” i will be learning all about dogs—why they have four legs, the aesthetics of tail wagging and tail chasing, barking in different languages, faithfulness, playing catch, sniffing, and much, much more. It will be rewarding for me and for the dogs I will be keeping in my room: it’s like a doggie mansion, with a “man” in the mansion. Ha ha!

I think I want to be a dog walker when I graduate. I am going to move the New York City. It’s like a gold mine for dog walkers. I am planning in competing in “Broadway On A Leash,” the annual competition to see who can walk the most dogs at once down a quarter mile stretch of Broadway’s sidewalk.

I’m arriving at Pecker now and driving through the gates. I will be greeted by a bald RA who will show me where to park, and lead me to my room. I see her! Her head looks like a muskmelon, just like mine! She has beautiful eyes. Already, I’m falling in love.

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.

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Skotison

Posted on April 28, 2025 | Leave a comment

Skotison (sko’-ti-son): Purposeful obscurity.

He: This thing “talk” is driving me crazy. One of my best friends tells me it’s going to be the death of me. It’s just one of those things as far as I’m concerned. I suspect you know what the thing is all about, but you just won’t admit it to me. Maybe you think it goes without saying. Maybe you’re embarrassed. Come on and tell me! Don’t be shy! We’re engaged to be married. Between us, my thing is your thing. Tell me!

She: Is it your penis? It’s the only thing I can think of that is ever between us. I don’t see it as a problem. I take a ride on it once a week (as you well know) and have never skipped an orgasm since we’ve been together. In fact, I brag about your thing to my friends. Your thing keeps me coming back for more. Honey, I’m addicted to your thing.

He: You’ve got it all wrong. All you can think of is sex, sex, sex. Grow up! Well, to cut you a little slack, I have referred to my penis as “my thing” before and I shouldn’t admonish you for for mistaking “my thing” for “my penis.” But what is the “my thing” that I’m referring to? I admit, it does have a sexual overtone.

“My thing” is to look at my ass in a full-length mirror. I stand nude with my ass facing the mirror. I bend over, spread my cheeks, and look between my legs at my ass. If I spread my legs wide enough, I can see my scrotum too!

I’ve been doing this almost my whole life. It never loses its fascination for me. I have a blog called “My Ass” where other peoples’ “thing” is the same as mine. We share out fascination with auto-ass gazing.

Well, honey, that’s my thing. It’s looking at my ass in a mirror.

She: I didn’t know you had a secret life—marveling at your own ass. My god! I think there’s a touch of narcissism involved in your solo ass gazing. Although I’ve heard you making “mmmm” sounds in your walk-in closet in the morning, it has never intruded into our relationship, and I doubt if it ever will. Despite that, I don’t want to marry you any more. You are a creep. At least you’re honest, but that’s not enough.

He: You’re going to die without me. Look at my ass! Look! You miss it already you shallow piece of shit.

She: Ha ha! Shove your ass up your ass! Ha ha! Goodbye.

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.

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Syllepsis

Posted on April 27, 2025 | Leave a comment

Syllepsis (sil-lep’-sis): When a single word that governs or modifies two or more others must be understood differently with respect to each of those words. A combination of grammatical parallelism and semantic incongruity, often with a witty or comical effect. Not to be confused with zeugma: [a general term describing when one part of speech {most often the main verb, but sometimes a noun} governs two or more other parts of a sentence {often in a series}].

My toe and my bank account were hurting! I didn’t know how my toe had become inflamed. It looked like a zucchini with a blackened claw at the end. I had visited at least 100 doctors. At $200 a shot, the bills were mounting. The remedies provided by the doctors made loud quacking sounds when I took the pills or followed instructions for doing things that would cure me:

Snort dried rabbit poop ground into dust.
Sit on an opened can of tuna fish until it imprinted a circle around my anus.
Dip my foot in warmed goat urine seasoned with ramps and poison ivy.
Take a pill filled with strawberry-flavored ground dog fur.
Super-glue a set of dice to my toenail.

These are just a few of the 100s of remedies that I was prescribed and tried to no avail. I had a custom-made shoe crafted to wear on my errant foot. It looked like a meatloaf with a heel. People would cringe when they saw it, especially if we were crowded in somewhere like an elevator. One day on the subway, some kid stepped on my foot. I screamed so loud that the subway stopped. I’m not sure why it did, but it did. Everybody started yelling at me: “Go home creep!” “Nice footwork asshole!” “Limp to hell fu*k weed!”

I limped off the subway at my stop. I was thinking “Typical fu*king New York.” Then I saw it! Scrawled on the wall it said: “Try Doctor Hoo Doo. He will make you whole.” There was a phone number. I pulled out my cellphone and immediately called the number. There was a recorded message: “Who do voodoo? We do voodoo. Leave your number.” I left my number and Doctor Hoo Doo called me the next day. He is located in Haiti. I had to fly to Port au Prince the next day for my appointment.

When I arrived at the airport, a horse cart was waiting to take me to my appointment with Doctor Hoo Doo. The driver dropped me off at the end of an alley, and pointed down it. I started down the alley and saw a man sitting on a stool at the end of the alley wearing a track suit and holding a baseball bat. He told me to take off my meatloaf shoe. He sprinkled some kind of powder on my foot and started beating my toe with the bat. Strangely, it didn’t hurt. After beating on it for about 10 minutes, my toenail shot out of the send of my toe and flew away like a butterfly, dripping some kind of vile-smelling yellow goo. My toe deflated with a long farting sound and I felt better than I had felt for the past ten years.

Doctor Hoo Doo said “There! You’re cured! You will serve as my slave for the next two years. Then, you may go home.” Two years as a slave was a small price to pay for having my toe cured. I would’ve gone for five. I readily agreed.

I work at a pikliz factory out in the middle of nowhere. In fact, I do not know where it is, however, I can hear the ocean waves crashing at night. I have learned some French. My fellow workers are dull-eyed slow-moving sluggards. They look like they’ve sold their souls or something. They all work on the night shift which leaves me on my own to make pikliz during the day.

I met Doctor Hoo Doo’s overseer yesterday. He said “We don’t think about escaping, do we?” I knew he was joking, so I agreed with him. He has a subscription to Amazon Prime. We’re going to watch “Night of the Living Dead” tomorrow night while all the dull-eyes are working in the cabbage fields.

My foot is doing fine. As far as I can see, everything’s going great. One year and 9 months to go!

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.

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Symploce

Posted on April 26, 2025 | Leave a comment

Symploce (sim’-plo-see or sim’-plo-kee): The combination of anaphora and epistrophe: beginning a series of lines, clauses, or sentences with the same word or phrase while simultaneously repeating a different word or phrase at the end of each element in this series.

I am an ochestrator.

I am a schemer—always setting things up to my advantage. But I think I’ve lost sight of what my advantage is. Last week, I glued my father to his dining room chair. My plan was to yell something rude at him and run out the front door. I yelled “I hate you, you arrogant onion breath!” I ran for the door. He stood up with the chair glued to his ass and waddled after me. My little brother, Dad’s little dupe, tripped me. Dad took off his pants, shedding the chair, and pulled his belt out of the loops. He said to me “Good try son” and he started whipping my little brother for betraying me.

This was my life.

I am an orchestrator.

Yes indeedy-do. I wanted a girlfriend. ZZ Top had given me a plan: “Every girl’s crazy about a sharp-dressed man.” I was going to get “sharp dressed” and stand against the wall across the food court from the ladies room at the mall. Solely catering to women, it was a conduit of females who were primed to be crazy about a sharp dressed man. I was wearing rough-out cowboy boots, denim stretch pants riding low on my hips, a snap shirt unsnapped half-way down my chest, dark glasses, and a Chicago Bulls hat. Then, my high school art teacher walked up to me. She said, “How much handsome?”

This was my life.

I freaked out. Clearly, she didn’t recognize me and thought I was some kind of male prostitute! I told her I charged $6.00 per hour. She laughed and gave me a twenty-dollar bill, and suggested we use her car down in the parking garage. I was panic stricken and ready to run. So I ran.

Two cops blocked my way. My art teacher sped off in her Subaru. The cops had on vests that said “Police” and “ICE” on them. They told me to stop or they would shoot me. They said I was wearing Venezuelan gang regalia, specifically, a Chicago Bulls hat. I told them I was a fan. They did not listen. I was arrested and sent to a detention center in South Beach, Miami. I was issued a Speedo swimsuit, an olive drab T-shirt and a pair of flip-flops. ICE had a portion of the beach cordoned off with barbed wire. We spent most of our days there making sand castles, swimming, and playing volley ball. To keep us hydrated they gave us big drinks with brightly colored umbrellas in them. I was half-drunk most of the time, fooling around with girls on the other side of the barbed wire fence, subtly exposing myself and singing the Harry Belafonte banana song. “Day O!”

Then one day, I saw my art teacher. She was waving at me and pointing to the far end of the fence. We met there. She pulled on the fence and it opened like a gate. I slipped through and we ran to her car and jumped in. She told me she wanted what she had paid for, and to get to work giving it to her. Then, she recognized me as a former student, screamed, and nixed everything. She told me she would drive me back to New Jersey for $200. I agreed and we sped away.

This was my life. A broken record playing “People are Strange,” getting stuck on a scratch on “strange,” playing it over and over until I slap the record player.

We got back to Linden safe and sound. One thing was for sure: I didn’t want to go home. My art teacher graciously let me stay with her. I was a high school dropout, so my prospects for employment were limited. My art teacher paid me $50 per hour to model nude for her. I had turned 18, so it was legal. One day she asked me if we could model nude together in her bed for an extra $25. I was confused, but I agreed to do it.

One thing led to another and we got married. We have two children who are the direct result of our modeling nude together. They are named Cyan and Magenta.

This was my life.

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.

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Synaloepha

Posted on April 25, 2025 | Leave a comment

Synaloepha (sin-a-lif’-a): Omitting one of two vowels which occur together at the end of one word and the beginning of another. A contraction of neighboring syllables. A kind of metaplasm.

Yo’ are a total dog! Skipper wagged his tail, making his signature whipping sound, barking and bowing down on his front paws. It was like Skipper understood me. I had a laundry list of commands that he would unfailingly follow. My favorite was “speak.” He would say what sounded like “lightbulb” when I told him to speak. He was more articulate than Scooby Doo.

Then one day when he was doing the “speak” trick he said “fu*k you.” I was shocked. He said “Just kidding.” I thought I was losing my mind. I told my mother and she thought so too. She took me to see a psychiatrist. I told him my story and he told me I was going crazy like I thought I was. He prescribed me some anti-psychotic drugs to take three times a day. They didn’t work.

Skipper became more and more articulate. I would read him books and we would discuss them. He loved Plato’s dialogues. He loved Plato’s Phaedrus and its depiction of love. He asked me if I loved him. I didn’t know what to say, so I said yes. He told me he never thought of me as his master, instead, he thought of me as his friend. I was moved so deeply by this, I almost cried. He said, “Let’s go for a walk. I feel like letting one go in the park in the grass by the baseball field.”

When we got back home, Skipper told me he wanted to start a blog. I thought it was a great idea. He could talk and nobody would know he was a dog. Skipper had converted to Christianity after I read Paul’s “Epistles to the Corinthians” to him. So, he titled his blog: “Straight Talk: No Bells or Whistles.”

His most famous episode was on vivisection. He has fist hand experience. His best friend at the time, Butch, had had his nose amputated and then plied with different scents to see if he would sniff them and wag his stubby little tail. It was a heartbreaking story. Then, there was the Raccoon who had its front paws replaced with hooks to see if the Raccoon would adapt and walk on the hooks, reducing its scent trail and enabling its escape from hound dogs. This was another tear jerker.

Skipper was reviled by the pro-vivisectionists. Without even knowing he was a dog, they vowed to “neuter” him and give him a “special nose job.”

Then, there was the day of horror. The “Vivisectionist Vigilantes” found out where our podcast studios were located. One day, they raided us wearing balaclavas. There was Skipper sitting there with his headphones on. The Vigilantes flipped out. They shot Skipper to death. After he was dead they kept shooting until they ran out of ammunition. I was lucky they didn’t shoot me.

My heart was broken into little pieces. When the police arrived, the Vigilantes told them they had come for a tour of the studio and they were attacked by the vicious dog that they shot in self defense. The police told me to clean up the mess and left.

Since then, I’ve become “The Avenger.” I liberate animals from vivisectionist laboratories and find them loving homes before they’re “operated on” in the name of so-called science. The array of oddities produced by the labs is both infuriating and heartbreaking. For example: the six-legged rabbit, the toothless donkey, finless fish, the cow with 25 udders. The list goes on and on, and I can’t help them, but, I can help the others.

Please send me $500 in memory of Skipper.

POSTSCRIPT

It was determined that this story is fake and provides a foundation for an egregious scam. Skipper is alive and well and his podcast is flourishing.

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.

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Synathroesmus

Posted on April 24, 2025 | Leave a comment

Synathroesmus (sin-ath-res’-mus): 1. The conglomeration of many words and expressions either with similar meaning (= synonymia) or not (= congeries). 2. A gathering together of things scattered throughout a speech (= accumulatio [:Bringing together various points made throughout a speech and presenting them again in a forceful, climactic way. A blend of summary and climax.]).

I had trouble making comparisons that went anywhere, so I tried going random to see if anything would fall out. I tried: “The hammer had a tremor, like ticking jello, like a swishing metronome, a robust tick tock, a merry-making time piece, a jocular watch, a bathing suit rhythmically dripping water, the creamed beats of a drum—rump a pum pum.”

There. You see. They go nowhere, like people in a nursing home, beached polliwogs, grilled cheese Bloody Mary’s, weasels on a holiday.

Ahh! A holiday!

I finally got somewhere. I called my keeper Crispy and announced my plan. He demanded more detail, so I made some details up. Crispy had worked for my family for hundreds of years. My great great great Grandfather had liberated him from a pyramid while he was on an archeological dig in Egypt. Crispy was immortal. He had no insides and had been given a drug made of ground scarabs, powdered lapis lazuli, bullrushes, and a secret ingredient that bestowed immortality on him. Surprisingly, he did not exploit his immortality. Instead, he plodded along through the ages, serving our family faithfully out of gratitude to my great great great grandfather. He never ate, so he was cheap to keep, but he wasn’t very smart.

I told Crispy I had a plan, I told him we were going to Ukraine to fight in the war. Given his immortality, this was a perfect holiday for Crispy. But, he was concerned that I might get killed. I told him I didn’t care. He insisted we make arrangements to ship me home. I was surprised at his pessimism, but I was glad he was thinking ahead.

When we got to Ukraine. We were immediately sent to the front lines. It was hilarious seeing Crispy get shot. The bullets would knock him down, but he’d quickly get up and shake his ass at the Russians who had shot him. They’d shoot him again and he’d get up and shoot them. It was a riot seeing the looks on their faces when Crispy stood up a second time. I was a coward, so I’d always found a tree to hide behind and watch.

Then it happened.

I got shot in the butt running away from a Russian ambush. One AK round in the ass. That’s all it took. In the hospital, the nurses treated me like a god. One in particular treated me like a mega god and told me she loved me every day. Her name was Bohdan. She gave me extra ice cream and the “Tom Swift” series to me. I loved “Tom Swift and His Rocket Ship.” I vowed t build my own rocket ship when I got back to Nee Jersey. I would call it “Space ECKS” (Every Craft Knows Space) and launch it from North Jersey—maybe Newton.

I didn’t know whether Bohdan knew I was a multi-billionaire, and I didn’t care. Crispy told me to go for it, so I did. We were married. We lived in my private hotel in Atlantic City—“The Open Arms.” We slept in a different room every night, Crispy made us breakfast, and I worked on my rocket ship every day. Soon, we will land on your anus—ha ha—I mean “Uranus.”

That’s it. That’s my story.

POSTSCRIPTT

Bohdan ran off with Crispy. Crispy pushed her off a cliff and went back home to apologize for everything.

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.

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Synecdoche

Posted on April 23, 2025 | Leave a comment

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.

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Synonymia

Posted on April 22, 2025 | Leave a comment

Synonymia (si-no-ni’-mi-a): In general, the use of several synonyms together to amplify or explain a given subject or term. A kind of repetition that adds emotional force or intellectual clarity. Synonymia often occurs in parallel fashion. The Latin synonym, interpretatio, suggests the expository and rational nature of this figure, while another Greek synonym, congeries, suggests the emotive possibilities of this figure.

Life: slippery, slick, silky. No, I am not talking about a skating rink. Like I already said, I’m talking about life with a capital “L.” Life. Living. Not a corpse in a morgue. Not a homeless man frozen to a city sidewalk. Not a squished squirrel flattened in the fast late. Not a spider under your shoe. None of the above, I am talking about heartbeat thumping. Body warm. Brain firing thoughts. Eyes seeing whatever is there. Nose pulling in odors, some pleasant. Tongue tasting, teeth chomping, hands gripping, bowels dumping, bladder sloshing, legs moving, and feet walking along a quiet beach on a warm moonless night, dragging your nameless victim out on the jetty to dispose of with a swift kick. Splash! Now it’s really finally over.

You can go home and take two or three showers and try to wash away the death feeling, the death smelling, the blood and the disquiet. The soap is slippery like life itself. It washes away the traces of what you’ve done.

A perfect stranger. Without knowing her, there can be no remorse, just vivid memories of the killing: the begging, the silence of the blade sliding into her heart. And before that, the seduction, the mounting friendship, the outstretched hand. The invitation to a walk on the beach. The unwarranted trust. The sweet talk. My memories of her corpse stretched out on the sand. Bleeding profusely, twitching toward the end, with a final inrush of breath—the sigh of death—a sad sound made all the sadder by being final.

I am a psychopath. I could be any number of other things: President of the United States, Father Brown, Mr. Clean—ha ha that’s a joke. Actually, I’m the boy next store. Nondescript. Nice. Helpful. Never swear. Live a secret life. Peeps though neighbor Molly’s window when she gets ready for bed. Steals things from his neighbor’s homes when they’re on vacation. Likes to stick his face in his mother’s underwear drawer. Likes to kick the cat Binker when nobody’s looking. One day I was going to run Binker over with the rotary lawnmower. But I wisely determined there would be too much evidence and I didn’t want to make up a story of how Binker ran in front the mower causing a horrible accident. Besides, I enjoyed kicking Binker, and that would be impossible if Binker was dead.

His parents had detected his madness when he came home covered in blood and said he had been hit by a car. He was prescribed medication after a visit to Dr. Wedge. He dutifully flushed his pills down the toilet every morning to maintain what he considered his “clarity” of thought.

Sexily dressed policewomen were dispatched undercover to the bars along the beach where he operated, clustered about a mile from the jetty. He walked into “Bob’s Big Mullet Bar.” There was a gorgeous woman sitting at the bar (she was a policewoman). He started with his usual patter, and asked her to take a walk on the beach. She agreed. After about 100 yards, he turned and attacked her. She Tasered him into oblivion and held him at gunpoint until her backup arrived.

He was arrested, booked, jailed, tried, convicted and sentenced to death for all the women he had killed. He was beheaded by special court order. His head was mounted on a pike and installed on the killing beach as a deterrent. At first, people complained, but eventually they got used to it and the “head on a pike” was employed by other beach communities. There was always a shortage of heads, but people took it in stride.

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.

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Synthesis

Posted on April 21, 2025 | Leave a comment

Synthesis (sin’-the-sis): An apt arrangement of a composition, especially regarding the sounds of adjoining syllables and words.

I had grown a beak. A big yellow beautiful beak. I was wondering why it happened when I thought of my bird feeder. Feeding the birds was my hobby—helping them survive and thrive. My major bird buddies were Juncos, Gold Finches, Purple Finches, Tufted Titmice and one male talking Cardinal. All the rest of the birds just peeped and chittered, but the Cardinal was a real yapper. Christopher Cardinal told bird jokes: “What do you call birds who don’t know song lyrics? Hummingbirds.” That’s damn funny! He could actually sing songs about birds. For example: backed up by the Cat Bird Quartet providing the tune, he could kill the lyrics of Lynyrd Skynyrd’s “”Free Bird” perched on top of the feeder with his Cardinal crest dyed blond:

But if I stay here with you, girl
Things just couldn’t be the same
‘Cause I’m as free as a bird now
And this bird you cannot change
Oh, oh, oh, oh
And the bird you cannot change
And this bird, you cannot change
Lord knows, I can’t change

He would flap his wings when he sang “Cause I’m as free as a bird now . . .” And the Catbird Quartet would bob up and down. I played my “Howdy Doody Peanut Gallery Guitar.” It had a crank that an engineer friend of mine had refashioned to play “Free Bird” over and over again when I cranked it.

Every once in awhile we’d do a night show. I would duct tape my flashlight to a mop handle and prop it up against the front of the house, about ten feet from the feeder. I would turn on the flashing function and we’d have a real light show. We’d do “Rockin’ Robin,” “Robin in the Rain,” and we’d often close with Leonard Cohen’s “Bird on the Wire.” It is totally depressing, but it gives you a lot to think about:

Like a bird on the wire
Like a drunk in a midnight choir
I have tried in my way to be free
Like a worm on a hook
Like a knight from some old fashioned book
I have saved all my ribbons for thee

Wow! And then, last but not least, the Cardinal recites bird-oriented poetry! My foavorite is Emily Dickinson’s “Hope is the Thing With Feathers”:

Hope is the thing with feathers
That perches in the soul,
And sings the tune without the words,
And never stops at all, , , ,

This is all pretty amazing. I feel blessed to have a talking Cardinal for a friend. As long as I keep feeding him and the other birds they all keep coming back for more. Two days ago a Canada Goose landed by the feeder and looked straight at me and said “F*ck you!” I did what I had to do and had roast goose for dinner that night. I blew a hole in the kitchen window screen, but that does not matter. I will not let a goose get away with insulting me.

So, what about my beak? I must admit it’s fake. It is part of the chicken suit I wear around the house, out in the yard, and grocery shopping too. it has an egg pocket in the back that works to lay eggs. Without fail, I lay two per day! Christopher thinks it’s hilarious.

Let just say in closing, after I saw the movie “The Birds” I couldn’t sleep. It made me realize that there are bad birds who hate humans and want to peck them out of existence. In a way they are like my neighbors who want to metaphorically peck me to death with taunts when I play my Howdy Doody guitar or wear my chicken suit to the grocery store. Maybe I could do to them what I did to the Canada Goose.

Ha ha. I can see Mr. Joblousy on his back on my dining room table with his arms and legs sticking up and his butt stuffed with chestnut dressing.

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.

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Syntheton

Posted on April 20, 2025 | Leave a comment

Syntheton (sin’-the-ton): When by convention two words are joined by a conjunction for emphasis.

Death and taxes, life’s two certainties. But who cares? I specialize in uncertainty, experiencing it and cultivating it. I revel in anxiety—mine and yours. I am a “Worry Wart.” I help free people from the trap of certitude—that bleak unchanging mental place, where you’re stuck in the grip of truth—always, everywhere the same. Blah, blah, blah.

Certainty is like a lump of coal in your stocking on Christmas morning. Santa pulls no punches, so you know you’re naughty. No ifs, ands, or buts about it. That’s it. No room for improvement. No chance for redemption. You think “naughty” is the truth, but it isn’t. A Worry Wart can encompass this “truth” growing over it and masking its effect—it can throb with questions pounding away at the “truth.” What if Santa didn’t put the lump of coal in your stocking? What if Santa put the lump of coal in your stocking by mistake? What if there is no such thing as Santa? Good God!

There is this sweet anxiety prompted by the questions above. You worry. The space between the questions prompts anxiety as you wonder about the accuracy of the naughty-imputation signified by the lump of coal. Where should you turn? What should you believe? The foundation of your self concept has been shaken. The “truth” of the coal’s “naughty” projection has been shattered into shards, which, at best, now construe the possible. But the shards would have to be put back together again. It is uncomfortable. It is disconcerting. It is probably impossible.

Now, you try being nice. It is a choice. “Nice” takes a sort of competence imbued by practice. But you realize that being naughty works the same way. You must desire to be nice. You must desire to be naughty. And what is more disconcerting—you can be naughty and nice. Not at the same time, though. Now you are really provoked! Where does the “wanting” come from? The same place everything else comes from.

Human nature! The womb of human nurture: the social matrix that gives birth to character and cultivates its changes prompted by experience caught in worry, flowing inexorably toward the unknowable future.

POSTSCRIPT

Worry Wart has done it again! Functional anxiety will set you free.

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.

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Synzeugma

Posted on April 19, 2025 | Leave a comment

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.

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Systrophe

Posted on April 18, 2025 | Leave a comment

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.

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Tapinosis

Posted on April 17, 2025 | Leave a comment

Tapinosis (ta-pi-no’-sis): Giving a name to something which diminishes it in importance.

“Teeny Weenie.” That’s what they called me in the showers after gym class. It was true, that’s why it hurt so much. I did have a teeny weenie. It was less than an inch long and as big around as my pinky. It looked like a stubby pencil with a pink eraser. It was pitiful. When it got erect, it didn’t grow longer. It just got a little fatter, like a teeny fire hydrant.

The first time I used it for sex was with my high school girlfriend, Tammy. When I finished, she asked me if we’d done it yet. I told her we had and she started laughing and calling me “Teeny Weenie.” I was devastated and vowed to find a way to make my teeny weenie grow. My first idea was to stretch it.

I glued two of my sister’s cotton balls into the jaws of my father’s pliers. My strategy was to “squeeze and pull” my teeny weenie into a a full blown hot dog—a snappy griller with length and girth capable of doing the job.

My plan failed. The cotton balls came loose and I pinched my teeny weenie as I pulled it with the pliers. I cut it badly and had to go to the Emergency Room. They put a big white bandage on it that bulged in my pants. Now, in the showers they called me “Band Aid Dick.” As soon as it healed, I devised another plan.

I took the cardboard cylinder from a roll of toilet paper, pained it as close as I could to my skin color, and glued a ping pong ball with a pin hole in it to the tip. I filled the tube with clay hollowed out to fit my teeny weenie. This would secure my new “Mega Pecker” so cylinder wouldn’t fall off when I whipped it out.

It was show time!

I put on my father’s overcoat with no clothes on underneath. I positioned myself outside the girl’s restroom at school. A little group of girls came out of the restroom and I opened my coat with a flourish putting my cardboard mega pecker on full display. Unfortunately, my teeny weenie had warmed the clay and caused my mega pecker to slide off. The girls laughed. One of them said, “Oh. It’s Teeny Weenie! Pecker Pervert!”

I was humiliated. I was suspended from school for one year.

I turned to “Doin’ It,” my favorite porn site. It advertised a product called “T-Bone Tower,” a supplement you could take to “make it bigger.” The before and after photos convinced me. The pills were $75.00 for a bottle of 30. I got a part time job washing street signs. In 2 months, I had the $75.00. I put it in an envelope, filled out the order blank, and mailed it to T-Bone Tower.

The pills came in two days. In my desperation I took the whole bottle. It was a mistake. Almost instantly my teeny weenie started to grow—and grow, and grow. By the time it stopped it was three feet long!

I had already turned 18 so I went into the porn movie business. I was known as “Anaconda Man” and I did “constrictor” porn. I had trained my big Anaconda to wrap around women. Wearing a snakeskin condom, it looked like I was squeezing them to death. The squeezing served as foreplay for the main event. The Anaconda “shed” its skin and slithered home. My films filled a perverse niche—and probably made me my own niche in hell.

The effects of T-Bone Tower only last two days. So, I had to down a bottle every-other day to keep my Anaconda going. It was tiresome, but I lived in constant fear of becoming “Teeny Weenie” again, so I didn’t really have a choice.

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.

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