The Daily Trope

Abecedarian (a-be-ce-da’-ri-an): An acrostic whose letters do not spell a word but follow the order (more or less) of the alphabet.

A big crow descended, eerily flying, going hurriedly into Joey’s Mangetout nursery. We went inside the greenhouse to find the Crow, but it had flown out the other end. His visit was short, but he had dropped off a newborn kitten, eyes still closed, on the soft dirt spaded around one of the bean plants. Crows had always been good to me. I loved them and my nickname was Crow. But anyway, now a Crow had delivered a newborn kitten. I asked my friend, “What’re the odds? I think they are incalculable.” Melanie told me to go ahead and take charge of the kitten—I was good at those kinds of things. As I drove the kitten home, I tried to think of a clever name for him. After running hundreds of names through my head, like Clipper, Felix, Mewbert, and Peter, I settled on Byron. I don’t know why. He hadn’t had a chance to display any characteristics to be named after. I guess I just liked Byron.

So, I bottle-fed Byron and cuddled him. He was short-haired and pure white with a remarkable marking on his forehead: a perfectly shaped black heart. As Byron grew, I trained him to walk on a leash. People would ooh and aah at his heart marking. One day I was walking along Canal Street with Byron. An elderly woman walking toward us stopped and suddenly yelled “Stop right there.” I recognized her from her picture on the flyers taped all over the neighborhood. She read tarot cards out of a small storefront. She was notoriously good at it, helping people deal with their destinies. She said: “Your cat is special.” Byron looked at her as she spoke. I asked “In what way is he special?” “You will find out,” she said, laughed, turned around, and walked away. We took the shortcut through the alley when suddenly a guy with a knife appeared out of nowhere. “Give it to me!” he yelled. I had no idea what he wanted. “Give me the cat or I’ll kill you!” I was stunned. Byron sprung into action. With a deep growl, he leapt at the robber’s head and clawed out one of his eyeballs. He dropped the knife, screamed, and fell to the ground sobbing for help. Byron and I walked away like nothing had happened. Byron’s tail was sticking straight up—a sign he was happy.

Then I got audited by the IRS. They let me bring Byron because I told them he was my comfort cat. We sat down and the agent started to speak: “We are concerned about . . .” And Byron started purring. The agent blinked his eyes shook his head and continued “the mistake we’ve made making you come in for an audit.” Byron purred. The agent continued: “In fact, the IRS owes you $60,000.” Byron purred. The agent continued: “whoops, my mistake, it’s $600,000. You should get a check in two weeks.” Byron looked at me and winked!

This sort of thing has been going for years now. Byron’s purr has some sort magical power. I often wonder where the crow had found him and why I had ended up ‘owning’ him. I don’t care if I ever find the answer. We are pals forever. We’re going to look at a new Maserati tomorrow.

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

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Accismus (ak-iz’-mus): A feigned refusal of that which is earnestly desired.

After forty years, I finally got an award. I deserved it so much that I wanted to curse the awards committee for overlooking me all these years, and maybe hit one of them over the head with the little plaque—the size of a Hershey Bar. I expected to stick around for another 20 years, so I didn’t want to ruin my chances for another award, so I faked it, saying I didn’t deserve it and I couldn’t accept it. Professor Clap, a drama professor in the front row yelled “You’re damn right! I’ll come up there and get it Prof. Bullshit Slacker.” The audience applauded and hooted, and Clap started to get out of his seat. At that point Dean Rambling intervened. He yelled “Sit down Clap! The committee was unanimous in selecting Professor Duly for the college’s Nick Belgium Treadmill Award—for going nowhere, but never giving up. As we know, Mr. Belgium, our most distinguished alum, had inherited tremendous wealth and spent prolifically on crackpot schemes, most notably, the solar-powered banana peeler. Not one of his schemes succeeded, but he never gave up. Most people considered him an idiot, but he endowed the College’s Treadmill Award—which carries a $20.00 cash stipend, divided into 20 equal payments. He also endowed the Pyramid Chair in Economics which is currently held by Prof. Bagman, who, as everybody knows, now teaches via Zoom from Rahway State Prison in New Jersey. Now, shut the hell up.”

I shook hands with Dean Rambling and left auditorium to catcalls and wadded up paper thrown at me. When I got outside, I looked at my car. It was a rusted up piece of shit. I had never been able to afford a new car, but now that I was an award winning Professor, I went to “Stony Joe’s Used Wheels” out on Highway 61. I told Stony I had just won an award, so it was time to buy a car. I didn’t tell him about the meager stipend. He said, “I’ve got just the thing—super discounted for a sharp-looking guy like you.” He took me across the lot to a nearly new Cadillac parked about 20 feet off the lot. It had about 20-30 of those pine tree air fresheners hanging around the mirror. I opened the car door and it stunk of cherries—so oppressive that I could almost feel the smelly cherries in my nostrils. Stony told me the car had belonged to a rich nutcase named Belgium who had never succeeded at anything. He had sat in his running car in the garage with the door closed. He went the way of the angels 2 months ago. Accordingly, he sat in his garage decomposing for 2 months. The warm summer days helped turn him almost into liquid. If you want his nearly new Cadillac for $1,000, it’s yours. Just change the air fresheners once-a-week—cherry works best.”

I thought “Oh the irony.” I bought Belgium’s Cadillac. I religiously changed the air fresheners and learned to like their smell. My colleagues at Aaron Burr College like my smell. I have found that this is a key to earning their respect, that, and owning a nearly new Cadillac. I am eligible for the Gerber “Spoon Fed Teaching Award” this year. It is awarded to “the faulty member who consistently adjusts their standards to assure a minimum grade of “B” for all their students.” I’ve had my eyes on this award for years. I’ve gone the extra mile by ensuring a B+ for all of my students in my signature philosophy course: “Life is a Bowl of Cherries.”

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

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Acervatio (ak-er-va’-ti-o): Latin term Quintilian employs for both asyndeton (acervatio dissoluta: a loose heap) and polysyndeton (acervatio iuncta:a conjoined heap).

Sunrise. Sunset. Mid-afternoon, 3:00 a.m. We look at the clock and we look at our watch, and everything is encompassed by time, and there is early, and there is late, and there is right on time—timeless, timely. The variations on time indicate it’s ubiquity. It passes. What does it mean?

It means we are finite beings aware of life’s eventual end—another mark of time written across the surface of our soul. It is a blessing and a curse.

I new I had drifted onto a new life course when I lost my time consciousness after a near-fatal motorcycle accident in a dust storm near Mesa Verde in Colorado. It came out of nowhere. The wind was so strong it tilted my motorcycle to a 60 degree angle. My mouth was filled with grit and I could hardly see. I tried to straighten my motorcycle. It was stupid. My hand came off the handlebar and the front wheel lurched to the right. I crossed white line flew off the highway, hit a small boulder and flew over the handlebars. I was probably going around 35 mph by the time I flew off the motorcycle. The brake lever had caught me in the stomach. I was wearing only a T-shirt, so the lever punctured my skin and gave me a pretty good gash. When I came to, I saw I was bleeding pretty bad. I pushed off the motorcycle from on top of me and tried to stand up. I couldn’t—the pain was too much. I was going to die by the side of the road, in a dust storm, in Colorado. Then, there was no time, none, zero, zip. I had lost my sense of being there. The anxiety that always threaded it’s way through my life was gone. There was no memory, no hope, no consciousness, but a small voice wishing me well.

There was a trading post across the road from where I had crashed. I reawakened as I was being pulled across the road, laying on a beautiful Navajo blanket. I felt weak and passed out again. When I woke up there was a young Navajo woman sewing up my wound. There was some yellow cream she had smeared on it that totally removed the pain.

I healed really quickly, had my motorcycle repaired and resumed my journey to anywhere. Having lost my time-consciousness I was like a leaf in the wind. Then, I called my mother and landed back on the clock: “Where are you? When are you coming home?, Do you know how long it’s been since we heard from you?, School starts again in a couple of moths! Your little sister wants you home now!” It was like somebody stuck an air compressor in my ear and blew away the quality of life I had been given.

“Whoosh! Look at me, I’m being in time!”

Definitions 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.

Affirmatio (af’-fir-ma’-ti-o): A general figure of emphasis that describes when one states something as though it had been in dispute or in answer to a question, though it has not been.

Preacher: Who said the sky is blue? Who said the earth is round? Who said climate change is a fact? Who said abortion should be safe and legal? And now, get ready to roll around on the floor spewing puke and crying: Who said people should be permitted to change their sex?

It is those demonic Democrats every time. Their diabolical beliefs are undermining our party’s self-evident truths and feeding America to a hungry Satan. He is chewing on our children and laughing in our faces as he washes them down, crying and screaming, with our warm evangelical blood.

We are at war, and in wars people get killed. We must kill enough Democrats to satisfy Saran’s hunger. If we can feed Satan enough Democrats he will surely let us ultra-right conservatives alone. Technically, we may be doing Satan’s work, but actually we are clearing our communities of sin. On that note . . .

See this man here? We’ve tied him to this flagpole flying the American flag to emphasize the righteousness of our cause. We all know him as Jack, the counterman at Cliff’s. He sells alcohol. He sells tobacco. He sells lotto tickets. But most repugnant and disgusting: he is a baby killer, selling condoms—rubber baggies that keep the little swimmers from going where they belong—going through the baby door, into Eve’s egg-crate.

We must make an example of him by burning him at the stake. Sinners will hear about what happened here and tremble with fear.

Sheriff: Not so fast Preacher! It’s still illegal to murder people around here. Drop the Bic lighter and put up your hands, you’re under arrest.

POSTSCRIPT

The spell was broken. The crowd dispersed muttering. The ground opened up and the Reverend went to meet his fate.

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.