The Daily Trope

Synzeugma

Posted on August 10, 2024 | 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.

The temperature was climbing and so was I. I was in Peru, it was jungle-hot and I was inching my way up a sheer cliff. It was at least 600 feet to the top and I was only 200 feet up of what was called by its grid coordinates: 13.1632° S, 72.5453° W. I was starting to think I wouldn’t make to the top. Downclimbing was out of the question. I had to make it to the top or my sponsor would withdraw its support and I would be left in Peru with nothing. I was half-way out of water and was hearing music—a sure sign I’d gone around the bend. It was coming from above me. I kept climbing.

I came to a vine-covered entrance to a cave. The music was coming out of the cave—it was one of those Peruvian flutes. It playing Creedence Clearwater’s “Proud Mary.” I thought I was surely going insane. Then, a man stepped out of the shadows and greeted me: “Welcome to the Machu Picchu Flute Academy. we work to prepare Peruvians to play the flute on street corners, plazas and bus stops around the world—from Iceland to New Zealand, from Poland to Portugal we play haunting music. Let me show you around.”

In addition to flutes they made ceramic guinea pigs clutching bricks of money. These were sold to tourists in Lima, along with lower quality flutes. The mountain’s stone interior had been hewn into classrooms and dormitories, a library, and a restaurant named Hard Rock Diner. The students came from all over Peru. There were two North Korean exchange students who were there to “improve the aesthetics of the Motherland’s cultural regime.” I thought this was pretty cool. Maybe North Korea isn’t so bad after all.

There was a well in the center of the school with delicious water, and a flight of stairs carved out of that exited at the top of the cliff I was clinging. So, I had an order of ceviche at the restaurant and said “Goodbye” to my host. My plan was to climb the stairs and use my satellite phone to call in a chopper to pick me up. My hose said, “Wait. Before you leave you must swear on this master flute to never disclose this place’s location or mission upon penalty of death. All the students do likewise as the price to pay for learning how to make and play the Peruvian flute. I thought nothing of it and readily agreed—mainly because I thought it was a load of BS.

POSTSCRIPT

After I wrote this account of my experience in Peru and published it on my blog, things haven’t gone well. I cut off my finger peeling a peach. I got severe food poisoning from ceviche I are at a local Peruvian restaurant: The Hard Rock Diner. I should’ve known better. Now, my pet Guinea pigs, Moe, Larry, and Curly have gone feral and are eating my feet as I type. I don’t know what will befall me next, but I fear it will be the end.

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

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

Systrophe

Posted on August 9, 2024 | Leave a comment

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

So many qualities. So many characteristics. So much to see and marvel at. Plump. Stiff. Pointing toward the sky. It’ll always be one of my favorite things. I harvested it and put it in vinegar in a jar. I have it on my mantle, backlit by a candle, sitting on a saucer my little sister made in her pottery class at the community college. I love how the jar and the saucer provide an aesthetic temper to the floating vice. I can’t help but see it that way—as a vice—given the sensual distraction it provides from my otherwise useless life.

I work at the airport picking up trash in the grand concourse. I have a scoop with a handle and wheels and a trashcan with wheels. I make my way through the concourse over and ver in a checkerboard patter so I don’t miss any floor. Somebody else empties the trash by the seats. My job is “random litter” decorating the concourse floor. The weirdest thing I ever found was an artificial leg. It was leaning up against the wall outside the men’s room. I looked inside the restroom before I harvested the fake leg. There were no one-legged people inside the men’s room, so I took it. I noticed it had a tag glued to it. It said: “If found, call Tim Small at 409-222-3434.” So, I called the number and Tim asked if I’d bring the leg to him. I said I would and he gave me the address. It was in the ritzy part of town. When I got there, I was impressed by his mansion. There was a fountain and statues on the lawn. There was a Tesla parked out front as well as a golf cart.

I rang the doorbell. It played the chorus from Blue Oyster Cult’s “Don’t Fear the Reaper” with excellent sound quality. The door opened and Tim introduced himself. He had two legs! I sad “What the f*ck is going on here?” He said he should’ve told me and profusely apologized to me. He handed me an attache case filled with twenty-dollar bills. Then, he tour me his story: The leg had belonged to his father who had lost his leg in the Korean War. They were a team, begging on the streets for NYC. His father would roll up his pant leg, and he would hug the leg and cry and say “My daddy sacrificed his leg for you.” They made tons of money. He invested their earnings in hula hoops and bobby socks and made millions. He believes his father’s leg is a lucky charm, and also, it comforts him to hug it, like he did as a child.

I was completely amazed and the attaché case filled with 20s helped me believe his story. This experience was the brightest spot in my whole life. It kept me from diving out my apartment window. Now I have my “light in the forest” shimmering on my mantle. It brings me joy. It’s just one of those things.

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

The Daily Trope is available on Amazon in paperback under the title of The Book of Tropes for $9.95. It is also available in Kindle format for $5.99.

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Tapinosis

Posted on August 8, 2024 | Leave a comment

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

They are a piece of crap, a waste of space, a symbol of oppression. the Crown Jewels of England. Worn by beheaders, adulterers, bad tennis players and overweight slobs. When I see the Queen wearing the crown, I want to run up and push her down. But what good would that do? I would be packed off to the loony bin and disappear into meds and electric shocks. So, that’s why I’ve gotten a job in the Tower of London where the Crown Jewels are displayed. The crown is taken out of its showcase once-a-month for dusting. That’s when I will strike. I will work my way up to crown duster. Then, instead of dusting it, I will run away with it.

After three years I was promoted to Duster. As planned, I absconded with the crown. I ran out a side door with it under my arm like an American football. Strangely, nobody chased me or even yelled. I checked into the first hotel I came to. I sat on the bed and looked at the crown, imagining ways I could destroy it. I thought fire was my best bet, but throwing it out a window or running it over with a steam roller were pretty good options too.

Then I noticed it said “Barbie” on the inside rim. The crown on display was from one of those life-size Barbie Dolls! I had to find the genuine crown so I could lay it to waste once and for all. Then I remembered: Nick Knack. I had served with hm as an altar boy back in the day. We pilfered communion wafers and sold them to the Satanic cults flourishing in London at the time. We got mixed up with some pretty crazy people, one of whom taught Nick how to turn into a house plant and spy on people. He was willing pose as a philodendron in The Tower of London to see if he could get the lowdown on the crown’s whereabouts. His friend posed as a florist and dropped him off. It didn’t take long.

Nick heard them talking and heard them say the crown was disguised as cake topper in Harrod’s pastry hall. It was sitting atop a “permanent” wedding cake. I jumped in a cab and headed to Harrod’s as fast as I could. I climbed up on the showcase where the cake was displayed. I reached for the crown, and a nicely manicured hand with a handcuff attached to the wrist shout out of the cake and shackled me. She stood up and was wearing a maid’s costume. It was like the girl popping out of the cake at a bachelor party. But, it was no party for me. No lap dance. The oppressor had won again.

I am in prison. I am writing a book: “Try to Have a Plan.” It is based on my experience.

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

The Daily Trope is available on Amazon in paperback under the title of The Book of Tropes for $9.95. It is also available in Kindle format for $5.99.

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Tasis

Posted on August 7, 2024 | Leave a comment

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

Woooow! I was swimming in a tub of warm maple syrup with four other naked IRS Agents. It was the bribe of the century, eclipsing the famous Stairway to Heaven by a million miles. After our bath, We were going to be dipped in pancake batter and eat each other. Just then, i woke up at the wheel of my US government Ford as I scraped a bridge abutment and made sparks fly.

It was all a dream. What a good dream, even though it ended with us eating each other! I had been on the road for three weeks chasing this high school dropout kid who wasn’t paying sales tax on the collection of bottle caps he was individually selling as earrings on Etsy. We suspected they were stolen. The famous “Karma Cap Collection” had been stolen. It contained over 1,000,000 pieces that could not be tracked down—finders keepers, losers weepers. We knew the earrings were from a collection like the Karma Cap Collection and its breadth of coverage. For example there were earrings made from Abe Lincoln Lindenberry Lush, Ben Franklin’s Frothy Flip, Jeff Davis Fizzy Rum-Rebel Soda, Paul Revere’s Midnight Rye, Ike’s Spiked Lemonade.

These brands represent a unique set of brands from hundreds of years ago. Unfortunately we discovered that micro breweries and distilleries have co-opted these antique brand names. Just the other day I saw a six pack of Susan B. Anthony Ale at Cliff’s. So really, there’s no way to sort out the bottle cap mess, but we can still nail this guy for not paying sales tax. We can tell by checking Etsy’s records that this guy has sold $65.00 worth of earrings. Since the sales money was wired to the seller, it would be easy to track him down, impounded his worldly goods and ruin his life.

As I pulled up to his house with my Tax Collection Hit Team, the car in the driveway looked familiar. It looked like the car my son was driving when he stopped by to tell me he was disowning me. It was nearly fatally embarrassing for him when people found out I work for the IRS. He couldn’t make friends and people called him “bastard” all the time.

The door opened. It was my sone holding a baby. My colleagues “went in.”

One of my colleagues came out fairly quickly carrying a pillowcase full of bottle caps. I thought, “This is kind of awkward.” I said to my colleagues, “This guy looks kind hearted—look at that baby. We’re going to leave him a bill and give him one-year to pay. The bill is $9.00.” My son said “Thanks Dad,” and there was a noticeable gasp from my colleagues. They started coming toward me chanting the IRS chant: Everybody Pays, No Exceptions.” I jumped in my IRS Ford and took off like a bat out of hell. I pulled into a mall parking lot, found a Cadillac with the keys in it, and took off again. I crossed into Mexico and drove to Mexico City. Then, I caught a bus to Quito, Ecuador. No extradition. I met my son and his wife and baby there. We started a deep sea fishing business. We now have a fleet of 5 boats and business is flourishing. We don’t pay any taxes because the. government believes we attract a lot of business to Ecuador.

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

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

Thaumasmus

Posted on August 6, 2024 | Leave a comment

Thaumasmus (thau-mas’-mus): To marvel at something rather than to state it in a matter of fact way.

I was sitting there surrounded by stars, and sky, and shooting stars, and constellations—the Big Dipper, the Little Dipper, Orion and the North Star, showing the way somewhere, And, as of tonight there was “John Boy.” The new star is named after me and I own it. For four dollars, it went from being G211247 to John Boy.

The problem is, I found out yesterday that star naming and selling is a scam. There is no John Boy.

I often go to the beach to star gaze. It was a moonless night when I met him. He was walking down the beach wearing shorts and a t-shirt emblazoned with glow in the dark stars and saying “Stars for sale. Stars for sale.” He was impressive. He told me his name was Joe Astro and he could “make me a star.” Who doesn’t want to be a star? All I needed to do was fill out a note card with demographic information and pay him $4.00, and I’d have a star named after me and transferred to my ownership. He used Venmo.

I went with John Boy, my nickname since “The Waltons” debuted fifty years ago. He pointed to the sky and said, “There you are right straight overhead. I’ll take care of the paperwork tomorrow and mail you your “Stellar Deed” tomorrow afternoon, along with your rights and privileges as a star owner. Basically, I could sell or rent the star, and look at it all I wanted. To that end, I bought a telescope and set it up in my living room. That’s when I realized I didn’t know where the star was. I called Joe Astro and his phone was disconnected. I was really angry. I went to the liquor store to get me something to calm me down. I bought I pint of “Rasputin Vodka.” It was famous for its ability to put you in a trance for 4-6 hours. I was ready to sit in my big chair and get wasted—my anger was turning to remorse and “Rasputin” went perfectly with that mood. Then I saw him! Joe Astro was walking across the liquor store parking lot, headed for his bicycle chained to the light post. I yelled “Hey Joe!” He took off running into the woods by the parking lot. I took off after him. But weighing in 310 lbs I couldn’t follow running, so I cut it down to a walk. I saw a little shack up ahead. I looked in a window and saw that the inside walls were lined with bookshelves filled with books on astronomy. On the one blank place on one of the walls the was a PhD Diploma in Astronomy from “Sky King School of Astronomy.” Joe Astro was sitting in a chair crying. I knocked, and he invited me in. We cracked open the “Rasputin” and sobbing, Joe told me hi story.

Basically: He was working in an observatory n Switzerland. He was in charge of finding lost stars. He would work all night, every night. One night he fell asleep in his telescope chair he hd failed to hook his seatbelt and grabbed ahold of the telescope to keep from falling 10 to the floor. The telescope came apart and came crashing down. An $8,000,000 piece of equipment was destroyed. Joe was forced to flee Switzerland by the country’s astronomers, and banned for life from practicing astronomy, He had ended up in Santa Barbara where he was able to buy the little patch of woods by the liquor store and build his shack.

While I felt sorry for him, he had swindled me out of four dollars and filled me with false beliefs that I’d been frequently called out for. So, I turned him in to the police. When the squad car pulled up with siren blaring, Joe ran away through the woods and disappeared. I saw him on “America’s Most Wanted” last week. He is selling “genuine” moon rocks to elderly people door-to-door.

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

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Tmesis

Posted on August 5, 2024 | Leave a comment

Tmesis (tmee’-sis): Interjecting a word or phrase between parts of a compound word or between syllables of a word.

Bi-buckin’-cycle. Damn. Thump. Bump. Bam. Boom. It was near the beach and the road was paved with pretty big rocks—like turtle shells sunk in the tar. This was the annual “Kiss Your Ass Goodbye Bicycle Torture Run.” The “Run” went for 80 miles along the Rhode Island coast. It was brutal. Nobody had ever finished it. There was a $10,000 prize, so, for me, it was worth competing in it year after year and learning all I could about the terrain and what kind of bike it takes to traverse it. The first time I tried, I rode a normal English racing bike. I got 10 feet and was picked up by junkyard magnet and dropped in the ocean. After that, I switched to a zinc alloy bike. I had had the bike I was riding custom made out of steel. I did that for durability, not magnetic properties! Flying through the air on my steel bike was something I never anticipated. Live and learn.

This year’s bike is zinc alloy and weighs in at 50 pounds. Both wheels ride on springs made of cuckoo clock works. When I hit a really big bump they cuckoo! That’s classy. The handlebars are Texas Longhorn steer horns—at 8 feet wide, they keep other riders from passing until I can throw my special nails on the ground behind me. the special nails are like jacks—it doesn’t matter how they land—there’s always a sharp point sticking up. My tires are molded rubber. They can’t be punctured. My spokes are made of extruded stainless steel—indestructible. The seat is made of goose down and is lavender-scented with a built-in dispenser. The pedals are made of hand-carved birch by Scandinavian master craftsmen. The headlight is halogen and is designed to blind other riders. It can be taken from its bracket and pointed over my shoulder. I think this is the most effective means of staying in the lead.

Although nobody has ever finished race, I’ve come close. Last year, after completing Turtle Shell Road, I came to “Jimmy Cliff,” a 50-foot drop to a pit filled five-feet deep with broken Narragansett beer bottles. But I was ready. I was wearing my custom made Kevlar bike suit with my sponsor’s name emblazoned on it: “Narragansett Mental Health and Refurbished Lawnmowers.” I never bought a lawnmower from them, but I’ve been taking their “Rainbow Pills” for the past 10 years. I try to live my life like Noah, looking for rainbows and having a big boat.

Anyway, I held my bike over my head and waded through the broken glass—it smelled like beer. It reminded me of my mother’s smell when she tucked me in as a kid. That was an inspiration. I came out the other side of the pit of glass and there was a muddy field filled with Rhode Island Red chickens. They had added this feature when it became popular to keep chickens as pets. The field was about a half-mile across. The chickens had been fed steroids and were very aggressive. They pecked at rider’s legs, especially if they had gotten stuck in the mixture of mud and chicken shit making up the field. The riders’ screaming was disconcerting. Their mangled calves were shocking and disgusting and provided me an incentive to get through the field without getting stuck.

On the periphery of the field was an Porta-Potty. That was great. I had to pee something fierce. I parked my bike outside, went inside, and locked the door. When I was done, I couldn’t get the door unlocked. I heard what sounded like Russian laughter. Suddenly, the locked door unlocked. I went outside and my bike was gone. That did it. The end for another year’s bike racing failure. I’m certain the thieves will return my bike. When I get it back, I’ll have it fitted with a hack-proof burglar alarm. Also, I’m going to have a chicken wire chicken shocking skirt installed right above the pedals.

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

The Daily Trope is available on Amazon in paperback under the title of The Book of Tropes for $9.95. It is also available in Kindle format for $5.99.

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Topographia

Posted on August 4, 2024 | Leave a comment

Topographia (top-o-graf’-i-a): Description of a place. A kind of enargia [: {en-ar’-gi-a} generic name for a group of figures aiming at vivid, lively description].

I was alone. The house was empty. It was quiet. I sat there in my bathrobe and thought about what had happened, trying to figure out why it had happened. Well, I actually knew. After 20 years of being happily married, my wife had become insane. She thought I was a menace to humanity—that I made bombs, spread diseases and drowned kittens in the pond behind our house. She became fixated on killing me. I, like a fool, let her get away with her attempts.

One afternoon I was sitting in my easy chair. I had just given our dog Mike a bubble bath in the upstairs bathroom. He had followed me back downstairs and was trying to hump my leg. I kept kicking him off with my free foot. He was like a jackhammer from hell. Then, there was a great big “boom.” My wife had shot Mike with my deer hunting gun. It was loaded with .12 gauge slugs. Mike died instantly—a quarter-sized hole in his back. My wife dropped the gun to the floor. She said “I missed.” I thought nothing of it at the time. She was always complaining about Mike, so I thought she was reacting to her irritation and carrying out her anger. Killing Mike was a little extreme, but I could live with it.

About two weeks later I was taking a bath. I had the bathroom door locked. I liked privacy when I took a bath. Suddenly, there was a loud banging on the bathroom door. “Let me in! Let me in right now!” she yelled as she pounded. I said “No. Leave me alone.” She said, “Ok fat ass, I’ll be right back.” She was gone for about two minutes. I heard her outside the door starting my chainsaw. She sawed a hole in the door big enough to walk through. Then she picked up a space heater off the floor and threw it in the tub. Nothing happened. The space heater wasn’t plugged in. Just as I was wondering why she didn’t go after me with the chainsaw, she picked it up but couldn’t get it started.

I should’ve had her arrested, but instead, I used my health insurance to put her into therapy. I didn’t want to send all our happy years of marriage down the drain. The first thing the psychologist told me was that my wife is a homicidal maniac, and eventually, she would succeed in murdering me. “She hates you. Maybe if we could figure why, we could help her,” he said. I was clueless. Sure, I played jokes on her and teased, but that shouldn’t induce homicidal urges toward me. For example, one time I told her that her mother had burned alive in a train crash. The look on her face was priceless. She stopped sobbing when I told her it was a joke. No harm done.

Anyway, one evening I was watching TV and she crawled up behind my chair and pulled a plastic bag over my head. It was one of those cheap eco-friendly bags and I was able to poke a hole in it over my mouth. That did it. I called the police. She was arrested, tried, and convicted of attempted first degree murder.

Now, she has a guaranteed life residence for life—out in the high desert with coyotes and cactus and wind. Where the armadillos play and the sun shines all day and the prairie dogs dig holes all over the place.

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

The Daily Trope is available on Amazon in paperback under the title of The Book of Tropes for $9.95. It is also available in Kindle format for $5.99.

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Traductio

Posted on August 3, 2024 | Leave a comment

Traductio (tra-duk’-ti-o): Repeating the same word variously throughout a sentence or thought. Some authorities restrict traductio further to mean repeating the same word but with a different meaning (see ploce, antanaclasis, and diaphora), or in a different form (polyptoton). If the repeated word occurs in parallel fashion at the beginnings of phrases or clauses, it becomes anaphora; at the endings of phrases or clauses, epistrophe.

The porch was big. The front door was big. The house was big. It was where Grammy and Grampy lived. They liked everything big. When I say “big” I’m not kidding. Their front door was rwelve feet tall and five feet wide. The door knob was the size a a hubcap and they key weighed three pounds. They had ladders to climb up on the couch and arm chairs. The pile on the carpet was one foot deep and was patterned with dancing ducks and chipmunks. The television was the size of a ping pong table hanging on the wall. The kitchen stove was like a smelter. I wasn’t allowed in the bathroom, but there was a normal size guest bathroom I used when I visited,

Grampy had made billions in the “Advice” business. His advice was always on target for the people he gave it to, whether it was good or bad.”Escalate the bombing” was among the worst. He gave that advice to Henry Kissinger at the height of the Vietnam War. Then there was the Falklands War, and more. The best piece of advice he ever gave was to Santa Claus. Rudolph “with his nose so bright” had been permanently disabled playing in the 1989 Reindeer Games in Iceland. Grampy advised Santa to get a GPS so he wouldn’t get lost. He also advised Santa to get a pair of LL Bean Arctic Adventure Insulated Boots. Santa had lost 2 toes the previous year, and now, with his circulation affected by his age, he needed to do something. I don’t know, but maybe Grampy saved Christmas.

All the “big” in Grampy and Grammy’s lives is the result of a neurosis that can’t be managed with medication. They tried Ketamine but got the sensation they were melting into the floor. After drinking 4 cups of black coffee, the sensation went away and was replaced by a sort squeaking sound and a soft breeze coming out of their ears. It went away on its own after four hours. We ere all relieved, but it did not affect their perception of being big.

Grampy and Grammy suffered from Megalo Psevdaisthisi: Size Illusion. It stems from an unwarranted fear of Goliath—the giant killed by David in the Bible. The victim “has to be big” in the event Goliath comes looking for them. It is highly unusual that husband and wife both suffer from Size Illusion, but Grampy and Grammy were in a Bible study group when they were children. They read David and Goliath and both still remember being terrified, Still, the name Goliath triggers tremors and feeble cowering. It is disconcerting.

Being surrounded by oversized things comforts my grandparents. I often wonder what it would be like if they couldn’t afford the big things. I sought out a husband and wife who who suffered from Size Illusion and could not afford big stuff. I rang the doorbell and there was panicked screaming from inside. The door opened and there was the husband aiming a slingshot at my head. Husband and wife, whimpering, backed under the dining room table. At that point I had had enough and I left. How sad.

My grandfather had some big chairs stored in his garage. I sent one to the people I had visited. I hope it helps them cope.

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

The Daily Trope is available on Amazon in paperback under the title of The Book of Tropes for $9.95. It is also available in Kindle format for $5.99.

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Tricolon

Posted on August 2, 2024 | Leave a comment

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

I laughed. I cried. I choked. It was my mother’s birthday and laughing, crying and choking are the most vivid memories of the time we spent together. Laughing was rare, but crying and choking happened every day. I would cry because of what she had done to me and she would choke me and tell me to shut up. If I didn’t shut up she would hit me with a spatula and pour ice water over me. if that didn’t work, she would stick pins in me—she called it voodoo acupuncture. As you can imagine, none of those remedies worked—they actually made things worse. So, she would leave me out on the sidewalk until I stopped.

I had a giant wingtip shoe for a bassinet. My father had worked for a shoe repair shop. The shoe hung from a sign outside that said “Shoe Business.” It was a play on “show business” that nobody got, but we got the shoe when the business closed. When I was 12 I could still fit in it comfortably. I polished it once a month and kept the laces limber by tying and untying them twice a week. Dad subsequently got a job as a shoe salesman. He said he liked “looking up north” when he was fitting a shoe on a woman. I don’t know why he told me that. I was only six. Two days later, he left for “The Land of Lincoln” and never came back.

Anyway, there I was on the sidewalk. A very tall woman pushing a baby carriage came along. She picked me up and put me in the carriage. I had been hoping to be kidnapped ever since my mother started putting me out on the sidewalk. Suddenly my mother appeared on the front porch. She was waving a potato masher and yelling: “Go ahead and take him, he’s nothing but a little pain in the ass!” The women yelled “You don’t know what you’ve got until it’s gone!” Off we went down Grove Street headed to my new home. It was a giant mansion on the hill at the end of the street. I had gone sleigh riding there a few times in the winter, but that was it. My new mother’s name was Mary Garlitz. She was Don Garlitz’s sister—he drove a drag racer.

The house was so big, Mary got around via skateboard. She gave me a skateboard when I moved in. It had Spider-Man painted on it. She got her friend Tony Hawk to teach me how to use it. He actually skateboarded on the ceiling! You’d be watching TV and all-of-a-sudden he’d go rolling by and circle the TV room’s ceiling light like nothing happened.

Mary and I travelled the length and breadth of New Jersey soaking up its history and beauty. At one point we met up with Bruce Springsteen. I tagged along as Ruth and “The Boss” reminisced as we walked down the beach at Asbury Park. I think Springsteen’s song “Mary Queen of Arkansas” was inspired by Mary.

The best fun I had was visiting the “Great Swamp National Wildlife Refuge.” When I was really young, me and dad would go there. We would catch leeches and put them in zip-Lock bags. Dad loved to “fool” mom with them by putting them in the bathtub when mom was taking a bath. She would see one crawling up her leg and go crazy. Dad would laugh and say “It looks like your ugly mole is moving!” I wish I was allowed in the bathroom to see, but seeing mom naked was strictly prohibited.

When Mary and I visited the swamp, we marveled at the flowers, the turtles, the frogs, and the water snakes. I saw a raccoon laying on its back and panting. I poked it in the stomach and it snarled and bit my hand. Mary drove me to the emergency room where it was determined that I needed rabies shots. I had to get four shots, but that did not diminish the fun I had at the swamp.

While we were at the hospital, Mary told me my mother was there. She had a giant inoperable boil on her chest. It was three feet in diameter and weighed around 80 pounds. I told Mary that I didn’t want to see my mother. Mary said “Ok” and we left. That very night mom’s boil exploded and propelled her through her room’s wall and killed her. They had to call in extra orderlies to clean up the mess. Fox News ran a story about it titled “Pus Tsunami.” The on-site newsman said “She went out with a bang.” And “She made a big splash.”

I couldn’t wait to have my mother cremated so we could dump her ashes in a can and shove her in the ground. The cemetery won’t allow me to have the epitaph I wanted to have on her gravestone—they said it would offend a lot of people. I see it as a free speech issue. I am filing a lawsuit next week. My attorney, Rudy Giuliani, assures me it is a slam dunk. Mary told me he has been disbarred and shouldn’t be practicing law. I guess I’ll have to fire him. I hope he gives me my $200,000 deposit back.

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

The Daily Trope is available on Amazon in paperback under the title of The Book of Tropes for $9.95. It is also available in Kindle format for $5.99.

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Abating

Posted on August 1, 2024 | Leave a comment

Abating: English term for anesis: adding a concluding sentence that diminishes the effect of what has been said previously. The opposite of epitasis (the addition of a concluding sentence that merely emphasizes what has already been stated. A kind of amplification).

I couldn’t believe I had new tap shoes. Well, they weren’t actually new, but they were new to me. The metal taps were worn down, and there was a big toe bump, and the leather was cracked on the crease across the toes. They were well-shined and had new laces and they were a perfect fit. I was going to compete in the North Jersey Tap-Tap Dance Contest. My dad was a mobster and promised to put “The Con” in the con-test. The next day, the other contestants started getting kneecap and ankle injuries. It happened when they were in line for the movies or the check out line at the grocery store, or the DMV. It was suspicious, but I knew my dad had my best interests at heart. He would kill for me, even if he didn’t have to.

The date of the contest came. There was only one competitor left. Her family had been at the shore during dad’s “enterprise.” Her name was “Sin.” Her father was a Baptist preacher and he had named her “Sinful.” “Sin” was appliquéd in a flame motif on each shoe.

We were ready to go. Since there was just the two of us, we went straight to the final dance off. We were dancing to “The Flight of the Bumble Bee.” We were facing each other. Our feet were blurs, and, I swear, the stage started smoking from metal tap friction.

All of a sudden, one of the screws in my front tap came out and rolled across the stage. The loose tap got stuck in a seam between two boards on the stage. My foot made a cracking sound and I flew of the stage. I landed on my head and was knocked unconscious. When I was unconscious, I saw myself flying through outer space in a red tap shoe, landing on the moon and dancing with the man in the moon to “Flight of the Bumble Bee.”

Dad was at the hospital and he was crying because he couldn’t “get to the girl.” I told him it was ok and the morphine they were giving me made it all worthwhile. They scanned my brain and saw a blue light inside it. They told me not to worry, only my wiping and my arithmetic skills would be affected. I didn’t know there was such thing as a professional butt wiper. I Googled wipers in my zip code. I interviewed three candidates on Zoom. I chose the one who was wearing latex gloves. Also, I bought a bidet to make things easier on my wiper. Her nickname was “Betty Scoop.” I thought that was pretty funny. We spent quality time together every morning. We talked about everything. —my diet, her desire for children, etc. We fell in love and got married. My weird friends threw rolls of toilet paper at us when we came out of the church.

I’ve gone back to competitive tap dancing. It will probably kill me.

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

The Daily Trope is available on Amazon in paperback under the title of The Book of Tropes for $9.95. It is also available in Kindle format for $5.99.

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Abbaser

Posted on July 31, 2024 | Leave a comment

Abbaser [George] Puttenham’s English term for tapinosis. Also equivalent to meiosis: reference to something with a name disproportionately lesser than its nature (a kind of litotes: deliberate understatement, especially when expressing a thought by denying its opposite)

It looks like the world is doing great—doing its lovely turning! The pollution. The endless greed. The killing of innocent people in wars. The abused women. The racism. The injustice. The poverty. Business as usual.

Why, just yesterday I pushed down a hungry homeless man. Bam! Right on the sidewalk. He jumped right in front of me and asked for a dollar. Bullshit! I had just put a dollar in the collection basket at church. Who do these people think we are? My dollar will go to somebody who actually needs it, like somebody whose lawnmower broke, or somebody who has a groundhog living under their garage. Pastor Benediction needs money too. I saw him at the liquor store. He bought a pack of Marlboro 27’s and a liter of “Fireball Whiskey.” My heart went out to him. If he runs out of cigarettes and whiskey during the week, he’ll have to wait until the first Monday after Sunday to stock up again. It is a crying shame that Pastor Benediction has to live from paycheck to paycheck. Maybe I’ll give him two dollars this Sunday. It may be my ticket to heaven!

Most of the people who go to Church have emotional problems. For example, Mrs. Gormly wears her dress backward in memory of her husband. I could see carrying his photo, but the memorial aspect of the backward dress is beyond me, and apparently Mrs. Gormly too. I asked her once and she told me not to fret, “He was in hell with the dog catcher muzzling puppies.” I think that’s somewhat crazy. Or, there’s Mr. “Barefoot” Proost. He comes to church barefoot so he can “feel the face of God” as he walks to his pew. I would think hands were better than feet for feeling God’s face. But, it’s religion—the biggest opinion fest in the universe. Centuries ago, they used to burn people for veering off course. Now, the pastors just tell them they’ve veered off course and to be cautious in uncharted waters—established religion is like Google showing the best route to heaven—the fastest, the shortest, the most scenic, the wisest. You’ve got commandments and parables to direct you and vex you, in that order.

When I was home watching “Terminator,” I realized that the man who tried to beg a dollar from me was my high school gym teacher Mr. Whistle. He had become addicted to Dairy Queen chocolate dipped jumbo-cones. He gained 70 pounds and was unable to do sit-ups anymore, or any other coach things. To prove he was still fit enough to teach, he tried to climb the rope. He got 3” up the rope and fell to the floor, tearing his track suit and exposing himself to the Sophomore class and the Principal, Ms. Thighlow. She laughed, and that was it. Mr. Whistle was done for—unfit to teach gym. It was cruel that they didn’t reassign him to “fat man” courses like Home Economics or English. Mr Whistle sued and lost. And he was pushed out onto the street by an uncaring community, including me.

I know my job at “Mel’s Ant Farm” is secure. It’s the biggest ant farm in Michigan and people come from all over to see it. Donald Trump was here last month. He kept saying “I’ve got ants in my pants, Mel.” We didn’t know what to do, so Mel put some ants in his pants. Trump started dancing around and twitching and moving his hips back and forth. It looked like he was doing “The Twist.” His Secret Service detail started clapping their hands and doing Chubby Checker imitations. He was angry and said we were “All dead!” and there wold be a Congressional hearing. Mel sprayed Raid down Trump’s pants and he left in a white Chevy Suburban with his Secret Service detail still clapping its hands.

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

The Daily Trope is available on Amazon in paperback under the title of The Book of Tropes for $9.95. It is also available in Kindle format for $5.99.

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Accismus

Posted on July 30, 2024 | Leave a comment

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

I don’t want this. I don’t need this. I’d tell you to keep it, but I know you don’t want it either. But, for you and all the people gathered here tonight, I’ll take the piece crap so I can give my speech and get the hell home—to my empty home—my home with no wife, no children. Empty. Quiet. No smell of cooking or ceramic tile cleaner, or dish detergent. All the things that make you know you’re a person at home— not just an address on a street, but home.

I’ve worked here at “Dorian’s Tarnish” for 20 years, making new things look old in the back corner of a warehouse. Mostly, as you know, we put a patina on things that make them look and smell like antiques. Our patina-maker is a liquid I’ve been putting on a rag, and rubbing on things and breathing fumes for the past twenty years.

My hands have a rash. My eyes drip tears down my face. I walk with a cane. I have hemorrhoids the size of golf balls that swing around in my pants. But I don’t blame “Dorian’s Tarnish.” I blame myself for being afraid to leave this chicken shit job. You know: “this is America, you’ve got to have a job.” I took that admonition seriously. I could have easily been a homeless man, but I listened to my wife and stayed. Even though she encouraged me to stay, she changed her mind. She left me after 10 years, with our two kids. She ran off with a cruise liner’s events coordinator. He specializes in shuffle board, and my daughter is a world champion. My other daughter deals blackjack in the ship’s casino. I don’t want to know what my wife does. Her husband is a jerk. He takes Adderall to stay “peppy” and “jovial” for the ship’s guests. But me—here I am sucking fumes in what may be the worst job anywhere in the world. I have a persistent cough. If I cough near a flame my mucus catches on fire. I keep a Dixie cup on the sink in my work station to put out the fire with cup of water fresh from the tap.

So, the plaque says “In recognition of 20 years service.” It is hard to believe. All those years I soaked in, and breathed toxic fumes. According to my doctor, I’ve got six months to enjoy my retirement. I’m going to spend that time in a hospital bed looking out the window and looking forward to dying.

Thank-you.

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

The Daily Trope is available on Amazon in paperback under the title of The Book of Tropes for $9.95. It is also available in Kindle format for $5.99.

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Acervatio

Posted on July 29, 2024 | Leave a comment

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).

I was mad and glad, and wild, and riding my battery-powered bicycle to the mall. It made a humming sound and the bumps were like they were clear puddles of water with worms floating in them—casualties of rain, when the puddle dries they’ll look like brown shoelaces. Jeez. There I went again. Staying focused had become nearly impossible for me since getting hit in the head by a croquet ball at my brother’s birthday party. Here I go again! Things just keep occurring to me while other things fall by the wayside. I was mad—I was mad because of the big sale at the mall which made me happy and wild: ready to load down my bike with cheap crap. What, mad? I was headed for the edge. But, it was on the way to the mall!

Suddenly. I couldn’t remember where the mall was. I sat and started crying, sitting on the curb. A man pulled up on a yellow and black electric bike. He was wearing a red suit with a flashing light on each shoulder, clearly “for safety.” I told him I got lost on the way to the mall. He told me to look behind me . It was the mall! We rode together. His name was Roger and sold canoes at Dick’s Sporting Goods. That day, they were 75% off. We parked our bikes and went our separate ways, but not before he asked me out for a drink. I told him “No.” I had to go to work at “Zippy Lube” where I worked the night shift. He made some kind of noise and stalked off. I took off for “Tippy Toys” to buy the giant stuffed bear I had had my eye on for nearly a year waiting for the sale. I picked it up and pretended to dance with it. I was dancing in my head to a song from “The King and I.” Then the salesgirl yelled “Put the bear down, slut!” I flipped out and threw a Chucky doll at her head and ran out of the store carrying the bear and running. When I got to my bike I realized I couldn’t fit it on my bike. I put him on my rear fender. He put his arms around me and said “Go baby!” I went! I peddled, peddled, peddled like a maniac. I swear, my tires were smoking all the way. When we got to my house, we ran inside and he became a normal stuffed bear—he just sat there with his arms outstretched.

Then, the front doorbell rang. It was the canoe salesmen with the police! He was disgruntled because I would not have a drink with him. What a creep. I turned to say goodbye to the and he had vanished. The cops searched the house and found nothing, and they admonished the canoe salesman as they went out the door. I closed the door and turned around and there was the panda sitting on the chair. I wished he could talk and almost instantly he said “You wish for too much” and that was it.

About six months later the canoe salesman called and asked me out again. He said we’d go down by Lake Hopta Beach and bring a blanket and a bottle of wine. I thought his plan was to get me drunk and confess to stealing the bear. I didn’t. I had not had sex for over a month! The last time I had done “it” was with my little brother’s friend. He was barely 18, but it did the job. Now, I was on the beach by the lakeshore with a total idiot. I knew where we were headed. We had taken off our clothes when the bear came running out of the woods. He said to me in his deep bear-voice “You don’t need this. Lt’s talk when we get home.”

He was there when I got there. He told me he can take on a human form. He stretched out his paws and clapped. There was a red spark and he turned into Rod Stewart c. 1966.

Life with Rod is a dream come and true. Unfortunately, when he ran away naked from the lakeshore, the canoe salesman jumped in front of a dump truck and was killed on the spot. He looked like a human pizza and, due his death, was never able to get anybody to believe his stolen bear story.

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

The Daily Trope is available on Amazon in paperback under the title of The Book of Tropes for $9.95. It is also available in Kindle format for $5.99.

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Acoloutha

Posted on July 28, 2024 | Leave a comment

Acoloutha: The substitution of reciprocal words; that is, replacing one word with another whose meaning is close enough to the former that the former could, in its turn, be a substitute for the latter. This term is best understood in relationship to its opposite, anacolutha.

My car was the automobile of the year. It had every possible option from leather seats to a triple tone pant job—black, gray and red. It had a chrome bowl of ice cream for a hood ornament and a mink dashboard. The doors had no handle. Instead, you whistled “Oh Susana” and they popped open. There was a bar in the back seat, and the seat vibrated when you pushed a button on the arm rest. The engine was 600HP—top speed 260MPH. The front seats folded into a queen-sized bed. There were concealed storage compartments under the floor. I kept them full of $100 bills. I used the money for gas, food, and motels when I was traveling around America and going to state fairs in the summer and ski resorts in the winter. By the way, my car had all-wheel drive. I could drive at a 90-degree angle with no trouble. I was famous for climbing Niagara Fall’s and driving down-river to Buffalo. Oh, I almost forgot! My car’s horn had tree settings: machine gun fire, Ricola Alphorn, and cheering football fans.

One day I was cruising down the wide open highway at 240 MPH. The landscape was a blur and I was listening to Ozzie’s “Crazy Train.” Suddenly, another car passed me like a bat out of hell—maybe it was going 300MPH. All I saw was it was red and had towering tail fins. I knew I would never catch him, so I kept cruising at 240. Then I saw the car pulled over on the road shoulder ahead. The driver was standing by it waving at me. The driver was wearing a bathrobe and combat boots and was holding a bottle of kefir, and, by the way, the driver was a woman. I said “Hi” and she splashed me in the face with kefir. It was peach flavored and quite tasty.

She asked me where I was headed. I told her I wasn’t sure—maybe Ft. Collins. She laughed and told me nothing much was going on there and that I should try Las Vegas. She apologized for splashing me with kefir. I told her it wasn’t a problem. She asked me if I wanted to drive in tandem with her to Vegas. I agreed and we jumped in our cars, started them up and took off. I led the way because my car was slower than hers. We had a great time in Vegas! We saw Wayne Newton 15 times and learned “Danke Schoen” by heart. We saw Cher also. She does not look a day over 70.

It came time to part ways. Her name was Buffy, and I was falling in love with her. I asked her if she wanted to take another tandem ride to New Orleans. She said “Sure honey, let’s go.” Off we went. I was hoping.

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

The Daily Trope is available on Amazon in paperback under the title of The Book of Tropes for $9.95. It is also available in Kindle format for $5.99.

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Adage

Posted on July 27, 2024 | Leave a comment

Adage (ad’-age): One of several terms describing short, pithy sayings, or traditional expressions of conventional wisdom.

“If you can’t stand the heat, don’t move to Florid.,” This is one of my favorite sayings—layered with meaning and steeped in wisdom. My father was a weatherman on Channel 26–local cable access TV . He made up the saying after taking a trip to Florida and suffering heat stroke when he was on the beach with a college professor from New York who was studying sand with a grant from her college. She had a little tin bucket with pictures of sea horses on it. Dad told me she would fill it with sand, walk ten paces, and dump it out. Then she would measure the degree to which the sand retained the shape of the bucket and its fitness for utilization in the building of a sandcastle.

Dad had gotten heat stroke when he and the professor were exercising on an isolated stretch of beach. They were doing push-ups when dad’s symptoms overtook him and he started shaking all over, and then, collapsed face down. The Professor was able the fill her bucket with water and throw it in Dad’s face. The bucket of water may have saved him. The paramedics rolled Dad into the ocean and cooled him down. He was as good as new, except he had misplaced his bathing suit. The paramedics wrapped him in a wet towel and he was able to walk down the beach to his hotel. The Professor was waiting in his room, holding his bathing suit. She joined him in the shower to help him wash off the salty residue from the seawater.

As Dad’s story unfolded, it became clear that he was trying to gloss over an affair he had had. When confronted, he denied any wrong doing. Since Mom was involved with Nick, one of the black jack dealers at “Sunrise Sunset” casino, she didn’t push it.

As a kid, my parents’ cheating was a real benefit. Separately, I swore to both of my parents that I wouldn’t rat them out. I got trips to Florida and my own giant room at the casino. The Professor had a daughter named Margarita. She was a little older than me. She would accompany her mom on her Florida trips. She told me her father was Dean of Faculty and was on leave due to embezzling charges. We laughed and lit another joint. Then dad’s saying occurred to me: “if you can’t stand the heat, don’t move to Florida.” After coming to understand the sordid details of his life, I think I understand the saying’s metaphorical import, and how he was mocking Mom whenever he said it. Mom had her own saying: “We cannot change the cards we are dealt.” I think she was somehow talking about Nick—her dealer/lover.

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

The Daily Trope is available on Amazon in paperback under the title of The Book of Tropes for $9.95. It is also available in Kindle format for $5.99.

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Adianoeta

Posted on July 26, 2024 | Leave a comment

Adianoeta: An expression that, in addition to an obvious meaning, carries a second, subtle meaning (often at variance with the ostensible meaning).

Sometimes taking a figure of speech literally can be a good thing—not a sign of your lack of sophistication or cultural naïveté. It can actually be an opening to do the right thing.

I was at my girlfriend’s apartment. She was in the bedroom. She said “I’m burning for you.” I thought, “woo-wee, here we go!” Then, I smelled smoke. I ran into the bedroom and my girlfriend was literally burning for me. She had on a tiny little nighty, so the fire didn’t burn much. Also, I slapped her with a wet towel and killed the flames. Her burns were minimal—not life-threatening. They took her to the hospital for observation and “observed” that she was “off her rocker.” This diagnosis vexed me. Did it mean she had fallen off a rocking chair? I quickly rejected that interpretation. She did not have a rocking chair in her bedroom or anywhere Les in the apartment. My rhetoric professor told me about “An Etymological Dictionary of Cliches.” It tracks the origins of cliches, much like the OED does with words. it is best employed for the composition of wedding and anniversary speeches as well as eulogies, and even closing arguments courtroom speeches; events where cliches are expected and appreciated..

“Off your rocker,” I found, dates to 17th century England where rocking horses had become tokens of social status among aristocrats. “Rocking” was a culturally valued pastime. Some Princes and Barons would rock all day long, and into the night. They would eat on their rocking horse and there were built-in chamber pots, Servants were assigned to whinny from behind the rocking horses. The rocking horses were called rockers. Due to their construction, the rockers rocked very slowly. If one “fell off” his rocker it was quickly determined there was something wrong with him. If one was “off his rocker” due to his fall he could become agitated and push his rocker over. Eventually the “tantrum” was made the locus of meaning for being off one’s rocker, and eventually, it was universally employed as a cliche to refer to mental difficulties.

Now I understood—my girlfriend was crazy, and it did not matter that she did not have a rocker! If only I had taken “burning for you” literally, I might’ve gotten into her bedroom more quickly. But, I confess, I was trying to unwrap a condom in preparation for my “burning” girlfriend’s activities with me. This is a problem with language. Irony is the biggest offender, when for example you say “great job” when to mean “You bumbling idiot,” it makes me think some times, what if the Bible’s ironic? Yikes! That would turn the world upside down. But, the world is not flat, so it cannot be turned upside down. Ha ha!

I think I’m off my rocker.

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

The Daily Trope is available on Amazon in paperback under the title of The Book of Tropes for $9.95. It is also available in Kindle format for $5.99.

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Adnominatio

Posted on July 25, 2024 | Leave a comment

Adnominatio (ad-no-mi-na’-ti-o): 1. A synonym for paronomasia[punning]. 2. A synonym for polyptoton. 3. Assigning to a proper name its literal or homophonic meaning.

John. Just plain John. “Hey toilet, how’s it going?” “Have you had a flush lately?” “Don’t forget to close your lid.” “Can you make that whooshing sound!” I was ten years old and my friends had figured out to make puns and tease, and hurt my feelings. I tried “Carl the car” on my friend Carl and he just laughed and held his nose and laughed and said “You smell toilet boy!” I had to find somebody with a name I could effectively make fun of. I looked in the phone book.

I found a person named Gooey Binsky. They lived down the block. I made up a taunt: “Are you gooey? Are you sticking with it?” A woman wearing a bathrobe answered the door. She looked really tired and sad. I asked her”Are you gooey?” “Yes.” She replied. “Are you sticking with it?” She said, “I’m trying my best. This skin condition will be the death of me. I have a skin condition that makes my skin gooey. When I have an outbreak, I need to be wrapped in gauze bandages and sit by a warm oven. “Gooey” is me nickname. I hate it, but my dead father gave it to me. He thought it was funny. I’ve kept it to honor his memory. He died in prison for racketeering.”

I felt sick. This poor woman’s life was messed up, and I might have made it an even bigger mess. I ran off her front porch and ran home feeling guilty and remorseful. I went CVS and spent my life savings on gauze bandages. I left them on Gooey’s front porch, rang the doorbell, and ran away. I felt a lot better and did not care any more if people teased me about my name.

Then, the next week Gooey was on the front page of the local newspaper. The headline read: Local Woman Hangs Herself With Gauze Bandages.” She had a note pinned to her; “Thanks to the little boy who gave me these bandages and gave me a way out of my miserable life.”

I felt really bad. I didn’t know what to do. The CVS clerk had identified me and the police had questioned me. They told me I was a “suspect” and not to leave town. Eventually, it was determined that I hadn’t done anything wrong.

People still made fun of my name. I didn’t care any more. In honor of her memory, I had taken Gooey’s nickname and made it my own. There was a lot of teasing focused on it, but the reason behind the nickname was like armor protecting me from the insults.

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

The Daily Trope is available on Amazon in paperback under the title of The Book of Tropes for $9.95. It is also available in Kindle format for $5.99.

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Adynaton

Posted on July 24, 2024 | Leave a comment

Adynaton (a-dyn’-a-ton): A declaration of impossibility, usually in terms of an exaggerated comparison. Sometimes, the expression of the impossibility of expression.

“Impossible! You actually made a friend! It’s like Jefferson Davis and Abraham Lincoln dancing together in the Capitol Building to “Born in the USA.” It was still impossible. I had paid a homeless man $5.00 to come home with me and and act like my friend.

I was 22 and still lived at home and had never had a friend. In fact, I’m not sure exactly what a friend is, but my mother told me I’d “be out on the street in one week” if I did not make a friend. Mom was obsessed with me having a friend because of the Carole King song that made having a friend very desirable. Also, Mom had number of “friends” who came over when Dad was out of town on business. They would watch TV with Mom in Mom and Dad’s bedroom. We were sworn to secrecy, or else. Mom would hold up Dad’s hatchet when she said “Or else,” and follow up with “don’t stick your necks out my little chickens.” We were terrorized. My sister Belle wanted to run away from home. I convinced her that Mom would come after her and chop off her head. So, she stayed.

My “friend” told me his name was Bill Gates. He said he made “electrical” things until Jimi Hendrix sucked all juice out of his wires and made him homeless. He said the last electrical thing he made before he was made powerless, was a magic wand that could produce fresh vegetables, and also, be used a a weapon to fight for the “American Way.” I asked him what the “American Way” is and he told me it may be “Way up north to Alaska” or maybe the “way to San Jose.” I never should’ve brought hm home.

Mom asked me what made me and Bill friends. I told her we were men, manly men, men to men, men doing men things together. We picked blueberries, we ran over squirrels, we kicked smaller people, and chased women all over town. Bill raised his hand and said “It’s a lie. We’re not really friends. Your son paid me $5.00 to be his friend. Mom said, “Wait a minute” and abruptly left the room. I could hear her rummaging in the kitchen drawer. She came out holding Dad’s hatchet. She said, “Bill, take a shower and meet me in that room over there. Son, take your fat little sister and get the hell out of here. Come back when you have a friend—preferably male and 6’2”.

It was inevitable. I don’t want or need friends—it’s impossible for me. I guess Belle is sort of a friend, and she had friends too. We lost touch with Mom and Dad. Hen, I saw Mom on “America’s Most Wanted”. She goes by the name of “The Hatcher Waver.” She randomly shows up at bus stations waving a hatchet and yelling “Come home you little bastards, Mommy wants to chop off your heads.” This terrorized the bus patrons. I was thinking about how insane mother had become, when I heard somebody chopping a hole in the front door. It was Mom. She stuck her head through the hole and yelled “Come home!” I ran into the kitchen and grabbed a cast iron skillet. I ran back to the front door and bashed Mom in the forehead. It was over. Sirens screamed as they took her away. That same night they found Dad’s headless torso. They found his head on his car’s dashboard wired into the built-in satellite navigator. I suspect Bill Gates had a hand in that.

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

The Daily Trope is available on Amazon in paperback under the title of The Book of Tropes for $9.95. It is also available in Kindle format for $5.99.

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Aetiologia

Posted on July 23, 2024 | Leave a comment

Aetiologia (ae-ti-o-log’-i-a): A figure of reasoning by which one attributes a cause for a statement or claim made, often as a simple relative clause of explanation.

Mr. Rammer: I’ll tell you why I said that! It’s true! That’s what it is: true, true, true! Why would I lie about stealing a box of Pop Tarts? Where is it? In my pocket? Stuffed in my pants? Look in my shopping cart! I went through check-out and paid for all that stuff with my credit card. How dare you follow me to the parking lot with your baseless accusation? I don’t even know what Pop Tarts are. I’ve never even seen a Pop Tart! Get out of my way.

Hannaford Security Guard: Sir, you are lying. I saw you stuff a box of Pop Tarts in your ecologically correct shopping bag. When you saw me following you out of Hannaford’s, you dropped it in the horticulture display over there. You can see the box sticking up from behind the blueberry bushes. If you pay for the Pop Tarts, all will be forgiven. Stolen Pop Tarts cost $20.00, paid in cash to me, or to Rose the geriatric check-out lady. Also, if you prefer, you can pay in scratch-off lotto tickets.

Mr. Rammer: What? Are you crazy? This is the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard of! You big bastard. You want to know why I called you a big bastard? Because you are a big bastard, you big bastard!

Hannaford Security Guard: I tried to solve our problem—well actually—your problem. You’ve committed a crime. You have stolen food from the only nexus of sustenance for miles around. We will donate the stolen Pop Tarts to the food bank, which will help compensate for your crime. Don’t make any false moves. The police are on their way. You are going to jail for “tart-lifting.” Ha ha!

POSTSCRIPT

I was arrested, booked, put in jail, and let out on $400,000 bail. I said it was too much and the judge laughed and reduced it by $1.00. That was a bad sign. I was convicted of shoplifting with a weapon—I had my Swiss Army knife in my pocket. I was also convicted of evading capture by dumping the Pop Tarts. When I had mentioned the $20.00 bribery attempt, I was charged with contempt of court and fined $20.00. I was convicted and sentenced to five years of community service. I wash the jurors’ cars once a week, baby sit for the Prosecutor, trim vegetables at the Hannaford produce stand, and date the Mayor’s disgusting daughter. She is so ugly that dogs whine and put their tails between their legs when she walks by. I am working with a public defender to get my sentence commuted. He calls himself a “public offender.” He thinks I can get off if I go back and pay the $20.00 bribe. It would take us back to “square one” and all will be forgotten. I’ve decided marrying the Mayor’s daughter will fix everything. I asked her. She laughed with her chipmunk sound and told me if I brought her a Pop Tart, she would say yes. She knew that one of the terms of my “lenient” sentence, was that I was prohibited from handling Pop Tarts. 25 years would be added to my already ridiculous sentence. I thought about it and came up with a plan. I went n the dark web and ordered a “fake” Pop Tart. Technically, it would not be a Pop Tart, because fake! It cost $100 and arrived in two days.

I gave it to Rotteta. She said “Mmmm.” as she bit into it. “Yes, yes I’ll marry you” she said. The police burst in: “We’ll take that Pop Tart for analysis.” It was analyzed and found to be counterfeit. I was charged with dealing in counterfeit goods. Those charges were dropped when it was determined that the Pop Tart was a gift to Rotteta.

Once I married Rotteta, all of the charges were erased and my conviction was commuted. Rotteta does the grocery shopping and I run a used car lot in the parking lot of a defunct hair salon. I have kept the salon’s name “Big Rollers.” It suits a car lot, and sales are very good. With my special 2-day bumper to bumper warranty I rarely get stuck.

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

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Affirmatio

Posted on July 22, 2024 | Leave a comment

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.

Me: What do you mean “The Earth is round?” Why even bother to say it? What’re you a letter-day Columbus? Are we going to go sailing “around” the world?

You: I said it to call out your recalcitrant stupidity. There are so many ideas you insist on holding that are bogus, and that you use to guide your life into disaster. For example, when you told Barbara that it is a proven fact that men are better than women, you got what you deserved. The metal mixing bowl probably put a dent in your head, but it did not change your mind. Barbara’s gone, and she’ll never come back.

How do things become scientifically proven facts that are totally bogus—at best they’re urban legends, at worst, tokens of your insanity. I’m at the edge of unfriending you.

Me: Who’s the know-it-all? If you could hear yourself you’d be embarrassed. I state things as scientifically proven facts to help them struggle with their uncertainty, maybe achieving closure on something that has been vexing them all of their life. After she assaulted me, Barbara regretted what she had done and realized something important. I don’t know what it was, but it warranted her hitting me on the head. Let me just say, it was in the nineteenth century that men’s superiority to women was scientifically proven. So there! Know it all. There are a lot of facts people stopped believing, like the vapors and hysteria. It was political pressure from rich do-gooders that tipped over the apple cart and sent the apples flying. You don’t have to talk to me about the earth being round! I am a proponent of common sense just like you. You know you shouldn’t swim after eating. This will save your life, and probably has saved your life.

You: The eating/swimming thing has been proven wrong.

Me: By who? Burger King? When your body’s cramped up and you’re going down for the third time, you’ll regret your naïveté as you suck in water and die. Meanwhile, I’ll be waiting the required 30 minutes, and then, enjoying my swim.

You: How did you live this long with a head full of misinformation?

Me: It is a scientifically proven fact I read in “Believe it All Magazine” that eventually everything is disproven—that’s how science progresses. So, the earth isn’t really round. It has been proven to be pear-shaped. After that, what’s next? If I get a fever, put a leech in my armpit. You can get them on the internet and they are approved for human use. They’ve available on Robert Kennedy Jr’s website. His children raise them.

You: Ok, that does it. Bye.

Me: Ok, if you want to talk about being descendants of Chimpanzees, just give me call. We can share a banana.

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

The Daily Trope is available on Amazon in paperback under the title of The Book of Tropes for $9.95. It is also available in Kindle format for $5.99.

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Aganactesis

Posted on July 21, 2024 | Leave a comment

Aganactesis (ag’-an-ak-tee’-sis): An exclamation proceeding from deep indignation

Where the hell is my damn Bible? I left it right here on the floor. Tonight, I have to lead our group in the opening prayer. Holding a Bible over my heart adds oomph to my message and makes it a hell of a lot more effective. So, where the hell is it? If you kids are playin’ a prank on me, I’ll beat your butts until they are flashing bright red!

You know, our group was founded 2O years ago as “Rams and Lambs” so we could shepherd young people onto the path of righteousness.

We have a small gambling casino. We show our lambs the full range of casino games. From craps to the wheel of fortune, they become enamored with chance—the motive to making choices solely on the basis of luck, winning or losing with no foundation but desire. They win. They lose. Some have luck. Some have no luck at all.

The casino prepares them for Christ ringing their hearts’ doorbells and asking to be let in. Jesus Chris is not a gamble. When the doorbell rings, you are assured of salvation if you let Jesus in. If you’d rather gamble and lock the door, Satan is waiting down in your guts’ basement to make you his.

But, you already know this wife and children. And yes, I have found my Bible! It was in the refrigerator’s vegetable bin. Hallelujah! It smells like onions, but that’s ok. But how the hell did it end up in the refrigerator? We’ll talk about this later.

Suddenly a bolt of lightning struck Mr. Flocker, right there in the living room! As he lay smoking on the carpet, a deep voice said: “You are full of it Flocker.” Sill smoking, Mr. Flocker sat up. “Look, if you want me to work for you, you’ve got to cut me a little slack.” Mr. Flocker yelled. The deep voice said “Cut slack?” and Mr. Flocker’s head fell off and landed on his Bible.

Mrs. Flocker and her two kids ran out the door. Mrs. Flocker called a Uber. They were driven to Saskatoon, Saskatchewan, Canada where Mrs. Flocker’s brother lived. The cab fare was $1,406.00. It maxed out her credit card, but it beat taking a bus. Mrs. Flocker got a job picking Saskatoon berries. The owner of the berry field had a raging crush on Mrs. Flocker. To woo her, he paid her $1.00 for every Berry she picked. “Berry-Berry” was going broke but he didn’t care! When she hit 200,000 berries, he proposed to her. See said “No.”

She saw that a cold and brutal winter was on the way, so the Flocker’s were flying to Miami that afternoon to escape the hellish winter. The owner of the berry farm was heartbroken and tried to drown himself in a vat of berry juice. He survived and was dyed permanently purple by the berry juice. He became a celebrity and forgot about Mrs. Flocker in 5-6 days. He was on Canadian national news and inundated with fan mail, a lot of contained marriage proposals. He settled with a young woman from Kansas named Dorothy. Meanwhile, Mrs. Flocker was flourishing in Miami’s South Beach. She was selling condos, mostly to Russians. She won a raffle for a one-week stay in St. Kitts-Nevis. As she and her two kids jumped on the little plane, she felt optimistic about the trip. She felt like something good was going to happen! And it did!

She met a Dutch man named Arno. He travelled the Caribbean selling paint. White was the only color he sold, but he did a good business nevertheless. They got married. Mrs, Flocker stayed home with the kids while Arno sailed around selling paint. She she never left St. Kitts-Nevis. Arno was a model husband and they lived happily ever after. As they grew older, the kids made a good income looting hotel rooms and mugging tourists walking on the beach at night. Arno found about their criminal activities and takes 10% to keep his mouth shut.all is well.

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

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Allegory

Posted on July 20, 2024 | Leave a comment

Allegory (al’-le-go-ry): A sustained metaphor continued through whole sentences or even through a whole discourse.

I am toothpaste. I live in a tube on Oak Street. My cap is tight. Squeeze me and you’ll be rewarded with white minty goo. Roll me up at the bottom as I get old and my goo is all squeezed out. Throw me in the trash with used tissues and dental floss.

Now, you will serve to reincarnate me. My soul is already at CVS waiting among the brands—“Icy White,” “Mint-A-Dent,” “Gummer,” and “Mental Dental.” That’s me: “Mental Dental.” You can’t just buy me over the counter. You need a prescription. Dr. Leary (yes, great grandson of Timothy) prescribed it to you after your mother brought you in for a consultation. You were eating newsprint and refused to brush your teeth. It was easy to get you to quit eating newsprint. We soaked it in Habanero sauce. One bight of one shred was all it took. Remember? Your mother tied you to a lawn chair and rinsed your mouth with a garden hose for a week. That was the end of that. You haven’t bitten into a front page for months. But, the teeth were something else.

I needed to be called in as a remedy. Dr. Leary and your mother tied you to the seat of your Troy-built ride-mower. As a distraction, they started it up. You looked down at the choke and Dr.Leary smeared a dollop of “Mental Dental across you lips and teeth. You struggled, but your struggle turned into a smile with you pupils dilated, staring intently at your hand. You quoted James Brown: “I feel good.” You freed your hands and backed the mower out of the garage. You pulled it into zero turn and spun in a tight circle singing “You spin me right round like a merry-go-round, right round.” You kept going until the mower ran out of gas—almost a half-hour. Then, you got off the mower, took off all of your clothes and ran into the woods. You came back later covered with Deer Fly bites and told use about the six-armed goddess you had met when you let her out of a beautifully painted jar you had found on the ground in the woods.

It was clear that I had done job. “Mental Dental’s” ingredients had done the trick. You’ve probably guessed, psilocybin is my main ingredient, followed by morphine. Psilocybin induces hallucinations while the morphines does something else that I’m not sure of.

Anyway, the flood of drugs projects the truth of fiction through the plasma screen of your mind, it does not matter if it’s a lie about toothpaste or God. Its vivacity leaves you awestruck and invites you to read, and act out, the saga of your mind.

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

The Daily Trope is available on Amazon in paperback under the title of The Book of Tropes for $9.95. It is also available in Kindle format for $5.99.

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Alleotheta

Posted on July 19, 2024 | Leave a comment

Alleotheta (al-le-o-the’-ta): Substitution of one case, gender, mood, number, tense, or person for another. Synonymous with enallage. [Some rhetoricians claim that alleotheta is a] general category that includes antiptosis [(a type of enallage in which one grammatical case is substituted for another)] and all forms of enallage [(the substitution of grammatically different but semantically equivalent constructions)].

She opened up to his prodding. It was their wedding night and the time was right for doing so. If the truth was not made available on this night, it would be too late. She had told him many lies as she seduced him. Now it was time to share her spleen with him.

Now, a little tired out, Timmy lay there with a silly little smile on his face, partially from the MD-40 and partially from what they were about to do. She said “Wait! There is much I must tell you before we seal the deal.” He said, “Go on my dear. What could possibly go wrong? We are in love!”

I thought to myself “Everything could go wrong!” as I prepared to tell all. I told Timmy “I am not related to George Washington. The wooden teeth were not my ancestor’s idea. Martha came up with the idea when she was chopping parsley. I am just from a regular family residing in Maine who digs clams and sells lobster rolls by the side of the road. It’s called “Good Time Rolls.” They make a modest income during the summer months, and nothing at all during the winter. My sister Sally helps out by walking around the harbor making friends. Father is addicted to Indian Pudding. To stem his urge, he drinks molasses from a hot water bottle he keeps disguised under their bed. It is pitiful to see him in the morning with his lips stained brown and nearly stuck together. Sometimes I take a swig of molasses so he does not feel alone. When it touches my lip I know I could be cursed with the same addiction, inherited from my father. Oh Timmy, is this too horrible to bear?” “Far from it my dear! I find it intriguing and look forward to meeting your family, especially your sister Sally!”

Now it was time for the big one, “Timmy, I made love to 860 men before I met you. I never took any money, just baubles. I have a chest full of wedding rings, signet rings and pocket watches. They are my dowry—yours to do with what you will. I’ve only cheated on you 5 or 6 times. It was probably a mistake, but I couldn’t help myself. The gold watch and rings overpowered my trepidations.”

Timmy looked at the floor and then up at Nell with a beaming smile. “My mother was a whore! My father was addicted to Camembert cheese! We are one and the same, more or less. We will revel together eating Camembert, lettuce, bacon, and tomato sandwiches with Indian Pudding for desert. Think of it Nell!”

Nell thought of it. She needed a shot of molasses. but, she needed to still her longing for the sweet gooey liquid. Already, Timmy was on the phone setting up a “meeting” with her sister. She didn’t count on this, but it was no worse than anything she had ever done.

After he got off his phone, Timmy proposed they move to Maine. She agreed. After their wedding night, they packed their van and headed north. They pulled in at a rest stop in Massachusetts and Nell marched into the men’s room, sat down on a toilet and yelled “Next!” Meanwhile, Timmy was “taking a ride” in the van in the parking lot with a Swedish college student who was touring the US.

When they were through with the rest stop, and got in the van and merged onto the Mass Pike, they both burst out laughing.

POSTSCRIPT

Good marriages are built on firm foundations. Timmy’s and Nell’s was built on their shared inability to control their impulses. This is not a firm foundation. They agreed to have their marriage annulled but live together and share their exploits on a blog called “Fornication Nation” where they enjoy themselves in rest stops and parking lots across America. Clearly, this is a despicable way to live. At some point all of Nell’s baubles will be sold and the “fun” will be over. Timmy told me he’ll get a job in a parking garage. Nell wants to work at a rest stop in California. But, the worst is yet to be known,

Timmy and Nell contracted the same venereal disease, most likely from each other. The disease is extremely virulent and there is no cure. It is fatal.

POST-POSTSCRPT

Tmmy is lying in bed covered with pustules the size of croquet balls. His eyebrows have fallen out. His lips are dripping pus and his urinary tract feels like it is paved with shards of glass. His feet have fallen off, one of his eyes has exploded., and he has grown sizable breasts. Nell is marginally better. She is covered with small pustules that won’t stop itching. Her fingernails have fallen off and her legs won’t stop twitching. Her hair has fallen out and it has been replaced by a giant purple boil that looks like a watch cap pulled onto her head. Her teeth have fallen out and there is a nearly constant flood of foul-smelling ear wax pouring from her ears and running down her chest.

There is a lesson here somewhere. It isn’t “trust your lust.” I am Timmy and Nell’s son. They died disgusting deaths. They were disgusting people. I don’t love them. If you pity them, you are mentally ill.

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

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Alliteration

Posted on July 18, 2024 | Leave a comment

Alliteration (al-lit’-er-a’-tion): Repetition of the same letter or sound within nearby words. Most often, repeated initial consonants. Taken to an extreme alliteration becomes the stylistic vice of paroemion where nearly every word in a sentence begins with the same consonant.

It was a dancing duck! It tap-danced to 1950’s crooner music. It was just unbelievable! This was the best sidewalk show I had ever seen. Spectators showered the duck’s owner with cash, and rightfully so! I had tried for two years to come up with some kind of money-making act. I had had a big fat ground hog. I made him a table top burrow. He would sit in burrow and make groundhog noises—grunting sounds that sounded like a cross between a burp and a cough. I called him “Samson the Singing Groundhog.” People might listen for 3 seconds, and then, keep walking without making a donation. I tried dressing him in a Liberace suit covered in sequins. When I put it on him he went berserk. He tore it to shreds with his groundhog claws. Our relationship was over. I took hm out to the Long Island Expressway, pulled over on the shoulder and threw hm out the car window. I was hoping he would be squished by a truck, but he wasn’t. Two weeks ago I saw him sitting in a burrow withe 3 other groundhogs surrounding him. They must be his mate and two kids. He was better off than me. After Samson, I tried a white rabbit. I taught the rabbit to jump over a wooden skewer I held in my hand. I called him “Jack Acrobat: Airborne Rabbit.” We practiced for months. Jack would jump the stick, and I would give him a rabbit treat. We were finally ready! It was a beautiful warm spring day.

I put Jack in his carrier and we took off for Times Square. We got there and I started my pitch: “Some rabbits hop, but this one jumps.” The crowd applauded. I picked up Jack and put him down on the pavement. He took off like a bat out of hell and I never saw him again. He’s probably living out on the LI-Expressway with the damn Samson and his family.

I will not give up.

Currently, I’m working with a beaver from Canada. I named him “Loggy” after his favorite treat. I have purchased a small bathtub and have had wheels installed on its bottom, so I can pull it by a rope. Loggy gets in the tub, and I toss him a log, and he bites into it making the chips fly. I play “Ride of the Valkyries” on my I-Phone while he demolishes the log. The act is called “Chainsaw Beaver.” Truly exciting!

So, we headed out for Times Square! I’m pulling the tub and Loggy is sloshing around in it. I’m anticipating our success. A cop comes up to me and asks “What in the hell” I think I’m doing. He says: “You can’t drag a beaver in a bathtub around New York. The beaver alone will net you a $200 fine and the beaver will be confiscated and turned loose upstate, or put in a zoo. I’ve called Mindy Pinscher from the Bronx Zoo and she’s going to take your beaver. I’m not going to cite you. Just take your bathtub and go home.” I thanked him and started thinking about my next act. Maybe I could be a statue-man. Or maybe I could do something with a chicken.

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

The Daily Trope is available on Amazon in paperback under the title of The Book of Tropes for $9.95. It is also available in Kindle format for $5.99.

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Allusion

Posted on July 17, 2024 | Leave a comment

Allusion (ə-ˈlü-zhən):[1] A reference/representation of/to a well-known person, place, event, literary work, or work of art . . . “a brief reference, explicit or indirect, to a person, place or event, or to another literary work or passage”. It is left to the reader or hearer to make the connection . . . ; an overt allusion is a misnomer for what is simply a reference.[2]

I think it was Rod Stewart who said “Every picture tells a story.” That may be true, but the meaning of a picture isn’t in the picture. Where is it then? It may be in what motivated the “subjects” of a given picture, or also, the picture-maker’s motive for taking or making the picture. What about Jackson Pollock? I always ask, “Where’s the picture?” At best it’s a jumbled exclamation point. At worst he spilled a bunch paint he didn’t bother to clean it up. Most abstract art is like that. Drug induced doodles, or con jobs, like a dot in the middle of a canvas titled “floater” after the little black flecks you get in your eyes when you hit old age. Not so “Abstract” after all!

One famous painting, “Winter Sunset” by Corny Hasbot turned out to be a cow’s ass. It didn’t matter. It sold for $2,000,000 at auction last week. The auction’s attendees chanted “Cow’s ass! Cow’s ass!” when it hit the auction block. Some even Mooed! The attendees were clearly delighted and the bidding was fast and furious. There is power in titling. It orients people and induces meanings. Euphemism is a great example. Calling a sawed off arm a “boo boo” renders it easier to cope with. Most medical terminology is euphemistic. Like, “You’re unwell from tomocretchinosis.” “Oh” you say as you breathe your last, floating on a cloud of morphine induced incomprehensibility.

Then, there was Leonardo Di Vinci. He knew the power of naming. I have been researching for half my life the “meaning” of Mona Lisa. Recently, I got an “Uber Grant” to go to Italy. I was provided a free ride to the airport and cheese and crackers for the flight. I was more excited than I can say! There was no money and I had to pay my own airfare, which was fine with me. I was using my mother’s credit card. I had borrowed it from the bag she carries around. I was headed to Florence where DiVinci’s studio was when he painted “Mona Lisa.”

I landed in Rome. I made a sign that said “Florence” and started hitch hiking north. People laughed at me as they sped by. Somebody threw a sign out their car window that said “Firenze..” I held it up and got a ride almost immediately. The guy who picked me up said “I have a package for you to deliver, we detour to Bologna.” I dropped the package off at a police station and received a round of applause as the police fought over the package. It tore open and a ZipLoc bag full of gold chains fell out. I ran back to the car.

I arrived in Florence late that night. I slept on a bench outside the Hotel Vespa. The next morning I had a boar meat sandwich and a cup of coffee. Then, I headed out to DiVinci’s studio. The lady selling tickets told me that for 80 euro I could get access to DiVinci’s secret storage unit in the basement. I didn’t have 80 euro, so I offered her my wristwatch that my mother had given me for High School graduation. She took it! She gave me a giant key and pointed down the stairs. There wasn’t much there. However I noticed a canvass bag that said “Fagioli” on it. I looked in my Italian/English dictionary—it meant “Beans.” There was also a bowl and a wooden spoon! Then I knew! DiVinci fed beans to Mona Lisa, making her fart. The look on her face is a post-fart expression of satisfaction. I had cracked it—it wasn’t a smile at all!

I headed back to the US expecting to become famous. but the bag of beans was discovered in my canvas tote at the Rome Airport. The beans were dumped out and the bag was destroyed. I am not permitted to leave Italy because there is an investigation. Now, I have no evidence, but my story is true. I have secured the support of the “Kensington Free Farter Society.” They will not shy away from the truth, no matter how much it smells or refutes the standard “smile” narrative.

I am currently stranded in Rome working as a guide at the Colosseum! My “character” is a Christian martyr. The investigation concluded I did no wrong. My mother’s credit card is expired. In about a year, I’ll have enough money for a plane ticket home. In the meantime, I’ve had a flyer printed with my last few euro in Italian: “Scoreggia e Verita” (The Farting Truth).

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

The Daily Trope is available on Amazon in paperback under the title of The Book of Tropes for $9.95. It is also available in Kindle format for $5.99.

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