The Daily Trope

Anacoluthon (an-a-co-lu’-thon): A grammatical interruption or lack of implied sequence within a sentence. That is, beginning a sentence in a way that implies a certain logical resolution, but concluding it differently than the grammar leads one to expect. Anacoluthon can be either a grammatical fault or a stylistic virtue, depending on its use. In either case, it is an interruption or a verbal lack of symmetry. Anacoluthon is characteristic of spoken language or interior thought, and thus suggests those domains when it occurs in writing.

I was leaning—oh, I admit it. It was leaning on me. I was holding up the Empire State Building. If I moved too much it would tumble, killing thousands of people and making a big mess—in addition to bodies (tourists and workers alike), lots of smoking stone rubble, and fallen, mangled office equipment.

I had learned that I had the power to keep skyscrapers from falling when I was on my small liberal arts college’s New York City Semester. We would follow our professor around the city streets. Every once-in-awhile Prof. Mazewell would point and yell “Look!” Often it was the sky or the sidewalk he was pointing at, but sometimes he would point at a tree or a drug station store.

One morning he made us all breakfast. There were four of us. We had Cheerios with bananas sprinkled with what he called “Go Powder.” Trent and Melody had complained of being constipated, so I just assumed the “Go Powder” was for them, but Prof. Mazewell decided to give it to all of us—as a treatment and a prophylactic. Who wants to be constipated? Not me!

We started on our daily trek, so far we hadn’t learned much—“If you step n a crack, you’ll break you mother’s back,” was a frightening lesson, so we tried hard to avoid doing so on New York’s sidewalks. It was a real lesson in love. Although my mother was I Chicago, I still cared enough to try as hard as I could to avoid the cracks. Suddenly, Prof. Mazewell disappeared! Trent and Melody were holding each other, laughing and shimmering like water. I kept on walking. Then Bob, the other one of us, took off his shoes and threw them at a passing cab. He yelled “I’d rather walk!” Then, he took off all of his clothes. He was covered in beautiful purple scales—like some kind of exotic snake. He hissed at me and flicked his tongue. The other pedestrians acted like nothing was happening. I kept on walking, hoping to find Prof. Mazewell. It was hard—the sidewalk had turned goo that was hard to walk through, but I kept walking. I came to the Empire State Building. It was crying—sobbing in total distress. A little mouth appeared next to the front entrance. The mouth said: “I am old. I need your help. I think I am beginning to tip over.” “Wow.” I said. I looked at my hand and my fingers were writhing around like little snakes, I didn’t care—I thought I was about to find my life’s mission. The mouth said, “You must go around the corner and lean on me. Hurry!”

Around the corner there was a small bucket saying “Donations” across the front, and an easel with a sign on it saying “I’m Holding up the Empire State Building. Donations accepted.” I have been holding up the Empire State Building for four years. At night I sit on the pavement, leaning and sleeping. Nobody bothers me because they know I am doing a great service: where would New York be without the Empire State Building? As a tourist attraction, it’s right up there with the Statue of Liberty, which, in fact, is in New Jersey.

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.

Antanaclasis (an’-ta-na-cla’-sis): The repetition of a word or phrase whose meaning changes in the second instance.

I had balls and I had balls. I had a collection of spherical sports equipment and I invested in toilet seats. I had balls! You had to be a wild risk-taker to put everything into the toilet seat market—a market dominated by late 19th century mahogany seats—the first two piecer invented by Lola Stockmire. She was tired of sitting on man dribbles—no matter how fresh. Men knew a woman would wipe down the seat before they returned, if they returned, so they neglected to do so. Lola ripped a seat off a privy, and had special hinges made and created the first toilet seat “sandwich,” screwed it to the privy and invented something not unlike the porta-potty seat, only made from teak. An original “Stockmire” recently sold at auction for $1,000,000 making it the most valuable toilet seat in the world. Then there’s the “Poe,” a hollowed out toilet seat that Poe filled with bourbon—with its attached straw, he could keep drinking while he “went.” The famous bondage aficionado, “Whippy” Pesterson had a “spanking seat.” It was equipped with a foot pedal that you could push down on to make the toilet seat spank you as you prepared to sit on it. The “spanky seat” was banned in England because too many nobles were using it as a diversion it its own right, pretending to “go” when they actually sought a spanking. This took them away from their real duties such as making paper dolls and kicking their tenant farmers. Last, there was the heated toilet seat. It was a chair-like toilet seat. It was designed so a chubby “seat heater” could spend the day or night sitting on it, keeping it warm for their betters. There is a sad story of a chubby boy who was assigned to heat a toilet seat on an out of the way toilet. Nobody came to his toilet for two weeks. He was found dead, still in a sitting position. He was declared a hero by his peers and his seat is enshrined in the V&A Museum with highchairs, car seats, and folding chairs. But enough of this! What about my ball collection?

My pride and joy is the 100-pound canon ball. In its day it was a terror. It could blow a hole in a person almost one foot in diameter. It came with a brochure touting the canon and showing a drawing of a man with a perfectly round hole in his gut, with another man looking through it, smiling. Then, there’s the 10 lb kettle ball. Originally designed as a weapon by warring states who could not afford canons—they were hurled at the enemy. They proved ineffective in combat. Soldiers could only carry two at a time strapped to their belt. More often than not, the balls would pull down their pants and they would trip and fall down before reaching the battlefield. They started carrying them. It did little good. They would drop them! Idiots! One more—the Rubber Baby Buggy Bumper. It was simply 2 pinky balls mounted on the front of a baby carriage. It was fun to say, and provided parents with an opening to talk about their children. I have the third one made. They were manufactured at the turn of the 19th century in Canton, Ohio. The buggy was owned by the Henry Ford family and was the inspiration for the rubber strip around his loading docks, where delivery trucks backed in. Last, I have the oldest juggling balls known to mankind. They were found in a cave in France. They are millions of years old. There were cave paintings of a man juggling dead saber-toothed tigers. Then, a painting of a man juggling three rolled-up 50-pound armadillos. Finally, there is picture of a man juggling dried testicles—probably raccoon. The paintings represent the evolution of juggling, and I managed to get my hands on the prehistoric balls!

Well, that’s it for my balls. These are just a highlight. You can come to the “My Balls” museum in Planefield, NJ. There, you can view all my balls and even buy a hat or a t-shirt. My balls are worth millions—you won’t be disappointed.

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.

Antanagoge (an’-ta-na’-go-gee): Putting a positive spin on something that is nevertheless acknowledged to be negative or difficult.

I hate driving the speed limit, no matter what it is. 30? I’d go 50. 40? I’d go 60. 75? I’d go 105. I knew how fast I could go. I didn’t need a road sign to tell me. Then, I nearly killed my family.

I had the SAAB Combi up to 115 on the Maine Turnpike. Then, a little red Fiat cut me off. I hit him in the side and he rolled over, making sparks fly and smoking. I skidded sideways onto the median strip with my hands off the steering wheel. The car seat we had bought at a garage sale, and installed improperly, had malfunctioned and Baby Waylon had flown toward the windshield from the back seat. Luckily my high school baseball experience kicked in and in a flash I caught Waylon like a line drive—bare-handed. My wife had a nosebleed, and my teen-aged daughter Dolly was cursing me out. I was a little rattled, but I was impressed by the number of swear words she knew at 16. Then, the Combi caught on fire. We scrambled out into the mud and I noticed Dolly was missing. Then I saw her rolling around in the mud trying to put out her flaming sweatshirt. I told her to take off the sweatshirt. She swore at me again and pulled it off. Her T-shirt, under the sweatshirt, rolled up. She was covered with tattoos! She had a huge tattoo on her stomach. It was the counter guy from Cliff’s. The tattoo was positioned so her belly- button was one of his eyes winking. It said “True Love” below it. My wife wiped off her nose and started crying. I started thinking how much it would cost to have the tattoo removed.

Then, the driver of the Fiat came limping up the median strip brandishing a car Jack that he had somehow retrieved from the car. He had a gash on his forehead and the left leg of his pants was soaked with blood. His car was truly a wreck. It looked like a big red crumpled red hot dog with doors. He said “I’m going to kill you.” Then, I recognized him! It was my nephew Ludlow—my little sister’s son. Then, he recognized me too—He yelled, “My God, it’s uncle Crooky!” He was on his way to Freeport to buy a life vest and a half-dozen pairs of torque preventing Polartec underpants at L.L Bean. I called Triple-A and offered to pay to have his Fiat towed somewhere. He wanted to leave the Fiat there, but I talked him out of it. Then, I called an ambulance for Ludlow’s leg. All of a sudden, the state police showed up, with guns drawn they smelled our breaths and made us dance with them to “Showroom Dummies.” They determined there was no foul play and we were free to go. We waited 3 hours for AAA, but that’s another story.

Now, the lesson I learned: Speed limits are a pain in the ass, but they keep you and other people from getting killed or injured. Now, I never drive more than 10 MPH above the speed limit. Lesson learned.

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.