Aphaeresis

Posted on June 20, 2024 | Leave a comment

Aphaeresis (aph-aer’-e-sis): The omission of a syllable or letter at the beginning of a word. A kind of metaplasm.

‘Bout time you got here Bozo. You know, time does not last forever. It is like a frozen lily or a bowl of ice cream. Here today, gone to Hoboken tomorrow. It’s complicated. It’s complex. It’s convoluted. It goes tick tock or it hums with electric inner workings.

I tried to explain the majesty of time to my nephew. I bought him a wristwatch on his third birthday. He said, “Time fly” and threw it at the living room wall, laughing. The watch was destroyed. I wanted to hit him, but I knew my sister would get mad, so I hit her instead. She punched me between the eyes and I fell down. When I woke up I had a cuckoo clock mounted on my head. I couldn’t remove it and it never needed winding. I would cuckoo every hour, without fail. I’d be riding on the bus and I’d start to cuckoo. It irritated the other passengers, and often, I’d be removed from the bus forcefully by them—once when the buss was moving.

So finally, I got a job as a cuckoo clock in a pawn shop. I was not for sale and lived in the back room of the pawn shop, “Mr. Fence’s.”

Then one day I was standing there marking time when a pocket watch flew through the door like a flying saucer. It hovered in front of my face and said “Your time is up.” My cuckoo clock fell off my head and smashed on the floor. I was “normal” again! I thanked the pocket watch and it said “no problem” as it settled in to the top of my head.

Suddenly my mind was filled with sayings about time—time flies, time is a thief, a stitch in tine, let the good times roll, etc. I didn’t know what it all meant. But I felt like I was becoming a ticking time bomb. I lost my job and wandered the streets of Athens, GA. The pocket watch said “You need a time out.” The pocket watch had an alarm. I was hired by a wealthy man to be his human alarm clock. He would set me before he went to bed and I would wake him up in the morning. If he did not get up, I would yell at him. One morning he hit me in the face with a hiking boot. I had no idea why. I retaliated with my box cutter. Now I’m serving 12 years for manslaughter. Time passes slowly here in prison, but there’s a time and a place for everything. I’ll serve my time and then take my time rebuilding my life. My hope is to learn how to repair wall clocks, and time is on my side. I’m only 34. The pocket watch is hidden away in my hair. He served my time with me. We’re together all the time, but he stopped talking to me. I think his battery went dead around five years ago. Oh well, off we go. We can’t afford to waste any time.

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

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Aphorismus

Posted on June 19, 2024 | Leave a comment

Aphorismus ( a-phor-is’-mus): Calling into question the proper use of a word.

Rick: He has a peach on his mind. Me: I think you mean “leech.”

Rick: oh you must be right, even though it never occurred to me. Your book “Right Word, Right Life” shows should’ve been in my hand. I wear it around my neck on a bootlace, but I’m reticent to use it all the time. Me: Uh oh. It’s “hesitant” not “reticent.” Shame on you for word abuse. I’m gong to have to fine you $50. I let “peach” slide. It is a common and quite harmless error. In fact, peach is the most misused word in the English language, right next to “addendum.” There’s an ATM right across the street. Get the money or you’re going to the Thesaurus for the night. You’ll be made to say the same thing in different ways until bedtime. You will be given a ten pound dictionary for a pillow and expired galley proofs for a blanket—boring classifieds from years ago.

Nobody knows why, but “Criers” are housed in Thesaurus too. Criers have an inherited malady that has been traced to the Stoic Marcus Aurelius. Criers cry for no reason. Sometimes they sniffle, but often they blow a bomb laced with machine gun-like sobs. That’s why they are jailed here in our little corner of dystopia. Marcus Aurelius developed Stoicism in an attempt to stem crying. It didn’t work, so he came up with idea that you can’t control how people see you, so screw it and them. This made him happy.

Roy Orbison is a noteworthy 20th century Cryer. He was “all right for a while” but then he had an uncontrollable crying fit, and had a hit record.

So now you have the whole picture. Get me the $50 now or I’m calling backup.

Rick: I’m reticent to . . .

Me: Stop! I’m calling backup. Be prepared to be kept awake by the Cryers! You fool. You foul-mouth turkey butt. You’re a rotten peach.

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

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Apocarteresis

Posted on June 18, 2024 | Leave a comment

Apocarteresis (a-po-car-ter’-e-sis): Casting of all hope away from one thing and placing it on another source altogether.

For most of my life I believed there was a magical creature assigned to me and only me by Buck England, patron to people of all sizes and ages, with or without limbs, anemia, and good posture. My assigned creature was the family dog. It took me years to work out the patterns in Magchop’s barks. I would ask hm a question and he would “wooferate” an answer. To outsiders, it looked like he was just barking at me. I would give hm a treat and go on with my life. Magchop’s advice wasn’t always on the mark, and I would pay for it. For example, once advised me to squeeze my teacher’s boobs. I was expelled from school, chafed with assault, and put on probation for 5 years and undergo rigorous psychological counseling. I prayed to Buck England for a new magical creature. He sent me a raccoon. The family dog mysteriously ran away. The raccoon’s name was Dicky Dumpster.

All of his advice cycles around rummaging in trash receptacles where I would eventually discover untold wealth and delicious leftovers. My first nightt out I was bitten on my finger by a rat.

So, here I am. No more Buck England for me! I’m moving on to better things. I’m moving on to bibliomancy. I’m using “Dr. Zhivago” as my text. I open the text to a random page and then point at a sentence, which becomes my guide for the day. in my first attempt I bought a snow blower, even though I live in South Florida. I’m not sure what to do with it, but I’m sure time will tell. Maybe I can use it to till my garden or weed my lawn.

I am generally happy with my venture into bibliomancy. Today, I decided to enlist in the army and become an aristocrat.

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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Apocope

Posted on June 17, 2024 | Leave a comment

Apocope (a-pok’-o-pe): Omitting a letter or syllable at the end of a word. A kind of metaplasm.

“Nothin’ says lovin’ like somethin’ from the oven.” Why do I remember this? I don’t remember what it’s a slogan for—maybe oven, or cake or a Thanksgiving turkey. I can see us now—huddled around the table—the table piled high with steaming food. My Grandfather would slip out his 2 foot carving knife—so dull it shouldn’t be called a knife. It was more like a tire iron. He’d slam it down on the turkey, and as he started to carve, the turkey would move around propelled by the dull blade

Uncle Carmine would yell “Chadrool” from across the table and pull out a ten inch switchblade knife, get up, and push my grandfather out of his chair. He had the turkey sliced and diced in about two minutes—he was like one of those Japanese chefs at Benihana. Aunt Candice told Carmine he should apologize to grandpa for pushing him. He told he to go “F” herself. Her husband, Uncle Buck didn’t like that one bit. He told Carmine “You apologize to Candice or I’ll cut off your nuts and put ‘em in the gravy.”

Carmine was ready to blow. Then Grandma chimed in: “Stop this bullshit right now—nobody’s going to cut off anybody’s nuts. This is Thanksgiving for God’s sake. Carmine! Apologize!” Carmine closed his switchblade and apologized.

Uncle Filbert started the prayer. He was a fake Catholic Bishop. He had no pull or influence as such. His primary motive was the vestments. He loved going to the mall in full dress and have people make the sign of the cross at him, and from time to time he would say “Bless you.” He began the prayer: “Father, thank-you for the bounty we are . . .”

Carmine yelled “Fuc*k you!” He grabbed his wife’s arm and headed for the door. Filbert yelled “You Goddamn hothead. Go! Leave! Get out of here. May your mother burn in hell!” Carmine pulled his knife and started climbing across the table. Filbert held up his cruxifix like he was trying to ward off a vampire. Grandpa hit Carmine over the head with a silver gravy boat. The gravy poured over Carmine’s face and he hit the floor out cold.

Thanksgiving dinner went on with unconscious Carine stretched out on the kitchen floor. It was peaceful. It was family like it ought to be. After we finished dessert, Grandma called an ambulance for Carmen. As they wheeled him out the front door we yelled “Asshole” in one familial voice. He heard us and started struggling on the gurney. Grandpa said “We shoulda’ killed him.” We all laughed, even Carmine’s wife and children.

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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Apodixis

Posted on June 16, 2024 | Leave a comment

Apodixis (a-po-dix’-is): Proving a statement by referring to common knowledge or general experience.

A. I can tell you’re sad—you’re crying.

B. I’m not crying, I’m whimpering and I’m not crying, my eyes are watering from the cigarette smoke filling your room. I’m going to open a window.

A. Open the window and you’re going out the window. I have a smoke lizard from Columbia. They live on the walls of bars where there’s plenty of smoke in Columbia, they are nourished by nicotine and go crazy without it. They will attack your face and tear off your lips. My smoke lizard’s name is “Don Quixote” and he makes a little squeaking noise when he wants me to light him a cigarette.

B. This is crazy. Do you expect me to believe your bullshit about a smoking lizard? This is the worst first date I ever had—you scare me.

A. Calm down. He’s just a little lizard—only one inch long.

B. I feel something crawling up my leg! Ew—it’s a tiny lizard—ew get it off

A. Don’t swat it! He’ll emit a potentially fatal gas. I’m sorry, but we’re in a world of shit. No! Don’t do it.

POSTSCRIPT

She swatted Don Quixote. They were both dead in seconds. One the EMTs heard a cute little squeaking noise. Don Quixote came running out of a closet and scampered up his pants looking for a cigarette. There were none. He became enraged and ate the EMTs lips. There was a lot of screaming and blood. Then, Don Quixote died.

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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Apophasis

Posted on June 15, 2024 | Leave a comment

Apophasis (a-pof’-a-sis): The rejection of several reasons why a thing should or should not be done and affirming a single one, considered most valid.

Nothing was normal after I stopped believing in God. No more getting down on my knees by my bed and saying my most heartfelt prayers: 1. That my boss die of cancer; 2. That my neighbor’s house burn down with him in it, as well as his “prizewinning” tropical fish; 3. That my wife’s abomination of a dog suffer some cruel fate. It was a pig-a-poo, a cross between a pig and a poodle. It was stolen from a government secret the research facility. The animal’s front end was a dog and rear end a pig. When it barks it sounds like a deep bass pig.

Surprise! I started believing in God again! I’ll be throwing prayers up to heaven again. It happened on the bus. I was on my way home from work. There was a beautiful woman sitting next to me. She said her name was Sherry, after her mother’s favorite beverage. She put her hand on my leg. I heard doves cooing and harpsichord tunes. I was back on God’s team, I prayed that I would run into Sherry on the bus again, which I did! She had gained 50 pounds, was pregnant and smelled like onions.

Lat’s see what we’ve got (unranked):

1. Boss has cancer

2. House in flames

3. Pig-a-poo

4. Angel-on-a-bus

I’m not going to pick any of these. In celebration of my recent return to God, I’m going for something new. A new prayer for a new me!

My prayers have asked God to do really bad things. I’ve had some luck. Also, if you ask God to do it, it’s not on you—it’s on Him,

“I pray that my sister fall down her living room or, basement, stairs.” The great thing about prayers is you don’t have to justify them. You ask God with a couple of “pleases” thrown in to smooth things out. You will probably not have your prayers answered.

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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Apoplanesis

Posted on June 14, 2024 | Leave a comment

Apoplanesis (a-po-plan’-e-sis): Promising to address the issue but effectively dodging it through a digression.

I now you are all interested in the fate of The Modern Bungee Company. We’ve been boinging people up and down for the past forty years. And we mustn’t forget the hundreds of young men and women who jumped off bridges and soiled themselves.

I will address the reasons behind Big Bungee’s pending demise and the liquidation of its inventory.

The liquidation goes like auctions where everything you strived and sacrificed for is strewn across a warehouse floor and listed in a catalogue with its opening bid.

I saw the letter opener my father gave me. Opening bid $1.00. I never used it, but I would have if there had been any envelopes to open. I used email and text messages. I put the letter opener in my desk and that’s where it stayed. Until now.

I saw my computer. It had a sign on it that said “Adults Only.” I’m not surprised. I used my computer primarily to view and download porn. I find porn inspiring and I think it makes me a better person. The actors are carefree and in search of pleasure. Although we’re not all carefree, we all search for pleasure. What’s wrong with that? To be sure, I wasted a lot of time as CEO watching porn, but the opening bid is higher on my computer than any of the company’s computers.

Then, there’s the fake award I kept hanging on the wall behind my desk. That goes hand in hand with the photoshopped photo of me shaking hands with Joe Biden. The award was a 2×2 foot plaque mounted on walnut. It was for “Being the Most Impactful Steward of a Gold-Plated Business Venture.” In the award’s narrative I was cited for greatness in the line of duty. It was a real honor, too bad it was fake. I had an employee who suspected the veracity of the award. Sadly, he was found in a vat of molten rubber. Too bad.

The picture with Biden is for keeping up with my brother. He has a picture of himself shaking hands with Trump. We both know it’s fake, but it’s fun to play these games, and pretend we care about each other. We hate each other. I fantasize about killing him with a jackhammer.

Well, it’s time to go home. Drive carefully. Oh. There are some cookies left over. You may grab one or two on your way out. Chocolate chip is my favorite.

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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Aporia

Posted on June 13, 2024 | Leave a comment

Aporia (a-po’-ri-a): Deliberating with oneself as though in doubt over some matter; asking oneself (or rhetorically asking one’s hearers) what is the best or appropriate way to approach something [=diaporesis].

“Do you like women out on work release?” That’s what it said on the dating site “Dating the Damned.” It was sponsored by the New York State Department of Corrections. It was believed that forming relationships would help rehabilitate offenders. The name of the site was offensive, but it had been coined by the Director who is known for his insensitivity, hollowness, and broken sense of humor, He has a chair in his office labeled “The Chair,” after the electric chair, a banned form of execution due to its cruelty and frequent malfunctioning, where for example victims would smoke and bounce around and survive, only to be re-executed the following day. And then, if he has negative feedback, you “get the chair” by being made to sit in the chair while he yells at you.

So I say to myself, “Should I give the woman on work release a spin? What could be the possible benefit? There’s only one way to find out.” I contacted her. Her name was Martha Muzzle. We made a date to meet at I-Hop. She ordered the Pink Pirate pancakes. She poured ketchup on them and spit n them and stabbed them repeatedly with a knife. She had a twisted look on her face and said “you bastard” over and over as she stabbed the pancakes. I told her I thought she was she was filled with emotion and it was beautiful. She pointed the knife at me and said “Good. How’d you like to be my next bastard?” I looked at my watch and said “Wo! It’s time for you to get back to the half-way house. I’ll drive you.” As we drove along, I noticed she had stolen the knife from I-Hop, and it was pointing at my leg. She said “Feel like bleeding?” Without waiting for my answer, she jammed the knife into my leg and said, “The halfway house is right there. I’ll get out and walk. I hope we can have another date.” She kissed me on the cheek and hopped out of my car.

I drove myself to the hospital. They asked what had happened. As I told them they nodded their heads and told me I was the fifth victim that month. I called the police. They told me she was about to go back to prison and that she would be tried for multiple stabbings, none of them fatal. I couldn’t contain my anger. I got my old baseball bat out of my garage and went to the halfway house to beat her to death. She opened the door and stabbed me in the stomach. I fell to the floor and she yelled “You bastard!” and kicked me in the stomach. Luckily, one of the residents called the police and an ambulance.

I’ve healed, but I’m lonely. For some reason “Dating the DamnEd” still appeals to me. In a way Martha Muzzle was exciting, even though she almost cost me my life. My new interest is Bongos Beatty. I’ve bought a Glock to take on our first date. Self defense is always a good excuse for murder.

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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Aposiopesis

Posted on June 12, 2024 | Leave a comment

Aposiopesis (a-pos-i-o-pee’-sis): Breaking off suddenly in the middle of speaking, usually to portray being overcome with emotion.

My time is. . . is run . . . ing out. The clouds are gathering. My sight is dimming. Shot 42 times in the stomach I should be dead already. I can hear you asking through the fog of my demise: “How do you know it’s 42 times.” I don’t know. It’s hyperbole, a figure of speech. Maybe if I said 100 times it would be clearer that I’m exaggerating for effect. You know, like there’s a million reasons for you to shut up and let me die in peace. But, there wasn’t going to be any peace. A dog started barking in his face and a car alarm went off and a motorcycle roared by.

Maybe his final wish would be fulfilled: win $5,500 on the Take Five scratch-off lotto ticket. His brother Thor was kneeling alongside him. They had been on their way to the marijuana dispensary to get a vape for their dad for Father’s Day. With great effort he pulled his wallet from his back pocket, pulled out a dollar, and told his brother to go to Cliff’s and get him a Take Five scratch-off lotto ticket, and also, call an ambulance.

He had been shot up by a gang of crackheads who roamed the neighborhood, mugging people, pushing people down and yelling insults—then they’d go back to their crackden and gloat over the evil they’d done. Somehow, they had gotten their hands on a bunch of handguns. They were shooting them in the air and dancing around. One of them tripped and accidentally shot him. If only he had been running his usual 3-card Monte scam, he would not have been shot. The crackheads had apologized promised him an ounce of crack if he kept his mouth shut.

Keeping his dying wish, his brother came running up the sidewalk waving the lotto ticket. He handed it to his brother who vigorously scratched it. It won a free Take Five ticket. He tore it up, dug out another dollar and told his brother to get another one.

Just then, the ambulance pulled up. The attendant said “What’s this red stuff?” and laughed. He said, “It’s my blood you f-ing shit for brains!” The attendant said “if you keep talking to me like that, we’ll leave you here.” He laughed again. They loaded him in the ambulance and took off for the hospital siren blaring. He underwent 6 hours of surgery, removing the bullets from his stomach. He died asking for his lotto ticket.

Meanwhile, his brother came back and nobody was there, so he scratched off the lotto ticket. He had hit the $5,500 jackpot. He kept it for himself.

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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Apostrophe

Posted on June 11, 2024 | Leave a comment

Apostrophe (a-pos’-tro-phe): Turning one’s speech from one audience to another. Most often, apostrophe occurs when one addresses oneself to an abstraction, to an inanimate object, or to the absent.

“Marty had a little clam. It’s shell was brown as mud. It followed him to school one day and was dissected in biology class. Mrs. Smart pulled out his guts and swung then around, making them go up and down. The clamshell was made into a brooch painted with purple flowers. Marty sold it at the farmers market for”$2.00 and bought 10 comic books for him to read in bed.”

Now, this story is all well and good with the exception of the walking clam. There is no such thing as a walking clam. If there were, they’d sell clam leashes at pet stores. And that’s that. The story is fictional, and certainly, is a vehicle for animal activists—the clam as alive when it is dissected—alive! If clams could only speak and cry out. What would the clam say?

What would you say clam? “Ow that hurts. Stop. You are killing me. Ooh that’s my belly! Yaaaa! Hellp! My foot—it’s ooozing.”

Now you are dead poor clam—diced up for no good reason. Laid out on a blood-stained table for the children to see—to learn it’s ok to hack things up for, in this case, for a lesson in biology. And then, the children are given dead frogs to hack up and revel in removing their organs and learning the organs’ names which should be “perversion” and “madness.” The children go home and attempt to to practice their new found skill on their puppies. They put the puppy in the oven and turn on the gas. Once the gas has done its job, they take the puppy out of the oven, lay it on a cutting board on the counter by the kitchen sink. They find a steak knife and begin their macabre task. When his mother returns home she sees the horrific scene: Buffer’s insides neatly arranged on the cutting board. Timmy walks slowly toward her with the steak knife pointed in her direction. She calls the police on the phone behind her on the wall. By the time the police arrive, it is too late for Timmy’s mother. Timmy had her liver and kidneys neatly arranged on the kitchen floor. He looked at Sgt.. Meally with a twisted grin and asked: “Do I get an A?”

Timmy became known as the “Dissection Devil.” He was convicted of murder and is serving a life sentence in the Iowa State Home for Convicted Criminals. Timmy pleaded insanity, but that was rejected because he had learned what he did in school in his biology class. Now, he strives to catch rats in the prison yard. Since he’s not allowed to have a knife, he tears them apart with his bare hands and arranges their insides neatly on the yard’s dirt surface.

What is the moral of this story? Knowledge is dangerous. If you don’t need it to do your job, stay away from it.

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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Apothegm

Posted on June 10, 2024 | Leave a comment

Apothegm (a’-po-th-e-gem): One of several terms describing short, pithy sayings. Others include adage, gnome, maxim, paroemia, proverb, and sententia.

“If you have a jar, you have a lid.” For hundreds of years this saying has been used in Belgium to catch criminals. It is like the American saying: “Where there’s smoke there’s fire.” The “smoke” might be a robber’s loot. The “fire” may be the robbery. It is all complex and deeply enmeshed in drawing inferences. Instead of simply asking, “Where did you get that?” The saying projects a sophisticated nuance that dazzles the perpetrator, keeping them from fleeing while they try to figure out what you mean.

Sayings have been used to great effect over the course of human history. In fact, they have been around since prehistoric times. There is a cave painting in France that depicts a cave person talking a bite out of a roasted hairy mammoth. Clearly, it is telling us “Don’t bite off more than you can chew.” This sage advice reaches through eons to affect our decision-making in the 21st Century. How many times have you employed it to keep from overdoing something—like cooking dinner and doing the laundry at the same time. Don’t bite off more than you can chew! Remember that the next time you agree to take care of your brother’s pet bird when he goes on vacation!

What about “In the valley of the blind the one-eyed man is king”?

This saying is highly insulting and perpetuates disparaging myths about seeing-impaired people. It goes hand-in-hand with Nietzsche’s unremitting belief that only Superman is equipped to control the world by bragging about how about great he is with his two eyes and hands and arms and legs and feet. Bah!

People with one eye have achieved success in life, even to the point of being portrayed on playing cards as the “One-Eyed Jack.” One-eyed people can excel in almost all walks of life. Although they respect them, they don’t need blind people to promote their interests.

Anyway, what about “Visitors and fish stink after 3 days?” This was coined by Simon, one of Jesus’ fishing buddies. Some say he had Judas in mind. Anyway, like a lot of things he did and said, Ben Franklin stole this saying, attributing it to himself in his book “Big Ben’s Wise Sayings.” Alas, the stinking fish allusion has become an anomaly with the advent of refrigeration. However, it is still possible to catch a whiff from canned cat food, sardines and pickled herring. Also, the advent of Air B&B has trashed the three day rule, with hosts allowing unlimited sojourns in their dwellings. This shows there is nothing timeless about sayings—the human condition, like everything else, changes.

I’ve never been able to “See the forest for the trees.” I just don’t think you can “see” a forest, except maybe from an airplane or helicopter. That said, I’m going to fade away—back into oblivion where some mode of public transportation will carry me home where my heart is.

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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Appositio

Posted on June 9, 2024 | Leave a comment

Appositio (ap-po-sit’-i-o): Addition of an adjacent, coordinate, explanatory or descriptive element.

Life was good—good as a slice of pumpkin pie. I was living the sensual life—no reins, no steering wheel, no rudder. If anything directed my trip through life it was cheesecake, chocolate candy and marshmallow fluff. I frequented soda fountains and candy stores. Sometimes I’d pop a Jolly Rancher out of nostalgia. Once in awhile I remembered my elementary school days when I started my turn toward sensuality. It was the chocolate pudding served with lunch that hooked me in sugary treats.

I inherited a fortune when I was 19. Self indulgence is not much of a feat. I have bins of candy in the basement of my mansion. The basement smells so delicious it brings tears to my eyes. Taking a page from Scrooge McDuck’s book, I swim in my candy daily—my favorite flavor to swim in is cherry—the fragrance is intoxicating.

Every morning I have a bowl of malted milk balls in heavy cream followed by two raspberry jelly donuts and a shot of Lumber Jack Joe maple syrup from my 200 acre sugar bush in northern New York. I’d set my Stairlift on full speed to get down to breakfast. It went so fast, I got butterflies, but maybe they were just in anticipation of starting another sweetened day. After breakfast my butler would help me put on my swimming trunks and help me get seated in the Jacuzzi. I would have a glass of Kool-Aid plus—my own invention with quadruple sugar and a handful of sour balls and one cup of grenadine syrup. This was the time of day when I composed poetry about my obsession and good fortune to be surrounded by sweets:

“On my tongue,

Not my lung

The red hot dollar lay

And chewed and swallowed

it would pay

My desire’s flicking flame.”

I wrote this just last week as I was wiggling my toes in the Jacuzzi. It is titled “Red Hot Dollar.” It queries he price of desire. It will be worked into the opera I am composing titled “Caked in Trouble.”

Next, my butler hauls me out of the Jacuzzi with our water-ski tow rope and ferries me off to lunch in our battery-powered “Little Roller.” I eat outside whenever I can, getting my Vitamin D and a healthy tan. A typical lunch consists of a craft made Peruvian dark chocolate bar on rye, sprinkled with chocolate flavored Jimmie’s, soaked with chocolate syrup and topped with Fluff and a dollop of peanut butter. The beverage is mango keifer blended with molasses and Red Bull. After lunch, I feel like I’ve died and gone to heaven. I ride Little Roller back up to the mansion and my butler lifts me out with a tow truck crane bolted to the concrete driveway and sets me down on my feet.

Walking is difficult, but I make it to the media room. I watch “Charlie and the Chocolate Factory” until it is time for dinner. With great effort I make it to the dining room. I sit on my throne at the head of the table and survey the meal set before me.

First, I notice the chocolate-covered yams. Hmmm. Then I see a small gumdrop mountain on my salad plate—bravo! Kudos to the chef. Next—a chocolate five foot replica of the White House filled with blackberry jam. I almost fainted—it combined so many edifying themes. There were other lesser dishes. One that stood out was sugar-covered wild boar jerky. We had a light desert—hills of whipped cream garnished with red M&M’s.

Time for bed with a bowl of “Carnal-Nut” ice cream and 3 packs of Little Debbie “Swiss Rolls.” They remind me of Heidi without the goats. Well, it’s been another stellar day consuming my nummie edibles! Good night!

POSTSCRIPT

Known worldwide as “The Sweetest Man,” Edward Ronka lived his life steeped in sweets. He died last week from every known malady associated with over indulgence in sweets. At 425 pounds, he was a formidable presence. Watching him consume sweets with two hands was awe inspiring, especially handfuls of candy kisses. We will miss him as a symbol of freedom from the constraints of good judgment and moderation.

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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Ara

Posted on June 8, 2024 | Leave a comment

Ara (a’-ra): Cursing or expressing detest towards a person or thing for the evils they bring, or for inherent evil.

I hate life insurance salespeople. Their job is to make you fear The Reaper. Death hovers over us all the time. At any minute “snap” goes the tendril of life—like a rubber band stretched to its limit. And there you are in your underwear, dead on the bathroom floor, stabbed by your toothbrush after slipping and falling on it after stepping on a wet washcloth.

There’s no money to bury you and no money at all. In fact, there’s only debts—your mortgage, your lawnmower, your car, your cellphone, your airplane. Marsha will have to drop out of hotel management school and return to washing dishes at Red Lobster. Little Tim will have to forego the hip surgery and continue to limp through life with his wooden crutch. You’ll have to put your dog Butchers up for sale or adoption, and if this fails, have him euthanized and your wife will bury him in the back yard with no marker. Marsha will start shooting fentanyl to ease the pain and walk the streets at night, looking for love and companionship. Of course, your wife will drink herself into oblivion every night in preparation for burning down the house a collecting the fire insurance payout.

Payout! That’s right! Payout!

Imagine a life insurance payout! If you had purchased a $500,000 policy all the troubles would’ve never happened.

Ha! Ha!

What total BS. The salesperson fails to mention the $300 per month premium. I hate this crap. It is a number-one scam. I hate the fear-inducing bastards that sell this crap.

POSTSCRIPT

The life insurance hater dropped dead on the kitchen floor two days after writing this and submitting it as an editorial to the local newspaper the “Barn Stable Bugle.” He had no life insurance and his wife was besieged by bill collectors. To make ends meet she got a job at Starbucks. She had him creamated at her cousin Jimmy’s gas log fireplace store and buried in a bag at a pet cemetery. It was all she could afford. Marsha is contributing a modest amount to home expenses with her night job. She “escorts” older men to their preferred destinations.

So, do you have life insurance?

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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Articulus

Posted on June 7, 2024 | Leave a comment

Articulus (ar-tic’-u-lus): Roughly equivalent to “phrase” in English, except that the emphasis is on joining several phrases (or words) successively without any conjunctions (in which case articulus is simply synonymous with the Greek term asyndeton). See also brachylogia.

My dreams were broken, shattered, destroyed, obliterated. All I had hoped for was driving away in a Subaru Outback packed with remnants of our ended love. My electric toothbrush, cowboy boots, fencing foil, wagging tail cat clock were rolling down the driveway to her new happy home. It was Herb’s car, Herb behind wheel. Herb who had assaulted our love. Herby that I had vowed to kill.

I was the model husband. I did what model husbands are supposed to do: sit in my recliner and complain and yell orders. My recliner was my throne and I was King. One of her primary duties was to clean the bathroom. If she missed anything, I made her stand on one foot in the toilet for 15 minutes. she never learned her lesson and I actually enjoyed seeing her stand in the toilet—she was like a beautiful flamingo. Vacuuming and dusting were straightforward, so that left things in good order, unless she missed a spot—a smear of dust. When this happened, I rubbed her nose in it until she sneezed and blew the dust away.

Laundry was no big deal, but cooking was. I picked a recipe every night from her cookbook “What to Feed an Ogre.” It was mostly roadkill. She had to forage for it every day: if I wanted raccoon, she had to drive around until she found one, skinned it, and cooked it according to the cookbook’s recipe. Any deviation from the recipe earned her a threat to have her hand liquified in our blender.

So, as a typical loving husband, I couldn’t fathom why she would ever run off with Herb—a nondescript average man. Or, so I thought. Somehow he had seduced my wife—he probably promised state of the art kitchen appliances, or vacuum cleaner. Maybe he bought her new packs of cleaning rags, or window cleaner. Her faithless abandonment of me has shocked me and made me despondent. Now, I’m going on the hunt for a new woman.

Most men would hit the web or hang out at a bar, but I have plan. There’s a rehab center—“Back to Normal”—right down the street from me. I think I can find a normal woman there to get attached to me. My idea is to wave a spatula at women coming out of the facility. If they seem attracted to it, I will strike, saying nice things and asking them to move in with me. I’ve had no luck yet. Maybe I should wave around a different cooking utensil. Like tongs— their grabbing motion says “Come here baby.”

In the meantime, I’m trying to figure out how to murder Herb without getting caught. I’ve decided to hit him on the back of his head with a baseball and then, pour Clorox down his throat with a funnel. I saw that on an episode of “Columbo.” The guy got caught who did it to his wife because he had a receipt for the Clorox. I won’t be that stupid—I will steal it!

I got caught stealing the Clorox and have to go to court next week. It changed my mind about everything. I have decided to kidnap my wife and keep her as a prisoner until Herb comes looking for her and falls down the basement stairs and is killed. Ha! Ha! Maybe we will eat Herb. Ha! Ha!

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

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Aschematiston

Posted on June 6, 2024 | Leave a comment

Aschematiston: The use of plain, unadorned or unornamented language. Or, the unskilled use of figurative language. A vice. [Outside of any particular context of use or sense of its motive, it may be difficult to determine what’s “plain, unadorned or unornamented language.” The same is true of the “unskilled use of figurative language.”]

I have known so many weird people in my life. For example, I knew a guy who could only tell me he truth when he was drunk. Otherwise, he’d lie. Just to have a “normal” conservation, he had to drink a bottle of wine. He had “In Vino Veritas” tattooed across his chest with a gallon jug of Carlo Rossi “Sweet Red” below it. After about a half-gallon he started being honest. Often, he was belligerent, but at least he was honest. Situations where he couldn’t be drunk, but he had to tell the truth were his downfall. When he went to court for a speeding ticket, he nearly ended up in prison: he showed up drunk so he could be truthful about what had happened. The judge fined him $50 and put him in jail for one week. The second time he came to court he was sober: everything he said was a lie. He was fined $500 and his driver’s license suspended for 6 months. So, pretty weird, right?

Well, what about this: I went to high school with a kid who only had one eye. It was in the middle of his forehead. It was the size of an elephant’s eye. It was brown and sparkled in the sunlight. If you looked at it too long, you started to feel your soul being being sucked out of you. Carl was big and strong so nobody teased him or bothered him in any way. One kid, Sammy Bort, messed with Carl. He said “Did the moon hit your eye like a big pizza pie?” to Carl. Sammy became a shuffling, drooling, fart blowing zombie of sorts who would wait on Carl hand and foot. Carl would have him do nonsense tasks, like fetch three pebbles from the parking lot. So, it was a no-brainer to treat Carl with respect, even though he didn’t deserve it.

It was rumored that Carl’s mother ran a uranium crusher at a mine in Nevada. She was exposed to immense doses of radioactivity. Safety standards were such that she wasn’t required to wear goggles while running the crusher. As a consequence, her eyes became saturated with radioactivity. They say her eyes glowed. She became pregnant with Carl and her hair fell out and her gums started to bleed. She wasn’t alone. Her co-workers suffered the same plight. An investigation was undertaken and the Union reached an agreement with the US government to award the workers $2,000,000.

Carl was born 3 months later with the giant eye in the middle of his forehead, His mother placed him in a circus sideshow. He was known as “Cyclops Boy” and drew huge crowds. He would speak in pretend Greek and shake fist. By the time he got to high school, he had dealt with just about everything.

The last time I saw him he had gotten a job on a reality TV show “Classic Mayhem.” He “played” a wrestler from Ancient Greece. He called himself “Mr Cyclops” and became more and more like a Cyclops as time went by. He is obsessed with being strong. He is a loudmouth, violent, and, most likely, murderous.

I just made a new friend. Maybe this one will be normal, but it doesn’t seem likely: she has 12 cats and eats dinner with them out of a dish with her name on it. I don’t know where this is going, but I’m pretty sure I know where it’s going to end.

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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Asphalia

Posted on June 5, 2024 | Leave a comment

Asphalia (as-fay’-li-a): Offering oneself as a guarantee, usually for another.

I was on my way to Canada—the whole big mysterious Canada. Land of stereotypes and dreams. This was a vacation I had planned and saved for a whole year. I planed to see a Mountie in a red suit, Santa Claus in his home town banging out Christmas gifts, lines of pancake flour, wild women, spawning fish and Grizzly bears.

I had managed to save $500 for my vacation, so I had to be careful with my spending. Gasoline came in imperial gallons—bigger than American gallons. That was enough right there. I didn’t have an imperial gas gauge. What was going to happen when I put an mperial gallon in my Ford’s American tank. I was afraid it would overflow and break some Canadian global warming law. But, this is a trip of a lifetime. So, I stopped for gas. I told the clerk I had an American gas tank. and I wasn’t sure if it would fit imperial gallons—that they would run all over the ground. She laughed and said “Don’t worry aboot that. Imperial gallons will fit any tank. They adjust to the prevailing size and rule the tank.” I thanked her for explaining and pointed out to her that she said “aboot.” “What does a boot have to do with anything?” If Canadians say a boot when they mean something else, they need to change their tune and speak English the way our ancestors did and use words like yonder and utilize. She told me to pump my gas and leave, and hopefully have an accident and die! Can you believe it? This episode just about ruined my trip, but I could tell she was different from most Canadians. What a boot that? Ha ha!

My next stop is Niagara Falls. I’m spending the night in the Moose Bellow Motel before I get there. It is moose themed. A moose bellow goes off every hour from 7:00am to 10pm. I think it is kind of romantic and regret not taking Mindy with me on the trip. She teaches voice at Pine Stick Community College. I am sure she could call back to the moose, even though it’s a recording. The bed is a Queen size moose with a moose antler headboard. The nightstand is a baby moose with a piece of glass on its back. The lamp is made of a leg with a pull chain off-on switch. Of course, the carpet is a moose skin with 3 bullet holes in it.

Around 3am I started sneezing, my eyes were watering and I had a bloody nose. I was allergic to moose—most likely the carpet. I went to the front desk and demanded my money back. The desk clerk told me “I’m sorry. I can’t do anything a boot that.” A boot! He was taunting me! I picked up the cash register and threw it to the floor. I jumped in my car and headed for Niagara Falls. Soon I was being chased by two men in red on horseback. The horses were wearing helmets with flashing red and blue lights. One of the men was holding a bull horn making a siren sound. I pulled over. they asked for my license and registration. One of the men said “We’re worried a boot you after what you did at the motel. We are going to deport you to the States. Here is some complimentary maple syrup to help you drown your disappointment.”

Suddenly, the girl from the gas station pulled up. She asked the Mounties to let me go, and she would keep an eye on me. My faith in Canada was restored, until the Mounties said no and followed me to Niagara border crossing.

I couldn’t believe it. Maybe being deported from Canada would earn me kudos somewhere. What a boot 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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Assonance

Posted on June 4, 2024 | Leave a comment

Assonance (ass’-o-nance): Repetition of similar vowel sounds, preceded and followed by different consonants, in the stressed syllables of adjacent words

Water bubbles across the yard. The broken well makes mud. “Drink it! Drink it!” My heated brain yells. “What am I, nuts?” This is the right question under the circumstances.

I am writing a play titled “All is Well.” It makes me thirsty.. I head into the kitchen for a glass of water. I notice a fist shaking at me from out of the sink’s drain. It’s wearing an expensive watch! Then, I realize it is after three a.m. and my medication is wearing off. My condition induces vivid hallucinations that are easy to confuse with reality. Last week I thought I saw a murder take place in my front yard. A little man in a trench coat stabbed a woman in a wheelchair to death, and then, wheeled her away down the street. I checked the murder scene the next morning and saw no blood on the pavement and decided it was a hallucination. I just have to remember to take my anti-hallucinatory medication, “Delusionoff.” The only problem with it is that sometimes I think that things that are real are hallucinations. I was almost killed by a FedEx truck last week. I stepped in front of it thinking it was a hallucination. That’s a real problem that my medication should solve. I am going to talk to Dr. Farmazzi next week & see if there’s anything he can do. I saw a supplement on the web called “Sanizine.” It is supposed to help you distinguish between illusion and reality. It says: “Tired of seeing what’s there and thinking it isn’t? 25 Sanizine per day will fix it!”

Yesterday, despite taking my medication, I saw a cow on my neighbor’s roof. My neighbor was playing a guitar with a small amplifier and singing a song about being a rich man. It was annoying me, so I went outside to confront him. He was working in the flower bed in front of his house and singing the Beatles “Money.” I was so embarrassed that I helped him work in his garden for a half-hour. We sang “Money” together and talked about soil—mostly loam. Kidding around, we sang “Loam, loam on the Range” and laughed.

So, eventually I’ll finish “All is Well.” It’s about a broken well that needs repair or its owner will run out of potable water. Just as the well repair team arrives, Timmy, a neighborhood boy, falls in the well and gets stuck. It starts to rain and the well-water rises. Timmy drowns. He is so stuck in the wall that he can’t be extracted. As time goes by Timmy starts to decompose. The well water is ruined. But the owner of the well bottles it and sells it as “Timmy Memorial Water.” People come from hundreds of miles to purchase small vials for $50. 10% of the profits go to the “Tmmy’s Foolish Boys and Girls Camp Fund” which provides training in how to avoid doing foolish things, like falling in a well. The camp runs for one week in July every year. Nobody knows if it does any good, but it’s the money-making gesture that counts. If “All is Well” becomes a movie, I am hoping to get Danny DeVito to play Timmy., and maybe, Sting to play the well’s owner. I think Madonna will be perfect as Timmy’s mother. Johnny Depp will play Timmy’s father. Peter Falk will play a tricky detective in a filthy trench coat who suspects Timmy is “faking it” down in the well so his parents can collect on his life insurance policy.

Right now, I’m looking at a giant cockroach holding a paddle with a number on it, like the ones used by judges in sporting events. It says “127.” I don’t think my Sanizine is working.

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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Assumptio

Posted on June 3, 2024 | Leave a comment

Assumptio (as-sump’-ti’o): The introduction of a point to be considered, especially an extraneous argument. 

See proslepsis (When paralipsis [stating and drawing attention to something in the very act of pretending to pass it over] is taken to its extreme. The speaker provides full details.)

I dropped my flashlight, and it went out, and total darkness descended. I was in the middle of the woods looking for a rare nocturnal slug. They were so rare that they were worth millions. That was a good reason to hunt them, but it was rumored that they could talk. They weighed up to 10 pounds and left a wide slime trail I was hunting the logos maximus for all these reasons, but really, it was the slug’s color that compelled me to hunt it: the slug was brown with a yellow stripe. What could be more fascinating? A sock with a hole? A blender? A leg brace?A three-legged pig? No. None of the above. Well, maybe a red cat. Or, an ivory shoe horn. Or, a half-used roll of aluminum foil. I don’t know. I have trouble rank-ordering, hierarchies, and increments. Especially increments. People say about me: “Give him an inch and he’ll take a mile.” That means that I can’t measure.

But anyway, I heard a squishing sound in the darkness. I got down on my hands and knees and could barely make out what looked like a jiggly watermelon inching past. It was a logos Maximus. I wanted take a picture, but I couldn’t find my phone. The slug said “What’s the matter shithead, can’t find your phone?” I was shocked by the talking slug. I asked what his name was. He told me slugs don’t have names, but you can call me Vick. I asked him what it was like to be so rare and relentlessly hunted. He told me it was “a pain in the ass.” I agreed as I squatted to pick him up and stuff him in my slug hunting bag. When I grabbed him he screamed, started squirming violently and cursing. He slimed up and slipped out of my hands.

He took off like a bat out of hell. I took off running after him. We were headed down the bank of a creek. I made a move to bag him and I tripped over a log and stepped on him. It was like stepping in a bowl of jello. Vick died. He liquified and soaked into the ground. All I could think was “I was so close.” I hadn’t gotten to know Vick that well, so I didn’t care that much about killing him. In fact, I was kind of angry that he liquified. I didn’t even have a trophy to mount on my living room wall over the fireplace.

When I got home, there was a large slug trail leading to my front door. I got in my car and drove away and never went 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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Asteismus

Posted on June 2, 2024 | Leave a comment

Asteismus (as-te-is’-mus): Polite or genteel mockery. More specifically, a figure of reply in which the answerer catches a certain word and throws it back to the first speaker with an unexpected twist. Less frequently, a witty use of allegory or comparison, such as when a literal and an allegorical meaning are both implied.

Joann: No ifs, ands, or buts about it.

Gill: No butts? a world without butts is a world where there’s nothing worth looking at.

Joann: Give it up. Your attempts at humor are a joke. And that does not mean funny. It means pitiful. So again, you’ve got to get your act together or I’m packing up and leaving, no ifs, ands, or buts about it.

Gill: My favorite act is getting my act together. That means knowing my lines, memorizing them, and speaking them in the right tone with the right gestures, including facial expressions. See? I am smiling with a depth of sincerity that shows my act is together. See? See? That means “yes” in Spanish.

Joann: Yes, I see. Si. Si. You’re disturbed. Your relational calculus is missing actual sincerity—the foundation of trust, and possibly, in some cases, a sure sign of love. We’re supposed to be n love. I don’t think you know what it is.

Gill: My idea of love goes deeper than my favorite cut of beef or flavor of ice cream, which is chocolate, by the way. For me, true love is more like rolling in gold coins. What a feeling!

Joann started laughing, but it wasn’t for happiness. It was angry laughter that had a sort of growl to it. Gill had heard that kind of laughter before. Joann was going to break up with him. He lamented the fact that he had no staying power with women. Barbara had made get out of her car at gunpoint out in the middle of the desert. He never should’ve gone camping with Joann. She was fingering a can of bear repellent. Gill was pretty sure he was going to take a squirt in the face. Why? Because he’s ugly? No. Because he’s mean? No. Because he’s socially inept? Yes—that’s it. He begged Joann not to squirt him. She squirted hm. He ran to the lake and soaked his face. She came running to lake yelling “I’m sorry. My god. My finger slipped!” She was holding something behind her back. It was a small log. She beat the half-blinded Gill over the head until he was dead. Too bad Gill did not know that Joann was psycho and was a fugitive from “Bluto’s Hope Mental Hospital.” There were pictures posted all over the place with a warning—they were everywhere—from telephone poles to the internet. If Gill had done a little research he would’ve been saved.

So, the lesson here is check out telephone poles and mental institutions’ websites. “Billy’s Bear Spray” has set up a memorial fund in Gill’s name. Joann is still on the run. She was last seen in Tulsa with a man with a bruised and swollen face.

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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Astrothesia

Posted on June 1, 2024 | Leave a comment

Astrothesia (as-tro-the’-si-a): A vivid description of stars. One type of enargia.

I was up in Maine for my 50th summer. It was a moonless night. There were almost more stars than sky. There were shooting stars zipping through the starry sky. I had never seen anything like it—they were criss crossing, making fiery patterns across the sky. This was a special night—one in a million. It was beautiful and scary at the same times me. I figured the time was right to wish on a star, for the 500h time the same wish. I focused on one star and made my same old wish: “Twinkle twinkle little star bring me a beautiful woman, a big house, millions of dollars, and an expensive car.”

The star I wished on went bight and then dim. It started slowly coming down from the sky—slowly like a snow flake. It landed about 10 feet from me. She sort of looked like she belonged on a Raisin Bran box. Her head was incredible—a gold star with a circle cut out and filled by a face. The face was beautiful—with bright red lipstick and greenish blue eyeshadow. Her body was toned and adorned in black tights. She came toward me. She kissed me with her ruby red lips and said “Congratulations! You wishes have come true. You are a very lucky man. Manage your good fortune wisely and prudently. And most importantly, do not tell enybody how you came to have such luck. If you do, you will lose everything.” She went back up into the sky.

A limo pulled up and a beautiful woman stepped out. She took one look at me and said “I love you. Marry me. I want your babies.” The limo disappeared and we walked back to the cottage as she planned the wedding. The next day, we went looking for a home. We found a 10,000 sq ft mansion up on a cliff overlooking the Atlantic Ocean, it was $3,000,000. I called my bank and told them what I was going to do and how much it was going to cost my banker told me it was no problem. I had more money than he thought it was possible for one person to have. When we woke up in the morning there were two Maseratis parked out front.

Marla was ecstatic. Her happiness was boundless, and infective. She became pregnant. We had a beautiful little girl we named Star.

It was all built upon a wish that came true. It was a testament to hope and believing the impossible. I will never tell anybody the secret of my success. You could say my life is built on a lie.

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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Asyndeton

Posted on May 31, 2024 | Leave a comment

Asyndeton (a-syn’-de-ton): The omission of conjunctions between clauses, often resulting in a hurried rhythm or vehement effect. [Compare brachylogia. Opposite of polysyndeton.]

I got an unbelievable deal on a new car. Well, it wasn’t actually new, it was one year old, but it was new to me! It only had 9,000 miles on it. It was a black Escalade CSV. It cost around $65,000 new. I paid $3500 for mine. I had gotten it from a newspaper ad. The tag line was “No bullet holes!” The guy I bought it from was named John Smith. It was on the title, so I figured it was legitimate. He said to me: “I hate to get rid of it, but I need to get rid of it fast. There could be consequences I don’t want to deal with.

This was one of the best things that ever happened to me. I was overjoyed, totally stoked,ecstatic. Ever since I was a little boy, I wanted a black Cadillac. All the mafia guys drove them. They were like four-wheeled merit badges, expressive of a major accomplishment. Now I had one! The leather seats were enough to make me cry with joy. I bought a handgun and stashed it under the seat. I didn’t know how to shoot it, but it made me feel cool. My girlfriend, Rosy, wanted to move into my Cadillac and live together. She said, riding in the car she felt like a goddess—like Venus. I felt like a mobster: Bosch suit, stingy brim hat, Gucci shoes, black cashmere overcoat, Di Nobili cigars, dark glasses.

I was waiting in the cue for a burger at McDonald’s when a guy who looked like a mobster, knocked on my window and asked “Where’d you get that car?” I didn’t answer. I pulled out of line and sped away. I swear, the guy pulled out a gun. I never saw him again. Then something started to smell. I tried to cover it with air fresheners, but it didn’t work. The smell got really really bad. I couldn’t ignore it any more. I drove out to an isolated place in the woods. I opened the back of the Escalade and the smell got worse. I opened the hatch where the spare tire was stored. Just as I suspected there was a dead body stuffed in the space. He was wearing a black suit and all the other things mobsters wear. There was a note pinned to his suit jacket: “When you find me, throw me on the ground somewhere isolated. You will be rewarded. Keep car.” So, I was somewhere isolated—the woods. I hauled out and let him flop to the ground. Underneath him was a shopping bag filled with $100 bills.

I’ve been scrubbing my car and have made some headway getting rid of the smell.

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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Auxesis

Posted on May 30, 2024 | Leave a comment

Auxesis (ok-see’-sis): (1) Arranging words or clauses in a sequence of increasing force. In this sense, auxesis is comparable to climax and has sometimes been called incrementum. (2) A figure of speech in which something is referred to in terms disproportionately large (a kind of exaggeration or hyperbole). (3) Amplification in general.

The wind was quiet, then blowing, then like a jet engine sweeping across the land. Trees shot through the air like giant leafyl spears, impaling people on their branches. Whole towns disappeared into the sky. Livestock flew. The only safe place was Cliff’s, a convenience store catering to beer drinking, smoking, scratch-off lotto players. People packed in to save themselves as dogs and sheep and cows flew by.

Nobody knew exactly why Cliff’s survived the annual wind storm. The most credible rumor was that Cliff was descended from Viking stock—after all, his last name was Fiord. It was rumored he had a shrine to Njord, the Viking god of the wind. To appease the god he ran an electric fan that blew on the shrine 24-7. It even had a back-up battery for when Njord made the power go out. The constant wind appeased Njord and kept hm from blowing Cliff’s away.

I wanted to believe the rumor. If it was true, I would build a Njord shrine in what remained of my basement. Cliff denied he had a shrine, so I had to do some sneaking around. Cliff’s house was always unscathed by the wind, and his basement windows were painted over. I had to go inside. I had worked briefly for CIA and learned how to pick locks. I knew Cliff was at the store, so I wouldn’t be worried about meeting up with him. I picked the lock and went straight down the basement stairs. There it was!

There was a 70” plasma screen Tv with a box fan blowing on it. I turned on the TV and it was tuned to an episode of “Vikings”—where they were a sacking Paris. Suddenly, I heard a voice with a Danish accent ask “I am Njord. Who in the name of Odin are you?!” I told him I was Cliff’s neighbor and friend and I wanted to build a shrine to Njord. He told me I was looking at one—he told me to just keep the fan blowing and “Vikings” tuned to the TV. Njord swore me to secrecy. If I revealed the secret of the shire, he told me he would “blow me to pieces with one gust of northern wind.” I believed him, so I kept my mouth shut.

Everybody attributed our recurring wind storms to climate change. I knew better. With my shrine running in my basement, my house has remained unscathed for the past 9 years—Cliff has the same kind of “luck.” Every couple of months Njord stops by disguised as an EMT. He brings a bag of Kringle. I make strong coffee and we play Hnefatafl, a board game with a military objective. We talk too. He misses the old days, when the wind was the primary ”fuel” for moving trade and war ships.

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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Bdelygmia

Posted on May 29, 2024 | Leave a comment

Bdelygmia (del-ig’-mi-a): Expressing hatred and abhorrence of a person, word, or deed.

I hate myself and everybody like me. I can’t help myself. I can’t resist. No matter how many times I risk bent caught, I go back. If am a certified nutcase. I beg my brain to stop me, but it won’t. It has a mind of its own.

What’s my problem? I like to squeeze women’s butt cheeks in public places—malls, nightclubs, places of worship, schools, etc.

My Uncle Ernie got me started grabbing. One day we were walking through the mall. He went up close behind a woman and grabbed her but with two hands. He had this wild look on his face—his eyes were bulging and he had a smile on his face like he was intoxicated. As soon as he made his grab, he stopped and turned around and pretended he was checking his cellphone. The woman would look around and sometimes ask him if he saw anybody come up behind her. Uncle Ernie would answer “No” and ask if he could be of assistance.

I thought grabbing was so cool that I took it up—I became addicted. I grabbed hundreds of butts and never got caught. Then, everything changed.

I came up behind an elderly woman one day and grabbed her butt. Before I could make my getaway, she looked over her shoulder and said “That was nice.” Here face turned from that of a 60-year old woman to that of a 25-26-year old woman. Then, it immediately turned back to a 60-year old face. She invited me to come to her home once a week and give her grab. All I had to do in return was mow her lawn and water her garden. I agreed with her proposal. We built a “mall walk” in her basement. She would walk past me and I would follow, squeeze her butt and then do my turn-around evasion routine. I spent some of the best days of my life in that basement making grabs.

Then one day she invited me over midweek for a special grab. The basement was lit by candles and the air was perfumed by jasmine incense. She came walking by and her pants were pulled down, exposing her naked butt. This was the holy grail—she put on her young face and said “Grab it hard.” I did. But my hands sank into her butt as if it was peanut butter. I could feel something chewing lightly on my fingertips. No matter what I did, I couldn’t pull out my hands. She was eating me with her butt. It wouldn’t be long and I’d be dead. Just then, the basement door crashed open. It was Bill Whilk, my dad’s Vietnam War buddy.

He said, “Mary Lee, stop right now. You’re about to eat Willis Yodel’s son Wendell!” I felt the grip loosen. Mary Lee kept on her young face. Even though she had tried to eat me, I was smitten.

I learned she was one of very few mutants who had grown up in close proximity to the oil refineries in Linden, NJ. It had never been documented so nobody knows how many hand-eating grabbers exist. None have ever been captured and most people think they are fictional.

So, that does not keep me from hating myself. I would much prefer living a normal life. I hate the fact that I married Mary Lee. I’ve become her grabber pimp. I can’t rat her out. I’d be ratting myself out. End of 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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Bomphiologia

Posted on May 28, 2024 | Leave a comment

Bomphiologia (bom-phi-o-lo’-gi-a): Exaggeration done in a self-aggrandizing manner, as a braggart.

I’m a man. I can eat more Big Macs than anybody can. I can make a hound dog shut up. I have so many girlfriends I can’t remember who they are. I can drink a bottle of scotch and do my taxes. I gave myself a tattoo with a chainsaw. I drowned and came back to life.

These are just a few of the things I list on my resume. Strangely enough, there was a ad in the local muckraker for a man. It was next to the story about the duck who saved a whole town from drowning, lead the townspeople down a derelict canal that was last used in the 18th century to smuggle beaver pelts into the US from Canada. Unfortunately, it was called “Beaver Canal” and it inadvertently opened the door to the construction numerous brothel along it bank, serving the deviant smugglers and the not too intelligent dupes who worked for them. Beaver Canal also attracted saloons and gambling houses run by immoral greedy Canadians.

The man description in the ad fit me to a “T.” They wanted somebody physically strong but morally weak. I worked out four times per day and I did a lot of things that skate on the edge of legal, but don’t cross the line. Lying is my favorite—but not to break the law. Like, I told my mother that I’m married and my wife is in the Air Force stationed in Iraq. That got her off my back.

I was hired to be a man on Beaver Canal! It has fallen into total disrepair. Most of the buildings have fallen down, but the towpath is still in good shape. There is no passport control where the canal crosses the border. My job is to put Canadians into large canvas bags and drag them across the border one at a time. For this service my employers’ clients pay 1,000USD. The Canadians I drag are really desperate. Many of them are fans of rap music which is outlawed in Canada along with black lipstick and Sushi.

The company I work for is called “Freedom Drag.” It is owned by a Mexican drug cartel “Corriendo Muerta” (Running Dead). I’m starting to think that the canvas bags I drag are filled with drugs, not people. So, I flicked open my switchblade and jammed it into the bag I was pulling, which I hadn’t filled with a Canadian and which I was instructed to pull across the border. I was right! It was full of cocaine! I snorted some off the slit I’d made, and then some more, and some more, until fireworks were going off in my head. Now, I had a drug induced plan. I would drag the bag to Buffalo, Nw York and sell its illicit contents in little plastic bags. I fail to see that cocaine was leaking out the slit in the bag and leaving a white powdery trail. DEA had picked up my trail somewhere around Niagara Falls, and, wearing rubber knee pads, had been following on their hands and knees for hundreds of miles.

I was in my hotel bagging what was left of the cocaine, when the two Agents burst in guns drawn. I threw the bag at them and ran out the door. But, as I ran between them, they shot at me and missed and shot each other. They lay on the floor cursing at each other. I dumped what was left of the cocaine into a trash can liner. I tied a knot in it and stuck it under my hoodie and walked out of the hotel. I went back to Beaver Canal, but it had been abandoned.

I got a grant from the Canadian and US governments to “restore” Beaver Canal as a heritage site complete with gambling casinos, saloons, and pseudo brothels.

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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Brachylogia

Posted on May 26, 2024 | Leave a comment

Brachylogia (brach-y-lo’-gi-a): The absence of conjunctions between single words. Compare asyndeton. The effect of brachylogia is a broken, hurried delivery.

I make lists and use them to give my life an orderly appearance. Bell, butter, cow, jeans, gas, war, car ]ack. This is a typical list. It has content that is incoherent. What is it a list of? I take these items and lay them out on my garage floor in the order they appear on the list. Starting with “bell” I go down the line. But first we’ve got to check contextualize the bell—it is the little thumb ringer bell from my tricycle. When I was 3 I had a callous on my thumb from ringing that bell. I would ride up behind my neighbor 70-year-old Mrs. Pinko and ring my bike bell and startle her. She would say “Oh my” and pull her grocery cart up close to her and rummage for protection, usually a loaf of Italian bread, which she wielded as a club. Once she actually hit me with it. It broke in half and dented my NY Yankees hat. The den topped right out. No harm done, but I didn’t care.

I rode him as fast as I could and told my parents that Mrs. Pinko had hit me “really had” and it had hurt.my parents were law and order paranoids. They called the police two or three times per week. Most recently, somebody had “planted” a toad on the front lawn. The toad “sent a message” to everybody who walked past. Whoever put it there should be tracked down, arrested, and jailed. The police concluded that the toad found its way to the lawn on its own. My mother called the mayor and complained. A hazmat detail was subsequently sent to our yard to remove the toad.

Now, Mrs. Pinko was in mom’s sight. She was arrested for “clubbing a child.” She was convicted of attempted murder. She died in prison at the hands of her fellow inmates for “what she had done to the kid.”

Maybe I could make a list of all the things I could’ve said to save Mrs. Pinko. But that would be too tedious and would thwart my current list: things that clog or can clog toilets. This is a really challenging list. From apples to zebras—the arc of possibilities is huge. For example, a boa-constrictor. Can you image? A boa- -constrictor head gaping from your toilet, tongue flicking, maybe hissing. If you had it on your list, you would be less startled and better able to deal with it. Or what about a wet beaver? Hugging a small log, smiling, showing his orange beaver teeth’s? Think about it. Without the list, you’re shocked, and lost and frightened. Save yourself from this kind formidable peril, and possible PTSD for the rest of your life, medications and expensive therapy. Make lists and spare yourself the trauma and its aftereffects. But god forbid, there’s a Ninja Warrior clogging your toilet, holding a sword and glaring at you. You can’t speak Japanese so you can’t reason with him and you can’t risk the consequences of peeing in his face. If you had a list, you could’ve anticipated this a prepared yourself by learning how to say “Get out of my toiletries!” in Japanese. Problem solved.

I could go on forever. Remember, before Santa comes to town, he makes a list and checks it twice. Follow the wisdom of Santa—make a list and check it twice.

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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