Cacozelia

Posted on May 25, 2024 | Leave a comment

Cacozelia (ka-ko-zeel’-i-a): 1. A stylistic affectation of diction, such as throwing in foreign words to appear learned. 2. Bad taste in words or selection of metaphor, either to make the facts appear worse or to disgust the auditors.

He is a pickled booger —relish for his secretion sandwich. Look at the mucus dripping from his lips. Of course, this isn’t literally true, it is the beginning of an allegory of the person he really is. Dog vomit. Cow flops. Puss. Blood. Gangrene. Amputated fingers. Ingrown toenail. Gout. Sweat. Rainbows.

Yes, rainbows. The light of hope beaming down on Noah’s yacht, ready to capsize with the weight of his living cargo—endangered species destined laboratories and museums up and down the east coast of North America. This is why I call him a pickled booger, and all the other disparagful cognomens. I don’t how or why he merits he rainbow. Perhaps God has made a mistake. Can it be? Who am I to say—a Papa John’s Pizza franchise owner. I must confess, the idea of pickled boogers intrigues. As a garnish, they would bring my franchise to the top of the mark. Pickled boogers are not produced everywhere. There is only one place in the world. I won’t reveal it. They are worth their weight in gold among aficionados. For example, Steve Banon consumes $1,000,000 worth per year. He has tiny toothpicks to spear them for “Boogartinis.” He sits by his pool sipping Boogartins and making up lies for his boss.

It just goes to show you that one person’s Boogatini is another person’s vile concoction. Which is it? Both. That’s how taste operates through our feeble understanding of its origin, say, in the tongue, with some tastes being excellent and others being vomit inducing. But one person can love what another person hates—we’ve already established that. So, it’s the person not the taste. Jello can tastes good and it can taste like crap (to somebody). Sweetness is the equivalent of truth to the tongue. it is certainly used as a metaphor for goodness—not quite truth—but sweet enough.

But, getting back to Captain Noah. His yacht “Bedlam” is looking for a place to dock. Given his cargo, his quest for a North American dock is doomed. We hear he is disguising the animal cargo to evade detection. They are being disguised as so many Rin-Tin-Tins. Rin-Tin-Tin was a German Shepard mercenary working for the US Army in the far western US. His major role was to bark vigorously in support of Army maneuvers. So, the animals on Noah’s yacht are being taught to bark—even the only existing Samoan Weasel Constrictor. That, I’d love to see. By the way, Noah is disguising his cargo of pickled boogers as peppercorns.

We live in strange times. “The lie, the disgusting, the ugly” have replaced “The true, the good, and the beautiful” as aspirational horizons of the human adventure. We are nearing the end. Don’t despair. Have a handful of pickled booger and make up some lies.

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

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Catachresis

Posted on May 24, 2024 | Leave a comment

Catachresis (kat-a-kree’-sis): The use of a word in a context that differs from its proper application. This figure is generally considered a vice; however, Quintilian defends its use as a way by which one adapts existing terms to applications where a proper term does not exist.

I was parking my thoughts under the overpass. Then, I would abandon them—leaving them behind like a salad with no croutons—just romaine lettuce, cheddar chew, cherry tomatoes and cucumbers, with oil and vinegar dressing. The more words I use, the more likely it is that ai’ll say what I mean to say. I am reticent to speak my mind because the world waits to respond and I have to pretend I care. I am not good at that as my wife will tell you. She’s filing for divorce because I didn’t on’t “listen.”

So what if she was yelling for help when she got stuck in the dishwasher. She got out on her own, Anyway, you’d think she was helpless the way she talks. I believe that “No island is a man.” Anybody can see that. So why do we keep trying to make islands into men? Think about it. I think it might make sense to a poet or a king, or a geographer.

Anyway, I’m going to take a walk down by he river. I like to look at the garbage washed up on the bank. I especiallynnnnnń like shopping carts. They are like woven metal sculptures with wheels. How do they end up there? I think it’s my wife. She’s Trang to please me to make up for the divorce.

This how I wrestle with my thoughts. It is as if they don’t exist. I don’t wonder any more. I drink and do unsafe things—like going home.

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

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Catacosmesis

Posted on May 23, 2024 | Leave a comment

Catacosmesis (kat-a-kos-mees’-is): Ordering words from greatest to least in dignity, or in correct order of time.

A gourmet meal. A pile of garbage. The peak. The trough. The spectrum makes life meaningful. The stretch from here to there is somewhere —the contrast makes meaning, and meaning is what we need more than anything, more than sunrise, more than a good sandwhich—good because of its difference, perhaps, from party dip—which can drip on the floor and make a mess. The intricacies of these discernments can actually lead to the composition of tunes like “Elevator Man” or “Tomatoes in the Rain.” “Elevator Man” tracks a manic depressive middle-aged man as he travels to the world’s capitals, riding the elevators in their tallest buildings. He discovers he has an ear infection in Taipei and has to stay in Taipei and take drops to heal them. After two weeks his ears begin to smell and his ear drums blow out the sides of his head. They look like veils hanging out of his ears. He lost his hearing, but he can feel his eardrums tickling his jaws when a breeze blows.

“Tomatoes in the Rain” focuses on a small urban garden planted solely in tomatoes. The song focuses on the different qualities of rain and their interaction with the tomatoes’ skin. The song is very sensual and it is banned in 38 countries. There are wanted posters of the singer Mick Bagger in airports throughout the world. Personally, I hope he never gets arrested and that “Tomatoes in the Rain” becomes free to play. It’s line “My tomato is wet” should become a catchphrase for the redeeming qualities of moisture—whether drizzle or downpour.

I am selling t-shirts with dangling eardrums pictured on them. They say “One Man’s Symbol is Another Man’s Drum.” It bears witness to Elevator Man’s persistence riding elevators and abusing his ears. He had acdream, and it came true for him. Bless him,

Well, I’m going to take an elevator ride and eat this wet tomato. I will slice it and salt it. I have a slight ringing in my ears that I’m hoping will fester and become a serous infection. Wish me luck!

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

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Cataphasis

Posted on May 22, 2024 | Leave a comment

Cataphasis (kat-af’-a-sis): A kind of paralipsis in which one explicitly affirms the negative qualities that one then passes over.

Joey: Your interior decorating skills have made your home look like a nouveaux rest stop. The only thing missing are the urinals and the antiseptic smell. But I don’t have the time to rant and rave about your decor. Let’s take a swim in your pool.

What the hell is that in your pool? What? A friggin’ manatee!

Barbara: I got it at the pool supply store Swim! for $600. I licks the algae off the side of the pool and make chirping sound when intruders enter the yard. Last week we caught a feral poodle that had to be put down by animal control. He was wearing a collar that said Pierre on it.

Joey: But the manatee takes up half the pool! And the manatee poop sort of disgusting. It looks like floating potatoes.

Barbara: That’s true. I hired Wes from Swim! To keep things clean and keep me focused with poolside exercises. He’s a genius. My favorite is “put the ice cream in the cone.” I sit on a traffic cone while he spins me around.

Joey: That’s disgusting. I think Wes has made you into some kind of pervert.

Barbara: That may be true but his “Perversion” has made me into a more relaxed, open and fearless person. I can handle just about anything. With Wes behind me I don’t feel pushed or shoved. Rather, I feel like a pony delivering mail on the the Pony Express. I surprise my neighbors plucking their mail from their mailboxes and delivering it to their doors in my mouth with a celebratory whinny. Wes comes along to explain. I don’t know what he says because he goes in my neighbors’ houses and spends about an hour with women, and five minutes if it is only a men are home. Anyway, as you can see it’s all above board.

Joey: I don’t know what hoard you’re talking about. Pallet board? I thought your home decor was a horror. But it is eclipsed by your Wes escapades. I’m guessing he was recently released from someplace— like maybe a mental facility.

Barbara: Yes! He recently got out of “Left-Handed Studies Institute—about five years ago. They study left-handed people for criminal tendencies. Wes was left-handed and took pleasure in choking chickens with it when he was a boy. After choking 226 chickens his mother sent him to the Left-Handed Studies Institute, where he lived for thirty-two years being presented with a chicken every day until he lost interest in them and took up an interest in marine biology and obtained a degree from UC Santa Cruz. Hence, his interest in pool maintenance. Alice (my manatee) was his senior project at Santa Cruz.

So, don’t worry about Wes. He’s on the up and up.

Joey: Up what? It is clear to me that he’s a nutcase. Some day he’s going to confuse you with a giant leghorn and send you to the big nesting box in the sky. I say, tell him to take a hike. Buy him a plane ticket if you have to.

Barbara: Don’t be silly Joey. We’re getting married and he’s moving in with me. The only difficulty is that he insists that my manatee come to the wedding as a bridesmaid. We’re working it out.

Joey: You better work it out or things might get dicey.

POSTSCRIPT

The first responders found Alice dressed as a bridesmaid, lying on top of Barbara, suffocating her. Wes was nowhere to be found, but he left a note that was gibberish: “wa ooh, wa ohh gropple we Ho.” It was determined that it was written in porpoise, but in a dialect nobody understood.

Joey sent flowers.

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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Cataplexis

Posted on May 21, 2024 | Leave a comment

Cataplexis (kat-a-pleex’-is): Threatening or prophesying payback for ill doing.

Husband: You have done me wrong. I am on fire with anger. You ignited my matchbook collection. They traced my travels through the 70s. The 100s of bars I hit, slowly building my collection of East Coast matchbooks, sometimes going to a bar just to get a matchbook.

My collection won first prize in ‘78 in the National Assemblers Sweepstakes. All you cared about was the giant wine glass I kept them in and how “ugly” it looked as a centerpiece on the dining room table. It was an icon—a token of excellence from a time gone by, along with my disco suit folded in the chest up in the attic waiting to be resurrected as time reaches back to the past and time returns us to the good times when bell bottoms flapped and the top three buttons of our shirts were unbuttoned revealing our manly chests. It is people like you who want to obliterate my past, to make me a living anomaly—a doorway to nowhere, a highway to hell. A living landfill.

Well baby, we know we all collect something. We gather together objects that are the same in some way—like matchbook! My beloved matchbooks! Damn you! Well, have you seen your thimble collection lately? I know, your answer is “No.” That’s because I have—that damn tray with your carefully arranged thimbles—metal, wood, ceramic, rubber, plastic—antique to contemporary. I’m especially going to enjoy crushing the Mary Todd Lincoln thimble she used to repair the seat of Abraham’s pants because he insisted on wearing cheap suits for at least four-score and seven years. Then I’m going to grind up the Winston Churchill thimble—made of rubber and used by his doctor to examine Churchill’s prostate. It saved Churchill’s life when it was discovered he had an enlarged prostate and stopped eating fish and chips. Then, there’s the John Glenn thimble he carried to moon in case his spacesuit got a leak, he could sew it shut. Part of his training involved sewing classes. He was supposed to embroider a lunar landscape, but was unable to do so because of “issues” with the lunar lander. I can’t wait to turn the John Glenn thimble into dust, along with commie dictator Kennedy’s portrait on the tip.

Wife: Where are my thimbles you loon?

Husband: At the divorce lawyer’s. I’m holding them hostage until you beg for my forgiveness for destroying the greatest matchbook cover collection ever.

Wife: If you must know, I staged their demise—I burned random matchbooks to account for the collection’s absence from the dining room table, I had a crystal chalice made for it for your birthday. It was a bad decision, but all’s well that ends well. Right?

Husband: Well umm . . .

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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Charientismus

Posted on May 20, 2024 | Leave a comment

Charientismus (kar-i-en-tia’-mus): Mollifying harsh words by answering them with a smooth and appeasing mock.

Bill: You’re the world’s biggest schmuck.

Me: That’s totally wrong! You’re talking about my brother! He’s the king of the schmuck-a-lucks. He makes me look smart and likeable like Santa’s Claus or the Cat in the Hat.

Shh. Here he comes. What’s that you’ve got there?

Brother: A magnifying glass. I thought we could fry some ants. Sizzling ants makes me happy.

Me: You’re 26 years old and I’m 30. My time for frying ants has passed.

Brother: Then what about this? Ha ha!

Me: That’s a baby bird! You are truly twisted. They never should’ve let you out of Gurney Hill. I told Mom and Dad they were making a mistake. When you head-butted the orderly who was escorting you to the exit, they should’ve known. You’re psycho. These things escalate—first it’s baby birds and eventually it babies.

Brother: Bullshit. I am very normal. That’s what my therapist Dr. Bugles tells me. We build little matchstick dungeons and pretend we’re inside torturing each other. I paddle him and he whips me. Sometimes he makes me sit on nails.

Me: Give me the baby bird. It is an innocent little creature that should live!

Brother: Over my dead body. See this? It’s a .22 auto. I got it at the flea market with no background check. You told me all my life I have a hole in my head. Now, I really will.

Me: My brother shot himself in the head. The .22 didn’t make much of a hole, but it was big enough to kill him. As he lay there bleeding the baby bird got loose and ran down the driveway where it was run over by a FedEx truck delivering my “Candles in the Rain” mantle decoration. When you turned it on the “candles” flashed red, yellow, blue and green. And, it played the song “Candles in the Rain” by Melanie. I thought I had heard it at Woodstock, but I wasn’t sure.

At that point I called 911. My brother had started twitching around on the ground.

Somehow, he had survived a self-inflicted wound to the head. As he convalesced we discover he could speak six languages, knew the entire contents of the dictionary, wrote beautiful poetry and gave excellent advice based on his encyclopedic knowledge. It was a miracle! He became an actuary, got married and had two daughters. People ask him how he got so far in life. He says “I took a shot.”

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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Chiasmus

Posted on May 19, 2024 | Leave a comment

Chiasmus (ki-az’-mus): 1. Repetition of ideas in inverted order. 2. Repetition of grammatical structures in inverted order (not to be mistaken with antimetabole, in which identical words are repeated and inverted).

In morning the sea retreats. In evening it attacks the shore. It destroys sandcastles, washes away the seashells, and winds around the pier’s pilings making them sway, showing their age and need of repair.

When I was a kid I watched a show called Diver Dan. He wore a diving suit and had fish friends and enemies who talked to Dan. But most important, there was a mermaid queen named Laura who he had a passionate love affair with until he decided to move to the Galápagos Islands. How sad.

The show taught me that I could like somebody who acted like an absolute A-1 bastard. Dan had to do what he had to do. I don’t remember why he moved, but I know it tore Laura the Mermaid to pieces. She almost climbed into a lobster trap to die. But she didn’t because her anger outweighed her grief. She conspired with Baron Barracuda to cut Dan’s air hose and murder him. Baron demanded that Laura “be his girl” if he was going to help her cut Dan’s hose. She said she would think it over, but by the time she made up her mind, Dan was gone to the Galapagos Islands where he planned to build an army of Blue-footed Boobies and invade the small fishing village of Salango and become its Mayor for Life. There was an archaeological dig there that gave him further motivation to invade. He would open a stand on the beach selling artifacts, including fake native bracelets made in Taiwan, and t-shirts saying “Kiss an Archeologist.” Dan was ambitious. Meanwhile, Laura was wasting away from a broken heart. She stopped eating and just sat on a rock looking sickly with scales coming off her tail. Yet, Dan was not taken in. He persisted in his plan and never came back.

Dan’s plan failed. His flotilla of Boobies was intercepted by the Ecuadoran navy and flew off to better places. They left Dan by himself about a half-mile off the coast bobbing on his Ski Doo, with the Boobie flag mounted on the stern. Dan revved up the Ski-Doo and headed for Costa Rica, but he was too late. The naval vessel fired its deck-mounted fifty caliber machine gun at Dan and his Ski-Doo. Dan was hit in the head by a round and his decapitated body slipped into the sea in a circle of blood. The sharks soon arrived and ate the hapless Dan. Hundreds of the cowardly Blue-Boobies circled the carnage silently out of respect for their leader Dan. They were hypocrites.

Laura recovered her health. She met another diver—Diver Dave—and fell in love. Still, though, she would cry in her Boobie flag at night and pine for Dan who she hated and loved at the same time. When the Blue-footed Boobies recounted to their children what happened that day, they lied.

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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Chronographia

Posted on May 18, 2024 | Leave a comment

Chronographia (chro-no-graph’-i-a): Vivid representation of a certain historical or recurring time (such as a season) to create an illusion of reality. A kind of enargia:[the] generic name for a group of figures aiming at vivid, lively description.

All night long! It’s the right time for everything on the edge, like romance, armed robbery or hit and run. I can’t tell you how many times I fell in love in the back seat of my parent’s Subaru on a Saturday night. Maybe three times—ha, ha! My first liquor store I robbed was on a Wednesday night. I swooped in, cleared the cash register, and faded back into the night. It sounds pretty good, but I got caught and spent the next six months in county jail, where I met the worst people I ever met in my life. One guy had spray painted his landlord’s face. Another guy had stolen his mother’s washer and dryer and sold them to a family up the street. There’s more, but let’s get back to night time.

When we were kids we would play flashlight tag at night. If you got shined on you were out. It was usually over pretty quickly. If you got somebody in the back, they would call you a liar and stay in the game. Then, we’d go to the park and watch for shooting stars. They were beautiful. We would smoke and argue over whether they were shooting stars or falling stars. Then one night, we heard a woman yelling “No, no. Stop it!” It was coming from the woods ar the edge of the park. We decided to sneak across the park and check out the yelling.

It was Mr. and Mrs. Torbow. Mr. Torbow was wearing black underpants, black shoes and black socks. He was holding a fly swatter. Mrs. Torbow was wearing a wedding dress and was tied to tree. We watched them for about 15 minutes and went back to star gazing. We didn’t talk about it except to ask why they used the park for whatever the hell they were doing.

Then one night my father took us night crawler hunting behind our house. He had gotten plans for a worm shocker from “Popular Science” magazine. He stuck it in the ground—it was a metal rod with an electric extension chord hooked to it. we stood around it in anticipation of worms flying out of the ground. He plugged it in and electric current pulsed through our legs—started dancing and he pulled on the chord and unplugged it. Everybody went home without a word.

There’s a lot more I could say about nighttime as the best time: shooting out streetlights, stealing lawnmowers, hanging out.

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

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Climax

Posted on May 17, 2024 | Leave a comment

Climax (cli’-max): Generally, the arrangement of words, phrases, or clauses in an order of increasing importance, often in parallel structure.

I was angry. I was outraged. I was ready to go ballistic, somebody had stolen my pin cushion. It looked like a strawberry and it had been in my family for 800 years. Betsy Ross had rented it from my ancestors during the American Revolution when she was sewing the flag. She said it’s strawberry motif worked to motivate her to “keep going” in the face of Ben Franklin’s “incessant” overtures. He was overweight and the creepy glasses he wore repulsed her. She said Tommy Jefferson would’ve been a real catch, but he already had a girlfriend.

Then, we got into the wedding dress business. Great-Great Grandmother “Lippy” used the pincushion when she made wedding dresses for rich people. One dress is especially interesting p. It was for Duchess Binger of the tiny European Duchy of Droppenstain. Duchess Binger was known far and wide for her dishonesty. She had “dishonest” breasts stitched into the dress. Her soon-to-be husband, the Duke of Earl, would be none the wiser. He was blind. She was taking a huge risk. If he touched them he would know—he had touched them when they first met. He knew how big they were. The Duchess had to keep him at bay until the wedding was over. When Grandmother Lippy asked her why she “was ding this,” she said she didn’t know. That was normal for the Duchess. Nobody had ever taken the time to teach her how to make good decisions. People believed that her unlimited wealth would shield her from the consequences of her bad decisions. For example, recently she had salted the manor’s fields, rendering them unsuitable for farming. She believed salting the earth would make food taste better.

But enough of this—where the hell is the pin cushion now?

Holy crap! The dog had gotten ahold of it! It was soaked with saliva and he looked like he had had an altercation with porcupine. My wife sat on him while I pulled out the pins and needles with a pair of pliers. After I got him straightened out I put the pin cushion up on the mantle on a dish towel to dry out.

This was the closest the pin cushion had come to being destroyed. The only other incident I’m aware of was Uncle Zombro’s carrying the pin cushion during the Civil War as a lucky charm. His diary recounts many time how it saved his life. For example, at the battle of Knuckle Ridge, he was juggling the pin cushion, a crumpled piece of paper and a rock. A Rebel sniper who was going to shoot him was so impressed he came down from his tree and asked Zombro to show him how to juggle. Zombro shot him in the head and took his boots, which were in great shape for a Rebel’s boots.

Well, the family heirloom is home! We’ve had it appraised and it is worth $25. That’s not much, but it’s ours. To family it’s worth $25,000,000. It’s packed with history, like a suitcase full of time. When the pin cushion dries out, I’m going to put it in a showcase and insure it for $50.

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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Coenotes

Posted on May 16, 2024 | Leave a comment

Coenotes (cee’-no-tees): Repetition of two different phrases: one at the beginning and the other at the end of successive paragraphs. Note: Composed of anaphora and epistrophe, coenotes is simply a more specific kind of symploce (the repetition of phrases, not merely words).

I don’t know how I ended up in a field surrounded by a herd of circling deer—some the size of dump trucks. I don’t know why these things keep happening to me with things the size of dump trucks. I don’t work in construction or paving, but there they are circled around me, snorting and pawing the ground. The circle is starting to close. I am doomed. I try to scare them by clapping my hands. They rise on their hind legs and start to dance. I faintly hear “jingle Bells” and realize that one of them has a blue tooth speaker paired with a cellphone playlist consisting of pop Christmas music. I was completely weirded out. Where did they get deer-friendly electronics? It was bad enough I was in the middle of nowhere when spikes of light shot out of the ground, each one with a pole-dancing woman wearing a black spandex body suit. It was beautiful seeing them dancing with shafts of light. It was “Jingle Bell Rock” blaring out of the ground.

Then suddenly, it all disappeared and I was left alone in darkness. There was a full moon hanging on the horizon and billions of stars spread across the sky. I stood and raised my arms. Something grabbed them by the wrists. It lifted me off the ground and started swinging me back and forth, and eventually, in complete circles. Whatever it was lost its grip and I went flying across the field. I slammed into the front door of a little cottage that looked like a cartoon. A cartoon version of me opened the door and asked me what I wanted. I ask him “Who drew you?” He told me that I had drawn him in my Drawing class at the Community College 50 years ago. He told me I had drawn the cottage too. “No wonder!” I exclaimed. I never thought I was a very skilled artist. The guy standing there looked more like a road kill version of me than an artful rendering of my being in the world. I told him he depressed me. He changed into a stand-up comic and started telling art jokes to cheer me up.

He led off with: “What do you call a drawing of a cow? A moo-sterpiece.” It went on like this for five minutes, and then, I cut him off. At that minute, a sedan chair pulled up and carried me along the Garden State Parkway and dumped me out at the Union exit. It hurt. I got up and started walking. Two girls picked me up in a Land Rover. We went to a golf tournament at Bedminster. They were members of an environmental activist group targeting golf courses for the environmental damage they cause. We lit the golf carts on fire, headed for Newark Airport, and took off for Costa Rica. The girls had a condo there overlooking the ocean.

We’ve been planning our next mission for the past 6 years. I don’t think it’s going to happen. I miss New Jersey. I wonder what Jon Bon Jovi’s up to.

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

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Colon

Posted on May 15, 2024 | Leave a comment

Colon (ko’-lon): Roughly equivalent to “clause” in English, except that the emphasis is on seeing this part of a sentence as needing completion, either with a second colon (or membrum) or with two others (forming a tricolon). When cola (or membra) are of equal length, they form isocolon.

There was a time before time—no time, no measure of duration, no deadlines. People lived and then they died—no yesterday, no tomorrow. Just now. this is how you live. I’ve known you for 22 years and you’ve never been on time. I remember when we were going on vacation together. You were driving. You were two days late picking me up. I waited with my suitcase on my front lawn. When you finally showed up it was pouring rain. I was wrapped in a plastic tablecloth I pulled off the picnic table in the garage. It leaked and my head got wet. When you finally got there you didn’t apologize because you didn’t know what “late” means.

The time has come. Cuckoo cuckoo me and you are going to Switzerland. Enough is enough. There is a clinic in Geneva—“The Max Plonk Clinic.” They have developed a foolproof surgical procedure for awakening your time onsciousness—to get the ticker in your head tocking. Phil was opposed to it at first. But when I pointed out how being bereft of time consciousness had negatively affected his life, he capitulated. I had reminded him how he was 3 years late for his daughter’s birth and almost destroyed his family. So, we took off for Switzerland.

I made sure we were on time to the Max Plonk Clinic. It was still beyond Phil. The surgery was bizarre. Dr. Chronoveaux cut a slot in Phil’s head like a piggy bank slot. It was about the size of a quarter. he dropped a watch the size of a quarter into the slot. And then pugged it with a little rubber plug. For purposes of battery changing, he implanted a small spring that would enable the watch to pop up like a little piece of toast when the skull plug is removed. As far as the way the mechanism works, it is a mystery to me. Dr. Chronoveaux would only say, “It puts zee time in zee head. Ha, ha, Zo vunny to me!”

That didn’t help. But when the watch was inserted in Herb’s head, he started tapping his fingers and his eyes darted around. At one point he looked at his wrist like he was wearing a wristwatch. When he fully woke up he asked what time it was. Success! but then, he asked again in five minutes, and again in five minutes. It needed to be fixed. They sedated Phil and used the toast popper function to remove the watch. There was a picture of Mickey Mouse on the watch’s face. “Vee must upgrade!” Said Dr. Chronoveaux. He went to the Mall and came back in around 30 minutes. He had a small watch with Taylor Swift embossed on the face. The Doctor dropped it in the slot and Phil was repaired! Aside from wanting to time nearly everything, Phil is just fine now. He is on time most of the time and he apologizes if he’s late by saying “Taylor and I apologize— it’s really not her fault.”

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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Commoratio

Posted on May 14, 2024 | Leave a comment

Commoratio (kom-mor-a’-ti-o): Dwelling on or returning to one’s strongest argument. Latin equivalent for epimone.

I am right. Do you understand me? I know the answer. My answer is the “right answer”always—even if I’m wrong. And it does not matter. No matter how wrong you think I am, it is you who’re wrong. You might think there is something beyond the wall of convention that makes you right. Well, I’ve taken a few bricks out of that wall in anticipation of change. We are not talking natural order here. We’re talking about everything else. Do you remember when marajuana was illegal? Well, it is not illegal any more. It is wrong to call it illegal. What about abortion? Now it is illegal. What about gay marriage? Now it is legal.

So, if you have a hope, you may be able to induce a change. This is how democracy works. Nobody is %100 in favor of everything, so there’s always a chance for change—for better and for worse. Accepting the status quo is functional if you’ve thought about it and it aligns with your values—what you think is right. Just because it is true that abortion is illegal, it does not make it right that it is illegal.

This is all pretty basic, but it opens the portals of change. So you reflect on what keeps you party to the status quo. What motivates whre you reside? Laziness? Happiness? Trapped? Lack of vision? Fear? Every motive term you can imagine is operative here. And then, on the other side are the motives for change. We live in the grip of motives. They fuel our choice making. They are the foundation of our character. As you make your trajectory through life they answer the question “Why?” They answer to our conscience internally, and externally to people who care about the meaning of our actions. Of course, as Kenneth Burke tells us, we avow motives and others impute motives to derive meaning—the why. For example, the meaning of a handshake isn’t in the handshake, it’s in what motivates it.

Anyway, I am right. Whatever I project on the screen of social reality is in some way right. I don’t know why. I just think it. Thinking it does not make me wrong. It makes me like everybody else.

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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Comparatio

Posted on May 13, 2024 | Leave a comment

Comparatio (com-pa-ra’-ti-o): A general term for a comparison, either as a figure of speech or as an argument. More specific terms are generally employed, such as metaphor, simile, allegory, etc.

I was on my way to San Jose and I made a wrong turn and turned around and made my way to San Jose, but got a flat tire and couldn’t find my AAA card. I was a Platinum-gold member and could’ve had the AAA Safari Crew carry my car on their shoulders to a gas station. I was angry. It was like I had stabbed myself in the foot with a kitchen knife tied to a broomstick—primitive but effective, to a certain extent. Butter knives are kitchen knives, but their rounded tips make them poor candidates for stabbing. I might’ve been better served by a sharpened toothbrush handle, like in prison or a demented dentist’s office—like a toothless man wearing a tuxedo and drool bib with flashing lights saying “You’re a wanker. I’m a Yanker.” Not too creative textually, but the flashing lights are a nice touch: like candles on a birthday cake or a fake campfire or a fake campsite, in fake woods with fake bears and deer.

I feel like I’ve veered off the track. It’s like yesterday. I couldn’t find the bathroom at my friend’s house. He caught me peeing out his bedroom windrow. Embarrassment had done me in again, I was too embarrassed to ask where the bathroom was. It is like you’re crushing inside, making your self-esteem into crushed gravel or even crushed glass. It is like revealing a birthmark shaped like a red stain—like raspberry juice dribbled on your belly around your belly button. Or, having your pants fall down at your wedding. Embarrassment grabs you by the soul with walnut crackers. You can hear your self-esteem cracking as you want to disappear from the face of the earth. The closest you can come in the US is The Thorofare in Wyoming. You can commit every faux pas in the universe without fear of being observed, except maybe by a squirrel. Back in 2020 I spent a week there farting in place. Got all the fart-barrassment out of my system. It was like a faucet that had only been partially opened, and was opened for the first time, rapidly releasing pressure and making the faucet feel free.

So anyway, everything is like everything else in some way. At the very least, they are all existing. Wow! I need to go to the library if I ever get to San Jose. But, I discovered my GPS only speaks English. It’s like I’m looking for salvation in a language I can’t understand. I know the freeway outside San Jose is like the valley of the shadow of death. It is hard to drive with a rod and a staff resting on the steering wheel—ha, ha. That’s supposed to be funny.

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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Comprobatio

Posted on May 12, 2024 | Leave a comment

Comprobatio (com-pro-ba’-ti-o): Approving and commending a virtue, especially in the hearers.

“God bless us, everyone.” Tiny Tim was such an ass kisser, he was hoping that Scrooge would pay his college tuition. As far as he could see, his loser father was going nowhere, supervising a pack of rats at Scrooge’s accounting firm. Scrooge had had the crap scared out of him by an extended nightmare that, ironically, woke him up from being a the stingiest man in London.

Tiny Tim had been posing as a cripple for the past five years. It was part of an insurance scam that he had pulled on Royal Haulers, the King’s vegetable conveyance. He made it look like the cart ran over his foot. He got no insurance settlement, just a free crutch that he used to his advantage to display his infirmity and garner pity, worth a few pence. But Scrooge’s nightmare psychosis had made him ripe for conning.

Tiny had managed to get a check from Scrooge’s checkbook. He had filled it out for 50,000 pounds and was waiting for Scrooge’s signature. He couldn’t figure out how to pull the check scam off, so he decided to burglarize Scrooge’s apartment.

It was 2.00 am when he quietly broke in. Scrooge had curtains around his bed and he was carrying with Trollope Lil who lived next door. Scrooge had a pile of cash on his desk. Tiny stuffed it in the pillowcase he had brought along for that purpose. When he picked up the final 20 pound note a jingling bell went off. Scrooge came out from behind his bed curtains wearing only his night cap. “What are you up to, Tim?” Scrooge asked with an angry look on his face. Tim responded: “Sleepwalking.” It was all that Tim could think of and Scrooge bought it.

Tim made off with all of Scrooge’s cash and had to leave London as he was being hunted by the police. He move to Glasgow and bought a canned haggis factory: Scotty Mac’s Highland Haggis. Scrooge had a relapse and started saying “Humbug” again and fired Bob Cratchet. He hired his girlfriend in Cratchet’s place. She started a nearly undetectable embezzling scam. Her name was Belle. That was enough to blind Scrooge to her scam.

Tim made millions under the name of Ginnis McCorckle. He branched out into single malt scotch and became obsessed with the Loch Ness Monster, and was instrumental in the resurgence of the kilt. He was developing cellophane sticky tape when he 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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Conduplicatio

Posted on May 11, 2024 | Leave a comment

Conduplicatio (con-du-pli-ca’-ti-o): The repetition of a word or words. A general term for repetition sometimes carrying the more specific meaning of repetition of words in adjacent phrases or clauses. Sometimes used to name either ploce or epizeuxis.

Ho, Ho, Ho! I did it again. It was at my brother-in-law’s funeral. “Ashes to ashes. Dust to dust. Ho, Ho, Ho!” That’s how it went, but I could not help it. I had come down with “Santa-Clausis” after sitting on Santa’s lap and telling him what I wanted for Christmas. When I left, Santa’s I said “Ho, Ho, Ho” and my mother thought it was humorous and cute. But then, I saw a bird squished in the street and said “Ho, Ho, Ho.” My mother didn’t think it was cute and admonished me, but I couldn’t help myself—the worse it was the harder I laughed. Like the time an elderly woman fell out of her second-story window and died at my feet with her head cracked open. I couldn’t stop laughing for ten minutes. I was beat up by the crowd that gathered.

For the past twenty years I’ve been tying to cure myself of “Santa-Clausius.” I’ve come close—once I only giggled when a kitten was run over by a steamroller. I thought I was on the road to recovery. I wasn’t. The next day I saw a man’s taco stand go up in flames with him in it. I laughed a full fifteen minutes. I felt like something had a hold of me, making me laugh.

Finally, I went to see a gypsy. She told me that the only cure is the blood of a Santa. She gave me a syringe. Christmas was only a week away so there were plenty of Santas to “draw” on. She told me to bring the blood back as soon as possible after I drew it.

I went to the Santa shack in the park. Wearing a balaclava, I burst in the door, knocked a kid off his lap and stabbed him in the leg with my needle and filled it to the brim. I gave it to the gypsy and she injected it into me. Immediately, my white beard fell off and I lost 40 pounds. The gypsy pulled a white mouse out of a cage and smashed it with a hammer and killed it. I didn’t laugh. I was cured!

After that, I hammered a mouse every month to make sure I was still cured. No laughter. No Santa-Clausius disease.

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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Congeries

Posted on May 10, 2024 | Leave a comment

Congeries (con’ger-eez): Piling up words of differing meaning but for a similar emotional effect [(akin to climax)].

Wee haa! Wo hoo! Yody Ho! Yippee! As you can tell, I am relatively elated—making some stock elation sounds, and a couple of new inventions. I am easily elated. An airplane landing elates me. Sunshine on my shoulders elates me. A chicken crossing the road would push me over the edge without asking why. I would just watch, and then break out in joyous noises when the chicken reaches the other side.

There are so many goals to be achieved in life that are not extraordinary but yet help make the world go around. Think of the humble nitwit. Consider how they must contemplate the steps in a process and diligently strive to complete it without causing too much damage, but nevertheless be yelled at by an angry boss.

Once one becomes an avowed nitwit, life’s burdens build into mountains of incompetence topped with grief and anger. For example, what about the guy whose job was to scrape gum off the floor at the Notting Hill Tube Station in London. People would walk by and kick them, pretend he was a horse because he worked on his hands and knees, and rode horsey on his back while he scraped. They would also swat his butt with “The Evening Standard.” He stood up, posing like the Statue of Liberty—holding his scraper up like Lady Liberty’s torch. One of his knee pads slipped down his leg and all the commuters stopped and fell silent.

Collectively, they could see what they couldn’t see individually. There was a doctor from Vienna standing by the stairs holding his arms in a circle. He was holding a pastie in one hand and chewing a bite from it very slowly while the wheels spun in his head. They were snow tires and unsuited to London’s summer. He tried revving them up while he contemplated the crowed. He hoped to wear the treads off on the rough edges of his skull’s interior. He dropped his briefcase. It startled him and provided a road to revelation: collectively the commuters came to conensus without saying a word. This must mean when people are packed together they think alike. The have a “collective” consciousness. They are like ants or honeybees, or flying geese or schools of fish.

The gum scraper lowered their scraper and pulled up their knee pad. The commuters became animated again and headed down to the tube platform. The sun came out behind the doctor’s back and he forgot everything, picking up his briefcase and blending in with the commuters. He kicked the gum scraper as he went past and felt very good after doing so.

He was a fake. He wore a second-hand sports coat and pretended to be a doctor. He had a fake office and receptionist. He spoke with a fake Austrian accent, that was actually German and had learned from Colonel Klink on “Hogan’s Heroes.”

Life is complicated.

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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Consonance

Posted on May 9, 2024 | Leave a comment

Consonance: The repetition of consonants in words stressed in the same place (but whose vowels differ). Also, a kind of inverted alliteration, in which final consonants, rather than initial or medial ones, repeat in nearby words. Consonance is more properly a term associated with modern poetics than with historical rhetorical terminology.

Herbert: Tumbling dice. Shallow ditch. Sky-blue donut. It all fits together—everything fits together. Just look! Use your eyes—both of them. Just look. Don’t listen. It is not in your ear, although it could be. This is one of the interesting things about repurposing your senses. Look! Don’t listen or smell for awhile, just see and feel. Then, after a week let smelling be your companion. Sniff it out, twist and shout—shake it up baby.—do the jerk! Do you love me now that I can smell?

You are sugar and spice and everything nice, pony tails and hiking trails, toilet seats and doggie treats, selected meats, and big plump beets.

I feel so much better. A visit from Marshmallow Man always sweetens things up. I wish they’d let you in my cell. I’d take a big bite out of you. Probably, your face.

Susan: Herbert, it’s me your mother. Today is visitor’s day, and I’m visiting you like I do every month hoping you’ll return to normal—like when you were a little boy and played your days away with Chip the neighbor boy. I’ve told you before, but you don’t remember. He broke into Micky’s Pet Store and ate the tropical fish, got sick and had to be taken to the hospital to have his stomach pumped. I always knew you’d be good friends, but the pet store incident would’ve sealed the deal if you weren’t locked up here at “Don’t Worry, Be Happy.” Who knows, maybe some me day you will snap out of it.

Herbert: Chip was such a good influence. I remember when we made kites out of our underpants and flew them over the playground. They were too heavy to fly, but we tried. Miscalculation is 50% of calculation. I learned that from Chip. One enchanted evening we were wearing blue suede shoes and pink carnations. We went to the bowling alley, had a cherry coke and then talked about Kansas City and then I went directly home to murder you, mom. It was my best plan ever, but you were in the bathroom and I wanted to kill you in your bed, where you slept, and I would stab you with my Boy Scout knife. With, in addition to the main blade, has a small blade, can opener, a corkscrew and an awl. You were too cheap to get me one with a fork and spoon.

When you came out of the bathroom, I chased you across the hall into your bedroom. You ran into your bedroom, locked the door, and called the police. That was it for me.

Susan: Oh Herbert! You’re so funny! Your needs and desires are hilarious. You’re such a clown. Just think, if you had murdered me, where would you be now? You’d be right here because you’re insane. Ha! Ha!

Herbert: Ha! Ha! Ma, you light up my life. But really, you’re nothing but a hound dog. Go home!

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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Correctio

Posted on May 8, 2024 | Leave a comment

Correctio (cor-rec’-ti-o): The amending of a term or phrase just employed; or, a further specifying of meaning, especially by indicating what something is not (which may occur either before or after the term or phrase used). A kind of redefinition, often employed as a parenthesis (an interruption) or as a climax.

There was a mess in my living room. Crumpled newspapers. Dirty clothes and dishes. Cookie crumbs all over the couch. Stains everywhere. Wait! No! In keeping with my Delusory Regime, I’m going to say that I’ve got an organic room-size sculpture going.

It was determined by my doctor that most things are beyond my reach—for example, neatness, and drawing on Protagoras’ “Beauty is in the eye of the beholder” as a guiding Maxim, I went through 10 weeks of training in renaming what I couldn’t understand or achieve. For example, roller blading was renamed “stupid shoe rolling with wheels.” This made me feel much better about my inability to learn how to roller blade.

The Delusory Regime worked like a charm. It boosted my self esteem by encouraging me to disparage what I couldn’t do, or understand. I had gotten to level 10 where I insulted people who were clearly superior to me, even challenging them to fights.

Then it all fell apart. I was at the zoo enjoying looking at the caged animals. A siren went off with a voice saying “a tiger has escaped. Please evacuate the zoo.” I thought, “What a bunch of chicken shit bastards.” And kept my strong string of insults going at an elephant. I felt good! But then, the tiger came bounding out of the bushes and stopped and looked at me. I yelled at hm “You striped orange bathrobe from a nursing home.” It did not work. He was still a tiger from the jungle. I tried “Here kitty, kitty.” That didn’t work either. Right before they shot and killed him, he bit my left hand off—he twisted it back and forth and dropped it on the ground. The pain was awful—actually it was unbearable. Luckily, there was an ambulance standing by. The hand was too mangled to put back on. Now, they think it’s funny to call me lefty. I wear medically themed socks over the stump— I’m trying to make it into a sort of billboard that I can rent out.

Now, I go through life “calling them as they are.” For example, I’ve accepted the fact that I’m a slob while suing my doctor for losing my hand. I keep my hand in a jar in my office to make the point that I used to have two hands, and also, as a conversation starter with new clients: “Do you need a hand?”

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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Deesis

Posted on May 7, 2024 | Leave a comment

Deesis (de’-e-sis): An adjuration (solemn oath) or calling to witness; or, the vehement expression of desire put in terms of “for someone’s sake” or “for God’s sake.”

Marla: “For God’s sake. Put down that knife!”

Wally: “I’m not done buttering my toast. Wait a minute!”

Marla: “You’re not buttering your toast, you’re buttering little Ralphie. For Ralphie’s sake, put down the knife and hand him to me,”

Wally: “Let me butter his head first and slick down that ugly cowlick. He takes after you in so many ways. Look at the drooling smile—it’s you all over!”

Maria: “My drooling smile is the result of an injury, not heredity. You may remember: you stepped on my face when we were camping. You got up in the middle of the night to pee and you stepped on my face with your big hiking boot when you tried to go out the back of of the tent and tripped. God! Put down the knife!”

Wally: “Relax! I’m going to put Ralphie in the oven—it’s freezing- ass cold in here. I’m setting it at 100 so he can warm up and we can heat some leftovers too..”

Marla: “Ok, you’ve gone around the bend Wally. Hand him over right now! I’ll put him in the garage while you calm down, have some coffee, and return to normal.”

Wally handed Ralphie over and Marla put him in the garage in the lawn spreader. It was like a cradle. Ralphie liked the lawn spreader. He spent 3-4 hours in it per week. He liked the smell of the weed killer residue and the spreader’s bright green color. If he could talk, he would say “Oh my God! This is great!”

Now that Ralphie was out of the way in the garage, it was time for Marla and Wally to play Sudoko. They would quietly sit on opposite sides of the kitchen table nodding their heads as they scored. Wally picked up the knife and licked it. That reminded Marla that Ralphie was out in the garage.

When she got inside the garage, Ralphie was gone. She looked out the garage door and saw Ralphie crawling across the street. A pickup truck veered around hm blowing its horn. She ran out in the street and grabbed him. She noticed he had white powdery weed killer on his nose. She couldn’t help laughing and was still laughing when she brought Ralphie inside the hose. Wally started laughing too. They took a picture to send to Ralphie’s grandma.

Wally and Marla were not model parents. Ralphie grew up to be a daredevil. He would jump a Queen size bed full of live lobsters with a Vespa motor scooter.

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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Dehortatio

Posted on May 6, 2024 | Leave a comment

Dehortatio (de-hor-ta’-ti-o): Dissuasion.

“If you don’t stop playing that damn guitar, I’m gong to hit you over the head with it.!” I knew my father wouldn’t follow through on his threat. I played an electric bass. A blow on my head would probably kill me. I was wrong. I woke up in the hospital with a concussion. They told me my father had clobbered me with my bass. He had nearly killed me and had been in police custody for three days. I said, “That’s good. I hope he never gets out.” I was shocked by my voice. I had Elmer Fudd syndrome cupped with a vice an Elvis impersonator would die for. The doctor told me that my pronunciation was called rhotacism—a condition where you have trouble pronouncing “r”__ also called “Barbara Walters Syndrome.” The Elvis thing cannot be accounted for. But combined together rhotacism and Elvis Voice sound amazing. Imagine this in an Elvis voice:

“ Little wed cowvette,
Baby, you much too fast
Yes, you awe
Little wed Cowvette
You need to find a love that’s gonna last

Little wed Cowvette
Baby, you much too fast
Yes, you awe
Little Wed Cowvette
You need to find a love that’s gonna last.”

Again, just imagine this sung in Elvis’ voice. I couldn’t wait to get out of the hospital to start a band. I got together with three guys I went to high school with. We had a band back then. We covered Bee Gees music. We weren’t too popular, but I had kept practicing and driving my father crazy. We reunited and named our new band Concussion after my recent head injury that had prompted my musical gifts.

Our first gig was coming up at “Blankety Blanks,” a club in Elizabeth, New Jersey right off the Rte. 1 Circle by the Goethals Bridge. We decided to do covers of Nirvana, The Police, and Jefferson Airplane. The crowd was wild, foot stomping for us to start. We led off with “Smells Like Teen Spirit.” The crowd stood still, mouths open like they were hypnotized. When finished the first set, the crowd went wild, applauding and fist pumping for 20 minutes. Concussion was a raging success. Word spread. Gigs piled up. Money rolled in, along with a lucrative recording contract.

My brain damage had made me a star. We’re still flying high. To keep my gift, I discovered I had to be hit in the head with a brick once a month. It’s like my dad says, “It’s the price of success.” I forgave him and he’s part of the crew and does a good job smacking me on the head.

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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Dendrographia

Posted on May 5, 2024 | Leave a comment

Dendrographia (den-dro-graf’-ia): Creating an illusion of reality through vivid description of a tree.

The eucalyptus trees carry me back in time—their pungent smell, waving leaves and smooth mottled bark. after a rain, the smell of the Gumnuts in puddles is especially strong— like Vick’s Vapor Rub. The eucalyptus’s trees are tall and storks nest at their tops.

What does this matter? I had returned unscathed from Vietnam and was going to the University of California at Santa Barbara. I was on the G.I. Bill. I was grateful. The Eucalytus trees were down by the lagoon. I would go there in the early evening and think. I was going to be the first person in my immediate family to graduate from college. All the courses I took filled my head with wonder—all but “Ancient Greek Philosophy” which made me crazy. It involved too much memorization. It was taught by a wise-ass TA who would not listen to any of my ideas. But anyway, that was only one course. Everything else was amazing, nurturing, enlightening, fulfilling. I’ll never forget: I was taking a course in California geography. Included in the day’s lecture was a segment on a type of rock formation. That afternoon when I was riding my bike back to my apartment, I saw the formation by the road. For me, it was a big deal. Now, the roadside was more than a roadside—it was a piece of California geology. That night there was a pretty good earthquake. The apartment parking lot looked like sloshing water. My neighbor ran out of her apartment in her nightgown, jumped in her car and drove away. My Pong fell off the bookcase and all the books fell off the library’s shelves. What a mess!

The campus was on the ocean. Although there is residue from an oil spill, generally the beach was sandy and nice. Some days, I would carry a beach chair to class and go to the beach afterwards. I never wore long pants the whole time I was there. That was my idea of paradise.

Every Thursday, if you went to the record store in Isla Vista naked, you’d get a free record. The turnout of nudies was sparse, but there was a turnout. A crowd would show up to watch, and of course, that was the point. They would buy records,

When I went to Australia a few years ago, I got to see eucalyptus in their natural habitat. Beautiful.

I live in the North Eastern US now. Maple trees predominate. Silver bark and beautiful red foliage in the fall. I tap the sap for syrup, and plain sap as a sweet and delicious beverage. To tap a tree you drill a hole and tap a spline in gently. The splines have hooks that you hang collection buckets from. When the buckets are about 3/4 full, you empty them into a large tub. Then, you divide the contents of the tub and boil down the smaller portions into syrup. The whole house smells like maple syrup, but it takes a lot of sap to make a good amount of syrup. But, it’s worth it.

I also have a small apple orchard that I make cider and applesauce from. I have a hand-powered apple-grinder and cider press. For applesauce we just core the apples and cook them. I put the apples scraps out in the yard. It is entertaining to watch the deer fight over the scraps—pushing each other around. Oh, last year we made hard cider. We used champagne years, and according to everybody, it was great. I’ll never know myself. I am not permitted to drink alcohol, but I smelled it, and it smelled good.

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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Diacope

Posted on May 4, 2024 | Leave a comment

Diacope (di-a’-co-pee): Repetition of a word with one or more between, usually to express deep feeling.

“Give me a dollar. Give me a dollar now! A dollar in my hand! A dollar! Come on, dickhead!” I was a street person. I was totally unsuccessful at getting money from people. They would tell me to back off or get lost, or take a shower, or go back to the halfway house—that sort of thing. Sometimes they’d hold up their stuffed wallet and taunt me with it.

I had a deep philosophical commitment to living on the streets. Well, it was more than that. I was raised in a series of refrigerator boxes in back alleys. My father died of food poisoning when he was 38. My mother never remarried. She said “the single life” was more fun. We had a smaller auxiliary box that I would sleep in when she brought her men “home.” I was about ten feet up the alley and put cigarette filters in my ears to block out the sounds. One morning I went to wake her up and she was laying on her back, dead. She had a vegetable baggie from the supermarket pulled over he head. That’s when I became chronically angry. That’s when my income plummeted—I became rude when asking for handouts.

The State of New York had recently instituted a group anger management program for street people. It was hoped that it would “mellow out” the streets. There were a lot of angry street people. We met in vacant lots in our respective cities. I was located in Rochester. Our vacant lot was for sale to be developed as a parking lot. The sessions ran from May first to July fifth. We learned special “polite” begging strategies. For example, we got down on one knee and would say “Kind sir, may I induce you to part with one George Washington?” Or, “Sir. Life is fleeting and my hunger overwhelms me. Will you gift me a dollar so I may quell my hunger?” We recite the begging words together in class, filling the vacant lot with the sound of need, not greed.

We graduated in quite an elaborate ceremony. All of Rochester’s big shots were there, including the mayor. He came over to me and we shook hands. I asked him for a dollar with one of my new routines. He asked me who the hell I thought he was—he’s the Mayor and Mayor’s don’t give money to bums. I punched him in the jaw and knocked him to the ground. I was arrested and was put in jail for ten days. I repurposed my money begging sayings into cigarette begging sayings. It worked really well on my fellow prisoners. I left jail with a small bag of cigarettes.

Now that I’m back on the streets I mug people outside of hotels. I stick a gun in their ribs and say, for example, “Would you please be so kind as to give me your wallet? I have bills to pay.”

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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Dialogismus

Posted on May 2, 2024 | Leave a comment

Dialogismus (di-a-lo-giz’-mus): Speaking as someone else, either to bring in others ’ points of view into one’s own speech, or to conduct a pseudo-dialog through taking up an opposing position with oneself.

Am I talking to myself? Hell no. I’m thinking out loud. It’s like reading out loud. Much more texture. Much more meaning. Much more significance. It’s like a glass of wine vs. a glass of water , or a bowl of ice cream vs. a bowl of gruel.

It was Saturday night and I was hanging out at “The Lucky Trout” country dance hall. I lived in Boukville, NY between a cornfield and a highway. The only other business in Bouckville was the “Rte. 20 All Night Diner.” The dance hall kept them going. The drunks would flock there when the Lucky Trout closed. They specialized in Hitch Hiker’s Breakfast, in keeping with the Route 20 theme.

I was drinkin’ shots a beer and eatin’ popcorn from a red plastic bowl. I was waitin’ for my Piggy Fingers—my favorite bar snack—little sausages with toothpicks stuck in them, and special sauce called “Chicago Fire.” It was so hot it could set your teeth on fire.

Suddenly my stool started spinning of its own accord. Two bars with handle grips popped up. I grabbed them and I took off. I flew through the swinging saloon doors and up into the sky, propelled by jet engines in the stool’s legs. I flew past an airliner and a little kid waved at me. The next thing I knew I was landing on the moon. I got off my stool. I looked to my right and there was a picnic table. I walked over to it. It had the initials “JG” carved in it and the date: 1964. That was history! I looked around some more but didn’t see anything else of interest. I got back on my stool and took off. As I was taking off, I looked back down and saw a bowling trophy lying on its side in the moon dust, and then, whoosh, off I flew. Destination Earth!

I flew through the doors of The Lucky Trout and landed where I took off from. Nobody noticed. I ordered “another” shot and a beer. I ordered some more Piggy Fingers. The waitress set them down in front of me and they started squirming around like big caterpillars. They were making a soft squeaking sound like baby birds. I called the waitress over and asked her what the hell was going on. she called over Mickey the bouncer. He dumped my Piggy Fingers on the floor and pushed me off my stool. He told me to get out and to come back when I had achieved a drug-free lifestyle.

I got out into the parking lot and I could not find my car. It was a restored pea-green Corvair. It was worth thousands. I called the police. When they arrived, my car appeared behind a dumpster. The police weren’t happy. When they left, my car disappeared. I decided to take an Uber home and sort it all out tomorrow. The driver was dressed like a clown. That was too much. I told her to be on her way and decided to wait out the insanity at the Rout 20 All Night Diner. I sat down in a booth and looked around, and everybody looked like me. Then, the waitress came to my booth. She did not look like me. Aside from being a woman, her hair was blond and mine is black. I ordered The Hitch Hiker’s Breakfast: three fried eggs, four slices of bacon, two slices of toast, grits and a napkin printed like a roadmap. I ordered a cup of coffee too.

People kept coming over to my table asking if they knew me. They all had my name. It was awkward, The sun was coming up. I finished my breakfast and headed back to the Lucky Trout parking lot to find my car. I got to the parking lot and all the cars partied there were pea green Corvairs. I found my car by its license plate. Finally, I could go home. I started it up and it made a poof sound and turned into a pumpkin. It was Cinderella sitting next to me. She asked me if I knew where her shoe was. We got married and lived happily ever after. She blew off the Prince for me. I felt lucky.

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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Dianoea

Posted on May 1, 2024 | Leave a comment

Dianoea (di-a-noe’-a): The use of animated questions and answers in developing an argument (sometimes simply the equivalent of anthypophora).

Sheriff: Can you give me a hug? Sure you can! Can you tickle my ear? Sure you can! Can you give me a smile? Sure you can! Did you shoot Mr. Buckworth in the head with that shotgun over there? Sure you did! Boom! Where’s his head? Over there by the bed! Are you in big trouble? Yes you are! Is murder a big deal? It sure is Miss Pondlake! Come back here! Hey!

Miss Pondlake ran down the stairs and out the front door. The man she had murdered was the plumber. He was rude and too familiar with her. She had phoned him and when he got to her front door, he had pushed it open and barged in waving wrenches and carrying a yellow no, 2 pencil stuck in his protruding butt crack, and he said “ain’t” which frightened her—she had only heard “ain’t” in detective shows on TV. Especially, from the bald man who ate lollipops.

The plumber said he was going to “clear her pipes upstairs in the bathroom.” That alarmed her. She did not want him to “clear her pipes,” it sounded lewd. He said, “Come on. Let’s go upstairs so I can take care of those pipes.” He insisted, so she could give hm a recommendation for his “work.”

She kept a loaded shotgun by her bed since her former husband had broken into her house and insisted on reading her “The Little Prince” to her at gunpoint. It was the worst experience of her life, defamed “The Little Prince,” put her into 2 years of therapy, and motivated her to keep a gun by her bed.

Now she was on the run from a huge misunderstanding. She was living in Mexico City playing accordion in a Mariachi band named “Camino Del Amor.” She learned how to play the accordion in high school, where she played mostly German and Italian music growing up in New Jersey. “Camino” worked in one bar in Mexico City. They played every night and she loved it. However, she missed her cat Toolabelle. Her sister was shipping it to her—quite a convoluted process. Convoluted enough so it put the police on her trail.

Then, one night, what looked like a cop from back home showed up at the bar. He told her the case a had been dropped—it was a tragic misunderstanding, triggered by lingering trauma and threatening-sounding ambiguous language. she thanked him for bringing the news, but she was going to stay in Mexico City. She was going to marry “Camino’s” harmonica man Jesus.

But, then the “policeman” pulled of his jacket revealing a yellow wooden pencil stuck in his butt crack. He said: “Everything I told you is true, but I still can’t accept my father’s murder, and you murdered him.”

She said, “Come over here for a big hug.” The Plumber’s son complied and headed toward her with arms outstretched. He called her “Mommy” as they hugged. She was repulsed, but did not want any trouble.

The plumber’s son left in a couple of days, and Toolabelle, her beloved cat, showed up at the post office. It was wonderful having her to pet and play with again. She stopped thinking about her past and made her way into the future.

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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Diaphora

Posted on April 30, 2024 | Leave a comment

Diaphora (di-a’-pho-ra): Repetition of a common name so as to perform two logical functions: to designate an individual and to signify the qualities connoted by that individual’s name or title.

Dick, dick. How’s that? Your name is Dick and they call you dick: Dick dick. Or, should I say, a dick or the dick? I have a string of memories of your dickhood stretching back to the Fifth Grade. I still remember: I needed one more block to finish off my castle. One stinking block. You had ten blocks and you had finished your fort. You wouldn’t give me one of your extra blocks. You said, “I might need it later.” What a lame excuse. What a dick! What a super duper dick.

I’m going to keep reminding you, dick: you took my little brother on a camping trip in Bowlng Rock State Park. Remember? He was 8 years old. You didn’t give him a flashlight and twenty feet down the trail you took off running, and he could not catch up with you. He got lost and was lost for three days. Believe it or not, you blamed him. I found him sitting a lean-to crying—covered with mosquito bites. You, being the dick you are, blamed him. “He shouldn’t have gone in the first place. What an idiot. Goddamn him!” Saying those things almost got you killed, but you still won’t admit you were wrong. Dick.

One last scar you’ve left. My dog Rough. My family was going to Maine for vacation for two weeks. Our usual dog sitter was unavailable, so I talked my parents into asking you. You said you could for no less than $100. We were leaving the next day, so we were stuck. We gave you detailed instructions —with the big one: keep Rough in the yard—NO MATTER WHAT! You failed to do that. You “thought” he looked like he needed more exercise. Rough dashed out into the street and was run over and killed. You didn’t tell us, and waited until we came home. Rough was wrapped up in a bloody blanket in the driveway. His collar was sitting on top of the blanket. You said, “If you had given him more exercise, he wouldn’t have run off like that. You should’ve taken better care of him. He was your pet. Not mine.” I wanted to kill you. Poor Rough. Never hurt a fly, laid out dead in our driveway.

Now you’re sorry for being a dick—being self absorbed. Your apology is smoke in the wind. The best thing I can do is stay away. I hope you move out of town, maybe out of state, or maybe into another country or a desert island where you can’t inflict yourself on other humans.

“Go, get out!” The door’s that way, remember? What’s that? A clock? “Time’s running out on you Joey. That’s all I can say. Don’t forget to wind it. I may be a dick, but you’re a shithead.”

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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