Apoplanesis

Posted on March 22, 2023 | Leave a comment

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

Reporter: Why were you arrested.?

Vice Principal: In a minute, please.

I’m always happy to greet and talk to the press. News reporting is a bulwark of our democracy. When I was a reporter for my high school newspaper, I exposed the principal for selling parking permits to faculty when they were supposed to be free. I’m surprised nobody turned him in before me. He supposedly had a zero tolerance policy on squealing. Squealers where threatened to be assigned to pick up cigarette butts “on school property,” a task that was so onerous that nobody said a word. Even more powerful as a disincentive were the photoshopped pictures he had of faculty engaging in “activities” with students. I guess faculty were complicit in something approximating the pictures, or they would not have acceded to the principal’s threats. After he was busted, the principal was put on “butt duty” and demoted to classroom aide and mandated to take 100 hours of honesty training workshops. In one of their exercises, a valuable item is left on the floor. The facilitator leaves the room and the trainees discuss the pros and cons of stealing it—in this case a Rolex watch belonging to the facilitator. When the facilitator came back, the watch was gone and nobody could remember what happened.

Ten minutes before the end of the training session, the principal, sobbing in tears, pulled the watch out of his pocket and said “I am so ashamed.” The facilitator called for a group hug. The principal was nearly smothered and was taken for observation to the hospital where it was discovered he had a cracked rib. After his training was completed he was reassigned as a school crossing guard, where the children swear he frequently holds his stop sign upside down, drinks out of a paper bag, and smells funny. He also makes them race each other across the street in front of cars while he stands on the curb cheering and fanning himself with his stop sign. If this is true, the principal will be sent to rehab, and all will be well. After rehab, the principal, due to “extensive hands-on experience,” will be made Superintendent of Schools for his district. In a way, I think I helped him get where he is today—if I hadn’t blown the whistle, he’d still be a mediocre administrator selling parking permits. Clearly, the system works. The sensitive, humane management of employee criminality and dereliction yield positive results, among which are employee retention, and the avoidance of law suits.

Reporter: Ok. Cut the crap. We’ve heard the old “dodgeroo” before. Now that we know about the principal and all the rest of your evasive BS, tell us why you were arrested!

Vice Principal: I have been granted bail, as you know. Bail is an admirable aspect of our legal system. If you have money or a trusty bail bondsman, and you’re not a flight risk, you can get out of jail pending your trial. I would never fly anywhere anyway, or even take a train or a bus. I’m a solid risk. You can trust that!

Well, I’ve got to go serve lunch at the nursing home, and then go to church for evening mass. We’ll take this up again at a later date.

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

Paper and Kindle editions of The Daily Trope are available at Amazon under the title The Book of Tropes.

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Aporia

Posted on March 21, 2023 | 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].

Time was running out. It was almost my birthday and I couldn’t face it it. I was old: I was getting deaf, my legs were wobbly, I had developed a double-vision malady and could no longer drive. I got up a half-dozen times at night to pee, my teeth were coming lose, I was chronically constipated. An MRI had shown white spots on my brain. My right pinky was frozen in a 90 degree angle to the palm of my hand. I wear a brace on my hand to retrain my pinkie to go flat. Probably, if I thought about it a little longer, a few more signs of age-related body-rot would come mind.

I said to myself “Billy, you’re only 62. You ought to be able to overcome all this crap and feel young again. Chin up. Damn, that was stupid, my wattle buried my chin 5 years ago. Hmmm. Do some research. You’ll find something. I felt a little like Humpty Dumpty trying to put myself back together again.”

I went where everybody goes when there’s an urgency in their lives: Google. I made a boilerplate search document listing my malady’s and asking for cures. I sent it off to Google. I got one of those blue responses asking “Do you mean you are dying and want to be cremated?” I tried again with less detail. I spent all day going through the responses. As you can imagine, a good number of them were bizarre. I think the weirdest was the recommendation that for a week to stick a lit Christmas tree light in my butt every-other day, leaving it in for six hours each time. When I read that, I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. One recommendation was to “scoop out” one of my eyes, precluding being cross-eyed. That one almost made me turn off the computer. But I didn’t.

What came up next was a site selling supplements. My daughter takes supplements and they don’t seem to hurt her, except for the barely visible mustache that looks like a shadow on her upper lip. So, I ordered a bottle of “Youngy” ground “Gods Nuts” for $200.00. They came in the mail the next day. They smelled a little funky. I took the recommended dose of 12. Nothing happened right away. Eventually they kicked in and ALL of my malady’s evaporated! I went wild celebrating non-stop for two days. I woke up on my birthday ready to rip. About halfway through singing “Happy Birthday” to me, I started feeling funny. My stomach was bulging out. I went to the bathroom and was shocked to see my penis was gone, replaced by a vagina. I was going to have a baby! It all moved so fast! My pregnancy lasted a week. I have a beautiful little girl who looks like my late mother, and my penis returned!

Now I am a very young looking celebrity. I was on FOX News the other night. Tucker Carlson interviewed me and said he had already given birth to 3 babies, but he has to keep them out of sight. What a liar! I’ve Googled “Youngy” and “Gods Nuts” hundreds of times and they’ve completely disappeared from the internet. My daughter Athena has grown four feet in two months and has started to speak. She talks in a monotone like one of those outer space creatures in a 50s sci-fi movie. But, who cares? We love each other and are living a good life together.

POSTSCRIPT

After writing what’s above, Billy was found dead, run over in his own driveway. Athena was suspected of his murder. She stole his car and was reported by some drug-soaked hippy losers to have boarded a flying saucer along with Jimi Hendrix, Kieth Moon, and Janis Joplin. According to the hippies, the flying saucer “like shot off into the sky like a big flat jet, man.” The hippies said she was 8-feet tall and was wearing a t-shirt that said “Gods Nuts.” The police ignored the hippies’ “insane ranting” and the case was listed as unsolved, and remains so today.

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

Paper and Kindle editions of The Daily Tope are available on Amazon under the title The Book of Tropes.

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Aposiopesis

Posted on March 20, 2023 | 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.

It was the most beau beau . . . Damn. I’m sorry. My feelings took over there for a couple of seconds. I’ll give it another try. It was the most beautiful Ba . . . Oh wait. I’m stuck again. This is really hard to do. Maybe if I start at the beginning. As you all know, I’m a native New Yorker. I walk New York. I “talk” New York. My ancestors were Dutch. They went crazy when the Brits took over, doing everything they could to erase the Dutch cultural influences. But all that’s behind me. I am a New Yorker through and through.

I work on Wall Street for an international accounting firm, Arthur J. Jinglebooks. Jinglebooks has been around since the beginning of time. If you’ve travelled extensively, you’ve seen their offices all over the world, and would recognize their logo—a book with a bell clapper hanging out of the bottom.

The current CEO had decided that the firm needed to expand further in the US. So, I was being sent to Jackson, Mississippi to open a new branch. Growing up in New York, I was taught that Mississippi was like the dark side of the moon—loaded with bigots and other not too smart people who all wore overhauls, drove pickup trucks, chewed tobacco, were “too close” to their relatives, and could barely read.

Here I am. The archetypal New Yorker headed down South to start an accounting firm. Would I even be able to find somebody capable of doing math? When I got there, I was led across the parking lot blindfolded. I was sure I would die. But, when we got inside and the blindfold was removed, there was a big chocolate cake that said “Welcome Boss” on it. So, the people were great—all the stereotypes melted away, leaving a good feeling. But, there was one thing that left a bad feeling: the food. Chicken Fried Steak, Grits, Iced Tea day and night—an over-sweetened endless amber river, Alligator n’ Eggs, Biscuits ‘n Gravy, Catfish and hush puppies. I went to MacDonalds as often as I could, but it didn’t work.

Eventually, I finished the job and came back to New York. I started thinking about having an onion bagel with lox and cream cheese somewhere over Georgia. For me, the bagel is the pinnacle of New York cuisine. I literally ran to Bella’s Bagels when I got out of my cab. I tore open the door and the smell was so beautiful I almost fainted. I ordered my onion bagel and lox with cream cheese. When I bit in, it was like kissing an angel. I ordered a bag of plain bagels. I was home again!

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

Print and Kindle editions of The Daily Trope are available on Amazon under the title The Book of Tropes.

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Apostrophe

Posted on March 19, 2023 | 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.

I have loved and lost, but I’ve never lost my love for my slippers. Oh slippers! You comfort my feet. You wrap them with warmth. All day Saturday. All day Sunday. You deliver me from going outside in the heat of summer, and in winter’s bitter cold. I give thanks to the sheep who made the ultimate sacrifice to line you with fluffiness and the softness of all-natural materials.

Oh blessed slippers. I remember the box you came in, Wrapped in paper printed with holly sprigs and bright red holly berries—so festive, so apt for the season. I tore off the paper and opened the box. I almost wet my New York Yankees pajamas. But I held it. Running to the bathroom, I could think of nothing but pulling you onto my feet—beginning a relationship with depth, and warmth, and non-skid adventures on my home’s wooden floors—no more wearing socks and sliding into the wall when I try to catch my cat Vertigo to give him a good brushing.

But oh, yon footwear, sweet sole cushion, partner in leisure, vessel of perfect warmth, I must bid farewell. It is with tears in my eyes that I say goodbye. Your leather has stretched and you are I’ll-fitting. Your lining has worn away and you are no longer a conduit for warmth and joy. Your upper parts are irretrievably soiled, and I confess, smell a little.

But our goodbye, is not altogether bad for you. I am donating you to the Salvation Army Thrift Store. Henceforth, you will be reincarnated. You will don the the feet of another man—a very very fortunate man. He will lift you from the shoe shelf, put you on, and walk up and down the footwear aisle—he will say “Mmm” and head to the check-out counter, clutching you tightly with his calloused hands.

Life goes on. My new slippers coming from L.L. Bean are due in the mail today. They are made from all-organic materials. They are waterproof, shock proof, and change colors with the temperature. With a heavy heart, I box up my old slippers. We go to the drop-off dock. I hand over the box. At the last minute, I pull it away and run to my car.

My slippers are retired. They spend their days and nights on a special shoe rack in my closet. My new slippers are ok, but there’s something about them that I can’t put my finger on.

My old slippers have taught me that things change. We must learn to let go, but not completely.

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

Paper and Kindle versions of The Daily Trope are available at Amazon under the title The Book of Tropes.

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Apothegm

Posted on March 18, 2023 | 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 can’t stand the heat, sit down.” This is one of those enigmatic sayings you’re supposed to figure out on your way to enlightenment. It is so humorous to see people eating vegetable, getting rid of their shoes and wearing exotic clothes discussing this and other sayings with their doped up friends, saying “Wow” over and over while they speculate on the sayings’ meanings. They are like crackpot kindergarteners, sitting in a circle on the playground, practicing their animal sounds. Oink. Moo. Baa.

This morning I heard this one: “When your soup is cold, heat it.” They tried to figure out what they thought were the saying’s metaphors by focusing first on “soup,” the saying’s key term. Instead of taking it literally, with their brains fogged with THC, they had to go down the road of free range speculation as if did not really matter if they derived meaning from the saying at all. It was like the communal querying was an end in itself, where generating a quantity of meanings was more important than generating “the” meaning.

I confirmed this with the group’s leader Elvis Mandela. He told me: “The storming of the brain is like the storming of the sky. Trying to make sense that satisfies most people but collectively bruises the brain like a blow to a banana. We want a disparate jumble of non-synonymous, non-commensurate, clashing, yet peacefully offered meanings that get to our uniqueness as human life-forms, oops, I meant to say “human beings.”

I noticed there was a poorly concealed zipper on Elvis Mandela’s forehead. I reached for it and was able ti zip it down to his upper lip before he squirmed away and stood up. “Fool!” he yelled. “Now, The Dogs Will Eat Their Plastic Bones.” I had no idea what the hell he was talking about. His follows were coming toward him. They were gnawing on plastic bones and moaning in unison. At this point, I yelled as loud as I could, “Cut the shit!” They immediately dropped bones. The started chanting, “Elvis Mandela is a fraud. He hides behind a zipper.” I looked at his unzipped face again—it was Mow Carlisle, the boy who had gone missing 10 years ago when he was delivering papers on his paper route. I asked Mow what had happened. He said he found the rubber suit in a trashcan and put it on. Wearing it, he felt safe. It stretched with him over the years as he grew. From his paper route he learned to respect cryptic headlines as inducements to read what was below. So, he started making cryptic sayings and yelling them to people as they passed by. Soon a crowd gathered and he herded them to the park, where his theory of heterogenous interpretationism was born.

I zipped Elvis’ face back up and his followers started peacefully returning. As I walked away I thought to myself, “The bird is the word.”

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

An edited version of The Daily Trope is for sale on Amazon under the title the Book of Tropes.

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Appositio

Posted on March 17, 2023 | Leave a comment

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

The shower was leaking all over. Somehow the shower head had come loose and it was spraying on the ceiling and over the shower curtain onto the floor.* This “loosening” has happened every morning for a week. I keep a pair of vise-grips in the bathroom now, and retighten the shower head every morning. If I was smart, I’d tighten it before I turn it on. But I’m not smart, and my memory’s not good from playing tackle in junior varsity football. I dropped out of school in the eight grade because I couldn’t concentrate, write good, or pass tests.. I’ve been a policeman for the past five years. I was given a desk job after I shot a pigeon in the park for pooping on a bench.

But, it was the “Shower Head Mystery” that initially got me interested in police police work. I had the police investigate. They tore out my bathroom ceiling and tore up the floor boards. They found nothing. Then, they removed the toilet and sent a special waterproof camera into the hole in the floor. Nothing. They recommended that I install a surveillance camera and catch the villain on recorded video.

I went to Best Buy and bought a camera—it had color and sound, and would work in low light conditions. I set it up on the shower stall ceiling, aiming directly at the shower head. I was sure to get a good shot of the “Shower Head Vandal.” Bed time came, and I was all set. I had a baseball bat and bear spray on the floor by my bed. I was ready. I climbed into bed and conked out immediately. I got up the next morning and couldn’t wait, I checked the shower head, and sure enough, it was loose—looser than ever before. I grabbed the camera and took it downstairs to hook up to my laptop.

I got it all hooked up and hit play. My God! It was me! I was the “Shower Head Vandal.” I threw my laptop at the wall and stalked upstairs to retighten the shower head. I was at a loss about the whole thing until I went to see Madam Morning Star. She is a mystic-seer who lives down the street from me. She dealt the cards out on the table. She gazed at them for five minutes. She said: “The cards are telling me you should have your shower head welded on. Until then you will be compelled by the night spirits to loosen it. You are not crazy, you are possessed. Don’t worry, the night spirits will leave of their own accord once you’ve failed to loosen the shower head a sufficient number of times.”

I had the shower head welded onto the water pipe. Little did I know what lay ahead. I went to bed. When I awoke I walked whistling to the bathroom, certain all would be well. When I opened the bathroom door, I almost fainted: the bathroom was destroyed—the sink was shattered and lay in pieces on the floor. My towels and bath mats had been slashed and the shower stall was smashed, and the shower head was torn out of the wall and wound around the tub faucet.

I looked at the video and it was me who had destroyed my bathroom. What could I do to remedy my pathological nighttime vandalism? I went to see Madam Morning Star again. I was in tears standing on her front stoop when she opened the door. She welcomed me and invited me in. “The solution is simple,” she said. “Stop taking showers. Use hand sanitizer instead.“

I’ve been toweling down with hand sanitizer now for about a year. It is a blessing. I even have a few friends and a girlfriend too. My girlfriend wants to know why my bathroom is boarded shut, why I smell like hand sanitizer, and why she has to use the port-a-potty in my garage. I told her there is a rare toxic mold growing in my bathroom. I told her my hand sanitizer smell is the result of my precautionary interest in thwarting flus and viruses over my entire body. I told her the port-a-potty is a “fun alternative” to a flush toilet—which has been removed from my house as part of the toxic mold scare.

Some day, I will seek out a psychologist and confront the night spirits through her or him. “Why bathrooms?” I will ask.

*This story was dictated and transcribed

Paper and Kindle versions of The Daily Trope are available at Amazon under the title The Book of Tropes.

Definition courtesy of “Silva Rhetoricae” (rhetoric.byu.edu). Mattress jokes: upjoke.com/mattress-jokes.

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Ara

Posted on March 16, 2023 | 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 everybody, and with good reason. Damn humanity! Screw all people! Eat shit featherless bipeds. Oh, and by the way, I’m human so I hate myself and mistrust myself. I mistrust my mistrust ad infinitum. I am wary of me and always think twice before doing anything I want to do. So, I do nothing. But, I learned the hard way, doing nothing is doing something. Like the time I was downtown shopping for a turtle at the pet store. I noticed the heat in one of the aquariums was turned up too high. The water was starting to boil and the fish were bouncing around in the bubbles. I was in a hurry, so I went straight to the turtle tank, scooped up a turtle, paid, and left. It was starting to smell like fish chowder as I went out the door. Just as I got out the door, I heard the proprietor yell “Oh my God! Those are my most expensive fish! I’ll kill the sadistic bastard who did this!” Although I didn’t turn up the heat, I was partially to blame for doing nothing about it. But, I don’t care.

I hate being apathetic. Apathy is my secret weapon, even though it’s the pathway to further self-loathing, regret, and isolation. I hate hating myself, but that does not make me like myself. At the same time, I hate the idea of killing myself, taking medication or joining a self-help group. My self-hatred manifests itself most palpably in my personal hygiene: I aim for bad breath as my signature hygiene statement. I think it is the most offensive body odor. I back it up by not washing my private parts. When I go to work at Carlisle’s Cheese Factory, some of my colleagues hold their noses when I walk by. I know it’s all in fun because the cheese factory smells worse than me, especially the Limburger Room, which is kept sealed off because of the Limburger’s stench, a stench I adore as resonant with the human condition.

Some old philosopher said “The people are a beast.” It might have been Ronald Reagan. It is true. We fight for everything, like beasts. Nothing belongs to everybody, except what nobody wants. The fights are metaphorical and literal. Greed motivates them: when two people want what’s only enough for one person, they fight for it (or buy it with superior wealth, gained from fighting elsewhere). Love, by the way, is a shared delusion that lasts until it’s put to the test by penury or some other misfortune. In love, you give up your autonomy—the one glimmer of happiness residing in our souls alongside being superior to other people. In short, love is a kind of mental illness.

Anyway, like I said I hate everybody, including myself. We’re all heartless scoundrels, and may not know it because we’ve never been faced with a pathetic charity case that deterred us from our greedy pursuit of everything of value to us; maybe donating $2.00 to the Hungry Children Cause, arguing that if thousands of people donate $2.00, it’ll add up to big bucks. But just imagine the hungry children lined up for their saltine with peanut butter and a cup of powdered milk.

Haha! I hate you. Damn you! You and everybody else. You’re no damn good. I’m no damn good. Get over it. Admit it. I did. I’m running for President.

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

Paper and Kindle versions of The Daily Trope are available from Amazon under the title of The Book of Tropes.

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Articulus

Posted on March 15, 2023 | 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.

What language is “ee-I-ee-I-oh?” I think it’s of French, Italian, Swedish, Icelandic, and possibly, Chinese origins. Millions of years ago people routinely hiked around the world. There were no impediments. For example, there were land bridges from Paulus Hook (Jersey City) to New Amsterdam. With the farmland more affordable in Paulus Hook, world-hikers flocked there. They raised sheep and developed a code for displaying ownership that was understood in all languages operative then in Paulus Hook. They would point at their flock and sing “ee-I-ee-I-oh.” Eventually, this phrase evolved into an autobiographical song that was more expansive and included farmers’ entire lives—from agriculture school graduation, to moving to a dell, to taking a wife, to starting a dairy, to a livestock inventory—from chickens to goats.

My family emigrated to New Amsterdam from The Netherlands in the 1600s. They wore painted and varnished wooden shoes and loved tulips. They covered their mouths when they yawned and did not speak when chewing gum. Way ahead of their time, my ancestors went dancing at the “Van Gogh-A-Go-Go.” They did “The Wood Shoe Clomp,” the “Licorice Twist” and the “ee-I-ee-I-oh.” It was a beautiful, lovely, amazing, wonderful time back then; until the British showed up and took New Amsterdam away from my ancestors and named it New York, after York, a city in England with a wall around it to keep the residents in—licking boots and being lapdogs.

The English outlawed everything and ridiculed our culture. They wouldn’t cover their mouths when they yawned—this would make children cry. And they would roll their chewing gum around their tongues when they talked, making women and some men sick to see. Because “ee-I-ee-I-oh” was not derived from English, they deemed it subversive and banned it, and jailed anybody who used it. However, as an act of resistance, when they recited their vowels my ancestors would say “a-e-I-e-I-o-u.” It became a sort of anthem that wasn’t detected by the English until the Anglophile traitor Daan DeJong, pretending to be drunk, revealed the secret. He was granted a manor in New Ark, New Jersey, displacing its Dutch occupants. He was killed one week later by canon fire directed at his privy.

History is complex. Language is complex. Culture is complex.

Ee-I-e-I-oh.

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

Paper and Kindle versions of The Daily Trope are available on Amazon under the title The Book of Tropes.

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Aschematiston

Posted on March 14, 2023 | 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.”]

Elgin: “The moon is like a yellow bathrobe hanging in the sky. When it is full it is like a fat man. When it wanes, it’s on a diet, slimming down and disappearing—sneaking into a late night diner and becoming quiche.”

What do you think? I’m taking a creative writing class. When I read this in class, my fellow students squirmed around in their chairs and looked at the professor and coughed quietly.

You: It stinks. It’s like vomit with words. Or, a speaking hairball.

Elgin: Thanks—your cutting criticism builds my character. All great writers were not appreciated in their own time. Look at Poe. He died a drunk in the gutter. Or Socrates: his critics made him feel so bad, he killed himself! Hunter Thompson took lots of psychedelic drugs to drive out the critics’ voices.

Do you see what I’m saying? The worse you say it is, the better it is. That’s the rule I follow for dealing with my writing’s reception. And of course, out of respect, I must accept any positive feedback I get: of which my 14-year-old nephew is the only instance. He liked “I Shot the Teddy Bear, I Didn’t Shoot the Bunny Rabbit.” It was influenced by my Reggae roots in music and my sympathy for the plight of all Jamaica.

You: What happened to you?

Elgin: Ha ha! I’ve written a lot of great stuff. Here’s another sample.

“My mouth is an inverted unicorn horn with the tip sawn off—a single shaft jammed down my throat like a train track made from bananas soaked with cognac and sweet syrup leading to the mall, carrying the mail in a ruby-crusted bag made by greedy charlatans in workshops on mountaintops somewhere in Switzerland, wearing goose down coats and mink fur hats, and banging their sheep skin gloved hands together to keep them warm. The rubies are fake.”

I like this! The surprise ending is the clincher: “The rubies are fake.” Did it bowl you over? When I wrote it, it bowled me over! The rest of it conveys the angst of modern life, and it’s roots in it’s ultimate incoherence.

You: “Ultimate Incoherence!” Perfect! “Unintelligible” might be more accurate. Or perhaps “mentally ill” captures it best. I think you’re about to join the ranks of under-appreciated writers. There’s a van waiting downstairs.

Elgin: You have thwarted my artistic endeavors all my life. Your jealousy has consumed you. You Neanderthal! You jelly sandwich! You box of mud!

POSTSCRIPT

Of course, after he was put away, Elgin was “discovered” by the literary world. “Unicorn Horn” achieved acclaim everywhere and was voted by Literati Magazine “Most Likely to Induce Functional Confusion.” However, the asylum kept the news from Elgin because it would damage his fragile self concept as a complete failure. They told him he won nothing.

The asylum that Elgin was housed in was in Texas, where “guests” are permitted to kill themselves as as long as the vehicle is a hot beverage. When he found out he was a loser, Elgin requested a mug of piping hot hemlock, sweetened with honey and seasoned with nutmeg. After drinking it, he said, “This isn’t bad,” and died. Now Elgin is a literary icon. Now, first editions of his works are worth $100,000. Now, his brother, who had him committed, has become a millionaire.

Paper and Kindle versions of The Daily Trope are available at Amazon under the title The Book of Tropes.

Definition courtesy of “Silva Rhetoricae” (rhetoric.byu.edu). Bracketed text added by Gorgias.

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Asphalia

Posted on March 13, 2023 | Leave a comment

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

Edward: I don’t know how many times I put myself last for you. When we were kids I let you get in front of me at the ice cream stand. I always hold the door and let you go first. When we had our first house with one bathroom, I’d let you go first while I went in the yard if I had to. I kept a roll of toilet paper under the back porch by the bucket. If we ran out of something, like peanut butter, I’d let you have the last bit. When we couldn’t afford for both of us to have the Porterhouse steak at “Morty’s Big Meats,” I had a salad, bread, and a glass of water. Whenever we travel, I let you have the window seat and have my pretzels too.

Now, after all the giving and putting you first, you’re telling me I’m having an affair with your sister— God, that’s twisted. I couldn’t have an affair with her if I tried. She is a morally upright Christian girl. She only dates unmarried people of faith. If my selfless track record in our marriage isn’t enough to convince you that there’s nothing going on, then I can vouch for her conduct and character in my capacity as her friend. When has she ever given you a reason to doubt her character? And me? In twenty years of marriage, and two children, I have never let you down. Whoever planted this rumor about Bette and me should be tortured to death, or something like that. I think you should apologize to Bette. She’s as pure as the driven snow. Again, I guarantee she’s not fooling around with me—take it from your loving selfless husband. I was going to visit Bette tonight for our weekly Scrabble game. Why don’t you come along? The three of us can play Scrabble together.

POSTSCRIPT

Edward was having an affair with Bette. She became pregnant. She was unable to get an abortion because of her state’s laws. She told her sister everything about her affair with Edward. Edward was found drowned in Big Bend River. Although his pants were filled with rocks, foul play was not suspected. Edward’s death was ruled a suicide. The two sisters moved in together and raised baby Travis to be a selfless loving man.

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

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Assonance

Posted on March 12, 2023 | 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.

I told him to dig the pit—this pig ain’t getting any younger! What? You like antique pork? I did not mean it. I did not want to be there. I didn’t want to whack and gut the poor little piggy. His name was Porky. I had raised him for Four-H and won a blue ribbon for the job I had done. In everybody’s mind down here, pigs are for breeding and eating. In the end they all end up on the chopping block, after they can’t make piglets any more, or when they’re tender and juicy and good to eat. They’re also eaten as “sucklings” at 2-6 weeks old. That’s pretty barbaric. Porky is one year old. Good eating age. I could still pick him up and hug him. He seemed to like it.

He kept catching my eyes with his little pig eyes from his pen. He looked like he was pleading. I could smell the smoke and hear Mr. Giles sharpening the butcher tools. Porky will be shot in the head with a .357, and then taken apart with knives and a cleaver—all razor sharp. Then I did it. I opened Porky’s pen and picked him up and ran like hell. Porky oinked like he was cheering me on. I heard people running after me and yelling things like “you bastard,” “F’in thief,” “Your ass is grass.” Now, they cranked up their ATVs and were coming across the field to get me. I thought for sure they’d kill me. They caught up with me and I handed over Porky. I hopped the back of one of the ATVs and rode back to the pit.

Uncle Pete told me not to worry: “This kind of thing happens all the time when kids make their 4-H projects into pets. It happened with me and my rabbit Penny. It’s hard to eat your pet, but once you get a juicy chunk of tender Porky pork loin in your mouth—mmm mmm—all those doubts and hesitations will disappear.”

Uncle Pete made a lot of sense. Why not eat Porky? He was just a pig. Porky was looking at me again with his little pig eyes. I knew that he knew I was going to be complicit in his murder. As I stood there he snoffled at Me pitifully, but my mind was made up. Uncle Pete had gotten to me. When I heard the .357 and Porky’s final squeal coming from behind the barn, my mouth started watering.

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

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Assumptio

Posted on March 11, 2023 | 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.).

A: It is snowing again. We’re supposed to get a foot of snow—heavy wet snow. Back-breaking snow. Devil-snow. Our driveway is 200-feet long. I shovel it by hand. It takes nearly all day and you’re stuck in the garage waiting until I finish. Then it starts snowing again. Our driveway is cursed. It is killing me. I want a snowblower.

B: A snowblower? What are you crazy? They cost thousands of dollars. It’s hard enough to support my mother. A snowblower would bankrupt us. Aside from the occasional chest pains, shoveling keeps you in shape and those EMS volunteers are so nice. When they put that shock thing on your chest, you bounce three inches off the ground, and they’ve brought you back to life every time we call them. Do you want to give all that up? The electric shock? The bouncing? The coming back to life?

A: You are heartless Marge—heartless Marge. Let’s hire somebody to plow our driveway. I wouldn’t even have to go outside! It would add a few years to my life. I could watch out the window and wave.

B: What are you crazy? They start plowing at 2” and keep going as long as it snows. They charge $20.00 per plow. Over time, that’s more expensive than a snowblower. I think your selfishness is reprehensible. Look, just because you’re due for the eventual fatal heart attack, doesn’t mean we have to spend our life-savings and your Social Security on snow removal. My poor mother, and me too. Lower middle class does not cut it when you look at our myriad expenses. You don’t know it, but I spend $100 on eggs alone! And your life insurance premiums go up every year. Wake up Frank! We’re not millionaires.

A: Ok Marge, that’s it. I think the best argument I can make for snow management is to move to Lima, Peru without you. Clearly, you want me dead. I don’t want to be dead. I will sell the house and split the proceeds with you, and you can figure out what to do about the snow in the winter, and the grass in the summer. Maybe your mother can move in with you and help shoveling the driveway and mowing the grass.

Next winter, I’ll be eating ceviche and dinking Pisco Sours. I hope you enjoy freezing off your cheap merciless ass with you mother. Maybe the two of you can make some snowmen or a luge run. Goodbye.

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

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Asteismus

Posted on March 10, 2023 | 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.

A: Do you like my new boots? They’re made out of bullhide.

B: If I was you, I’d hide them in my closet and never take them out again, and that’s no bull!

A: That’s bullshit. You remind me of the man who had no feet. He lost them in a gasoline-powered weed trimmer accident. He was doing yard work barefoot, clearly a stupid choice. He cranked up the weed trimmer. The trimmer-head malfunctioned and trimmer string shot out and garroted his feet off. He tried to get a settlement from Weedy Chop, but he was judged negligent in his use of the trimmer due to his bare feet, even though the weed trimmer malfunctioned. Accordingly, he couldn’t afford prosthetic feet. Instead, he has a pair of rubber knee-boots stuffed with modeling clay. When he goes out (which is almost never) he wraps duct tape around the top of each boot to hold it on. He’s trying to get the boots patented under the name “Clay Feet,” but he can’t find a patent attorney willing to work pro bono for a free pair of Clay Feet.

B: What the hell is the lesson here? How could I possibly remind you of this poor guy with no feet? What’s the point?

A: That’s one point for you for asking! Why are you like the man with no feet? You take stupid risks like he did, like telling me to hide my bullhide boots. You don’t even realize saying something like that could sever our friendship. I’m basically fed up by your clever little insults. Like I say, “Let’s take trip,” and you say sarcastically, “Trip on a crack?”

B: How is that an insult? You’re an insult! I’m going home.

A: Oh, you have a home? Ok. Don’t go. Stay, and we can work this out if we just talk some more. We always do. We’re both pushing 70 and we’ve been friends since we were twenty. Remember when we used to race our Corvairs at the drag strip on Family Days? I beat you every time, but you didn’t seem to mind.

B: I minded enough to let the air out of your tires a couple of times. You didn’t beat me every time. I even won a couple of trophies while you were refilling your tires! Truth be told, I should be asking why you stopped wearing rubber boots all the time. I always thought it was a little quirky, and I made fun of you countless times. Like, boot boy, shake your booty, boot it up, bootleg, bootlick, and more. You still walk funny, but I guess the bullhide boots help a little. Are you the man with no feet?

A: Yes, that’s true. All these years I’ve kept it hidden from you for fear you would steal my “Clay Feet” patent, if I ever got one. You see, you’re the worst friend I ever had. I’ve stuck with you because you’re the only friend I’ve ever had. But hey, look here. I’ve put grommets in my pant legs, and shower curtain hooks attached to my boots to hold them on by hooking them through the grommets. No more duct tape! I’m calling them “Clay Feet Deluxe.”

B: Ok. Sounds good. Maybe I’ll see you around again someday in a few years. Bye bye Booty Boy.

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

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Astrothesia

Posted on March 9, 2023 | Leave a comment

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

Our family, all three of us, lay on a blanket in the field down by the woods. There was no wind and it was a warm summer night. We were looking for shooting stars and star gazing too. There was no moon. It was perfect. We stood up to look at the stars’ constellations as well as the North Star—that piece of twinkling light that has guided countless people to their destinations. People need reliable anchor points to guide them home: from loving partners to lights in the sky, they help us find our way. Then we saw the two dippers—big and little, Orion, Cassiopeia and the Milky Way. The constellations have been projected onto the sky by humans for thousands of years. Most of them have Greek and Latin names. The ancients connected the sky-dots in accord with their cultures, naming them, mostly, from their pantheons of gods and goddesses. The Milky Way was called Via Galactica—the road of milk—by the Romans. It is amazing that in thousands of years the names still fit, partially because they project a sort of continuity in human perception—naming is important and was a matter of convention, but the stars’ names persist, as is the case too with other aspects of natural order. “Star” starts with the Sanskrit stem “sta” and it shares meaning with every word starting with “sta” denoting a sort of sta-bility.

The wind. The rain. The snow. The stars—the beautiful stars that bring life to the cold night sky providing insomniacs and pining romantics alike with something to look at—a grand distraction that certifies the night as more than a site of frustration or grief. The stars may prompt revelation, if not solutions to the night’s quandaries: the burden of wakefulness, the bisected horror of a traumatized heart. We all see stars, but we may all see them differently, like everything else, our capacities and interests differ: nothing is identical to anything else, just similar at best, as if similar is preferable different. It is all circumstantial, flowing from particular cases through particular people who’re mutable, and may be changed by what they see.

Meteor time! I shut up and we lay on the blanket and wait. My daughter points at the sky and yells, “There’s one!” There it is! A thread of white fire, going down. It disappears as it burns out in the atmosphere. We saw that happen 8 times. Each time it warranted yelling “There’s one!” And a chorus of “Oooh!” It makes me think of fireworks in the July or New Year skies, or van Gogh’s “Starry Night.”

Stars make the sky into wonder’s blanket. When you gaze at them at night, you are joining millions of other people as darkness sweeps around the globe. There is something about people that makes the sky worth contemplating.

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

A version of The Daily Trope is available under the title The Book of Tropesat Amazon in paper and Kindle formats.

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Asyndeton

Posted on March 8, 2023 | 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.]

There were hundreds of crows. Circling. Cawing. Looking down at the cornfield. Looking down at me. I had been hired by the richest man in the county, if not the state, to be his personal scarecrow. I had gone through rigorous training in Kansas where all the large corporate corn farms have living scarecrows. They’re called “Scare Boys” and most of them are high school dropouts with a story to tell, I dropped out of high school to earn money after my father took off with “Hairy Mary” when the traveling carnival visited town. He was bald, so maybe Mary made him feel better. On the other hand, my father always said he should’ve been a cat. Snuggling with Mary’s hairy torso might’ve made him feel like a cat. This is just speculation, what else can I do?

So, the crows were checking me out, swooping lower and lower. I was dressed in a three piece suit. My employer believed it was less likely the crows would poop on me if I wore a suit. I believed the opposite. I was right. The crows rained down a cloudburst of poop. It was like my beautiful suit had been smeared with Fluff marshmallow spread. Luckily, I was wearing a wide brimmed cowboy hat so my head was spared. It was time to scare some crows!

I put on my eye protectors in case they tried to peck my eyeballs out. We had watched “The Birds” as part of our training, so eye pecking by angry birds was on the menu. They were starting to dip, trying to knock my hat off and peck on my head until they drilled into my brain and killed me. I pulled down my chin strap. There was no way my hat was coming off.

I pulled my stadium horn from its holster and blew the Crow Panic sound. The flock lost its formation, crows were colliding and falling out of the sky. Then, I blew Crow Retreat. The crows flocked back up and flew away, leaving behind their dead and wounded comrades. I kept blowing Crow Retreat until they disappeared over the horizon. I put my stadium horn away and noticed there was a wounded crow by my foot. I picked it up. Brought it home. Nursed it back to health. I named him CORAX, which means raven or crow in Greek. I learned that in Scare Boy school. I taught CORAX to be an informant, sort of like Paul Revere, alerting me when the “crows are coming.” I rewarded him handsomely for his spying—he had a spacious nest in a solid silver cupola, specially built as his home. He was fed the finest organic corn that money could buy. With minor surgery on his tongue, he was able to speak. He learned Lincoln’s “Gettysburg Address” and “Paul’s First Epistle to the Corinthians.” He could also carry on a rudimentary conversation. We worked together for nearly ten years, and then CORAX was found out and assassinated by a hit crow from Miami (we’re pretty sure of this),

I retired after CORAX was taken out by the hitter. Some day, I’m going to write a book about my career as a Scare Boy. Scare Boys are no more. Now they have stadium horns embedded in giant mechanical crows. The operator monitors the cornfields from a remote panel with CCTV and presses buttons turning the stadium horns off and on for miles around.

Now, I am working on developing a home for orphaned crows. There is an abandoned Speedy Lube nearby that I have my eye on. Send money to ComeAndFundMe at “Crow’s Nest.” I will be grateful.

Definition courtesy of “Silva Rhetoricae” (rhetoric.byu.edu). Bracketed text added by Gorgias.

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Auxesis

Posted on March 7, 2023 | 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.

I had a boil on my butt as big as a house, as big as Nebraska, as big as Donald Trump’s ego: the size of half a basketball, and that’s no exaggeration, buddy. That’s the stark blobbed-up truth. I was layin’ in bed and my wife said she felt some thin’ funny like a water balloon sloshin’ around on my rear end. When she squeezed it I about jumped through the ceiling with pain. It had sprouted during the night. It probably would’ve blown if I had slept on my back or tossed and turned. It would’ve blown and maybe drowned my wife. The thought disgusted me, but this was real life and I had to deal with it.

We had to go to the doctor, but I was afraid if I sat down in the car the boil would blow and soak the car seats with some kind of vile-smelling body fluid. So we walked. I put my butt in my wheelbarrow and my wife pushed me along. I had on a T-shirt with my underpants down around my knees. I made a little sign I held so people we passed would know what was going on: “Giant Boil on Hind-end. In transit.” It more or less worked, but the children we passed were still puzzled. When we went by a neighbor’s house, she was in the driveway and couldn’t miss us. She yelled “Bernie” and covered her eyes. Bernie came out with a baseball bat, but nothing happened. I yelled sarcastically, “Thank for understanding!” and we kept going. I was afraid I would blow at any minute.

When got to the doctor’s I hopped out of the wheelbarrow, went through the door and told the receptionist I had an appointment to be drained and pointed at my bulging butt. She gagged and told me to go wait in the corner by the examining room. Almost immediately, Dr. Dringle called me into the examining room. My pants were already down, so we went straight to the examination. “Holy shit! That’s the mother of all boils,” said an awe struck Dr. Dringle, “My office equipment can’t handle it. We’ll have to drain at the sewage treatment facility by the mall. You’ll lay on your stomach in the back of my pickup truck, and we’ll drive you there. We’ll have to stop and get a permit at Town Hall, but that’ll only take a few minutes.” I got in the back of the truck, and off we went. The person issuing permits came outside to measure my butt to make sure it met specifications for draining at the sewage treatment plant. My butt passed inspection and we headed for the plant. When we got there we were taken to a room with a giant bowl. It was filled with poop and it was being stirred by a giant mechanical spatula. “Brownies?” I quipped. The foreman gave me a dirty look and pointed at a contraption bolted to the side of the bowl. It looked like a child’s potty with an extra large hole in it and a ladder on the side. Dr. Dringle, now wearing an orange haz-mat suit and respirator, climbed down the ladder with a sharped knitting needle in his hand. He stabbed my boil with the knitting needle. The pus flooded out, and my butt deflated in under one minute.

It took two weeks for my butt to heal. I still have the loose skin on my butt where the boil used to be. It makes a slapping sound when I wiggle my hips naked. The boil changed my life. I have joined the Boilites. We meet every week and eat yogurt and make our skin slap to techno music.

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

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Bdelygmia

Posted on March 6, 2023 | Leave a comment

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

I hate ballet—people running around on their tiptoes, jumping up in the air and no dialogue—how stupid. All you can hear is music and dancers’ feet hitting the stage floor with their wimpy little slippers. Ballet was invented in Italy, like some of the world’s worst food— like eating a plateful of worms or almost-dried glued squares packed with greasy meat. And the wine tastes like gasoline fresh from the refinery. And then there’s opera. How the hell did it every get a toehold among the performing arts—it’s comic book stories put to music and sung in Italian, in shrieking voices that can drill holes in your ears. Even worse though, is Italian rap music. It has more repetition than a sewing machine, I could learn one word in Italian by listening to it—standing outside the Coliseum wearing earbuds.

What’s worse? Leonardo da Vinci. What a sham! He’s most famous for his painting “Mona Lisa.” It’s a painting of a jaundiced teenager with gas. The look on her face says “I just farted Leonardo.” There’s no denying it. Due to Mona’s embarrassment, her eyes are averted. Da Vince pawned her fart-look off as a smile, and it took off—taking the Italian art fans by storm. For months, women mimicked the smile, grocery shopping, going to the park, it didn’t matter. At one point a medical doctor called out da Vince on the fart smile. Da Vinci sued him and had Mona testify that she had never farted in her entire life. Although the jury did not believe her, they acquitted da Vinci “for the sake of art.” Mona married her fist cousin Vito of Napoli. They lived happily ever after, aside from Mona’s excessive flatulence.

And that brings me to flatulence—a euphemism—a word that conceals as much as it reveals. The Stoics believed it was a kind of obscenity to use euphemisms. Euphemisms do a sort of violence to the truth by masking key aspects of the phenomena they name. What about “flatulence” vs. “one cheek squeak”? How about “butt blurt” or “stink bomb”? Which of these words catches “fart” most effectively? Not flatulence, unless you speak Latin or ignore a fart’s key-note (Ha ha).

Last, I want to register my deep dislike for Tucker Carlson. I don’t want to kill him, but I wouldn’t mind seeing him pushed down by Hunter Biden, Joe’s evil son who took a picture of himself smoking in a tub. That makes him tougher than the average president’s child. Compare him to one of the Trump boys—it’s apples and oranges.

Carlson is damaging the USA by pretending to be a news broadcaster on FOX TV. I believe he is evil, but I wouldn’t pay anybody to run up on the FOX News set and push hm out of his chair on live TV; not even Hunter Biden. Maybe Rupert Murdoch should give it a try, or maybe he should just fire Tucker.

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

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Bomphiologia

Posted on March 5, 2023 | Leave a comment

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

I was born on a beach in New Jersey, the craziest state in the land of the free, I hung in the park so I knew every tree, and I killed me a skunk with my car when I was twenty-three: Mickey, Mickey Ramapo, King of Seaside Heights.

I’m 6’9” and I am more handsome then Bruce Springsteen. I got thick black hair and bright blue eyes. It’s not my fault, but every night at least one girl is gonna cry because I won’t take her home at closin’ time from “Marla’s Food & Drink.” Down in Texas, I got 50 oil wells pumpin’ out dollar bills day and night. I got a 20-room mansion in Mahwah, a beach house down at the shore, and a secret hideout up north, I can’t tell you any more.

I am 71 and my latest wife is 23. She keeps me feeling young. My second biggest thrill is to watch Baby run on the treadmill. My children think she’s great. They go skiing in the winter and down to the place at the shore every other season. I’ve got so much money I can never spend it all. I have 9 cars. Every one’s worth over $60,000. My chauffeur Barb takes me anywhere I want to go. We have fun inspecting motel rooms, pretending we work for the Department of Sanitation. We have fake I.D. Cards. It’s a blast.

You should know that I graduated at the top of my class at Rutgers—I tied with some kid from China—a refugee. His father was a Red Guard and despised him for his Western learning. Too bad! My family was there at graduation eating a pepperoni pizza down in the from row, with super-size Cokes. They briefly took “Little Mao” under their wing. My dad got him a job driving a bakery truck until he heard back on his grad school applications. He got into MIT and disappeared. We thought he was kidnapped. I guess it was confirmed when we saw a newspaper picture of him beating up an old man in a street brawl somewhere in China. But of course, that did not deter me.

I opened a turtle oil factory in Linden. We squeezed it out of Sea Turtle muscles and genitals. The slogan for our turtle oil was: “It wins the race.” It is an allusion to the story of the tortoise and the hare—in our case the “race” is the race against time, or aging. Anyway I was shut down by the “Fish and Game Commission” but not before I’d made seven-billion dollars and could retire in style.

Behind Rocco Commisso, I am the richest man in New Jersey. Did you get that? Second richest man in New Jersey! It might be hard to believe I made all that money selling turtle oil in the Sixties. You don’t believe it? Fu*ck you. And oh, don’t forget my oil wells.

Definition courtesy of “Silva Rhetoricae”

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Brachylogia

Posted on March 4, 2023 | 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.

Up, down, over, under, sideways, backwards, forward, in between. Directions—all different ways of going, but straight. Straight is the boring way, the legal way. But, I am crooked, a “bent copper” as they say in the UK. I’ve been on the force for 20 years, and I manage to do a bad deed nearly every month. This month, I did traffic tickets for pay. The rubes paid the fine on the spot, or from an ATM, avoiding getting a ticket. The rubes love it—it keeps their insurance rates down, and keeps them out of court. A favorite of mine is picking stuff up from loading docks that’s been left for me. In exchange, I keep quiet about their fencing stolen goods. Last week I snagged a 72” flat screen! But this might change.

I have been assigned a partner. Clarence is 22 and just graduated from the police academy. His head is full of bullshit about being a moral and vigilant cop. He is slowing me down. Yesterday, I was supposed to pick up ransom in exchange for the cat I had kidnapped. Clarence got in the car and starts sneezing his ass off. Guess what? I had to take the cat home and skip the ransom pick up. I told Clarence I would take the cat home and reschedule the visit to the vet. He told me he knew what I was up to: I loved spending quality time with my cat and that he was like that too. What a goddamn dork. I had to get rid of him: get him relieved of duty as my partner, or kill him.

So, I peed on the driver’s seat of our patrol car. Clarence jumped in and landed in the warm puddle. He squirmed around and started the car. I said, “Wait! What’s that smell? Did you pee yourself?” “I think so,” he said. “I need to change my pants.” I did this for a week and Clarence was eventually relieved of duty for incontinence. I went back to “work” accenting my police work with crime.

I bumped into Clarence in a topless bar where I’d gone to collect my weekly take. Clarence waved at me and hoisted up a beer in my direction. He motioned at me to come over. I was ready for him to curse me out for what I had done. Instead, he had a big smile and shook my hand saying “Thank-you, thank-you, thank-you!” All I could think was “WTF?” Clarence told me: “I knew what your were up to. I heard about the cat napping. When there was pee on the seat, I knew it was you, trying to get rid of me. I played along and was indefinitely suspended on medical leave with full pay. What a deal! So, thanks! I owe you. I will never tell your bent secrets. You’re my role model!”

God, now I did have to kill him. He knew too damn much about my corrupt policing practices.. On the other hand, he idolized me. I still had the kidnapped cat. I would test him by having him return it , even though he was on medical leave, and collect the ransom money for me. The next day the headlines read: “Rookie Patrolman Recovers Missing Cat.” This could be a problem. I loaded my .45 and went to pay Clarence a surprise visit.

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

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Cacozelia

Posted on March 3, 2023 | 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.

My cat made me nervous. His utilization of his food bowl as a litter box made me reticent to be around him. I wanted to incentivize him to do the right thing, so I started putting his food in his litter box and switched the food dish for the litter box, putting the litter box in the kitchen for him to eat from. But then he started looking at me—sitting on his haunches, unblinking yellow eyes, grooming his whiskers. I had heard of cats eating their owners—chewing off their faces and escaping through their cat flap, blood dripping from their whiskers to ingratiate themselves to an unsuspecting widow or a little girl or boy, or any lonely person in need of a modicum of affection and company.

Every night would begin with Sidney jumping up on my bed. He would dig his well-honed claws into my chest as he purred, sounding like an idling motorcycle. After I’ve fallen asleep, he jumps off the bed and wakes me up with a loud thump on the floor. I go back to sleep. He jumps back on the bed and wakes me up. He starts kneading me, claws pricking my chest. He stops. Purrs. We both go to sleep. He wakes up, jumps off the bed, wakes me up, etc., etc. I have been sleep deprived for 4 years. I would send Sydney to the animal shelter if he did not have a redeeming behavior.

Each year the manufacturer of “Silver Stench” canned cat food hosts the “Cat Flap Classic.” The “Cat Flap Classic” consists of a 10-foot dash through a cat flap. The cat with the fastest time for the 10-foot dash wins the prize which is $20,000, a year’s supply of “Silver Stench,” plus a series of “Silver Stench” endorsements. Sidney has won the “Cat Flap Classic” for the past 3 years. I take the prize money and leave Sydney staying with the Vet. I travel to the Arizona desert, where it is quiet and there’s no cat to keep me awake. Ahhhh.

When I got back this year, the Vet told me Sydney was suffering from arthritis and his running days are over. It was hard to believe—he was 100% healthy when I left for Arizona. But it was true—Sydney could hardly walk. Our racing days were over. So, I invented “The Cat-a-Vator.” It is a battery-powered lift mounted on a small hand truck. When a cat steps on the lift’s platform, it slowly goes up, and they can walk onto the bed without having to jump. Likewise, stepping on it when it was up would make it go down.

I made millions off “The Cat-a-Vator.” Our mansion has fifteen cat flaps. Sydney enjoys walking through them. But, Sydney still kept me awake. There was nothing I could do—Sydney would not shut up. So, I came up with the idea of using noise cancelling ear buds to deaden the purring sound. It worked! Now, I am working with “Silver Stench” to hold a “Cat Flap Classic” for elderly and disabled cats. I think Sydney is looking forward to competing.

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

An edited version of The Daily Trope is available on Amazon in paper and Kindle formats under the title Book of Tropes.

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Catachresis

Posted on March 2, 2023 | 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 biked a racket, like a horse, in my living room. I stuck it between my legs, with the grip sticking out the back like a tail. Then, I run in place like I’m pedaling a bicycle, it’s a great way to repurpose a tennis racket when you’ve quit playing tennis.

I’ve written a book titled “14 Carat Crap.” It contains projects centering on transforming garbage to gold. We become fixated on seeing things the way they are, instead of the way they could be. Everything I look at, in my mind I think of ways of transforming it. Does this make me a visionary? Yes! What if you could make your home into something else? Have you ever heard of a “crack den?” Buy my book and you’ll find out how to make your home into one for fun and profit. It’s simple, easy, and low maintenance. You’ll learn how to bribe the police, cleanly dispose of bodies, expand into prostitution, launder money, and cultivate international business relationships with Colombian and Peruvian colleagues.

What about that pool table down in the basement gathering dust? With a few nails, and a roulette wheel easily purchased on Amazon.com along with a layout to cover the pool table with, you can blow that dust away! What could be easier? Guess what? You’re on your way to running and illegal gambling casino. In my book I explain how to rig the wheel so you can control your cash flow! What could be better? People will flock to our casino. You can cleverly name it after your street, like “Casino on Elm Street.” What a deal!

One more teaser, then you’ll have buy my book. Is your refrigerator running? You better catch it! Ha! Ha! This one is so simple a child could could do it. I’m going to be blunt. You mount a hasp on the refrigerator’s side and door so the door can be padlocked shut. Clear out all the shelves. Here’s the rationale: Many people have elderly parents that they can’t afford to put in a nursing home. The “Lockable Fridge” is a perfect solution. For you, six or seven refitted fridges in your house will generate a huge return. Your customers will be required to dispose of their loved ones. Winter is the best time to run your fridge business, especially in the North, Winter climatic conditions will provide a cause of death. Perfect!

Well, there you have a taste of “14 Carat Crap.” The book contains over 100 transformations of common things, most of which turn a hefty profit.

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

Print and Kindle editions of The Daily Trope are available on Amazon under the title The Book of Tropes.

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Catacosmesis

Posted on March 1, 2023 | Leave a comment

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

Links in a chain. We are all links in a chain. There’s royalty, millionaires, half-a-millionaires, middle class, lower middle class, lower class, and me—the bottom of the barrel. My best friend is a rat named Billy. We’ve been friends for five years. I have taught him several tricks. He performs on the orange crate I found in a dumpster a couple of years ago. I was using it to dine on. But, when I met Billy, I knew it would be his stage.

Rats are pretty smart, but it was a challenge inculcating Billy with an entire repertoire. Billy’s favorite was “find the cockroach.” I had a jar full of live roaches that I had trapped in my kitchen. It was ridiculously easy. I put a cherry-flavored sour ball in the jar, and ten minutes later, slapped the lid on and trapped 10-15 roaches. I would put three Dixie cups upside down on the orange crate, put a roach under one and switch them around while Billy watched intently. Then, I’d yell “Find the roach Billy!” Billy would spring to life, sniffing up and down the row of upturned cups with his pointy little rat nose. He would find the roach with his nose, and use his nose to flip the cup. The roach would scurry across the orange crate and Billy would grab it, making a crunching noise in his jaws. Then, sitting on his haunches and holding the roach between his paws, Billy would bite off its head and swallow it. The punters would go wild, sometimes filling my cigar box with hundreds of dollars.

One day a punter was in the audience who looked like Willie Wonka—dressed in 19th-century finery with a top hat and a gold watch fob. He looked like something out of a children’s storybook. After the other punters left, he came up to me and handed me his card. Billy squealed his disapproval. The strange man’s name was Dr. Dressing. He represented an aristocrat—Duke Flatbutt—who liked to be privately entertained at his manor house outside the village. Dr, Dressing offered us $2,000 for one performance of find the roach. We couldn’t say no. He paid us up front.

We rode with Dr. Dressing to the manor house. It was crumbling, but it was still beautiful. Duke Flatbutt met us at the door. He said, “Greetings. Do your act.” We set up and ran the act. Duke Flatbutt applauded like a fiend, and ran behind a dressing screen at the end of the room. There was thumping and bumping behind the screen. Duke Flatbutt yelled “Set up the show again!” Accordingly I put a big fat roach under one of the upturned cups. I yelled “Ready!”

The dressing screen fell over and Duke Flatbutt was standing there dressed like a giant rat. Billy squealed and ran up my pant leg and into my coat pocket. Duke Flatbutt came lurching toward me squealing, passed me, and started nosing the cups. He quickly caught the roach, sat on the floor, bit off the roach’s head, chewed it up, and swallowed it.

Dr. Dressing said, “You may go now.” And we did! I grabbed my orange crate and we ran toward the door. When we got outside, the sun was setting. As I jogged along the road to the village I tried to fathom what Billy and I had witnessed. I couldn’t. I have nightmares, but Billy and I still do our act, and he still balances a ball on nose like a seal, does the “rat fit” rolling around with severe tremors, and writes “Billy” with his tail—with a taped-on marker on an old piece of white board I found in the high school dumpster and lean against the orange crate.

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

An edited version of 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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Cataphasis

Posted on February 28, 2023 | 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.

Lars: I am making a rowboat in my garage. I never built one before. I have no plans. I don’t know how to row a boat. There’s no place to launch it for 300 miles.

You know my name is Lars Stockholm. I am descended from Vikings. When I die I want to go to Valhalla in a burning boat. I want to wear a Viking hat with cow horns on it, a shaggy fur suit and carry this wooden sword and metal garbage can lid to shield me from danger, although I will be dead and it won’t matter. Nevertheless, it pays to plan ahead—there might be danger lurking in the afterlife, especially for people of Viking heritage. Maybe I should just wear a nice suit and have a traditional burial, or be cremated, like my uncle Sven. No! I’m going full Viking. I don’t care what terror I meet with. Heimdall will protect me. I am sure of it. Why have a protector god if he does not protect you? Haha!

Me: Are you working on a deadline with your boat? That’s a joke. Anyway, you’ve done some stupid things in your life, but this tops them all. It is against the law to launch burning boat. The fine is $10,000 and 2 years in jail for the illegal disposal of human remains. One thing you can do, is have your boat doused with gasoline, launch in your in your back yard in-ground pool, and throw a match on it. Poof! Your body’s in flames. Your friends can observe from your comfy pool furniture—drinking wine and beer—two preferred Viking beverages. When it’s done, the pool can filled in by a bulldozer and a pile of dirt. Your loved ones can plant grass and put up a marker.

Lars: Wow! You are still the genius! Now, I almost can’t wait to die. I think with such and plan, the gods and goddesses will smile on me and sanctify my grave. You can’t be too careful about these things.

POSTSCRIPT

Lars was 58 when all this happened. He lived to be 108. He had moved three times since his burning boat in the pool idea took shape. He died in Arizona, near the desert, one of the driest places in the USA. Lars’s funeral took place in his backyard. The lawn sprinklers had been left running for seven hours. In a body bag, Lars was laid in the giant puddle that had formed. The Minister finished his eulogy and Lars was transported to the cemetery. A full bathtub had been prepared for him in his gravesite. As he was lowered into the tub, it would simulate being buried at sea. A lid was dropped onto the tub, dirt was pushed on top of it, and Lars had his Viking burial.

By now, I was no kid. I was of Scottish heritage. I couldn’t bear the idea of bagpipes at my funeral. Haggis hurling I could support—my great-grandfather was a national champion hurler. My plan was shaping up.

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

An edited version of 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 February 27, 2023 | Leave a comment

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

“You broke my heart. You made me cry. Ain’t that a shame? My tears fell like rain.” Fats Domino, sometime in the 1950s. Fats needed a champion. Somebody to hit his faithless girlfriend with payback for what she did. Ain’t that a shame? Hell no. It’s the right thing to do.

I hired a private detective to find her. He told me her name was Nadine, she’s 84, and she lives in the Vieux Carre in New Orleans. I flew to New Orleans. It was the height of Mardi Gras. I bought a devil costume and put it on. It made me feel suitably evil to wreak revenge on behalf of Fats. Then, I realized it! She was the Nadine that Chuck Berry sang about—a cheating tart riding around in a Cadillac with her paramour. Chuck had to risk his life in an epic car chase to bring Nadine home.

Nadine lived in a tiny apartment over a topless place on Bourbon Street, where tourists go to get drunk and soak up the risqué nightlife. I knocked on her door. An elderly women with a walker opened the door. “Hello there,” she said when she opened the door. I looked over her shoulder and saw an autographed photograph of Chuck Berry with “Nadine why can’t you be true?” written across it. Then, I knew I was right about her being the Nadine in the song. I asked, “Were you the one who destroyed Fats Domino’s life too?” She said: “Fats and Chuck were the loves of my life, but I couldn’t choose between them—when Chuck did his duck walk across the stage, and Fats pounded on his piano, I was in ecstasy. They wanted the three of us to move in together, but my religious faith kept me from doing so. It was the worst decision I ever had to make: I couldn’t have both of them, so I would have neither of them. Chuck went into denial, believing I was cheating on him. Fats handled it better, crying and realizing it was a genuine shame—that I hadn’t betrayed him. I never married or had children. I was a topless dancer until my boobs gave out when I turned 50. Chuck and Fats would visit every now and then. Sometimes we’d go out to dinner—the three of us. When Chuck and Fats passed, they left me $1,000,000 between them, but I haven’t moved. All I did was buy a titanium walker, a pair of orthopedic shoes, and a bidet.”

As she spoke, my anger and desire for revenge evaporated. I understood the painful decision she had to make to uphold her faith. I looked at the switchblade in my hand, and though for a second that I should stab myself for being such an idiot.

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 February 26, 2023 | Leave a comment

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

A: You smell like a dog.

B: That’s the price you pay for having a best friend. Get it? Haha!

A: I said smell like a dog, not act like a dog.

B: Haha. Let’s shake hands and forget about it. Get it? Haha.

A: I’m not interested in your dog tricks—shaking hands is at the bottom of the hierarchy of dog tricks. Oh, maybe “sit” is lower. Can you sit?

B: Can’t you see? I’m sitting on the couch, curled up. I can roll over too. Look! There you have it!

A: Go home and take a shower and wash away your dog smell. And what the hell are you doing talking?

B: I am home. I live here. See that dog dish over there, it’s mine! What is wrong with you? You knew I was a Venetian Talker when you got me from the shelter. Maybe you should take a cold shower and come back to reality. Do you even remember my name? Just in case you don’t, it’s Strabo.

A: Strabo? Hmmm. Shelter? Talker? What?

I’m pretty sure it’s Wednesday and it’s noon, I’m sitting here in my pajamas, drinking a martini, and I’m talking to a dog. I must be losing my mind.

B: I’ll help you find your mind if you give me a biscuit— my favorite pizza flavored please.

A: Look, I’m going to bed. If you’re still here when I wake up we can play fetch. Can you sing? Maybe we could be a duet. I play the guitar. I can do acoustic versions of heavy metal music. I’ve got “Master of Puppets” down. I can play it with my eyes closed!

B: Sounds good to me. See you later.

POSTSCRIPT

As soon as he heard snoring coming from the bedroom, Strabo unzipped and tore off his dog-suit. Using it as a sack, he burglarized A’s house, stealing everything of value that he could see. He tiptoed to the door, carefully opened it, went down the front steps, got on his motorcycle, and took off. Before he got to the end of the street, he was burned by remorse, turned around, and returned everything to its rightful owner. He put his dog-suit back on and prepared to play fetch and sing some songs. Strabo enjoyed being a dog, even if he was fake. It had been five years since he moved in.

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

The Daily Trope excerpt are 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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