Dehortatio

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


Me: “You’ve got to stop with the cannolis. You make me eat two every day at fork point. I know you’d never kill me, but the look on your face says you might. Just because you found out your great-great grandfather was Sicilian there’s really no reason to pump out cannolis every day and make your husband, aka me, eat two every day. The first ones were delicious, and they still are, but they’re making me fat. I’m starting to look pregnant. I’ve got a cannoli bump and it isn’t funny. Don’t worry, I’m not going to give birth to a cannoli.”

“I’m all stopped up too. I haven’t pooped right for two weeks, even though I’m taking Miralax every night and setting off a toilet bowl explosion in the morning, I long for the old non-laxative mornings—I can hardly remember. For my sake, can you quit with the cannolis?”

“Wait! I have an idea! There’s a woman who just opened a store front offering seances! Let’s if we can summon your great great grandfather and ask him what to do.

Wife: “Sure stupido! I’d try anything if you’d just shut up and eat your cannolis.”

We arrived at Madam Stoli’s Friend of the Dead around 9.00 pm. We were ready to get a yes or no from Vincenzo, my wife’s great great grandfather. We gave madam Stoli the required $200 cash and the lights went out. We heard accordion music moving around the room. We were scared half to death. Madam Stoli asked “Are you Vincenzo?” The music got louder, clearly, a yes. Then Madam Stoli set things up: “Vincenzo, your great great granddaughter is here (the music rose). Since she found she is of Sicilian heritage, she started making cannolis and making her husband eat two per day.” The music’s volume dropped substantially, clearly signifying disapproval. “How about 1 every two months?” my wife asked. The volume of the music increased, with added exuberance, clearly signifying strong approval. I felt so relieved!

As we left Madam Stoli’s, I slipped her a hundred-dollar bill and thanked her. Our ruse had worked. I told her I thought the accordion was a brilliant touch, and asked how she did it.

Madam Stoli told me: “I don’t have an accordion or an accordion player, or even a recording of accordion music. Tonight, Vincenzo was here, and he was very helpful.”


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.

Dendrographia

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


When my wife and daughter, and I moved into our newly built home around 20 years ago, we had a lot of treeless land. The property where the house was built was an old cow pasture—not a tree-friendly use of the land. Although surrounded by forest consisting of maple, linden, white pine, aspen, and tamarack, the field looked treeless. But, there were some tiny trees that had started to grow, since the field hadn’t been plowed for years. They were mostly pig nut hickory born from the giant trees across the road, planted by squirrels and forgotten, and swamp maple with its pretty saw-tooth leaves that turn dark red, almost maroon, in fall. There was also a walnut tree. The deer loved to eat the saplings, but I was determined that they grow.

I found out about deer repellent at Lowe’s. It comes in a gallon jug with a hand-squeeze pump. It’s primary ingredient is rotten eggs. Deer definitely don’t like it. So, I diligently sprayed my little trees. Some of them didn’t make it, but must of them did. Now, they are around 20 ft. Tall. The hickory are the first to change colors in the fall—a nice yellow color. They are still a little spindly, but their ancestors across the road are massive. They’ll get there!

The wnd here blows hard from the west, causing deep snowdrifts in our driveway, making our already difficult winter worse. So, my wife and I planted 20 white pines on the Western border of the property. There were around six inches tall and we got them from the New York State Department of Conservation, as I recall, for hardly any money. In addition we planted a sugar maple, 5 oak trees and 4 hawthorns. Now they are mostly 20 feet tall. They’ve made a micro forest that deer like to sleep in, and at least once, give bath in. The driveway drifts are pretty well remedied, but the trees have provided so much more—like the smell of the pines, the muffling effect of their needles on the ground, the blazing autumn colors, the perching birds—from grosbeaks to hawks, to kingbirds and more.

We have kept planting trees. We have a small apple orchard that yields a few gallons of cider and quarts of applesauce per year—a father-daughter activity that has no parallel in the universe! Trying out different recipes for applesauce is special fun. There is nothing better than an apple tree laden with red ripe apples—truly ornaments: visible signs of the trees’ fulfillment of their end. In addition, we’ve planted birch trees, red bud, balsam, and magnolia, and this summer we planted paw-paw, catalpa, peaches, and chestnuts.

In addition to everything else, our trees mark time. I look out the window, or walk among them feeling the 20 or so years that have passed since we first brought them home, or received them in the mail. So much has happened as they’ve quietly grown, transforming a field into a forest. They’re in no hurry. Neither am I.


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.

Diacope

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


I am lonely—too lonely—abysmally lonely. I feel like a cactus with ten-foot spines. I wonder how I got this way, surrounded by idiots, fools, and nitwits. Take Allen, for example. He hadn’t shined his shoes for weeks. I called him irresponsible and told him if he didn’t have them shined by the next time I saw him, I would kick his ass up and down the street. Shoe hygiene is at the top of the pyramid of Maslow’s hierarchy of needs, alongside self-actualization. I never saw Allen again. He’s probably wearing his disgustingly scuffed shoes and shaking his styrofoam cup for quarters on a street corner somewhere. Bye bye Allen the stain.

Then, there’s my former girlfriend Shiela. I told her if she got another tattoo, I’d throw her out on her ass. She got another tattoo, so I threw her out on her ass. It was a picture of me that she got off my Facebook page. I didn’t care. Enough is enough. She didn’t do what I told her to do—she didn’t do what’s right. How do you have a relationship with a disobedient little twit. She called me and told me we were going to have a baby. I told her “Good. Get my picture tattooed on it.” She started crying. I hung up.

My latest “friend” Arnold wanted to eat at “Lobo’s Steak House.” He really irked me “I’m a vegetarian you cretan!” He replied “We’ve just met. Sorry, I didn’t know.” Then I gave him what he deserved: “You should’ve asked you piece of crap. Get the hell out of here—go eat your damn meat with some other blood-stained creep.” He slammed the door as he left.

You can see from the examples that I have principles and take a zero-tolerance approach to their employment. Maintaining my integrity trumps everything. It is paramount. Being alone and lonely are tributes to my moral authority, no matter how miserable I am. I don’t think Socrates had any friends and he is a pillar of Western morality. Do you think he was happy? Ha ha! He drank hemlock—a poison that killed him. I’m no Socrates, but I can smell a rat, the the rats that keep coming into my life are just that, rats—big rats, stupid rats, shifty rats, rats.

Loneliness is the price I pay to be me. Always right. Never wrong. A pillar of perfection unsullied by unworthy human beings. Some day I will connect with somebody just like me. We will mesh. My “Yes” will be their yes. My “No” will be their no. We will be parts of the same string on a violin. We will both say “potato.”


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.

Dialogismus

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.


Me1: Me me me. Ha ha! How do I address you, Me? I’ll just give you a number—you can be Me2, I will be Me1. We better not do this out loud. It could appear like a symptom of something. We are clearly divided into 1 and 2, but I don’t think that’s a problem. The basic idea is for you, aka Me2, to disagree with me, Me1.

Me 2: Why do I have to disagree with you?

M1: Because your disagreement tests what I think, forcing me to find good reasons to back up what I think. There may be something hidden that Me1 can’t see, but Me2 can see. This isn’t a simple literary device as dialogue was for Plato, where his Me2 is set up as an idiot to further his purposes. Look at Polus in Gorgias! Total idiot who Plato authored to strengthen his own case. Yet, for a time these dialogues passed for transcriptions of actual conversations! In some circles they still do. Most people who believe that rhetoric is “mere” and plays on the emotions, is some kind of linguistic seduction that “sweetens” speech’ so the sweetness is gobbled up—so the speech is swallowed with no regard for its truthfulness, affect the concept of rhetoric Plato presents in the Gorgias. This idea has been operative in Western thought since it first became Western. But, no matter the outcome, under a more expansive idea of rhetoric, all of Plato’s dialogues are rhetorical—they want to persuade you. What do you think M2?

M2: Bullshit. Plato is pursuing truth using dialectical hair-splitting to knock his opponents down and make them look like fools. It does not matter that the “characters” he presents are his own creations. They are representative of “types” we are all too familiar with—especially, the wannabe tyrants haunting contemporary politics.

And, you know—I’m getting bored with this asinine dialogue thing, and especially being designated as Me2–like Me Too, and as the Grateful Dead sang, “set up like a bowling pin.” I mean, this is all taking place in a single head. At best, it’s wondering, at worst it’s you making a learned display of yourself, but solely in your own head. There’s at least another 50 Me’s you could conjure to play this dumb-ass game. When you’ve satisfied your hope and Me1 is through, having arrived at insights worthy of a philosopher, what are you going to do with them? How will you wind them around your soul and ensure your actions accord with truth, justice and all the rest? Is it knowledge that will make you straight? Or, is it belief? You may know something is wrong, yet you’ll do it. On the other hand, belief mobilizes caritas—affections: hope, fear and a pointed sense of the future and it’s contingency. It may invite decisions drawn around consequences that are uncertain, unlike knowledge that stops at certainty, bereft of consequences, vested in being right as a substitute for being good.

Me1: Your wig has flipped Me2. It is time to shut this auto-conversation down. it frightens me that there is such incoherent drivel resident in my head. In fact, you frighten me, especially if you aspire to trade places with me!

Me2: Maybe I should. Here we are working at the “Golden Bubbles” car wash in Reno, Nevada. Remember, you were dismissed from the University of Maine for padding your travel expenses and selling counterfeit parking permits to undergraduate students. We have been hitch-hiking ever since. All this academic navel gazing is going to get us nowhere.

Me1: Maybe we could become a pimp! Prostitution is legal here and I think we could make a good living.

Me2: You are hopeless. Whatever it is, I’ll ride it out with you, but I’m done conversing. Don’t talk to me. I won’t answer. Why don’t you find an actual human being to talk to, or check into the Washoe County Mental Health Treatment Center, or both?

Me1 (yelling out loud): Traitor! Sophist trickster! What will mother say? Where the hell are you? Those parking permits were planted in my briefcase! Damn you Me2!

Postscript: Former Professor Wilde was led away from the car wash in handcuffs, yelling at an imaginary person. He was admitted to the Washoe County Mental Health Treatment Center.


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

Print copies of the Daily Trope are available at Amazon for 9.95. There’s also a Kindle edition available for $5.99.

Dianoea

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


Where are we going? Where have we been? Someplace? No place? A place with a name? A country? A state? A city? A desert? A beach? A river? A canyon? A restaurant? A theatre? A library? A cemetery?

There are millions, of places and things with names. I would go so far as to say that everything is named—half of knowing something is knowing it’s name, at least we may think so. But without a name it is almost impossible to meaningfully share—“this thing” and “that thing” accompanied by pointing at “it” is vague, and for abstract concepts it is impossible to point, so we make up definitions. They are good, but not as good as the shorthand saying of a name provides. I mean “good” here in terms of economy and clarity. And maybe there’s a difference between the definition and the meaning of a word. Also, we may derive meaning from our unique experiences, contributing to the chaos of human conjoinment which requires shared understandings. This is where understanding comes into play, where agreement is not sought—but “seeing a another person’s point of view the way they see it, without agreeing with it.” (or something like that)

Maybe the keyword that drives humanity is love. I think, if there is a hierarchy of goods, that love is at the top. There’s Justice, honesty, and a whole constellation of other goods, that love includes, and in some ways props up love as much as it includes it. But, at times they may enter into conflict with their others. For example, I would lie about my wife’s whereabouts to save her from a maniac bent on murdering her. So, so much depends on circumstances and the hierarchy of goods as it is particularly deployed—lying trumps telling the truth where the truth would facilitate murder. But we all know our situation is encircled by innumerable points of decision where the road to choosing is blocked by “what if” and all its variations as obstacles to projecting a livable future—a future that can only be imagined until the decision is made.

But no matter what, in due time, everything is contestable. That does not mean we should contest everything, but we should bear in mind, as Stanley Fish said “One person’s hope is another person’s fear.” There’s no getting around conflict. In genuine relationships it’s inevitable, and it may rightfully lead to ending a relationship, or to deepening your affection, or a billion other things.

No matter what though, love should shimmer on your life’s horizon like the Northern Lights. When you have the chance, you should move toward that beautiful horizon with every step you take.


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

A print edition of The Daily Trope is available from Amazon for $9.95. A Kindle edition is available for $5.99.

Diaphora

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.


Me: Billy, Billy, Billy. You old Billy goat. Meh! That’s your call, as you hunt for deposit cans and bottles along the road shoulder. I remember when you were somebody, and we went down street side by side. We started college together at the newly inaugurated community college. You had been hanging out since we finished high school. I was a Vet. The government paid my way to college. You had dodged the draft, but your parents agreed to pay for school. More power to you I thought—you didn’t have to go through the shit that Vietnam afforded. But after one semester, you dropped out. You said it was boring and you were too old. I forged on, all the way to a PhD and became a professor at a pretty good university. I raised a family, I lived a good life.

Now, here we are, rounding the bend to the end of our sojourn here on earth. I have a pension and a paid-for house and vacation home. My daughter went to College and lives in San Francisco now. My wife is a professor, she writes books, and smiles at me and cooks us amazing meals.

And here you are are, 76 years old, trolling for deposit cans and bottles like some weird hobbyist rounding out your collection. But you’re not a hobbyist. You’re what they call a “homeless man.” It’s winter, and you don’t have a warm coat. Instead, you wear 2 sport coats over your faded Iron Maiden t-shirt—it must be 40 years old! You live under a pile of blankets and comforters stuffed in the refrigerator box, dragged from behind Home Depot, that shelters you until it falls apart and you have to replace it—maybe every two or three months.

What the hell happened Billy?

Billy: You sanctimonious piece of shit. You think you know me better than I know myself. Look, life is complicated. I had a pretty good job driving a fork lift at the Best Buy warehouse. I was happy. I had a girlfriend and we were saving up to buy a home and get married. One night I saw a guy I worked with loading 70” plasmas into his van. I confronted him and told him I would inform on him if he didn’t put the plasmas back. The next day they found 3 plasmas in my car. The guy I had caught had planted them there.

I was sitting on my forklift when he and the boss came toward me and stopped in front of my forklift. The thief pointed at me and nodded his head. I raised my forks and roared toward them. I impaled them both in one shot. I was convicted of involuntary manslaughter. I served 12 years in prison. My life was over, completely shattered. When I got out of prison I couldn’t get a job. So, I became an ‘independent contractor’ working with discarded ‘redeemables.’ I live on the margin. I have no savings or friends, although I have a pet raccoon named Leila who curls around my head at night, keeping my ears warm.

End of story.

Me: Holy shit! You should consider becoming a monk! You get free housing and food, and all you have to do is pray a lot and make beer or jelly. You get a free monk suit, including sandals. Beyond that, I don’t what else there is, like television, arts and crafts, etc. If you’re interested, I’ll drive you to the monastery in Carmel and I’ll take your raccoon off your hands too! What say? My car’s parked up the street.

Postscript: Billy hit me in the forehead and knocked me out. When I awoke there was a 20-something mugger standing over me with his foot on my chest. He demanded my wallet. When I reached for it, it wasn’t there. I crawled back to my car. As I was getting in, I saw Billy. He was wearing a new black overcoat. He saw me and came over and apologized. He gave me back my wallet, and nothing was missing. He told me he took it for safekeeping. I asked where he got the coat. He said, “I stole it from the Salvation Army Store.”


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

A print edition of The Daily Trope is available from Amazon for $9.95. A Kindle edition is also available for $5.99.

Diaporesi

Diaporesis: 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 [=aporia].


“Think about it.” My father said that about pretty much everything I said. I’d say “Please pass the mashed potatoes.” He would tell me to think about it. When I got older, I told him I had a girlfriend. He said, “Think about it.” I told him I needed a new winter coat and he told me to think about it. Once I asked what what “think about it” means and he told me to think about it. As you can imagine, it drove me crazy, but I couldn’t tell him or he would tell me to think about it.

If I treat my father’s “think about it” charitably, it is an invitation to contemplation; to wonder about nearly everything, and that, in turn, might make me a philosopher. It might also make me crazy, deliberating with myself, which, is, in a way bizarre. It means that there are multiple me’s that may be in conflict with each other. Do I have an integral self? How do I integratemy being, or am I doomed to a cacophony of voices competing for primacy in the play of my thoughts? Or, is this what my self is? The conflict coordinator? But, as coordinator, my self must have an aim, or is the aim to cultivate conflict. Think about it.

I had developed the habit of locking myself in my room and thinking about it. I would come down for dinner. One evening, my mother asked what I was up to and I said “Think about it.” My father glared at me and said “You think about it.” I said “No! You think about it.” He stood up and kicked over his chair. I did likewise. We stood there glaring at each other for around two minutes. I had to pee, so I turned and started toward the stairs, toward the upstairs bathroom. He yelled “Think about it!” as I climbed the stairs.

I yelled “I’m not thinking about anything you pitiful bastard! Oh wait! I am thinking about something—I’m thinking knocking you on your ass and kicking you until your internal organs explode. But, don’t worry, it’s just a thought.” I made my way upstairs, back up to my room, and I thought about it. Then, I tried to light the house on fire with my gas-powered lighter that I used to light my bong. I got a nice little blaze going in my wastebasket. Then, I thought about it. I carried my wastebasket into the bathroom, put it in the tub and doused it with the hand-held shower.

Now, I’m a resident in “Rugged Mountain” in-patient mental hospital. My therapist, Dr. J. Locke, has told me to think about it. I told him that’s what got me here in the first place. He said, “Ah ha! Think about it!” I can’t find a way to stop thinking about it—no matter what it is. I just wish I could shut up the voice in my head. I blame my father for my mental woes. They’ve asked me to participate in testing a new drug that has great promise for curing what I have. I’m thinking about it.


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

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.

Diasyrmus

Diasyrmus (di’-a-syrm-os): Rejecting an argument through ridiculous comparison.


I was minding my own business, sitting on a park bench with my index finger in my left nostril, trying to dislodge a particularly stubborn booger. I had never experienced something like this before. Two days of the squeaking sound my nose made when I inhaled. I tried everything—blowing my nose, spraying my nostril in the shower, a dinner fork, a screw driver, a knitting needle, Japanese chopsticks, a coat hanger, a toothpick: everything I could find to stick up my nose. On day four, I made an appointment at the ENT Clinic. I was going to see Dr. Nosifer, winner of the 2000 “Nosy,” an award given to the Rhinologist “most devoted to ending mouth breathing.” He was top of the line.

I had come to the drastic conclusion that I should have my nose amputated, so I would be free of the booger. I figured I could wear a Groucho Marx glasses disguise to cover up, and conceal, my missing nose. I had tried a pair on at Spencer’s Gifts in the mall. I felt like they made me look like a man of mystery. “Bond, James Bond” I said as I adjusted them.

The nurse called me in to Dr. Nosifer’s office. As we greeted each other and shook hands, I was freaking out. He was wearing Groucho Marx disguise glasses. He made no attempt to explain them. He said: “I see you want your nose amputated to remove the recalcitrant booger lodged in your left nostril. I can tell you, this is like cutting off your nose to spite your face. Ha ha! You idiot! It is like jumping off a building as a shortcut to the first floor. Ha ha! It is like spilling toxic waste so you can clean it up. Ha ha! It is like walking across broken glass barefoot to save your shoes. It is wrong! Wrong, wrong, wrong!”

Me: “So, what should I do then?“

Dr. Nosifer: “Ha ha! Now we’re getting someplace!”

He reached in his shirt and pulled out a very small silver spoon on a delicate silver chain. It’s handle was elaborately decorated with an entwined art nouveau vine motif. He reached in his pants a pulled out a similarly decorated vial. He popped open the vial’s lid. The vial was filled with white powder. Dr. Nosifer scooped out a level spoonful of the white powder. He told me to tilt my head back and, without warning, thrust the spoon with its white powder up my left nostril where the criminal booger resided, and at the same time, punched me in the stomach.

The booger made a popping sound as it flew out of my nose. Dr. Nosifer yelled: “Now put your finger on your right nostril and make an inhaling snorting sound with your newly cleared left nostril!” I did as he told me. Suddenly, I felt euphoric, energetic, talkative, mentally alert, and hypersensitive to sight, sound, and touch. It was amazing. I took off my clothes. I ran around the office naked. Dr. Nosifer yelled at the nurse to take me downstairs. I fell down the stairs. When I got up, I saw that I was in a well-furnished room and I wasn’t alone. The nurse told me, “This is the recovery room for the Doctor’s patients.”

I spent about 2 hours “recovering.” Then, I went home with a clear nose and a clouded conscience.


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

There is a print edition of the Daily Trope available on Amazon for $9.99. There is also a Kindle edition available for $5.99.

Diazeugma

Diazeugma (di-a-zoog’-ma): The figure by which a single subject governs several verbs or verbal constructions (usually arranged in parallel fashion and expressing a similar idea); the opposite of zeugma.


I went out the door, down the steps, across the sidewalk, and down the street to the corner. The parade was coming. I was sure of it, but I was the only one there. I was always the only one there, but I knew if I kept hoping and believing, some day the parade would come.

I had a clear picture in my head of what the parade would consist of: the Mayor in the lead, antique automobiles, fire trucks with firemen throwing candy, drummers, police with rifles pointing in the air, clowns in little cars, farm implements, snow plows, people dressed in silly costumes, like ducks, ghosts, candy bars, baby bottles. And there would be military veterans, school teachers, doctors and dentists, and lawyers carrying copies of the US Constitution, a swimming pool with a mermaid, skate boarders, hippies smoking drugs, a cage full of raccoons, and finally, a full-sized scale model of the atomic bomb that was dropped on Hiroshima.

Then I heard a bugle! Surely this was the parade’s herald. I ran up the street toward the sound. It was a homeless man struggling to play “Taps.” It sounded more like “craps.” I thought I was pretty funny, then I noticed his legs were missing. I put 25 cents in his styrofoam up and said “Thank-you for your service.” He yelled: ”Yeah I lost my goddamn legs for no goddamn reason. Save your thank-you for your mother when she passes the mashed potatoes you ignorant prick!” I apologized, but he hit me on the head with his bugle.

The blow knocked me out. I woke up in a big cardboard box under a thin smelly blanket. I had amnesia. I was lost. I do not remember a single thing except waking up. My amnesia was mild, my memory came back almost immediately and I crawled out of the box, stood up, and headed home, or at least where I thought my home was. It was frightening when a woman answered the door in a pink bathrobe with giant curlers in her hair. I asked her how to get to the police station so I could report myself as missing. She offered to take me and she invited me inside while she got dressed.

As soon as I got through the door, she opened her bathrobe like giant pink bird wings, and flapped them. She was naked. “Do you want some of this?” She asked. I said, “Yes.” I never got to the police station. She’s a little older than me, but we get along really well. I hope I never remember where I lived.


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

A paper edition of The Daily Trope, entitled The Book of Tropes, is available for purchase on Amazon for $9.99 USD. It contains over 200 schemes and tropes with definitions and examples. There is also a Kindle edition available for $5.99.

Dicaeologia

Dicaeologia (di-kay-o-lo’-gi-a): Admitting what’s charged against one, but excusing it by necessity.


My wife bought me a bidet for Father’s Day, or I should say the downstairs bathroom. It is made in France. Somebody told me that “bidet” means “crack spritzer” in French. I doubted that crack spritzer was true, so I took the time to look it up and found out it means “spincter fountain,” although it cleanses the entire crotch—anus and genitals. Anyway, I prefer to think of it as the “Dream Sprinkler.”

My bidet has a remote control. a heated seat, a blow dryer and a turbo washing option. The heated seat has driven me to spend an inordinate amount of time on the bidet. The temperature is just right—not too hot, not too cold. It reminds me of sitting on a warm sidewalk, in the summer, growing up in New Jersey where everything was beautiful and I had yet to get involved in crime—that happened when I was twelve when I sold stolen merchandise that had “fallen off a truck.” Yes, we actually said that as part of the sales pitch. At any rate, the warm sidewalk feeling was overpowering. I felt like a kid again.

When I got up early in the morning and the house was cold, I headed for the bidet and the heated seat—the sweet heated seat. I would pull down my pajamas, get centered and slowly sit down. Ahhhh. Just right! I had a TV and bookshelves installed in the bathroom. I would read or watch TV while I waited. Sometimes I would have a cup of coffee to help things along. Then, if things were moving really slowly, my wife would bring me breakfast, usually bran flakes, and serve it on a TV tray table.

Finally, there would be a windy trumpet blast, things would move, and I’d be done, except for the turbo rinse, the pièce de résistance. Picking up the remote control with a trembling hand, I press the turbo button. The bidet makes a whirring-clicking sound, and let’s loose with a steady powerful stream of warm water. Yes! Warm water! Seeking out and hosing away the fragments of excrement left by the main event. Now, it is time to activate the blow dryer. The bidet makes its whirring-clicking sound again. Then, the warm swooshing breeze begins. It’s like riding with your head out a car window on a hot summer day, like you did when you were a kid, before they started making rear car windows that only go down half-way. I put the remote on the stool by the bidet and sit and enjoy the warmth of the seat for another half-hour.

Some people say I’m crazy for spending so much time with my bidet. I admit that’s an easy conclusion to draw, but when I am seated on the heated seat, I am riding in a maelstrom of memories, making new memories of the sensual pleasures experienced every morning by the bidet’s glorious fulfillment, which are only partially fulfilled by a standard toilet and the barbaric and disgusting practice of cleaning yourself with a piece of paper. Who wouldn’t spend four hours every morning in the bathroom, taking heed of the warm enchanting call of the bidet? Surely, I would die without my beloved bidet. Please try to understand. I will not go quietly you paper-wiping oafs.

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

A paper edition of The Daily Trope, entitled The Book of Tropes, is available for purchase on Amazon for $9.99 USD. It contains over 200 schemes and tropes with their definitions and examples. There is also a Kindle edition available for $5.99.

Dilemma

Dilemma (di-lem’-ma): Offering to an opponent a choice between two (equally unfavorable) alternatives.


Boss: Making choices is what we’re all about. I say yes. You say no. I say maybe. You say certainly. I say, you better agree with me or I’ll kick your ass. You say, you and who else. Look, you can have your ass kicked, or find a job somewhere else. Look at me—i work out every day from 7:00-11.00. My biceps are bigger than your thighs. Your arms are like broom sticks with hinges. Mine are like tree stumps with fingers. I will pound you into the ground like a tent stake and use your head as a swivel stool. You better just run away to your mommy baby boy and hide behind that stupid baggy dress she wears all the time. There she is over there, coming our way, waving her cast iron skillet. She should be in the kitchen with that thing. She is too stupid for words.

Worker: I’m gonna fight for my job, Cold-hearted Boss. You know damn well there aren’t any jobs within a thousand miles of this place. Even though I work here, I’d rather work somewhere else—making mop handles 12 hours per day 7 days a week makes me want to puke, but it is a job. The income is meager, barely enough for my family to afford one meal per day, and a bad meal at that: a bowl of cabbage soup and a crust of bread. My children are all bowlegged and my wife is saggy and cranky all the time. Our younger son, Milo, fell off the back of a wagon and was run over and killed by Lord Helmsly’s speeding carriage—he was late for his weekly poker game. He blamed my little boy..

I learned Karate when I was in the Queen’s service stationed in Japan. It is deadly. Most likely, I will kill you with two or three blows. Or, my mother will whack you with her cast iron frying pan, leaving you with a cracked skull and dimwits. Step over here to this level ground and we shall commence our fighting.

The fight: Boss started toward the level spot to fight his worker. The worker’s mother jumped out from behind a tree, whacking Boss on the side of his head, cracking his skull and turning him into a drooling idiot. Boss became the mop handle factory mascot and would grovel for bits of candy carried by the workers in their pockets.Worker kept his job. His mother was sentenced to one month in jail for “over aggressive self defense.”


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

A paper edition of The Daily Trope, entitled The Book of Tropes, is available for purchase on Amazon for $9.99 USD. There is also a Kindle edition available for $5.99.

Dirimens Copulatio

Dirimens Copulatio (di’-ri-mens ko-pu-la’-ti-o): A figure by which one balances one statement with a contrary, qualifying statement (sometimes conveyed by “not only … but also” clauses). A sort of arguing both sides of an issue.

Protagoras (c. 485-410 BC) asserted that “to every logos (speech or argument) another logos is opposed,” a theme continued in the Dissoi Logoiof his time, later codified as the notion of arguments in utrumque partes (on both sides). Aristotle asserted that thinking in opposites is necessary both to arrive at the true state of a matter (opposition as an epistemological heuristic) and to anticipate counterarguments. This latter, practical purpose for investigating opposing arguments has been central to rhetoric ever since sophists like Antiphon (c. 480-410 BC) provided model speeches (his Tetralogies) showing how one might argue for either the prosecution or for the defense on any given issue. As such, [this] names not so much a figure of speech as a general approach to rhetoric, or an overall argumentative strategy. However, it could be manifest within a speech on a local level as well, especially for the purposes of exhibiting fairness (establishing ethos[audience perception of speaker credibility].

This pragmatic embrace of opposing arguments permeates rhetorical invention, arrangement, and rhetorical pedagogy. [In a sense, ‘two-wayed thinking’ constitutes a way of life—it is tolerant of differences and may interpret their resolution as contingent and provisional, as always open to renegotiation, and never as the final word. Truth, at best, offers cold comfort in social settings and often establishes itself as incontestable, by definition, as immune from untrumque partes, which may be considered an act of heresy and may be punishable by death.]


I was floating in a tube down a river in Texas, near where there’s a pig that dives into a spring-fed lake. Aquarena Springs is where Ralph the pig makes his dive to the great delight to those who come view him, some from 100s of miles away. Some say Ralph is very smart, even saving his earnings in a pension fund. Some say that the pension idea is insane—they yell “He’s a pig for Chrissake!” There’s a fact that could easily resolve the dispute: Ralph’s bank and pension account statements.

Ralph’s master is very strict about money. He adamantly refuses to make any kind of financial disclosure whatsoever. Many people are comfortable with not knowing how much Ralph makes. They say “It’s none of our business.” Other people say, “I am paying this pig. We are told that his salary has a significant impact on our community—not to mention the park that is built around him.” Other people ask, “What gives you the right to dig into the pig’s personal business?” Then, as the conversation developed, it came up that maybe Ralph’s master had something to hide. After all, he was Ralph’s spokesperson. It was curious that we never hear directly from Ralph, it’s always through his master. Then, a pig farmer from Dime Box chimed in: “Y’all are missin’ an important fact: Pigs can’t talk. Mostly, they make a snofflin’ sound that has come to be known as ‘oink oink’.”

Now we were really suspicious of Ralph’s master. All along he was fooling us into believing he was passing along what Ralph had said. Having been duped, the crowd became very agitated and began calling out Ralph’s master. Some of the older people in the crowd wanted to “shoot him in the gizzard” or “hold a necktie party” in the mall parking lot on the outskirts of town.

Things were getting out of hand when Ralph’s master stepped out of the shadows. He had Ralph on a leash, and a .9 mm Beretta in the other hand. He looked drunk. “How’d you like me to make Ralph into ham, bacon, and pork chops you bastards?” He pointed the gun a Ralph. Buck Jones jumped out of the crowd and tackled him. The gun went off when he hit the ground, and he shot himself in the thumb. He dropped the gun and got up, bleeding and still holding Ralph’s leash. But Ralph pulled himself free and took off running toward the bridge over the river. He was going to dive!! Clearly he would die on the rocks below.

Ralph’s master ran to the bridge yelling “No, no, no!” Ralph backed away. His master knelt down. He was talking to Ralph and Ralph was nodding his head in agreement. The crowd stood there awestruck with their mouths hanging open, silent. They were witnessing a miracle. Not only could he dive, but he could actually talk too.

Ralph’s master told the crowd: I have reached a agreement with Ralph regarding the disclosure of his finances: After deductions, last year Ralph made $5,000, all put in his retirement fund. Ralph started shaking his head “No” and jumping up and down, and angrily oinking. His master cracked: “Ok, he made $500,000 last year and I took it all, and I don’t give a shit. With that, the crowd surged forward and the pig farmer from Dime Box asked Ralph if he wanted to eat his master. Ralph vigorously nodded “Yes.”


Definition and commentary courtesy of “Silva Rhetoricae” (rhetoric.byu.edu). Bracketed text by Gogias, Editor of Daily Trope.

A paper edition of The Daily Trope, entitled The Book of Tropes, is available for purchase on Amazon for $9.99. There is also a Kindle edition available for $5.99.

Distinctio

Distinctio (dis-tinc’-ti-o): Eliminating ambiguity surrounding a word by explicitly specifying each of its distinct meanings.


I was wedlocked when I was 17, or should I say “married,” the common term for being wed. I think “wedlock” best describes the state of being married. “Lock” is the key—ha, ha. The key to the cage of marriage is a ruthless lawyer, who relishes the pain and suffering of your spouse and can transform it to your advantage in divorce court. If she uses cash, she’s stealing your money. If she walks your son to school, she’s abusing him, tiring him out and affecting his performance in school. If she cooks, she’s trying to poison you. And then, there’s the Big A—Adultery. The gold standard of marriage breakers.

I planned my wife’s unfaithfulness meticulously. I used a book I got at Barnes & Nobles as my guide. It was an instruction manual titled: “How to Make Her Look Unfaithful.” The plans were elaborate, but foolproof, especially with the “Lying Eye” video app. I videoed her naked walking across our bedroom after her nightly shower. She blew me a kiss. Then, when we got an Amazon delivery, I videoed her walking through the garage to take the package from the delivery man. I was excited. Soon I would be rid of her at no cost because of having been the victim of her immorality.

I went down in the basement to edit the video. I edited the garage video, cutting out everything but the package handoff, but leaving the background of the garage. Then I layered in her naked walk, editing out the bedroom background. It looked like she was meeting the delivery man naked in the garage! It was a triumph of incrimination. She was horrified when I showed it to her. She wanted to know where I got it from. I wouldn’t tell.

I filed for divorce the next day. Two weeks later I walked into the courtroom and nearly died. There were the delivery man, the woman who had sold me the instruction manual, and, on Zoom, the CEO of the company that sold me the “Lying Eyes” app. Needless to say I went down in flames. I got six months in jail for fraud, was fined $2,000 and had to pay court costs. The divorce was reheard. I lost everything.

Two years later, I was walking through the mall and I saw my former wife and the delivery man. I was shocked. She saw me and waved shyly. She was pushing a baby carriage.


A paper edition of The Daily Trope, entitled The Book of Tropes, is available for purchase on Amazon for $9.99 USD. A Kindle edition is also available for $5.99.

Distributio

Distributio (dis-tri-bu’-ti-o): (1) Assigning roles among or specifying the duties of a list of people, sometimes accompanied by a conclusion. (2) Sometimes this term is simply a synonym for diaeresis or merismus, which are more general figures involving division.


This is the same old crap. Nobody’s where they’re supposed to be. It happens every time. How do I know? I went looking for youse. You’re supposed to be where I expect you to be. I am the boss, remember? I give the orders. You follow the orders. Joey! What were you doing home watching “Planet of the Apes” on your laptop? How do I know? Your Ma told me. Peter! You were at the pool hall playing eight ball and drinking rum and Cokes. How do I know? Vinny told me. In fact, he played and won $100 from you. Dipshit. Stunad. Tony! Jesus Christ! Hanging out at the dog grooming parlor, so you can do a little “grooming” with Marie on her lunch break. She told me you were sniffing around like one of the dogs, and she would never do it with you you. She said you’re too ignorant. Card! Where the hell were you.? Don’t tell me you got stuck in traffic, or I’ll shoot you in the face. I don’t even want to hear your excuse. All I can say is my crew—you all—really blew it.

Guess what? Missing Don Flamingo’s 80th birthday is grounds for getting you whacked. I told you that’s what I thought would happen two days ago when I reminded you to show up. I met with him and he has agreed to let you live, on one condition: that you spend all the money you have on his birthday gift.—that you pool it together and go for broke. How much you got? I don’t have to ask, I know. Between you, it’s 4,000,000. So, what’re you gonna do?

What? You’re gonna build him a mausoleum in Sicily? Good. Pink granite. Gold-plated doorknobs and hinges. Bronze doors with carved grape vines and bunches of grapes. White marble interior. Stained glass windows with all his family members and his mistress with the light of God shining through. A 70” plasma screen TV showing continuous loops of “The Godfather” and “Goodfellas.” The crypts have gold-plated handles with serpentine fronts, each having two cherubim carved in them, each one blowing a trumpet heralding Columbus Day. The ceiling has a painting of young Don Flamingo touching the hand of God. There are two leather chairs in case visitors want to watch TV, and have an espresso and biscotti, which are provided fresh every day, forever.

Good job crew. The Cinghiale Family will go down in history for its unrivaled tribute to Don Flamingo’s pettiness and unforgivable insult to our integrity.

I write this note to Don Flamingo, which he will never read: “Missing your Birthday was wrong by my crew, but the retribution you exacted was worse. You have broken my crew, leaving them penniless with one thought in mind. Revenge.”


Postscript: Two days after the mausoleum was completed, Don Flamingo was laid to rest. He was whacked leaving his favorite restaurant, Patsy’s. Joey, Peter, Tony, and Card had finished the job. Now, they had to figure out how to get their $4,000,000 back. They decided kidnapping the late Don Flamingo’s great-grandson was the way to go. They headed to Ace Hardware to get a roll of duct tape and a pack of zip ties, singing “That’s Amore” like some kind of 60s pop group, driving the speed limit in their beautiful black vintage Coupe de Ville.


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

A paper edition of The Daily Trope, entitled The Book of Tropes, is available for purchase on Amazon for $9.99 USD. It contains over 150 schemes and tropes with their definitions and at least 2 examples of each. All of the schemes and tropes are indexed, so it’s easy to find the one you’re looking for. There is also a Kindle edition available with links to all of the schemes and tropes. It costs $5.95

Ecphonesis

Ecphonesis (ec-pho-nee’-sis): An emotional exclamation.


Me: Oh my God!!

God: What? What? This is a bad time. We’re on the edge of the apocalypse and I’m getting urgent prayers from all over your planet, not to mention a cacophony of “My God, Save me God, God help me, and even Goddamnit,” which violates one of my commandments. Idiots. You don’t earn salvation with vinegar.

Me: Oh God, PLEASE help me. Please. Please. Please. Please. Please,

God: BTW, did you try contacting my son? He’s been despondent, especially about the USA where the religion named after him has become the opposite of caritas, it’s foundational value. Love is nowhere in the air. In fact, it is nowhere.

Me: I called your son two days ago. His secretary told me he was busy spreading the Gospel message and wouldn’t be back until Tuesday. I waited and then called you. Thank-you for lending an ear when I yelled into the air.

God: Ok. I already know your problem. Tell it to me in your own words.

Me: Ok. I’m reading a book my girlfriend gave me titled Atheism Will Set You Free. It has shown me that a dependence on faith to underwrite key features of my life is crazy. I’ve been taught that everywhere that what is tangible, and therefore, knowable bears a truth, will set us free. In fact, it is possible that our conversation is a figment of my imagination. Am I talking to myself?

God: Yes, but it does not matter. Faith is operative all the time in your life. You don’t disparage making plans, encompassing a future that does not exist, that can only be conjured in belief. That’s all you can do, fully understanding that when the future manifests itself, what you believed was wrong. I’m like that. If you live with faith in me and my promise to you, you’re going to be happier than if you (ironically) don’t believe in me. It’s all a matter of belief, that’s what makes it special.

Me: Thanks God! Now I can tell my girlfriend she’s full of shit and then find a new girlfriend on the internet.

God: That’s a belief, or should I say hope, you’re vesting your future in!

Me: Ha ha! I can’t believe I’m doing this; sitting my couch writing a dialogue with God. Given my lack of theological knowledge, I must look like an idiot. All I can say is that the choice between being an atheist and a believer is not easy to make. Loosely, Pascal came to a pretty good place: if I believe in God and there’s no God, no big deal, but if I don’t believe in God, and God exists, big boo-boo. So he believed in God.

Oh well, as Ripley said, “Believe it or not.”


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

Buy a print edition of The Daily Trope! The print edition is entitled The Book of Tropes and is available on Amazon for $9.99. A Kindle edition is available for $5.99.

Ecphonesis

Ecphonesis (ec-pho-nee’-sis): An emotional exclamation.


Me: Oh my God!!

God: What? What? This is a bad time. We’re on the edge of the apocalypse and I’m getting urgent prayers from all over your planet, not to mention a cacophony of “My God, Save me God, God help me, and even Goddamnit,” which violates one of my commandments. Idiots. You don’t earn salvation with vinegar.

Me: Oh God, PLEASE help me. Please. Please. Please. Please. Please,

God: BTW, did you try contacting my son? He’s been despondent, especially about the USA where the religion named after him has become the opposite of caritas, it’s foundational value. Love is nowhere in the air. In fact, it is nowhere.

Me: I called your son two days ago. His secretary told me he was busy spreading the Gospel message and wouldn’t be back until Tuesday. I waited and then called you. Thank-you for lending an ear when I yelled into the air.

God: Ok. I already know your problem. Tell it to me in your own words.

Me: Ok. I’m reading a book my girlfriend gave me titled Atheism Will Set You Free. It has shown me that a dependence on faith to underwrite key features of my life is crazy. I’ve been taught that everywhere that what is tangible, and therefore, knowable bears a truth, will set us free. In fact, it is possible that our conversation is a figment of my imagination. Am I talking to myself?

God: Yes, but it does not matter. Faith is operative all the time in your life. You don’t disparage making plans, encompassing a future that does not exist, that can only be conjured in belief. That’s all you can do, fully understanding that when the future manifests itself, what you believed was wrong. I’m like that. If you live with faith in me and my promise to you, you’re going to be happier than if you (ironically) don’t believe in me. It’s all a matter of belief, that’s what makes it special.

Me: Thanks God! Now I can tell my girlfriend she’s full of shit and then find a new girlfriend on the internet.

God: That’s a belief, or should I say hope, you’re vesting your future in!

Me: Ha ha! I can’t believe I’m doing this; sitting my couch writing a dialogue with God. Given my lack of theological knowledge, I must look like an idiot. All I can say is that the choice between being an atheist and a believer is not easy to make. Loosely, Pascal came to a pretty good place: if I believe in God and there’s no God, no big deal, but if I don’t believe in God, and God exists, big boo-boo. So he believed in God.

Oh well, as Ripley said, “Believe it or not.”


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

Buy a print edition of The Daily Trope! The print edition is entitled The Book of Tropes and is available on Amazon for $9.99. A Kindle edition is available for $5.99.

Effictio

Effictio (ef-fik’-ti-o): A verbal depiction of someone’s body, often from head to toe.


It wasn’t my birthday, but I looked 75–almost 80, almost alive. I could walk. I could talk. My bodily functions still function, but slowly with difficulty. I still had all my hair—no receding hairline—a big white cloud on top of my head. When I get it cut, it’s like it’s snowing inside Supercuts. .

I was once a whopping 6’4”. I don’t know how or why, but now I’m 6’2”. Still pretty good, but I’m no longer a tower. Now, I’m like a shed with boobs. They jiggle. My tattoos are blurring. I have one on each forearm that I can’t read any more—one refers to the Army, the other is my personal motto: “Veritas pro se non loquitur” “Truth does not speak for itself.” Due to an injury sustained in the Army, my hearing just gets worse and worse every year. My answer to most questions is “What?” even though I’ve got state of the art hearing aids from the VA that I am grateful for.

Moving right along, I’m relatively wrinkle free— my face looks 35-40. I swear. I’m not exactly trim, but I’m still in pretty good shape and go for walks in the woods. Even though I have bright hazel eyes, that go between blue and green depending on what I wear, lately, they don’t see too well. I have double vision all the time—I have black-rimmed corrective glasses that help somewhat, but I can’t get around the mild vertigo induced by the double vision. It slows me down when I’m walking, and going up and down stairs. The topper is my dupuytren’s contracture—making what looks like a claw of my left hand.

You’d think I would be upset by my body’s aging, but many years ago when I was traveling in Peru, in a cave near Machu Picchu, I was shown a silver mirror that erases the effects of aging and reflects you as you were at 22. It was like a reverse Dorian Gray portrait. I visit it once a year. As long as I don’t see my true reflection during the intervening time, I experience myself as 22. Miraculously, my body functions like that of a 22-year-old, I have stamina, my vision is restored’ I can hear a pin drop, and my hand can be laid out flat. tomorrow, I’m headed out on my annual trek to the mirror.

I arrived in Lima early in the morning and took the tour bus to Machu Picchu. I started my hike to the cave containing the mirror. It was ten miles up a narrow trail. As I walked, I marveled at how the cave had remained hidden. I arrived at the cave.

My guide from previous years lay dead outside the cave’s entrance. He had started to mummify in the dry mountain air. I dragged him into the cave’s entrance, so his body wouldn’t draw unwanted attention. I went looking for the mirror and found it! I presented myself to it, and the 22-year-old me was reflected. I was relieved and started to leave the cave. Suddenly, there was a loud rumbling sound and a landslide blocked the way out of the cave. There was no cellphone reception. So, I got my journal out of my backpack, lit a candle, and started to write. If you’re reading this, you’ve found the mirror. Good luck.


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

Buy a print edition of The Daily Trope! The print edition is entitled The Book of Tropes and is available on Amazon for $9.99. There is also a Kindle edition available for $5.99.

Ellipsis

Ellipsis (el-lip’-sis): Omission of a word or short phrase easily understood in context.


There was a lot that was left undone—I wasn’t over the rainbow, the rainbow was over me. That’s the way the cookie crumbles. If I could follow a train of thought, maybe I could get off at the right stop instead of . . . Oh well. The premonition is up ahead. Why do I spend my time considering what will be instead of vesting my interest in what is real, what is tangible, what is here, what has three dimensions, what I can eat for lunch, what I can kick?

I bought a crystal ball at a garage sale: It came with instructions: stare at it until you see something materialize behind the glass. So far, I had seen my hand and a dirty coffee mug sitting on my kitchen table. Then, I saw the face of somebody who looked vaguely like me. He had a lightbulb tattooed on his forehead and Yin Yangs tattooed on his eyelids. His mouth was sewn shut like a shrunken head. He was bouncing up and down and I could hear “Mph, Mph, Gaaa” coming out of the crystal ball. This was the most eventful thing that had ever happened in my life. I was terrified and elated. I said (being dramatic) “Oh yon demon of the ball, how can I help you?” He nodded yes, which did not answer my question. Then, he emphatically wiggled his lips back and forth. I understood immediately: he wanted me to liberate his lips, so he could talk to me and answer my questions about the future, and help me make some money! He tilted his head down and looked toward his sewn up lips. I touched the crystal ball and my hand went into it like it was water. I grabbed the stitches and pulled, like when I opened the bag of birdseed from Agway, and “zip,” the string came loose, and “zip” his lips were freed!

He said, “Let me make sure. You speak English, right?” “Right,” I said. He told me his name was Nick Samaras. I told him my name was Larry Bort, and that I worked for Amazon as a package packer, but I wanted to be a fortune teller, mainly my own fortune, but other people’s too. Nick told me what I had was not a fortunetelling crystal ball, but rather, it was a magical bowling ball. If I said “Let’s roll” to it, it would turn into a bowling ball that would ensure perfect games every time. In a way, it’s guaranteed winning was like telling the future.

What else could I do? I became a professional bowler and made a lot of money. I can’t say I made a fortune—the payouts for bowling tournaments are pretty skimpy. Me and Nick would talk every once-in-awhile. His life story is complicated, as you can imagine. He was born thousands of years ago in Athens, Greece. He was a wealthy goldsmith. He kidnapped a sorcerer’s daughter and married her. The sorcerer put the bowling ball spell on him, intending the ball to be a weapon dropped on people’s heads, along with hot tar, from ramparts.

Then, the worst thing happened. My nephew was staying with me while my sister went on a marriage retreat. I had left Nick on the coffee table on his stand, in his bowling ball guise. My nephew picked him up and put it on his head. My nephew’s head traded places with Nick’s head. I was screwed. Nick said “My God, I never knew.” The bowling ball was silent. I touched it, and said “let’s roll” and it cleared, and it was empty. No nephew. Nick wouldn’t shut up or stop eating. I bought us plane tickets to Athens, where I stupidly hoped that my Nick-headed nephew would figure something out. I was tired of hiding from my sister. As soon as our passports arrived, we took off. Nick disappeared as soon as we cleared passport control. I made the mistake of telling my story to the authorities. Now, I’m handcuffed to a bed waiting to hear what they’re going to do with me. My sister has threatened to have me extradited and arrested for kidnapping. Then, I thought I saw Nick and my nephew looking through the window of my room’s door.


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

Buy a print version of The Daily Trope! The print version is titled The Book of Tropes and is available on Amazon for $9.99. There is also a Kindle edition available for $5.99.

Enallage

Enallage (e-nal’-la-ge): The substitution of grammatically different but semantically equivalent constructions.


The lie he makes sound a truth. Got proof? Got anything? The solemnity of your idiocy begs laughter, if not contempt. I can’t figure out how you became the King of Smug. Your way through life has become “clean” belief—that’s belief with a microscopic “b.” It has no proof—no story to tell based in experience or reason, or both. It is just what you assert, moving ahead and doing damage to all who come within your orbit. You are a sort of evil magnet, pulling your associates in to feel the pain of misplaced trust, wasted affection, and betrayal as they anxiously squirm, attached to your power.

You have a decent reputation as somehow your sadism evades detection; evades attribution to you. How can this be? You are here. You are present, you are tangible. What’s your trick? I’ve asked you countless times. You spout aphorisms so distant from your character and interests that you make me laugh. “A true friend never gets in your way unless you happen to be going down.” That’s one of your favorites. You spend nearly all your time trying to convince people that they’re going down, so you can “get in the way,” which means to you “so you can profit from their problems.” You make people hurt without them knowing it’s you spreading the vicious rumors or setting them up to fall, and then rushing to the rescue to win their undying affection.

How did you become this way? When we were at school together you were kind and caring and full of love. I remember the injured bird we found and nursed back to health. Even though it was a dirty old pigeon, we made it our mascot until it flew away one day, restored. And your girlfriend Beatrice—I’m sure she rivaled Dante’s Beatrice and may have inspired you in the same way. So, I am in a nearly constant search for the turning point, when you went from noble human being to ignoble boar hog: snoffling your way through life, seeing people as living scraps spread about for your snout’s pleasure. No reason. No proof. Except, the hedonistic pleasure—pleasure for you alone, unshared, unsocial, a lonely vigil held over your senses, of getting what you want—without a ray of hope that it will profit your victims. At least you don’t kill them. Maybe what you do is worse. Seduction and betrayal—the old one-two—it is Satanic.

I think this may be the hundredth time I’ve told you to get help. You look angry and disgusted, glaring at me like you’d like to punch me in the nose, or worse. You sit there clutching your chair, drinking wine, obviously satisfied with the life you’ve made for yourself, a life alone and completely self-absorbed. Sometimes I think you’ve made a deal with Satan, but that can’t be. I don’t believe in all that nonsense.

Goodbye.

Postscript: Two days later the narrator was found flayed and dismembered and piled in a hog trough placed in his front yard.


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

Buy a print edition of The Daily Trope! The print edition is entitled The Book of Tropes and is available on Amazon for $9.99. There is also a Kindle edition available for $5.99.

Enantiosis

Enantiosis (e-nan-ti-o’-sis): Using opposing or contrary descriptions together, typically in a somewhat paradoxical manner.


I’m a genius. I’m a loser. I invented an under-sink water cooler so you don’t have to let the water run before you get nice cool water. Just imagine—instant cold! More space in the refrigerator! You no longer need ice to make ice water. You’ll drink more water and be more healthy. I hooked the prototype up to my sink and it worked like charm. I was in the process of getting a patent. I was in line to be rich. Then, one night I heard banging around in my kitchen. I grabbed my .357 from beside my bed and crept downstairs. It was the Mario Brothers!

They had removed my “Fauca-cooler” from under my sink and were stuffing it in a big tool bag. I asked them what the “F” they were doing. Mario told me that my device wasn’t authorized. It would be destroyed and all traces of its existence would be removed. And Luigi said, “If you don’t like it, you’ll be removed too.” I instantly aimed my gun at Luigi: “You have broken into my house, you’re stealing my property and have threatened me. If you don’t leave now, I will shoot you—I might even kill you.” Luigi and Mario both laughed at me. Mario said: “My good man, have you forgotten that we’re animated characters who live in a video game?”

They looked real to me. Although they seemed slightly transparent if I looked hard. The insanity of the whole situation had taken a huge uptick. So, I aimed at Luigi’s head and pulled the trigger. The .357 was really loud in the kitchen. I could smell the burnt gun powder. Luigi was standing there with a hole in his head, unfazed. “You shot my brother, you asshole!” Mario yelled as he swung a pipe wrench at me. It knocked me unconscious.

I awoke in a cartoon sewer pipe. I had become a cartoon. I could kick and punch with my cockroach feet. My antennae squirted yellow polka dotted blue snot that would probably glue my adversaries to the ground, stopping them in their tracks when I showered them. Also, I discovered I was extremely fast and was very good at getting away from pursuers—from enemies. I had all the mushrooms I could eat. However, I wanted out! I wanted to go back to being a break-through inventor. I never should have shot Luigi. I felt like Dorothy in “The Wizard of Oz.”

Then I woke up again. I was in my bed. I realized immediately that I had had a “Reefer-mare.” My neighbor Daisy had given me an ounce of “Blip” for my birthday. It is rumored to be the most potent pot on the planet. I had smoked a giant 6” spliff and became beyond stoned—there were little men dancing on my bedroom ceiling with giant ants in red tutus, when I passed out. That’s my loser side—I can’t say no the reefer. Ever since I was 12 I’ve been huffing the stuff.

Anyway, my invention is still successfully producing cold water under my sink. I’m trying to get off the pot. I don’t want to squander my millions on hallucinations. I am in love with Daisy, but it is weird that she always wears the same yellow dress.


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

Buy a print edition of The Daily Trope! The print edition is entitled The Book of Tropes and is available on Amazon for $9.99. There is also a Kindle edition available for $5.99.

Enigma

Enigma (e-nig’-ma): Obscuring one’s meaning by presenting it within a riddle or by means of metaphors that purposefully challenge the reader or hearer to understand.


I’m tall when I’m young and short when I’m old. What am I? I don’t know. I lost my book Why Riddles: Wrestling With Obscurity. I think I left it under my pillow. It’s the only place I haven’t looked. I’m sure I’ll find it when I go to bed tonight. If I do, I’ll text you the answer to the tall-short riddle. It might be like the “How many toes does a crayon have?” riddle. My quick answer is “none,” but that thwarts the riddle and displays an immature drive to kill that particular riddle. It thwarts the spirit of the riddle that has carried people beyond the vagaries of literalism, to the hallowed heights of metaphors, and similes and puns for millennia.

When I was in the Army, I knew a guy who worked in the message vault. He carried a .45 and picked up and delivered messages in his own Jeep. When he was working spoke only in puns or obscure pronouncements. I though he had gone crazy spending his time in the message vault when he wasn’t picking up or delivering messages. The vault was like a big bank vault with stacks of messages scattered around. I asked what he did with the stacked, undelivered, messages. He said: “The flight of the bluebird is aimless.” I could sort of understand him—maybe the bluebirds were the messages, flight was delivery. But aimless was pretty much beyond me—maybe it meant that the addressee was unknown, so they couldn’t be delivered. I asked him if I got it right and he said: “You are taking a tour without a compass.” Well, that was clear—I was not right and I was headed in the wrong direction. I asked him if I was right about being wrong. He said: “Apples and tomatoes can be red or yellow.”

My visit with my buddy was going south. I was headed down a dead end street. I was dancing in the dark. I was on a treadmill. I was running on a Hamster wheel. I’d been dealt an empty hand. The chain was off my bike. My shoe laces were tied together. My brain was in neutral.

I was frustrated, but he was my buddy, and I could still remember him before he was put in the vault. Maybe his purposeful obscurity was part of his training to keep from inadvertently disclosing top secret message content. Anyway, I visited him after the war. He was living in the psychiatric ward of his local VA hospital. They didn’t know what to do with him, so they kept him. He wasn’t dangerous, but he made people angry with his crooked talk. I sort of knew how he felt. My head was full of secrets too, but I didn’t care. I would blurt them out. As a consequence, a lot of people were afraid of me. Secrets are secrets for a reason.

I’m going off course. My GPS is smoking. My roadmap is blank. I am lost in space. My bulldozer is stalled. I am drowning in memories. But, I’m ok. When I think of Cinderella I am calmed. When I think of Porterhouse steak, I develop an appetite. When I think of dreams, I want to go to bed. When I write, I’m quite clear. When I talk, not so much. When I sing, I am an angel spreading light.


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

Buy a print edition of The Daily Trope! The print edition is entitled The Book of Tropes and is available on Amazon for $9.99. There is also a Kindle edition available for $5.99.

Ennoia

Ennoia (en-no’-i-a): A kind of purposeful holding back of information that nevertheless hints at what is meant. A kind of circuitous speaking.


I know where the wild goose goes. If you invest now, you’ll end up in the Article Circle without the proper protective clothing. Your assets will be frozen, and you won’t be able to move them across the tundra to a bank, other than a snow bank.

Trust me—we’ve been investing together for the past 20 years and we’ve only screwed up once. Prudence was our watchword, and we amassed a fortune. $600 million. You want to invest $500 million in Twitter. Twitter is fast becoming an even bigger shit show than it was before. Permitting Donald Trump back online is like reviving smallpox because it spreads quickly. The dissemination of lies and conspiracy theories will will go viral. Soon, the cadre of dupes wearing their stupid MAGA hats will be calling for Biden’s impeachment and George Santos’ appointment to Speaker of the House after McCarthy is run over and killed in the Congressional parking garage by “a Leftist Democrat,” maybe Beau Biden or Hilary Clinton.

So, we have to agree on what we do with our capital. I say, investing in Twitter at this point is like stoking a fire with almost all of our cash, so we can rake through the ashes looking for our profits and find only losses. Do you remember our fist sizable investment? Cabbage Patch Dolls. They were hot. They were going somewhere. People had lost their minds and were paying hundreds of dollars per doll. We bought every Cabbage Patch Doll in existence. We stood to make millions. Then, the bottom fell out—we couldn’t even sell our inventory for a few cents on the dollar. Now, we have a warehouse that I’d like to burn down.

So, let’s put this behind us and look at some other prospects. I like this AI stuff. I would love to live in a world where art and literature are generated by computers. No more arrogant and self-absorbed artists and writers. We can help students do better on writing assignments too, even if they can’t read. That’s noble! Just think, plagiarism will be a thing of the past—poor writers will no longer risk expulsion for stealing other people’s words!

There’s an AI startup in Massachusetts called “Genie Lamp.” You rub their APP icon with your index finger and tell it what you want, either an image or text. It sends the result to your cellphone. It is like magic. Beats the hell out of embattled Twitter as an investment. I gave it a test run last week. I told it I wanted a story titled “The Unexpected Death of My Business Partner.” Do you want me to read it to you?


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

Buy a print edition of The Daily Trope! The print edition is entitled The Book of Tropes and is available on Amazon for $9.99. There is also a Kindle edition available for $5.99.

Enthymeme

Enthymeme (en’-thy-meem): 1. The informal method [or figure] of reasoning typical of rhetorical discourse. The enthymeme is sometimes defined as a “truncated syllogism” since either the major or minor premise found in that more formal method of reasoning is left implied. The enthymeme typically occurs as a conclusion coupled with a reason. When several enthymemes are linked together, this becomes sorites. 2. A figure of speech which bases a conclusion on the truth of its contrary. [Depending on its grammatical structure and specific word choice, it may be chiasmus].


Me: It is 115 degrees outside. You better wear shorts to work, along with a T-shirt. The blue T-Rex t-shirt would be perfect! Given this climate stuff, we’re going the way of the dinosaurs, pretty soon we’ll all be crude oil or tar balls jostling together in a bubbling pit. If we lose our electricity, we’ll die. They’ll find you clutching a beer on the couch, shriveled up like a piece of dried fruit, like a fig with ants crawling all over you. And, oh, nobody will find you because they’ll be shriveled up on their couches too. Yup, it is the end of the world. We’re headed for extinction, Maybe before the end of the summer.

You: I can hardly be in the same room with you. You never stop. When we were kids it was the atom bomb. You refused to get under your desk during the school drills that were supposed to save us from the bomb. You would sit there saying “If the bomb comes here, the school will be leveled. If we survive that, we will all be turned to ashes cowering under our chairs.” Everybody started crying and tried to get out the door at once. There were injuries and our teacher, Miss Roper, was demoted to classroom aide.

Your hysterical harangues were dangerous back in the sixth grade, and now even more so, given the ubiquitous bullshit flying around—pushed by fake scientists so they can make money while scaring the holy hell out of average Americans and their children, like Joan and Bill’s who, by the grace of God go to a private school where climate change crap is not permitted to be taught, along with other evil brain poisoning ideas like Critical Race Theory. I don’t know what Critical Race Theory is, but it must be bad if it’s banned from “Himmerler Middle School” where my neighbor’s kids go. They’re not going to be fooled by the communists aiming to destroy America by destroying American values. So, why don’t you just can it and go on with your life, such as it is, filled fear and unfounded predictions. Go home and put some clothes on. Tightly-whiteys and sandals are so wrong, no matter how hot it is.

Me: it’s nice to see you’re running with the Lemmings toward the cliffs of denial. Does it feel good to be a part of the pack? All together. Eye to eye. Perfect harmony until death do you part. It is supposed to be 130 degrees tomorrow! I’m headed north to buy myself some time. If I’m going to die, at least I’ll be in a beautiful place. I mean, the sidewalks are starting to crack here in Manhattan and the streets are buckling. I can’t take a shower and I’m pooping in plastic bags and dropping them off behind trees and bushes in Central Park.

Uh oh. Hear that? It’s quiet. The electricity has gone out. No A/C. 130 degrees tomorrow. Let the looting begin! Let the home invasions begin! Let the City burn. Let the “normal” people who’ve ignored the climate change warnings for the past 20 years die without dignity in the coming conflagration. They willfully ignored the hard truth, opting for the soft comfort of lies because the lies aligned with their hopes and stilled their fears.

Goodbye. I’m headed to Alaska. I’m wearing my tighty whiteys. I hope my old VW Bug makes it. I’ll never forget driving it to Woodstock with you and Beth. Do you want to come with me now?


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

Buy a print edition of The Daily Trope! The print edition is entitled The Book of Tropes and is available on Amazon for $9.99. There is also a Kindle edition available for $5.99.

Epanodos

Epanodos (e-pan’-o-dos): 1. Repeating the main terms of an argument in the course of presenting it. 2. Returning to the main theme after a digression. 3. Returning to and providing additional detail for items mentioned previously (often using parallelism).


I’m sorry I strayed off course there. When you’re talking about the good life, it is easy to lose your way in the labyrinth of delights that help make it possible, but are easy to get lost in: surfing on reveries toward a shoreless horizon, hanging ten, hanging on the wax, hanging a picture in my head that I can sleep on and . . .

Oh Jeez. I did it again. They used to call me tangent man in college—even then I couldn’t stay on point. It was pathological. I would be talking about one thing and a word, any word, would trigger a jump off the track, resulting in a train wreck of a conversation—from my favorite scotch (Johnny Walker Blue) to scotch tape and it’s remarkable ability to hold things together, and the amazing role it plays in packing, especially the wide . . .

Please forgive me for going off point again. We’re here to listen to what I have to say about the good life. The good life: Love everywhere: in public and private. Like the Beatles sang: “All you need is love. All you need is love. Love, love love. Love is all you need.” So, where do you go to find and give love? Bowling Alleys. The people who’re bowling alone. Pick one out and ask them to bowl with you. If you ask in a non-whiny voice, you’ll make a strike. This will be the beginning of a life fulfilling connection in the alley’s of life. There will be nothing to spare—every day you’ll roll 300s together. Your glitter-laced balls will reside in velvet-lined bowling bags, waiting for Friday’s roll, and two perfect scores. This is just one example of how the good life can be obtained. The key is to have a partner who you have at least one thing deeply in common with that induces respect and nurturing affection, like me and my plant growing in the window. It speaks to me with waving leaves and flower. I speak to it with water and fertilizer once a week. I have the plant for fifty years—longer than any of my wives, who taught me what the good life is not. Wife number one made me beg for dinner. Wife number two cut holes in my socks. Wife number three was pretty nice, but she made me wear yellow onesies. The non-treaded deer made me slip and fall down over and over. Thank God, they all cheated on me, so divorce was easy.

Well, thank-you for attending my lecture. The good life awaits you.


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

Buy a print edition of The Daily Trope! The print edition is entitled The Book of Tropes and is available on Amazon for $9.99. There is also a Kindle edition available for $5.99.

Epanorthosis

Epanorthosis (ep-an-or-tho’-sis): Amending a first thought by altering it to make it stronger or more vehement.


Beaver: I have deeply negative feelings for you. Enough of this bullshit: I hate your guts. If murder was legal, I would murder you. I can’t believe what a foul bastard you’ve become. Ever since you started hanging out with Eddie Haskell again, you’ve turned into a hissing snake that scares children and winds around women, stealing their affection and emptying their purses. Maybe I should kill you.

Wally: Gee Beaver, where did you get all these lies about Eddie from? He’s kind and generous. He gives to charity—The Home For Off-Beat Men. It has been serving wayward men for ages—men who were non-conformists like George Wallace, or Henry Ford, or George Lincoln Rockwell. It put a roof over their heads and fed them when they were in danger.

Beaver: Can’t you see? The men you cited are bad to the bone. If this is Eddie’s idea of a charitable shelter, he’d probably give money to a cardboard box, filled with explosives. The things you do with Eddie make me sick, Wally, some day you will get caught and you’ll go to prison. Do you think it is legal to steal old lady’s purses, or kid’s bicycle’s, or to burglarize convenience stores? No! It is not legal! Eddie is a piece of shit. He’s taking you to jail. There’s a remote chance I may want to be close, as brothers again, if you cut off your connection to Eddie. I don’t want to rekindle out connection as your visitor in jail.

Wally: Beaver, you are so naive. I’ve been walking the edge with Eddie ever since we were little kids. I’ve always looked up to his ability to lie and cheat. Right now, we’re on the golden road to riches. As long as you keep your mouth shut, we’ll make it. We’re graduating to scams—scams that require intelligence and cleverness. Right now, we’re working on an adult webcam site. Mom has agreed to “perform” on the site to help us get up and running. Her cam-name is Misty Crab. We will have people pay to meet her off cam, but she’ll never show up. This is all perfectly legal, and Dad has approved, and with Mom’s help, we’re taking off like a rocket ship. We will be recruiting additional cam-girls at the community college. We’re plastering the place with flyers, and so far, we’ve recruited five cam-girls who start on Monday. What’s wrong with this baby brother?

Beaver: Gosh Wally, you and Eddie have got a plan that sounds legal and profitable. And with Mom’s approval, I’m in. Are you going to have male-cams too? If you are, I’d like to give it a try, but I’ll have to change my name from “Beaver.” Ha ha!

Wally: Ha ha! I’ll ask Eddie..


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

Buy a print edition of The Daily Trope! The print edition is entitled The Book of Tropes and is available on Amazon for $9.99. There is also a Kindle edition available for $5.99.