Period

Posted on October 19, 2022 | Leave a comment

Period: The periodic sentence, characterized by the suspension of the completion of sense until its end. This has been more possible and favored in Greek and Latin, languages already favoring the end position for the verb, but has been approximated in uninflected languages such as English. [This figure may also engender surprise or suspense–consequences of what Kenneth Burke views as ‘appeals’ of information.

Going over the bumps there were rattles. It sounded like somebody was playing cymbals in my back seat. I was waiting for a part to fall off and send a shower of sparks across the road in the nighttime, so it would look pretty cool, but not cool enough. First thing tomorrow, I was taking my 2007 SAAB to visit my mechanic Lars. He was a Swede and specialized in SAABS. His repair shop was called “Köttbulla Bensongarage” (Meatballs Garage). His family had been taking care of SAABs since they were spun off of airplanes at the end of WWII. SAAB ceased production in 2014, but devoted mechanics like Lars kept the remaining SAABS on the road. Mine had 162,000 miles on it when the rattle started.

I made an appointment for 11:00 am. When I got there, Lars was waiting outside the garage’s bays. “Let’s take your car for a ride and see what this is all about.” He hopped into the driver’s seat and off we went. “Sometimes these little Swedish imps get into your car’s insides. The first thing we do to get rid of Noki the Rattler imp is to shake him out.” We were coming up on a really bumpy stretch of road. Lars floored it, the turbo kicked in, and we were going at least 100MPH when we started hitting the bumps. Despite having my seatbelt hooked, my head slammed into the car’s ceiling. I was knocked out. I was in a Swedish dreamland sitting on a steaming pile of meatballs in the back of a speeding pickup truck. I think that Noki was driving, blowing the horn and laughing.

Suddenly, I woke up. My car was stopped and Lars was slumped over the wheel. I thought he was dead, but he wasn’t because it wasn’t Lars. It was Noki— his body was like a cage filled with stones small pieces of metal—he was literally a living rattle. He smiled. His eyes were yellow and he was wearing a smaller noisier version of himself on his head! He said: “I have infected your SAAB. It will never stop rattling. It will drive you crazy. Lars can’t fix it—where is he anyway? He has abandoned you like a bad father abandons his child. So, get used to me or junk this old disgrace of a SAAB.”

I didn’t know what to do. How could I possibly go up against a Swedish imp—the Swedish maker and keeper of the SAAB rattle? Maybe I could flatter him: “Oh Mr. Noki, your rattling is foremost among sounds: grating, banging, clanking, irritating to drivers of SAABs throughout the world. You have done your work here. Why not depart and practice your rattle-magic somewhere else? “Shut up,” Noki yelled, “I will show you the rattle of your life. The world went dark. When the light came back, we were on a road with six-inch high bumps, or I should say, humps. We were going at the SAAB’s top speed: 145 MPH.

Noki was laughing and drooling and rattling like thunder. I was terrified, holding onto my seatbelt and flying up and down. Then, Lars appeared in the road ahead. Just then, the SAAB seemed to run out of gas. Lars was holding a big thick piece of foam rubber and a roll of duct tape. Together we wrestled Noki out of the driver’s seat, wrapped him in foam rubber and secured it with the duct tape. At first, we could hear muffled rattling, but as we tightened the duct tape, the sound faded to nothing. We threw Noki in the trunk. Lars told me he’d made the car seem to run out of gas with some ancient mechanic’s trick. So, we drove away. The rattle was gone! When we got back to the garage, Noki was gone—off to irritate some other SAAB owner with his rattling bullshit.

Given all that Lars has done to keep my SAAB on the road, I think he may be some kind of Swedish God—maybe a god of healing. He always says “No matter what it is, I’ll try to fix it. If I can’t fix it, we’ll send it to Valhal to become spare parts.” He gestured toward the field above garage which held at least 100 SAABs waiting to donate a part, or parts, to prolong the life of a fellow SAAB.

Definition courtesy of “Silva Rhetoricae” (rhetoric.byu.edu). Bracketed text inserted 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 a Kindle edition available for $5.99.

Leave a comment

Posted in period

Tagged , ,

Periphrasis

Posted on October 18, 2022 | Leave a comment

Periphrasis (per-if’-ra-sis): The substitution of a descriptive word or phrase for a proper name (a species of circumlocution); or, conversely, the use of a proper name as a shorthand to stand for qualities associated with it. (Circumlocutions are rhetorically useful as euphemisms, as a method of amplification, or to hint at something without stating it.)

I acted like a child—varying from 1-3. I had “Kid’s Disease” a very rare condition causing the subject to want to be coddled, showered with toys, watch cartoon reruns on TV; and eat jars of strained peas, applesauce, and minced poultry, and drink sippy cups full of milk, and boxes of pear juice. My mother was no Doctor Spock, or she would’ve whipped me into shape years ago. The giant playpen and high chair must’ve set her back thousands. The adult-sized custom-made Polartec onesies must’ve set her back a few thousand too. I could go on—the car seat, the crib, the sandbox, the potty, etc.

But I didn’t care. I had gained fame from a newspaper article about me. Subsequently, I was interviewed on a couple of blogs and appeared on “Screwed Up People,” a daytime TV show with a huge audience. I was known in the media as “Baby Big-Rig,” due to my size—it also sounded good with my first name, Billy. “Billy Baby Big-Rig throws toy, Billy Baby Big-Rig punches cat, Billy Baby Big-Rig Slashes Pram With Box-Cutter.” Yes, I was becoming dangerous. I tried to stab my nanny with a crayon, I left toys on the stairs hoping my mother would trip and fall down them. I hoarded my pear juice and dumped it in the kitchen drawers. Despite my “Baby” guise, I could walk when I wanted to. I could even drive—roaring along the freeway in my mother’s Subaru in my red onesie, headed for Larry’s Bar. I would steal money from the “cookie jar” and go to Larry’s for a good time. Maybe the best part was my grand entrance in my red onesie suit. Everybody cheered and lit their cigarette lighters and held them up high. Then I would get drunk and hit the Karaoke stage. I would perform the Ronetes “Be My Baby” and “Baby Love” by the Supremes. Larry’s went wild—they threw baby pacifiers at me and chanted “Baby Big-Rig, Baby Big-Rig.” It was exhilarating. Somehow, I needed to make this into a money-making enterprise.

So, I got a manager. For 20% Red Salter would do publicity, book venues, handle the books and merchandising, and take care of my baby needs. Already, our Baby Big-Rig onesies were sweeping the world of fashion as we franchised them to major labels, including Chanel. People were buying our giant cribs with the special “Lulabye and Good Night” mattress—guaranteed to “make you sleep like a baby.” I learned pole dancing. My “pole” was a giant baby bottle with special handgrips I could hold onto when I hit the pole. I also hired a back-up group of nanny’s called the “Ba-Ba’s” whose cordless microphones were baby bottles.

I started punching people for no reason. The lawsuits were mounting up. Mr. Salter had disappeared. I still had $5,000,000 stashed in a private account. I was fixed for life. But I needed an outlet for my increasingly violent tendencies. So, I quit the music business and became a professional wrestler. My wrestling name was “Baby Boom.” I was an ass-kicking menace. Wearing my red onesie, I’d dive into the ring and crawl around like a baby, and then, stand and capture my opponent in my classic “Goo-Goo” headlock, burning his neck with the sleeve of my Polartec onesie. The crowd would chant “Baby Boom, Baby Boom” and I would throw him to the mat and sit on his face with my onesie-covered “footies” pinning his shoulders. I made a few million more wrestling.

One day, I woke up and didn’t want to be a baby any more. I was 29 and I was rich. I put on a pair of blue jeans, a Baby Bam-Bam t-shirt, and a pair of Nike trainers. That was it, I wasn’t a baby any more. I picked up a box of pear juice and headed out the door.

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. Also available in a Kindle edition for $5.99.

Leave a comment

Posted in periphrasis

Tagged , ,

Personification

Posted on October 17, 2022 | Leave a comment

Personification: Reference to abstractions or inanimate objects as though they had human qualities or abilities. The English term for prosopopeia (pro-so-po-pe’-i-a) or ethopoeia (e-tho-po’-ia): the description and portrayal of a character (natural propensities, manners and affections, etc.).

My bed was yelling at me: “Climb in! Get in here! It’s half past 2:00am.” Couldn’t my bed see? I was duct taped to the rocking chair. I had no idea how I got there. How could this happen in my own bedroom? Was I drugged and dragged? I thought I was because I had a sort of fogginess that does not come from lack of sleep. Then, my wife walked into the room. “You were doing it again, sleep walking without your pajama bottoms and trying to get in my bed. You were persistent, so I gave you a shot of fentanyl in your neck. You went into an immediate stupor. Our neighbor Ed, who is a terrific guy, helped me drag you and tape you to the chair. I know it seems drastic, but I’m off the pill, I don’t want any kids, and abortion’s illegal here in Indiana.” “So’s fentanyl,” I said. Just then, Ed walked into the room. He wearing black bikini briefs and black flip-flops. His outfit cried “I was having sex with your wife.” But that didn’t square with what she had just told me about being off the pill.

I was afraid to confront him because of the rumors about his past. He had a giant scorpion tattooed on his chest, and a big black rat on his left shoulder. It had a cartoon bubble that said “I’ll eat your face.” People said he had served in the Russian mercenaries, and was thrown out for playing “flaying games” with captured Ukrainian soldiers. In short, Ed was one wicked hombre. I asked them to untape me and help me out of the chair. My wife laughed: “The chair’s your new home wimpy pants. Ed and I have planned a crime spree that will extend across the Southeast, ending in Florida. we’re leaving you here to starve.” This was crazy. My wife used to be a kind, loving, loyal person. I knew she knew I would eventually free myself. Something stunk.

While they were getting ready to do their criminal deeds (I guess, loading firearms, mapping out escape routes, studying McDonalds’ floor plans and drive-in savings and loans), I struggled to free myself. I had briefly worked as a part-time contortionist when I was in college, performing at birthday parties. So, I had a few moves that might get me free. I tried the “Jelly Man” first—where you go totally out of joint and do the “Squirmarola” to get free—like a blob of jello on a mission. The duct tape adhesive poses a special challenge, but you can do the “Spot Sweat” and moisten the adhesive with bodily excretions. Once moistened, the tape slides open, and you slide free. It worked!

I got dressed and quietly went down the stairs. There they were. I expected them to be doing their version or the squirmarola on the couch. But they weren’t. Ed had dressed as a Catholic priest and was dribbling oil on my wife’s head. She was yelling “Hosanna” and holding her hands together in an attitude of prayer. This was so bizarre that I thought I was hallucinating, but I wasn’t. It was real. I was hiding behind the corner of the stairway wall, so they didn’t see me. When Ed was done “anointing” my wife, they embraced, rocked back and forth, and sang Elvis Presley’s “Hound Dog.” Ed sang the entire song in falsetto. Then, they howled and went “Yip! Yip!” and crawled around the living room floor on all fours, sniffing it like they were on the trail of something. After two circuits, Ed put my wife in a Great Dane-sized dog crate and dragged it out the front door. I watched as he loaded the crate into his van, and they drove away.

I was glad they were gone. There was indeed a crime spree reported in the Southeast. Their first target was a savings and loan in Alabama. They had escaped with over $200,000! Then, it was reported they were apprehended in Florida robbing a Sunglasses Hut. I was glad. Finally, they’re going to get what they deserve.

That night, I couldn’t sleep. There was a really bad smell coming from the basement. I wracked my brain and remembered that it could be Frieda the missing middle school teacher! I went down in the basement and there was Frieda curled up on a tarp on the basement floor, dead. Now that Ed and my wife were on the lam, I immediately reported the body to the police. They added Frieda’s murder to Ed and my wife’s litany of criminal offenses. It was the right thing to do.

I had liked Frieda a lot. We were close, but not close enough. She resisted my affectionate advances. I said to her decaying body “I’m sorry I had to send you away with a crowbar to the back of your head, dear Frieda.” Suddenly, there was pounding on the front door. It was the police. It was a ruse! Ed and my wife were working together with the police. They had discovered Frieda’s corpse when they were playing Dungeons and Flyswatters in the basement. The basement was bugged. The police heard everything.

I’m in prison and Ed and my wife are still going at it. She’s pregnant and we’re in the process of getting a divorce. I found out that the rumors about Al were untrue. He had served as a pastry chef at NATO Headquarters in Brussels. He was never in trouble. He never hurt anybody, he just had poor taste in tattoos.

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. Also available on Kindle for $5.99.

Leave a comment

Posted in personification

Tagged , ,

Polyptoton

Posted on October 16, 2022 | Leave a comment

Polyptoton (po-lyp-to’-ton): Repeating a word, but in a different form. Using a cognate of a given word in close proximity.

I stole. I was stealing. I had nothing but my own two hands to keep me alive. Sure, every once in awhile some kind souls would hand me money as they passed my plastic bag home on the street by the park. I would spend the money on cigarettes, muscatel, and food, in that order. Every once-a-while I’d have to spring for a new Bic lighter when mine ran out of gas. So, I stole a pram. I was going to sell it at the flea market, I would be loaded. Then, I noticed there was a sleeping baby in the pram. Now, in addition to all the other shit I was buried in, I was a kidnapper. As fast as I could, I pushed the pram up to somebody who looked kind, and then, ran away.

It was Monday. It was “fishing day” when I waded around in the park’s Jacob Astor Memorial Fountain collecting coins that people had thrown in over the weekend. It seems that fountain-pitching is the only thing pennies are used for any more. I had an old sock that I put the coins in; so far, I had about fifty-cents, and I’d just about cleaned out the fountain. I figured I would snag around seventy-five cents. Maybe, with a little whining, I could get a banana at the bodega.

Then I noticed a rather large coin. It was bigger than a silver dollar. I bent over and picked it up. Although the water was cold, the coin was warm to the touch. I looked it over. On one side it said “I AM WORTH EVERYTHING” inscribed in an arch paralleling the coin’s rim. Below the inscription there was a cornucopia with three tigers pictured jumping out of it. On the other side it said “BUY WHAT YOU WANT” paralleling the coin’s rim. Pictured below the inscription was an infinity sign set up like a seesaw with two frogs playing on it—sitting on either end.

I decided that the coin was magical. Why not? And why not give it a go for something really expensive that would last me awhile? My first thought was two cartons of Marlboro 27s. No, I would buy five! I’d have a smoke-a-thon with my buddies under the bridge. Just as I was ready to go for it, a little old man in a pointed red hat yelled “Stop you idiot!” I stopped and looked at him—he looked like one those little statues you can get at Walmart to put in your garden. “You can buy anything in the world with that coin!” He yelled. “Yeah, I know. I’m loading up on smokes” I answered. He yelled, “Get over here!” When I got there he stuck his index finger in my ear. I felt something like a washcloth whirring around inside my head washing away my stupidity, lack of ambition, and tendency to fail at everything I ever tried, except stealing. The little guy yelled, “Think big you idiot. This is your only chance!” I yelled, “A car!” The little guy looked like he was going to have a heart attack. I started toward the Subaru dealership and he tripped me. I hit the pavement pretty hard and skinned my knee. He didn’t even apologize, but at that second, I realized what he meant by “think big.” Like a garbage truck or a bus, or a tractor trailer truck. “No!” He yelled “Bigger!”

Ah ha, I had it! The Empire State Building! “No, no, no!” He yelled. This was driving me crazy. Who was this little guy, anyway? Out of frustration, I said “I’ll buy planet Earth.” The little guy said “Beautiful” and disappeared. Now, I own Earth, but nobody believes me. When I tell them, they say things like “Yeah, I own Mars.” Now, when I say “I’d give the world for a cigarette,” I mean it.

I’ve gone back to my old life. Even though I own the world, things are no better. People think I’m crazy. I decided to try stealing a pram again with the intention of selling it at the flea market. So I grabbed what looked like the most expensive one parked by the gate. I started walking at a fast pace, but not running, so as not to attract attention. I looked down and to my horror, there was the little guy, red hat and all, smiling and looking up at me. I let go of the pram, but it turned around and came after me of its own accord. It was faster than me and scooped me up from behind. I shrunk to little guy size as we took off into the sky. I tried to jump out, but I couldn’t move. I passed out. When I woke up I was still little and I was sitting on a giant mushroom wearing a red pointed hat like everybody else.

I like my new buddies and doing contract work for Santa Claus and the Easter Bunny.

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.

Leave a comment

Posted in polyptoton

Tagged , ,

Polysyndeton

Posted on October 15, 2022 | Leave a comment

Polysyndeton (pol-y-syn’-de-ton): Employing many conjunctions between clauses, often slowing the tempo or rhythm. (Asyndeton is the opposite of polysyndeton: an absence of conjunctions.)

I had a dog, and a cow, and a hamster, and a chicken. All pets: Moe, Moo-Moo, Curly, and Buck. All adopted.

Buck liked to perch on Moe’s back and ride around the living room. Moo-moo hung out in the back yard with her daily bale of hay by her weather-resistant milking machine that I had bought for her at the state fair two years ago. It was an auto-milker that she could back herself into and kick a green button to get it started and kick a red button to shut it down. Of course, I had fresh milk up the wazoo, and illegally donated my surplus to the homeless shelter. Nobody cared, so I rolled in with a couple quarts whenever I could.

Curly the Hamster was another story. He was a retired CIA hamster, part of a contingent of hamster field operatives. Curly had seen action in Afghanistan and was attached to the US Embassy in Russia. In Afghanistan, he acted as a courier, delivering encrypted massages to special operators. In Russia, it was more complicated. When he returned from Afghanistan, he was sent to Walter Reed Hospital to be fitted with a “tactical aural/optical device” designed especially for the Clandestine Field Hamster Corps. The ‘fitted’ hamsters were inserted into the personal lives of their targets, via their children, as beloved pets. To be inserted, the Hamsters were placed in walls, with food and water, via radiator pipe openings. This was done by “contractors” when the families were off to the Black Sea for summer vacations. When they returned, the hamster would start scratching the wall from the inside, mimicking a trapped hamster. The families somehow concluded that the “animal” got into the house while they were away, perhaps through the open window they found when they returned (of course, the contractor had opened the window, just a crack).

With much effort, the hamster would be liberated—all dirty, and apparently dying of thirst—all part of the CIA’s ruse. Curly turned on his equipment by rubbing his ears. Presto—video and audio of a top-level Russian official. The kids named Curly, Kudryavyy (кудрявый), which ironically, means “Curly” in Russian. There were a number of other coincidences which prompted Curly’s handlers to believe he was compromised. Pretty bad, was when Curly’s target/host read the “Gettysburg Address” to Curly, tore it into little pieces, and threw it up in the air like confetti. He said in English, “American militia make new civil war” and laughed. Even worse, not long after that, Curly ended up in a microwave oven. His target/host had the microwave set on high for ten minutes. He was ready to press the button when the kids came into the kitchen. They kids were horrified. The little one, the girl, would not stop screaming and rolling around on the floor. The older boy grabbed a fork, aimed at his father, and swore he would “put holes in his face” if he didn’t free Curly from the microwave. Curly was grudgingly freed.

An electronics surveillance sweep was scheduled by the Russian KGB for the next week. Curly had to get the hell out of there. The kids vowed to each other going to take him to school to show him off the next day. Given how crazy their father was behaving, the decided to sneak Curly out of the house. They hid him in one of their lunch boxes and off they went. This was his chance—Curly could make a run for it when they started showing him to the class and passing him around.

It worked! Curly made a break for it. When he went trough the classroom door he hit his head hard and knocked out the tracking device the CIA had installed. Knowing what to do, he scampered toward the US Embassy—from his training he was intimately familiar with the streets of Moscow and soon saw the US flag flying over the embassy. KGB came out of nowhere—shooting at Curly and screaming obscenities. One of them managed to blow off Curly’s left hind paw. Bleeding, he nearly passed out, but he managed to drag himself through the embassy’s gates. He was medevaced to Germany, and then, to the US.

Curly won a special Presidential Citation and was fitted with a stainless steel fur-covered prosthetic paw. Now, he likes to sit on the bed and watch my wife and me, at all hours of the night, no matter what we’re doing. He just climbs up on the bed, rubs his ears, and sits there staring at us.

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 a Kindle edition available for $5.99.

Leave a comment

Posted in polysyndeton

Tagged , ,

Proecthesis

Posted on October 14, 2022 | Leave a comment

Proecthesis (pro-ek’-the-sis): When, in conclusion, a justifying reason is provided.

I went downtown— or at least I thought I went downtown. There was no downtown downtown, just a bunch of empty storefronts. It’s an old story—here comes the mall, there goes downtown. Then I noticed a narrow little storefront that had a light on inside it. “A survivor!” I thought. “I’ve got to check this out.” Painted in gold lettering on the store’s window, it said “Nebulosity.” There was a sign hanging in the door that said “More Or Less Open.”

I opened the door and went inside. It smelled like clothes that had been packed away for years in cedar in somebody’s basement. The showcases had a blurry quality when you looked directly into them, their contents was blurred, out of the corner of your eye, they were focused, but you couldn’t tell what they were. I thought, “How does he make a living?” But, I quickly found out that he was actually she—once again I had assumed that a man ran things. I wished I could kill that bias.

She was a marvel to behold. In fact, she was a little scary. She wore a beautiful dress made from freshly picked grape leaves, golden bracelets on both wrists, and a hat that looked like the sun setting in front of a silver cloud. And she had on bronze-colored Birkenstocks. She held a mug of steaming tea. I could tell it was Chamomile. The mug was made of stone and had a rune marking inscribed on it. I am a Professor of Ancient Nordic Culture, so I could read the rune and understand it’s significance: G – Gebo (ᚷ). Meaning: ”Gift”—love, partnerships, generosity, exchanges, marriage.

Things were happening too fast. I was overwhelmed. I asked her name. “Helga ” she told me. He name means “sacred.” I asked why she had that particular rune, Gebo, inscribed on her stone mug. “What are you looking for?” I asked. She looked at me with shining hazel eyes that, incredibly, made me want to spend my life with her. I thought, “I’ve got to get the hell out of here!” I started toward the door. “No! Please stay!” Her voice was musical—melodic and inflected. I stopped and turned. She said, “Look in this showcase” and waved her hand over it. It came into sharp focus. There, inside the showcase, I was sitting on a sort of couch next to Helga. We were wrapped in furs and she was holding a baby—our baby. There was a huge fire roaring in the fireplace and wind-blown snow falling outside. “This could be our future. All we need to do is open the showcase and our new lives will begin,” Helga said. “Why me?” I asked. Helga answered: “I could see the light shining from your heart when you walked through the door. But let us look at our distant future.” We looked into the fourth showcase—there we were. It was spring and we were old. Our three children and eight grandchildren were there, we embraced in a big clump and then, I started reading a book to the youngest grandchildren. It was titled “Vikings” and was about my great-grandfather’s exploits when he was a much younger man.

“I want this,” I cried with tears in my eyes. I had to settle the deaths of my wife child, electrocuted in our swimming pool. It happened five years ago and my heart had been burning for love ever since—burning for something that could heal the longing and pain and grief. Helga looked at me with the quality of affection I longed for. She gave me hope that I could overcome my guilt-stricken past.

Helga waved her hand and the showcases went blurry again. We embraced and she opened the first showcase and we were drawn in like some kind of living mist. As we floated through the void, Helga gasped and pushed me away. “You killed them!” she cried as she left me behind to drift in the void forever.

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.

Leave a comment

Posted in proecthesis

Tagged

Prolepsis

Posted on October 13, 2022 | Leave a comment

Prolepsis (pro-lep’-sis): (1) A synonym for procatalepsis [refuting anticipated objections]; (2) speaking of something future as though already done or existing. A figure of anticipation.

There’s a voice inside my head telling me to do things I don’t want to do. This morning, after breakfast, for the millionth time, it told me to brush my teeth. I told the voice that I had a position to take. It was “No.” The voice, Edward 2 (I’m Edward 1), always has a bunch of reasons why I should comply: your teeth will get cavities, your gums will bleed, your breath will stink, your teeth will yellow. We’ve been going through this since I was 11. I’m 32 now, and my ‘inconvenience’ argument has won every time because Edward 2 couldn’t make his BS reasons trump inconvenience—he tried once, about 8 years ago, to show how his asserted consequences posed a greater inconvenience than brushing my teeth. But he failed. Why does he continue trying to boss me around?

Now, I work at a transfer station on the Hudson River. My co-workers call me “Eddy the Tooth” or “Tooth” for short. Actually I have three teeth and they’re on the verge of falling out. This morning Edward 2 sounded like he was mocking—taunting me because of how things’ve worked out. I hate his “I told you so” tone as he tries to belittle me. Well, I’m going to show him! I’m getting dental implants: shiny new glistening white teeth! Edward 2 said: “Go ahead, it’s better than having that stinking hole in your face—go ahead, see if I care.” Finally, I had beaten Edward 2 at his own game. I came in for a smooth landing despite his advice.

I first discovered that things were going wrong when Edward 2 told me to put a plastic bag over my head and jump naked out my apartment window, which is seven stories up from the street below. I told Edward 2 that he was a petty bastard who couldn’t stand losing. His response? He made me to go outside and expose myself to an elderly woman walking home from the grocery store. It is nearly impossible to describe what it is like to be controlled by a voice in your head. All these years, Edward 2 had been a benign presence in my head, trying to steer me in the right direction. Now, he dispensed with reasoning, and had started commanding me to do things—things that Edward 1 was unable to resist.

So, I was ticketed for indecent exposure and had to go to court. As I told my story about Edward 2’s control over me, one of the jurors started to cry. The judge shook his head, as if to say, “Here we go again.” The jury found me guilty. The judge sentenced me to two months community service and 10 sessions with a court appointed psychologist. Edward 2 said: “Make a big loud fart.” I tried, but I couldn’t do it. He swore at me as we left the courthouse, and hummed Blue Oyster Cult’s “Don’t Fear The Reaper” really loud inside my head, and then out of my mouth. People turned and looked at me, but I couldn’t stop. I was doomed.

Thank God I was prescribed medical marijuana to make Edward 2 shut the hell up. I was high all the time, but now that Edward 2 was gone, a voice I called Edward 3 started talking. He kept saying “like” and “man” and “far out” and “wow”. He sounded like the guy in “Easy Rider” in the fringed coat. I liked Edward 3 a lot.

My community service consisted of scraping pigeon droppings off of park benches. That’s where I reconnected with the crying juror woman. She complimented me on my teeth, and right then, I knew we were in for something good. We went out to eat at a steak house where I could really show off me teeth—their ability to rip, tear, and chew. Suddenly Edward 2 showed up outside my head and told me to eat my date. In a panic, I ran outside and lit a joint and smoked it like a vacuum cleaner. I heard sirens headed my way. Very high, I went back into the restaurant and there was Edward 2 slashing my date with my steak knife. He was yelling “I am Edward 1, and I am going to eat you baby. Heat up the frying pan.” Shocked and terrified, and disgusted, Edward 3 and I ran out the door, and we’ve been running ever since, even though we were cleared—we are worried all the time that my completely insane identical twin brother will escape from Willow View and try to destroy my life again. Our parents had named us Edward 1 and Edward 2. I was Edward 1 because I was born first. Without thinking, I had named the voice in my head Edward 2. Since my twin has been locked up, Edward 2 in my head has been quiet. It’s all so confusing, but we’re ok. Edward 3 and I listen to music, make brownies, smoke dope, and drink craft beer. We are getting lonely though.

Gruyère tells us: “The sweetest of all sounds is that of the voice of the woman we love.” I haven’t named her yet, but I know she’s in there. It’s just a matter of time before she starts professing her love and we have something like phone sex inside my head.

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. Also available from Kindle for $5.99.

Leave a comment

Posted in prolepsis

Tagged , ,

Protherapeia

Posted on October 12, 2022 | Leave a comment

Protherapeia (pro-ther-a-pei’-a): Preparing one’s audience for what one is about to say through conciliating words. If what is to come will be shocking, the figure is called prodiorthosis.

BE PREPARED TO LIVE WITH YOURSELF

Nobody can unerringly predict the future. You can hope for it and you can dream about it, but you can’t predict it. Weather forecasts can do a pretty good job, but that’s as far as it goes. Many of us live as if we could predict the future, making decisions that lean toward a future that is not present—that is spun out of a narrative inside our head, or a conference with a so-called advisor, or a mentor. Some decisions are more foolish than others. But, all decisions have a dimension of foolishness: the are addressed toward a non-existent entity that can never be known. Yet, coping with life’s challenges—whether here now, or in an imagined future—necessitates wondering, balancing, judging. Our well-worn treks into the future don’t require much prognostication—like going to the grocery store. You make a list, you get in your car and go. All is well until there’s no toilet paper on the shelves. Now, you see the contingencies latent in your predictable trek into the grocery store future.

Neither the past nor the future actually exist. The present turns into the past while you experience it. No matter what happens in the present, if you are intact as you experience it, it becomes your past. The past and the future, two times that don’t exist, and yet, establish our lives and characters in unreflective instances of closure, or better or worse acts of interpretation. Hope and fear haunt our decision making—there is no way out. At the bottom, they shore up everything we do: the polar rationales and fleeting or unshakable inducements that make us what we are.

Between the past and the future, we may be evolving toward an unimaginable future, away from an unsatisfactory past. But, always inside your head, the unresolved beat goes on—from observing the first snowflake of winter, to reflecting on the fate of the squirrel you ran over with your SUV on your way home from work. There is no peace of mind, just more or less vexing pasts and futures. If you can accept that, you’ll avoid the pitfalls of religion, and everything else that is “Too good to be true.”

I developed these “insights” years ago. It started when I opened my last can of sardines. I was hanging from a cliff 200 feet off the ground—stranded by a stuck rope. Luckily, I had stuffed the can of sardines into my pants pocket—I say “luckily” because I hadn’t given it a second thought. I did not have a fork. I was swinging back and forth eating the sardines with my fingers and wiping the oil on my pants. After I finished my sardines, I thought about cutting the rope and falling into oblivion. But, I didn’t.

I had a magnifying glass hanging from my belt that I used to examine rock samples, looking for pieces of silver ore. Suddenly, I smelled smoke—the magnifying glass had focused a ray of sunlight into a burning beam that lit my pants on fire, with the help of the oil from the sardines my pants were starting to blaze. The rope was catching fire too. That was it. Consumed by terror, I closed my eyes and waited for the end, thinking it would hurt and accepting death. Then, I remembered the two bottles of water. The were both full. I pulled them off my waistband and dumped them on my pants and the rope, which looked like it was starting to melt.

One of the nearby search parties saw the smoke and came to my rescue. I had some superficial burns, and I was grateful to be alive. Beyond planning my 200-foot descent, all of what happened was completely unexpected. The surprise was terrifying. But, what can anybody do? It is impossible to thwart the unknowable.

As Jim Morrison wrote: “The future’s uncertain, and the end is always near.” Accepting this, we can ponder it and contemplate it, and we may see the beauty of life’s limited horizon, illuminated by what’s beyond it, but unknowable. And we may reach toward the horizon, and prompted by wonder, we wonder “What’s next?”

Now, what are you going to do next? Go home? Go out to dinner? Be run over by a FedEx truck?

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

Leave a comment

Posted in protherapeia

Tagged , ,

Protrope

Posted on October 11, 2022 | Leave a comment

Protrope (pro-tro’-pe): A call to action, often by using threats or promises.

Every morning precisely at 5:00am, in the men’s dorm, they played “Ebony Eyes” by Bob Welch. Supervisor Grinder yelled “Get off your asses and pick up your glasses—go, go, go men—I’ve got my eyes on you!” We all had to yell “I see that, Supervisor Grinder!” Then, we showered, brushed everything, and got dressed in our white sort of medical-looking uniforms. This was “Salvino D’Armati School of Optometrical Arts (SDSA).” Named after the 16th-century Italian inventor of eyeglasses, SDSA is known far and wide as the world’s premier optometrist trade school. Our motto In Siti Veritas (In Eyeballs There is Truth) proclaims our commitment to enabling people to live the 20-20 life.

I am not the smartest person in the world. I don’t know how I got in SDSA, but I think I am a legacy. The male members of our family have all attended SDSA since it opened in 1697. They have done amazing things with their knowledge and skill. Napoleon personally thanked my great-great-great grandfather for fitting him with his newly invented “bifocalling” glasses before he laid waste to the Austrians by being able to fire a canon and read maps at the same time. No only was he thanked by Napoleon, my great-great-great grandfather was granted a beach resort in the South of France. This is where he invented sunglasses—both prescription and non-prescription. And also, experimented with what he called “fashion frames.” Moving ahead, my grandfather invented the “invisible rims” for Woodrow Wilson. Wilson’s vanity coupled with poor eyesight combined to create a need for the invisible rims—rims made of extremely thin wire, barely visible to the naked eye. Before he received the invisible-rimmed glasses, Wilson’s vanity had won out. He had gotten briefly lost in the Oval Office. But, the worst was his misreading of a key passage in his speech justifying America’s entry into WW I. Instead of saying we will “Make the world safe for democracy,” he said “Make the world safe for demography,” a major faux pas that was instantly corrected when my grandfather rushed to his side and handed him his new glasses, and he saw his mistake and corrected it with a little laugh. There are hundreds of other examples, and it is plain to see my family’s centuries-long focus on eyewear is still as sharp as ever. Until we get to me.

I think all my family’s smart genes have been used up. I hate to admit it, but I am kind of unintelligent. I have have trouble linking things together, spelling, math, English, professional demeanor, and history. I am barely managing. I am poised to make it to Phase 2 of my training where I actually examine real eyeballs of homeless people and prescribe lenses for them. But, tomorrow is the big test that determines whether I advance or get kicked out of SDSA. It is divided into a grid. Each box is assigned a code word that also contains an eye chart letter. For example, there could be a box that contains a capital “E” coded as “Big-E” or “Biggy.” The examiner would say “Biggy” and the answer would be “capital E.” There 80 boxes and code-words. The “final” for the transitional exam is the requirement of reciting the eye chart and it’s code words in under one minute. I might be able to do this if I could remember the eye chart and it’s code words. I couldn’t do it. I knew I was doomed to fail and disgrace my family.

The big day was tomorrow. I was tossing and turning and trying to figure out how to tell my father I was coming home. Part of my problem getting to sleep, in addition to cataclysmic worry, was something under my pillow poking my head. I lifted my pillow and there was the most beautiful pair of glasses I ever saw. There was a small sheet of paper too. It said: “Press the tiny button on the left side of the frame. You will see the answer to every question. After the exam, burn these glasses. Grandpa.” Very eerie, but I was too desperate to care.

The glasses worked perfectly, but I thought I could make a ton of money renting them to my fellow students. I would ask for $1000. My first customer was Frederick Crash. I had been in classes with him, and I thought he might even be more unintelligent than me. He put on the glasses and pressed the button, his hair caught on fire and his left eyeball exploded, splattered on the glasses and ran down his chin. I called 911 on my cellphone, grabbed the glasses, and ran. The first chance I got I burned the glasses, like I should’ve done in the first place, like Grandpa had told me to do. I was a fugitive now, but with my forged optometrist license that I got on the web, I got a job at WalMart examining people’s eyes.

Then, I was caught and arrested on the beach at Newport, CA. As the policeman was reading me my rights, I put on my glasses and disappeared with a whooshing sound. Grandpa’s magic had worked again! When I disappeared, I ended up in a cave somewhere with a group of other fugitives waiting to go somewhere. Finally, my turn came and I was transported to Fine, NY a micro-sized hamlet on the Western edge of the Adirondacks. Once I landed and looked around, I felt good. Long story short: I got a job working in the talc mines, met a wonderful woman, started a family and bought a Subaru Outback.

I still feel bad about Crash’s popped eyeball. I bet he does too. Maybe, if he could find a valley of blind people, he could be their king. Other than that, he’s screwed.

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. It is also available in Kindle format for $5.99.

Leave a comment

Posted in protrope

Tagged , ,

Proverb

Posted on October 10, 2022 | Leave a comment

Proverb: One of several terms describing short, pithy sayings. Others include adage, apothegm, gnome, maxim, paroemia, and sententia.

“A happy heart is better than a full purse.” This was my motto when I was a mugger. If we had the time, and managed to strike up a conversation, I’d have a couple hits of weed with my victim. We’d be laughing our assess off, and then I’d demand they empty their pockets in my gym bag while I held them at gunpoint. Or, I would tell a joke to soften them up with a happy heart. My favorites were Henny Youngman one-liners—quick, creative and damn funny. Check this: “My grandmother is over eighty and still doesn’t need glasses. Drinks right out of the bottle.” We’re standing there laughing and I pull my .45. I say, “Hand it all over. Put it in my gym bag. After you do, like Henny said, ‘I’ve got all the money I’ll ever need, if I die by four o’clock.’ ha ha.”

At some point I started making up my own jokes. I got pretty good at it and started to get a reputation performing in small New York comedy venues. My stage name was Honey Oldman—a tribute to Henny Youngman who was my inspiration. I had to start wearing a balaclava when I robbed people. I didn’t want my face to give me away when I was on stage. Then a guy came up to me after a show. He told me he recognized me from when I had robbed him 2 months ago. “You did ‘I take my wife everywhere, but she keeps finding her way back.’ I was laughing so hard when you pulled your gun. You even took my wedding ring! Now, you need a manager and here I am. I get 30% and a new BMW. If you don’t like it, I will turn you in.”

We had wandered down the alley by the theatre. It was dark. Deserted. Isolated. We were both laughing when I shot him in the heart with my .45. “Problem solved” I though as I walked slowly back to the street. I thought a burden had been lifted, but it hadn’t. After I killed him, I was only able to make jokes about killing people, or injuring them badly, or just dying: “I won because I beat him,” “She was drowning in tears, so they called it attempted suicide,” “My wife said our marriage made her feel dead, so I killed her out respect for her feelings.” I would tell these jokes and the audience would boo and throw things at me. I was finished as a comedian, and I did not want to go back to being the Joking Mugger.

One night there was a knock at my apartment door. It was Detective Marshall and he wanted me to have look at a picture of a man who was seen talking with me outside the theatre the night he was found murdered—shot through the heart—in the alley by the theatre. I looked at the picture and nearly wet my pants—it was him, my extortionist. I told the detective that I vaguely remembered briefly talking to him about the show.

I needed to get away. The first thing I did was get a job driving one of those minicars in parades, for the Shriners. Disguised in a costume and stuffed in the car, nobody would ever recognize me. Plus, it was fun. Then, as I was taking a turn at a Parade in Reno, Nevada, I looked out the passenger side window and saw a man with a big red stain on his shirt slow clapping and laughing. It was the extortionist! Still clapping, and laughing, he started walking slowly toward me—I had stalled in the middle of the street. After what seemed like 100 tries, I got my car started and sped off. I was no fan of the supernatural—I was terrified. I had to find a better way to hide.

I decided to become a Trappist monk and lead a life of contemplation, work, and humility in an Abbey somewhere with my fellow monks. I scored high on the admission exam, freely admitting that I didn’t know hardly any of the answers. I had read on the internet that humility is a paramount Trappist virtue, so admitting ignorance was a good thing.

I got in! After a year, I got a well-made burlap robe, a rope to keep it shut, underpants, t-shirts, sandals, and a Bible. I was glad I studied French in high school. I was assigned a vocation: cheese-making. After three years, my conscience started to settle. Then HE showed up: the man I had murdered, red stain, slow clap, silently laughing. He followed me everywhere. However, nobody but me could see him.

He’s been doing the following-me-thing for 20 years now. He does not scare me any more. He’s like a tumor affecting my conscience I have to drag around behind me. Nobody knows about him. Even if they did, they would think I am crazy just for making up such a thing. Thank God he doesn’t touch me, or try to sleep with me, or smell. Maybe some day he will vaporize. I am pretty sure it won’t happen until I make a full confession to the police.

So, I’ve started making short ghost jokes as a way of coping. Like, “What room does a ghost not need in a house? A living room.” Or, “Hey, your nose is full of boo-gers.” That’s the best I can do.

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 $5.99. There is a Kindle edition available too.

Leave a comment

Posted in proverb

Tagged , ,

Prozeugma

Posted on October 9, 2022 | Leave a comment

Prozeugma (pro-zoog’-ma): A series of clauses in which the verb employed in the first is elided (and thus implied) in the others.

I can’t thank you enough for the food. I love Big Macs. The clothing. I haven’t had bell-bottoms for years. The shelter. I can fit the tent in my pocket when I fold it up. The job cleaning bedpans at the hospital. I have a fondness for stainless steel. The certificate of achievement for just being me (emblazoned with gold stars). It makes my Perfect Attendance certificate from Little Imps Day Care look like a used paper towel. The invitation to a camping adventure in your back yard. Scary! The free membership in the Deep Valley pinochle club. I don’t know what pinochle is. It sounds like some kind of candy. I can’t wait to try some. But I don’t understand where this is coming from. I have a job. I have food. I have a home. Look at me—do I look like I need clothes? The certificate is just as meaningless as every other certificate I was ever rewarded with. A few gold stars on a piece of paper just for showing up is almost like getting a prize for breathing. And a membership in a peanut brittle club is too bizarre to even comment on. I know you are Maslowites—wearing pyramid hats on your heads here on Main Street is a dead giveaway. I know you have to recruit two new members before you each Self-Actualize. You’ve come to the wrong person.

I learned about Maslow’s Hierarchy of Needs in college and thought I was justified in beating up my art teacher for what he said about my painting of a dump truck. He assaulted my self-esteem. I went to jail for hitting him with a canvas stretcher and trying to stab him with a paintbrush. The weasel was promoted to Full Professor, and eventually, to Dean of Faculty. He uses the story of being beat up as a foundation for lame-ass parables he feeds to the faculty, especially when the news is bad, like it is most of the time. He begins “This is like the time I was beaten to within an inch of my life . . .” The opening reference is a point of departure for his lamentations about the reduction of 2 faculty parking spaces due to the relocation of the Chemistry Department’s dumpster, the elimination of ice cream from the dining hall’s menu, or the banning of faculty wearing short pants. My neighbor’s wife is my spy. She’s the Dean’s secretary and she shares the news with me when we meet at the Gallopin’ Around motel on Friday afternoons. Our meetings are very productive. Now, you pyramid hat-wearing fanatics have brought it all back—yes, while I was in jail, I scaled the Pyramid’s levels, thinking deeply, pacing around, lifting weights, and making firewood carriers to sell in the prison store “Barred Goods.”

I wish I could call the Buddha on my cellphone. He would tell me exactly what to do, if anything at all. He would probably tell me to love all sentient beings, and accordingly, to become a vegetarian, but that’s not me. I am a whiskey-drinking, meat eating, cigar-smoking, womanizing, son-of-a-bitch. Nevertheless, here I am at the pinnacle, where the Maslowites strive to be—you think you need to recruit two new members, but it is significantly more complicated than that. You must discover your unique destiny.

We must ask, “What is the point of my existence, the niche I am to fill?” I will ask the question to myself on my way to the Oneida Nation smoke shop to get a box of Cohibas. I love them. The smell alone of the inside of the box makes me deeply grateful for my sense of smell. Next stop will be Utopia Liquors for a bottle of Johnny Walker Blue. It’s the only whiskey I’ve ever had in place orange juice with my breakfast. It is the smoothest and most softly intoxicating beverage on the planet. Next, I’ll call Marlene for “A Good Time”. We’ve been hooking up on weekends and lunch breaks for the past 9 years. I would marry her, but then, all the fun would go out of our relationship. Marlene agrees. We are a non-traditional couple. This evening we’re going to Norla’s— the best restaurant in our little town. It’s the only restaurant too. We are so lucky that it’s the best. I will have a jumbo porterhouse steak. Marlene will have her usual 5 vodka martinis and calamari. As usual, she gets pretty drunk and we do it behind the gazebo in the park across the street from Narla’s. One time we tried doing it in the winter and Marlene was concerned that the tattoo of party dip & chips would fall off her ass. She’s perfect.

Ok, see you around Maslowites. Even if you are over-committed, and probably should be committed, I still like you.

Ahh. Home at last.

Now, it’s back to self-actualization as I sit in my living room smoking a cigar, sipping Johnny Walker and listening to Marlene snore and fart in my bedroom.

What makes me unique? I don’t know. What is the puzzle I fit into as the “one and only unique piece?” I don’t know. In a way I feel myself sliding down the side of Maslow’s pyramid. I feel my pants catching on fire from the friction as I fly past self esteem. Oh my god! I dropped my cigar in my lap! My pants are really on fire. I run out the back door and jump into the swimming pool. I get out of the pool and take off my pants and then take everything off and jump back into the pool. I climb up on my inflatable floatie and lay on my back. The Milky Way is strewn across the night sky. Whenever I see it I am thrilled by the density of its stars and the endless ribbon of light they weave across the sky. I fall asleep.

I dream I am riding an escalator up and away from earth. As I pass the constellations, they acknowledge me in accord with their capacities: snorting, waving, hissing, clicking, calling out. Calling out? Oh hell. It’s Marlene! I run into my burning house and find Marlene curled up like a ball in a corner of the living room. I pick her up and carry her outside just as the fire trucks arrive. We’re both ok. I ask her to marry me. She says yes.

Am I self-actualized yet? Probably not. Saving a life is a fleeting thing. Besides, I lit the fire.

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’s a Kindle edition available too.

Leave a comment

Posted in prozeugma

Tagged , ,

Pysma

Posted on October 8, 2022 | Leave a comment

Pysma (pys’-ma): The asking of multiple questions successively (which would together require a complex reply). A rhetorical use of the question.

I retired too early. It wasn’t a choice. My arthritis froze up my hand to the point where I couldn’t do my job any more.

Now, I long for the good old days working at Entermann’s Bakery as an egg cracker for the crumb cake batter and the Stollen at Christmas time. I miss my little white hat, the smell of egg yolk, and the frequent sneezing from the flour in the air. I miss my comrades too, especially Hans Wieder who made 300 lbs of white icing everyday. He would stir it with a spatula that looked like a snow shovel, whistling “Edelweiss” like a Nightengale, and doling out paper cups full of icing to us all, to have as desert with our lunches. I had started bringing just two slices of bread to work to smear with Hans’ delicious icing. It was perfect. Then, Hans was fired for being “too generous” with “the product.” He chained himself to the icing vat and started swinging his spatula. He hit Mr. Entermann’s son in the face, who then shot at Hans, and Hans clubbed him with his spatula and killed him in “self defense.” Hans was tried and convicted of “purposeful manslaughter” and was sentenced to 4 years in Rahway State Prison. Someday, I will visit Hans, but for now, I try keep myself busy on my own. What do you think I do? How do you think I spend my time? What does a 67-year-old single man do from dawn until dusk?

In the morning I watch Martha Stewart and have been following her home decor recommendations. I have lots of ribbons and bows and little things hanging in my windows made of paper or self-hardening clay. Then I watch porn pretty much for the rest of the day. I purchased a copy of “Dirty Dick’s Porno Keywords” that I use to vary my searches for different porn site themes. It is an excellent resource for people like me who’re beginning to forget most of their own experiences and need to prop up their porno experiences with reference materials. When I get tired of the porn, I listen to oldies on XM radio. Finally, I go the bed with Bonanza. I think I have some kind of crush on Hoss, but I’m not ready to admit it yet. I like to think about riding my 10-speed bike through a hole in a burning map of Lake Tahoe. I would have “Born to be Wild” playing in the background and I’d be wearing a fringed leather coat like Billy in “Easy Rider,” mannn.

My therapist tells me I should get out more often. So, it is a little unorthodox, but I’m going out on Halloween. I was racking my brain about who or what to be. As usual, I was listening to the “Oldies Station” on XM radio. They were playing a Beatles’ retrospective and “Maxwell’s Silver Hammer” came on. I thought “That’s perfect. I can be Maxwell.” I went down in the basement and found my hammer. I went to the Ace hardware store and bought a can of silver spray paint. I painted my hammer silver and went to Oxfam and got some schoolboy clothing to wear—black shoes, white socks, short pants, while shirt, matching blazer and random middle school beanie. I was ready! Two more days until Halloween! I downloaded “Maxwell’s Silver Hammer” and played it over and over for inspiration. I couldn’t wait.

Halloween came and I donned my costume. I went to the door of my first house. I pounded on the door and held my silver hammer up in the air over my head and yelled “Get ready to die!” A woman answered the door, took one look at me a screamed “Call 911!” Her husband came running out of the living room. I was so stunned I hadn’t moved and still was holding the hammer over my head. He yelled “You perverted bastard” and shot me with his service revolver. He was an off-duty policeman.

When I was checked into the hospital with a gunshot wound to my ear, I found out it was Sept 30. I do not know how I got my dates so screwed up, but I do know why they panicked and I got shot. Thank god it was just my ear, another inch or two to the left and I’d be dead.

As a remedy to my time and date problem, I got a special clock from AARP that mimics a smoke alarm and yells the date and time every two hours. I also hired “Remember Your Life” to keep track of my appointments and text my cellphone every fifteen minutes on days when I have appointments.

They’re holding a Halloween party at the senior center. I’ve been invited. I know from all my time and date keeping gizmos that it’s actually October 31 when they are holding the party. I was thinking of going as the Grim Reaper looking over a papier-mâché effigy of an old guy on a gurney being euthanized. It has a modern ring to it and may help some of the guests with their end of life decisions. I can make a hole in the old guy’s chest and fill it with Medicare cards and candy.

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. It’s also available in Kindle format.

Leave a comment

Posted in pysma

Tagged , ,

Ratiocinatio

Posted on October 7, 2022 | Leave a comment

Ratiocinatio (ra’-ti-o-cin-a’-ti-o): Reasoning (typically with oneself) by asking questions. Sometimes equivalent to anthypophora. More specifically, ratiocinatio can mean making statements, then asking the reason (ratio) for such an affirmation, then answering oneself. In this latter sense ratiocinatiois closely related to aetiologia. [As a questioning strategy, it is also related to erotima {the general term for a rhetorical question}.]

What is the BIG QUESTION that everybody wants the answer to, that will enable them to obtain whatever answers to the BIG QUESTION that they need to find whatever the answer answers? If you don’t know the BIG QUESTION, you’ll never find the answer. How can you find an answer without the question it answers? You don’t even know if it is an answer—maybe it’s a question that is improperly punctuated, with the question mark missing. This possibility opens a strategy for mining declarative sentences, by making them into questions. You read: “He huffed and he puffed and he blew the house down.” By reframing this statement into a question, you can start to give answers that may yield an abundance of answers, ranging from the full lung capacity and blow power of a wolf, to the place of ‘the threat’ in children’s stories and in life in general. Going down this path, you remember the numerous times you’ve been threatened, and the threats’ consequences. As you go further, you may speculate on the relative efficacy of fear vs. objective ratiocination as an inducement to cooperate, or as a simple act of cruelty as a precursor to a gruesome death as in the case of the Big Bad Wolf’s quest to whack the pigs.

Is there a single BIG QUESTION, or are there multiple BIG QUESTIONS? But again, is there a BIGGEST QUESTION? Some people jokingly refer to the question: “How much wood could a woodchuck chuck if a woodchuck could chuck wood?” They say “A woodchuck can’t chuck wood, so shut up loser.” Well, maybe that’s the case with woodchucks, but what about hands? What about this question: “What is the sound of one hand clapping?” Like the wood chuck’s in inability to chuck, one hand can’t clap. Only an idiot would try to answer this question, right? But people have been trying to answer this question forever, sitting in an orange robe on a stone floor somewhere in Japan or California. And what about the woodchuck? If we pay close attention to the question, it hinges on the hypothetical “if he could” which deflects speculation away from the woodchuck’s literal anatomy to his character attributes. How would he fare against a beaver or a muskrat? What do we learn about the woodchuck, and life in general, by understanding the woodchuck question as providing a launchpad for philosophical debate and discussion? The same is the case for “one hand clapping.” It can be rejected as complete nonsense, or used as a platform for performing deeper speculation and personal growth by torturing yourself in a monastery, and most likely, cheating by making up a noise and claiming you heard it when you were clapping with one hand. The head monk will laugh at your duplicity and have you thrown out of a second story window. Given your now broken wrist, you can clap with one hand by slapping your forearm with your dangling hand. But that’s not good enough for the head monk. You yell “Fuck this place,” And the Head Monk nods his head. You got it!

So what BIG QUESTION have you answered, or attempted to answer, in your life? Like Foreigner, “I want to know what love is.” I’ve read 100s of books on the topic. Lots of women have professed their love for me. My answer to the love question has run the gamut from vicious, jealous, possessiveness, to not caring as the best way of caring. Now, I am at a place in my latter time, in the twilight of life, aged, full of history, conscious of the brevity of 80 years. Ironically, for me love is anticipation; of always looking forward to spending time with my wife and daughter. As I speculate on the inevitability of death, I know the wonder of life, and being alive, I am joyous.

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.

Leave a comment

Posted in ratiocinatio

Tagged , ,

Repotia

Posted on October 6, 2022 | Leave a comment

Repotia (re-po’-ti-a): 1. The repetition of a phrase with slight differences in style, diction, tone, etc. 2. A discourse celebrating a wedding feast.

A: Who the hell is getting married? I’ll take another gin & tonic, and another pinch on your ass. But I know you can do better than that. Remember the Christmas party last year. You were serving drinks and you let me unwrap your package behind the bar and nobody suspected anything as I gave you the stealth B-hind bomber treatment. Ha ha! Oh, and oh my God—what about New Years this year? We bumped in the new year on the floor under the dining room table. We kept our clothes on, and I made it look like we were dancing. Nobody suspected a thing. How’re we going to do it at this dum ass wedding?

B: It’s your wedding dipshit. Here, have another drink and maybe you’ll forget who you are and go home, cancel the wedding, and save Emily a lot of grief. Oh! Whoops! I forgot, you already got married to Emily.

A: Wah? You’re putting me on. What a sick joke. You’re fired! I’m going to take a nap somewhere. And then maybe have you arrested for serving me too much to drink.

B: You better not. The wedding feast is about to begin. Believe it or not, you got married one hour ago. You fell down twice during the ceremony and vomited on Emily. I have returned you to sobriety.

A: Who the hell is Emily? I don’t know any Emily.

B: Emily is your wife. She is a very special being. Get ready for this: she is 2,500 years old. She has produced numerous eggs in this cycle and is due to be impregnated again. For some reason, she chose you to mate with—you—an inconsiderate, self-centered fool. Emily is a magical creature and deserves far better than you, but she loves only the fool. Her Fool is the Tarot’s Fool, zero in the Tarot’s deck, infinitely empty, and infinitely full of possibilities, brimming with optimism and oblivious to the future: forever poised at the abyss, forever safe, looking up, inspired by the void.

Emily was born on the winds of Western Africa, succored on the sweet-flowing springs beneath Rome’s Palatine Hill, and sustained by ambrosia as she grew into womanhood. Emily is the goddess of Pregnancy. She is immortal, but must mate with a mortal every 100 years, at a wedding in celebration of the profane pursuits that bring pregnancy: joy, pleasure, faith, insemination, and life. Without the wedding, the cycle of her life may be disrupted and she may die a painful death, in a pit of rats, screaming like an owl at dawn’s light.

A: So I’m invited to a wedding that becomes my wedding? My wedding to a friggin’ Goddess? I get married while I’m obliviated on 6 gin and tonics. This sounds like some kind of cheap (and bad) piece of fiction written by a brain-damaged sky diver. But, what have I got to lose? It could be true. Not even I am stupid enough to pass this one up. If I’m married, I’m married. I don’t care if Emily’s a goat, I’m going to give it a shot.

I entered the banquet hall. Everybody cheered and applauded. The bride was easy to spot—she was wearing a wedding dress that looked like it was made of sunlit clouds shifting and moving as though they were rolling across the sky. Emily was a goddess. Her beauty and the warmth of her smile were transformative—without hesitation, I walked toward her slowly with my arms outstretched. She stood and opened her arms, lifted me off the floor, and I glided to her. We embraced and kissed, and I reveled in the taste, like dark maple syrup. It was crazy and totally sane at the same time. She whispered in my ear: “I love you because you are a fool.” For some reason that didn’t make me mad, maybe I was a fool, this Tarot fool the bartender had spoken of. But there was more to it than that. We held hands and our life stories flowed into each other’s consciousness. We feasted on ambrosia and wedding cake, and I asked her who all the guests were. She told me they were her “beloved” minions, except for the bartender who was her scout, who had found me, and who brought me here with the wedding invitation.

Suddenly, the guests started yelling at me: “Speech, speech, speech. I stood up.

A: I am standing here at hope’s abyss—in the bright light of a shining mystery called “The Future.” I was summoned today from the shadows of selfishness, immaturity, and a wasted life. In seconds, Emily brought me to my senses. She has made me feel at home in this world of fading promises and the turbulence of unexpected change. Through the warmth of her smile and the power of her ancient heartfelt embrace, I am redeemed. I am whole. I have found love. I think it was Shakespeare who wrote: “A fool thinks himself to be wise, but a wise man knows himself to be a fool.” I am Emily’s fool.

I did my best with the speech. The guests cheered. I was one with the moment. Emily blew me a kiss and it struck my lips like warm sunlight, and coursed through my soul.

So, we left the wedding and went to a nearby motel where we had sex so many times I lost count. When I woke up, she was gone. She left a note: “When our child is born, we will visit. Maybe we will stay—if you will be my fool.”

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. Also available in Kindle

Leave a comment

Posted in repotia

Tagged , ,

Restrictio

Posted on October 5, 2022 | Leave a comment

Restrictio (re-strik’-ti-o): Making an exception to a previously made statement. Restricting or limiting what has already been said.

“Things change.” The ancient Greek Heraclitus said that after he reneged on a marriage contract and ran off to Phoenicia with his best friend’s mother. Unfortunately she fell overboard in a sudden storm and drowned. Undaunted, because of being prepared for change, no matter how drastic, Heraclitus bought the ship’s young cook Euthalia and sailed on to Phonecia, where Euthalia “fell” off a cliff and was killed. But Heraclitus was ready—he knew that change was inevitable, and that one had to yield to its power and see it as a beginning instead of an end. People began to question the parade of wives, or possible wives, through Heraclitus’ life. Was it the inevitability of change, or something more sinister? As the rumors started to circulate, Heraclitus decided to leave Phoenicia and go some place where nobody knew him. But, before he left, he gathered the Phoenicians and told them, “You can’t step into the same river twice.” The Phoenicians had just discovered irrigation and drainage ditches and were angered by Heraclitus’ reckless statement. They demanded that he recant and leave Phoenicia as swiftly as possible. They were so anxious for him leave, they booked him a first class ticket on Pegasus, whose hoof caused the fountain Hippocrene to spring forth from Mount Helicon.

Heraclitus was ready to go—more change, more openings for development and growth. Heraclitus opened a famed Indo-Greco restaurant in Madras, India called “Wine Dark Sea.” The restaurant had an extensive vegetarian menu and Heraclitus was a respected member of the community. His nan won awards, and he invented what he called the σάντουιτς, or santouits. It consisted of two pieces of nan, with something between them: this could range from spicy “Eggplant Mt. Olympus,” to “Sardine feta Boeotia.”

But, Heraclitus’ success was his undoing. As the man who celebrated change, once again things were changing. Heraclitus’ success at negotiating change prepared him, he thought, for what was coming. But he never could have been prepared for the ire of his Indian hosts when they heard of his story about stepping in the same river twice. When applied to the river Ganges, it was catastrophic.

Now, we get to the point I’m trying make this afternoon with this “story” that I got from “Big Boss Man” magazine, the number one magazine read by big boss men around the world.

I’ve made a lot of promises to you all: executives, line staff, laborers, part timers—to everybody. I envisioned a future that we would all romp into like nymphs and satyrs, bare-footed and spilling cups of wine all over each other. I thought there would always be a place for white patent leather Go-Go Boots in peoples’ lives. But, that place is no more. Now, it’s Doc Martins, or, Blundstones, or Birkenstocks. I should’ve seen it coming when Queen Elizabeth stopped wearing Go-Go Boots. But instead, I took out massive loans and built a Go-Go Boot factory in China. We haven’t sold a single boot this year. We are finished. Change has destroyed us. But as Heraclitus shows us, change can be a beginning of something better, something we couldn’t imagine without having our lives completely destroyed—without the searing pain and chaos and nearly unbearable feeling of betrayal that may induce some of you to want to kill me.

Now, everybody gets a $50 severance bonus to help pick up the pieces, glue them back together, and start again. Please don’t complain—“What will be will be, the future is not ours to see.” The future can’t be known, but we spend much of our lives planning for it. I tried. I had hopes. I had dreams. We have Tarot Cards. We have Horoscopes. If only our optimism could come to fruition—we’d all enthusiastically sing “Tomorrow” with Little Orphan Annie.

In the end, then, it all comes down to luck. So, I say “good luck” and viva Las Vegas.

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

Leave a comment

Posted in restrictio

Tagged , ,

Sarcasmus

Posted on October 4, 2022 | Leave a comment

Sarcasmus (sar’kaz’-mus): Use of mockery, verbal taunts, or bitter irony.

You chicken-shit blubber butt. You hide behind Mommy pants pooper. You macaroni-armed lord of the limp dicks. You face-stuffing food fiend. You part-time human. You beet-brained barn smell. You fart-breathed toilet face. You bag of dirty bandaids.

Mel Rose is my name. Insults are my game. I am an “Insult Contractor.” I mostly write what I call “Nastygrams” for pay, and help people “get back” at other people, and initiate what I call an “insulgasm.” The insulgasm is the feeling of deep satisfaction and relaxation that one feels when one’s insult hits home—when it can’t be denied as an accurate, compressed, description of a target’s shortcoming in a specific category—from honesty to body shape, and more.

But my insults aren’t solely about “getting back,” I have clients who don’t care who the particular people are who they insult. They just fling the insults around, often at “types” of people who aren’t used to being insulted for any reason. For example, I have a client who specializes in elderly women in wheelchairs. One insult I wrote for him was: “You can’t even stand up for what you believe in.” As an act of resistance the woman tried to stand up, fell out of her chair, and fractured her skull. My client was delighted and ordered three more insults. This is what I came up with: “You’ll never run for office,” “Why do you let somebody push you around all time?,” “Your ankles look like coffee cans wearing stockings.”

I first realized my talent for producing insults for others when I was nearly 18. I was riding the train home from school. A drunken bum stumbled up to where I was sitting. He started asking the guy sitting next to me for money, and sex, and his briefcase. He stunk of the classic homeless blend: alcohol, urine, and B.O. Suddenly, my brain lit up. I whispered in the guy next to me’s ear: “Ask him: ‘When’s the last time you wiped your ass? You smell like a pile of shit’ and he’ll fold.” The guy next to me said it, and bam, the drunk hung his head and staggered away asking the other passengers if they had any toilet paper. Then, I realized I had a gift for reading insult targets and insulting them with one or two sentences that hit home, maybe tearing it down to the ground and leaving it reduced to smoking rubble. So, I started my own little insult business and advertised myself as “Insult Contractor.” My tag line is: “Revenge is an Insult.” I started off advertising on bondage chats where people routinely demean others with words. The business started to come in. I had found my niche. Within my moral compass, everything was fair game, from alopecia to xenophobia. However, I did reserve the right to turn down a contract for “personal reasons.”

My first commission as “Insult Contractor” was directed at an unfaithful wife that the client had seen (by accident) on the bondage site “Lucky Whip.” The insult: “Our kids don’t need a whore for a role model.” The insult illustrates the outside edge of all insults. The depth of their viscousness may insult anybody who hears or reads them. Their effect is not limited to their target—they have the power to offend one and all, everywhere, all the time, regardless of the context of their presentation, or to whom they’re presented. And, of course, they squarely contradict basic religious dogma that sets agape or selfless love as a foundation for human happiness and eternal life. What I traffic in rides in the fast lane on the Highway to Hell. The Highway is packed with cruel and vengeful travelers. It’s almost like the insults I write help pay their toll and speed their trip to the Lake of Fire.

Oh, I should tell you—the man on the train who used my insult to chase the drunk wasn’t just a man on the train! He was one of Old Nick’s talent scouts. Before he got off the train, he reached inside me and grabbed my soul, and channelled its river of insults, helping it to cultivate strife and fulfill my destiny as a divider of people.

Remember, while sticks and stones may break your bones, insults may totally destroy 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, and also in a Kindle edition

Leave a comment

Posted in sarcasmus

Tagged , ,

Scesis Onomaton

Posted on October 3, 2022 | Leave a comment

Scesis Onomaton (ske’-sis-o-no’-ma-ton): 1. A sentence constructed only of nouns and adjectives (typically in a regular pattern). 2. A series of successive, synonymous expressions.

Footballs. Bowling balls. Basketballs. Soccer Balls. Tennis balls. Golf balls. Soft balls. Croquet balls. Handballs. Paintballs. The world of sports is a world of balls. In fact, balls are probably the most prevalent pieces of equipment in the sporting world. Without balls, we’d be down to darts, and archery, and horseshoes, and curling, and badminton, and skiing, and skeet shooting, and chess. But that’s beside the point when you consider the tiny country of Vestigial.

A favorite competitive sport in Vestigial is called “Pine Pulling.” The game takes place on a Christmas Tree Farm near the sea. “Pullers” are ranked in accord with how long it takes them to uproot a tree. “Pine Pulling” harkens back to a time when Vestigial was a poor nation and it’s citizens couldn’t afford saws or axes, so they tore 6-8 foot tall spruce trees out of the forest earth, ripped off their branches, and used them for firewood—for warmth and cooking. The pine wood is rich in pitch so it was easily lit. Since they had no saws or axes, they shoved their wood straight into the fireplace—perpendicular to its walls. In addition, as a sideline, they made toothbrushes out of the branches and sold them to neighboring Norwegians, until they were invaded and annexed by the Norwegians in 1602. Nevertheless, the persistence of “Pine Pulling” as a sport is testimony to the resilience of Vestigial culture.

Then, in Stuckland, a microscopic state in South Africa that hardly anybody realizes exists, there is “Ant Whispering.” Stuckland has formidable ant reserves. In fact, there are easily more ants than human in Stuckland. The region is dotted with gigantic ant mounds, some of which are over 100 feet high. The annual games take place on the ant preserve in central Stuckland called Devil Ants Den and use the “Ant Tower” as the staging ground for the competition. Called “Vuur Mier” in the local dialect, the ants are almost identical to the Fire Ants introduced into the US from South America. “Ant Whispering” is played by single players scaling Ant Tower, sticking their face in the hole at the top, and yelling “Stay down!” for 15 seconds. The competitor with the fewest blisters on their face wins the competition, and the first prize: a free visit to the emergency room of the nearby hospital. Of course, the competition is undertaken to prove the hardiness, bravery, and resilience of the Stucklanders.

Competition. Sticking it out. Pride. Practice. Perseverance. Every culture has its games that exemplify its character and commitments, but there is a common thread: Winning and Losing. Inevitably there are more losers than winners. There are far more frustrated and angry competitors who lost than happy, smiling winners. Losers may be beaten up by their backers when they get home, lose their wives and husbands to winners, or become despondent drug users. Nobody likes a loser. But there’s light at the end of the tunnel!

I abstain from playing sports. Abstinence is a higher virtue than playing because it colors over winning and losing with “neither.” You put yourself out of play and no longer endure the ups and down. However, there is still a place for winning and losing in my life. I have become a “lottotarian” specializing in $1.00 scratch-off lotto tickets. Since there is no skill involved in scratch-off lotto, winning and losing are not attributed to me and do not involve me in a tangle of egotistic back-slapping or guilt-laced self-recrimination.

New York’s lotto motto says it all: “Hey, you never know.” This is a life-lesson that’s worth spending one dollar on.

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.

Leave a comment

Posted in scesis onomaton

Tagged , ,

Sententia

Posted on October 2, 2022 | Leave a comment

Sententia (sen-ten’-ti-a): One of several terms describing short, pithy sayings. Others include adage, apothegem, gnome, maxim, paroemia, and proverb.

Consider the booger. It isn’t a lobster. It isn’t Yorick’s moldy skull. But in a way the lowly booger has high standing in the universe of the nostril: “Not only do we live among the stars, the stars live within us.” Substitute “boogers” for “stars” and you’ll see there is a universe of unseeable celestial promise stuck in your life-giving airway, tidying it up by a hearty sneeze or a carefully wielded pinky scooping out the booger and wiping it on your pant leg or skirt or sock. Or, you may be primly equipped with what is called a “hankie” made from soft cloth, and possibly, embroidered with your three initials. If you’re a man, you may have in your back pocket a large hankerchief, “chief” emphasizing the cloth’s masculinity and superiority to the “girlie” little hankie. In fact, in order to emphasize its manliness, you might call your handkerchief a “snot rag” even though you may use it to go booger hunting up your nose. Or, you may have a tissue up your sleeve if you are bereft of pockets.

Booger flicking is a sport in some parts of the world, especially in poorer countries that may only have boogers to play with. There may even be regional tournaments and passionate rivalries with “Booger Kings” and “Booger Queens” revered as regional and national champions. The boogers are specially cultivated in the competitors’ nostrils, aging like fine wine, and taking on their cherished aerodynamic form inside the nostril through a process of tantric sniffing and, outside the nose, by rolling the booger between the thumb and forefinger, and very lightly moisturizing it with canola oil. The booger is flicked by placing it on the tip of the index finger and forcefully dragging the thumb toward it to strike it and propel it away from the hand. According to the rules, each booger must be kept in the competitor’s nostril until five minutes before the “Flick Off.” Competitors sit in a circle around a five-foot diameter pit marked in rings like a bullseye. The highest scoring booger wins the round. Ties are resolved by a “Booger Flick-Off,” and boogers that land on other boogers void their participation in the “Flick Off.” In the US, the last known “Flick Off” was held in 1980 and was “won” by the professional sniveler Donald Sump from NYC, who was accused of cheating by sniveling on his booger, increasing its velocity, and knocking what would’ve been the winning booger off the board. His title was taken away after a 10-minute hearing.

Now we come to the dark side of boogers. There are the near-perverts who eat their boogers. First, there are the covert booger eaters— they may pretend they’re wiping their mouths with their backs of their hands or handkerchiefs, when in fact, they’re unloading dried boogers into their mouths. They may chew them quietly and surreptitiously, but if you are vigilant, you can observe movement in their throats when they swallow their nasal confections.

But the absolute worst is the public booger miner. They may sit in a bus station digging for booger treasure. Their pinky is their tool, with enough of a nail to act as a shovel. They shove their pinky into their nostril, twist it around, fill it up and pull it out. Now, the public booger eater holds up his pinky and looks at his find from many angles, until he can’t stand any more. He shoves his loaded pinky between his lips and into his mouth, where he may chew on his prize for a couple of seconds before he swallows it.

Erasmus said “Nothing human is alien to me.” Boogers are human, and they bind us together. Their presence is ubiquitous. When we look at each others’ noses we can see mirrored there citadels of common experience that house boogers that we can’t see, but can believe in due to a booger’s presence in our own nostrils.

So, as we began, consider the booger: a building block of our humanity, so disgustingly beautiful and picked for infinite reasons, spanning the hierarchies of value that give life to meaning, and meaning to life.

If your nose could speak, it might say: “I can’t pick myself.”

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.

Leave a comment

Posted in sententia, Uncategorized

Tagged , ,

Simile

Posted on October 1, 2022 | Leave a comment

Simile (si’-mi-lee): An explicit comparison, often (but not necessarily) employing “like” or “as.”

She’s like a bicycle with one wheel missing, scraping a groove in my heart. It hurts like the time she sanded my left butt cheek with #80 garnet grit sandpaper. She crumbled my butt’s smooth skin like a piece of cheddar on a cheese grater. It hurt. I think I need to get away from her before I end up in a frying pan with a couple of eggs.

But for some reason, stemming from some kind of mild mental illness, I am unable to leave her. I want to think that her propensity for inflicting pain is a passing thing. But then, I realize we’ve been together for five years and she’s been marking me up the whole time—that’s more than “passing,” it’s become officially “chronic.” Now, she wants to amputate my little toe, cure it with some kind of chemical concoction, put a hole through it, mount a jump-ring on it, thread it with a piece of rawhide, and wear it around her neck, making a fashion statement on love’s commitment. The only objection I had was that she wanted to paint my toenail “Essie—Easily Red.” I thought that shade of red was too festive. I thought “Shades of Red—Rust” was more appropriate for an amputated toe. It had a somber tone to it. After a brief argument, we settled on Rust.

The time came to amputate my toe. We decided that since I was right-handed I would miss my right toe more than my left toe, so we went with the left toe. I was wearing shorts and removed my Birkenstock from my left foot. Everything for the “operation” was laid out on the TV tray table: a zip-loc bag, a roll of surgical bandage, adhesive tape, scissors, a washcloth, and hedge clippers. Everything was fine until I saw the hedge clippers. They reminded me of the hell my father put me through clipping our twelve-foot high hedge when I was a kid. I was 14 and I would fall off the ladder, once enduring a mild concussion that set me back learning arithmetic—a setback I never quite recovered from. I would get blisters on my hands from the clippers, and knock birds’ nests to the ground at my father’s prompting. It was truly devilish work. Now, my toe was to be amputated with hedge clippers! “No!” I yelled and ran out the door and down the stairs wearing only my right Birkenstock. Halfway down, I tripped and fell and rolled onto the lawn.

I think my girlfriend had given me some kind of sedative in my Matcha to prepare me for surgery. I was having trouble moving, and through my double vision, I saw Mr. Rainy, the maintenance man, headed straight at me on his zero-turn lawnmower! He was hoisting a bottle of beer to his lips and wasn’t watching where he was going. I yelled as loud as I could, but between the engine noise and his noise-cancelling earmuffs, Mr. Rainy couldn’t hear me.

I caught a glimpse of my girlfriend standing on the stairs, doing nothing. Mr. Rainy saw me at the last second and whipped off to the left and shut the mower down. He helped me up and called a cab. I was going to stay with my friend Jessica. She was a geek—not the nerdy type, but the circus sideshow type. She raised hamsters for her act and was notorious for her performance reprising “Nightmare Alley.” We got along well. One day, I looked out the window and there was my old girlfriend down in the street slowly making a cutting motion with a a pair of hedge clippers. She did this every day for a week. Then, she disappeared forever. Luckily, I had gotten my stuff out of the apartment one day when she was at work at the tattoo parlor.

I never saw her again after what turned out to be her last hedge clipper performance. I had my life back. When I talked about her to people who asked I would say “I severed my relationship with her. I cut off all ties. It wasn’t brain surgery.” Nobody got the jokes. I didn’t care. Living with Jessica was wonderful. Her biting sense of humor headed off all my gloom.

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.

Leave a comment

Posted in simile

Tagged , ,

Skotison

Posted on September 30, 2022 | Leave a comment

Skotison (sko’-ti-son): Purposeful obscurity.

Ever since I went to work for the Agency, I’ve been at risk of being compromised. I shouldn’t even be writing this. But I think you have a need to know. After all, your tax dollars are funding my activities—you should know, to some extent, where those dollars are going. Sure, we have poison candy bars, knock out gas, minuscule video cameras, sonic shock wave brain mooshers and a whole pharmacy’s worth of pills and injectables. You want your target to think they’re a raccoon? We’ve got it. You want your target to tell you everything they know? We’ve got it. You want your target to beg to die. We’ve got it. In sum, you name it, we’ve got it, or we’ll make it. Then there are the weapons. My all-time favorite is the poison-tipped umbrella. The exploding condom is fierce too. It can be programmed with its special timer to explode pre- or post-sexual activity. The exploding soup spoon works in a similar way, but it is detonated by the operator squeezing their thighs together. The list of lethal devices is nearly endless. One of the newest devices we have is the mosquito bomb. It isn’t a spray, ha, ha. It is a perfect replica of a mosquito, down to its blood-sucking bite. When a target is bitten by it and slaps it, it explodes, causing severe pain and rendering the target vulnerable to capture or termination. It works great in warm climates where mosquitos are rampant. But it’s been used successfully in New Jersey too.

So, how do we communicate with each other when we are on clandestine missions, or we want to cheat on our spouses? Ha ha! The cheating thing is a joke. How can I feel “safe” talking about a target that’s in view, when my position could be comprised, and I could be identified and killed or captured? It’s easy. We use a code that changes daily. The hard part is receiving the daily code. In most parts of the world, we have resorted to trained birds to deliver the codes. For example, in Venice, Italy we use pigeons. The operator goes to Piazza San Marco early in the morning, pretending to be a tourist—wearing shorts. He throws a handful of bread out on the ground. The pigeons flock, but one lands on his hand clutching the daily code in a little plastic capsule. The operative grabs and pockets the capsule, and is ready for the day. So, it’s pretty much the same everywhere: Magpies in London, England; Pelicans in Florida and California, Flamingos in Africa, Penguins in Australia and Argentina. Of course, this isn’t a comprehensive list—our bird operators are everywhere.

The code is used for voice radio transmissions. But what about the code itself? It is called the WHACK Code. It got its name because it produces nonsense to people who don’t have the code. Two people must possess the code for it to be coherent. The code consists of randomly generated words paired with other randomly generated words. So, you may have “armpit” paired with “bicycle.” So, you might say “My—I WHACK—armpit—I UNWHACK—has a flat tire.” Of course, in a real message, the WHACKING would be more lengthy. In the example “flat tire” would be WHACKED too. One of the most interesting encryption devices, though, is the M-6 A1 Cootie Catcher/Paper.

The M-6 A1 was first used by the Union precursor of CIA. Like a traditional cootie catcher, it had a series of answers printed on it that were vague enough to accommodate questions regarding the future and the past, but not specific facts. In the M-6 A1, this was a ruse—a cover for what the Union operator was doing. As we know, the cootie catcher’s points are manipulated by the “Teller’s” fingers which are inserted in the cootie catcher’s folds, and squeezed in and out a few times before revealing the answer. The Union spies learned what was called the “squeeze code,” a sort of sign language operative in the Teller’s squeezes and communicating intelligence to the “Reader.”

Since I’ve been in the hospital, I am starting to see that everything isn’t an encrypted message, it’s just natural phenomena like the wind blowing, or something said that means what it says, like “Hi.” For example, I heard the wind “cry Mary,” but my name is Edwin, so I wasn’t troubled one bit. Or, my therapist said “bowling ball” yesterday. It was clear that he has talking about his head. Normally, “cueball” would be used, but as my condition improves I can pick up a few nuances of meaning that don’t have to be attributed to spies following me around speaking in code.

Soon, I’ll get out of this place. I will complete my MFA and continue my waltz with words and dip my duct tape soul shoe in lightly battered posey.

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.

Leave a comment

Posted in skotison

Tagged , ,

Syllepsis

Posted on September 29, 2022 | Leave a comment

Syllepsis (sil-lep’-sis): When a single word that governs or modifies two or more others must be understood differently with respect to each of those words. A combination of grammatical parallelism and semantic incongruity, often with a witty or comical effect. Not to be confused with zeugma: [a general term describing when one part of speech {most often the main verb, but sometimes a noun} governs two or more other parts of a sentence {often in a series}].

When I met with the Dean, I never raised my expectations for what he would have to say, or my estimation of his right to be sitting there in his ostentatious leather swivel chair. My chair, in the Rhetoric Department, was squeaky, and uncomfortable, and it’s wheels had been stolen when I was off-campus on leave. One week after I returned from leave, and was sitting on a bench eating lunch and watching people on the quad, I saw my chair-wheels attached to a skate board rolling past me. I yelled “You thief! Give me back my wheels!” Without even looking at me, the thief gave me the double finger and continued to roll wherever he was going. I yelled “You little shit!” as he headed down the hill. There was an audible “gasp” from the people sitting near me when I said “shit.”

I am here in Dumbo Dean’s office because of what I yelled. According to University Regulation 2.2 under “Prohibited Judgment-Words,” faculty are barred from using “shit, poop, steamer, Lincoln Log, Snake Charmer, Groaner or any other name connoting or denoting a bowel movement and/or fecal matter to refer to and/or demean a student, their family, or their friends.”

Well, I thought, we don’t even know whether this kid is a student. Then I noticed there was a kid sitting outside Dean Numbnuts office. He had a skateboard on his lap—with my chair-wheels screwed onto it. He was the little shit. I recognized him. It was Puster Twupe. His ancestors had paid for and built the university at the beginning of the 19th century. The university charter said all Twupes would be admitted to the university, attend free of charge and be immune from disciplinary charges for their behavior. This last provision was included because the Twupes had a predisposition for misbehavior, up to, and including the fatal bell tower accident in 1888. Many university presidents had tried to have the immunity clause removed from the charter. One President was beaten to death with a field hockey stick, and another was killed when a Bunson burner was stuck up his rectum and turned on. The gas blew him up like a balloon, and then, he exploded in flames.

Bozo the Dean told me if I apologized to “Mr. Twupes” we could forget the entire incident, and, I may get my chair-wheels back. Otherwise, I would be terminated from the university, my pension would be rescinded, and my campus burial plot would be returned to the university. Puster made a little snorting sound when Diaper Dean got to the bit about my burial plot. I didn’t care.

As Chair of the Rhetoric Department for the past 40 years, I had embezzled nearly $2,000,000 from operating funds with fake equipment purchases, trips to nowhere, fake guest speaker fees, and “miscellaneous” supplies. I had also actually purchased a departmental sailboat, “intended” for departmental bonding actives, but really, for my eventual getaway to the Caribbean. I had named it “Freedom.” So, I told Dean Dud to go fuck himself with the apology. Puster said “Wo dude,” as I walked out the door and into the rest of my life. I wanted to murder the little shit, and I thought I had a plan.

We agreed to meet up in the bell tower that night at 11.00. I told him I had an ounce of crack I needed to unload before I disappeared forever. He said “Righteous” which I assumed meant yes. Standing by the tower rail, he told me with a smug look on his face that he wasn’t really a Twupes, and I had been totally duped by him. But I was going to push him into oblivion no matter what. “What’s your mother’s name?” I asked. He said “Marcia Rocnkburg, she was knocked up by a professor, who got away with it because back then faculty and students were allowed to have sex. The University granted her child Twupes status to shut her up. My name was legally changed and I’ve been living as a Twupes ever since. ” “I knew it. You’re my goddamn son!” I yelled as I pushed the little shit over the tower railing and listened for the dull thud when he finished his fall.

As I untied “Freedom” from the dock, and the wind pushed into her sails, I thought about Marcia Rocnkburg, who had disappeared a few days after giving birth, and had been missing for nearly 20 years.

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

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

Leave a comment

Posted in syllepsis

Tagged , ,

Symploce

Posted on September 28, 2022 | Leave a comment

Symploce (sim’-plo-see or sim’-plo-kee): The combination of anaphora and epistrophe: beginning a series of lines, clauses, or sentences with the same word or phrase while simultaneously repeating a different word or phrase at the end of each element in this series.

If there was one thing I hated, it was paper towels. They were too easy to tear off and use. They set the expectation that you’d blot up every damn spill, no matter how small. They set the expectation that you’d swish a towel around on droplets of liquid, no matter how small. Well, maybe it wasn’t the towels that set the expectation. It was actually my mother.

There were so many rules about cleaning up I grew up thinking the world is a dirty place—a place where micro-bits of rat poop could be mixed into your breakfast cereal, fingernail clippings in your potato chips, parasites in your lightly grilled cod, microscopic mites in your Graham crackers—the list is nearly endless. Mother wore a jeweler’s loupe around her neck. Even though she cooked it, we had to pass plates to her so she could microscopically examine our food for “potentially fatal” unauthorized ingredients.

If we were watching TV and one of us farted into a couch cushion, mother would yell “Unauthorized emission!” turn off the TV, chase us off the couch, wheel her drum of Lysol up to the couch, and pump and spray until she was satisfied that the “gaseous matter” had been dispelled, and the “nasal and pulmonary dangers” had been eliminated. Then, she’d turn the TV back on like nothing had happened while the rest of us sat on the Lysol-soaked couch. You can imagine what would happen if somebody farted in the family car! Once, we rolled down the windows for 100 miles in winter, even though it was only 25 miles to Grandma’s house. It was 3 below zero and I got frostbite on my ears. My mother told me it was better than being gassed and maybe going blind, or becoming “a basket case.”

When I went away to college, I couldn’t escape Mother’s influence. While other kids got snacks, and socks, and other things in their care packages, I got cleaning supplies. Once, my mother sent me a case of Clorox sanitizing wipes. It would take a normal person a year to use them up, but Mom reckoned she would have to replenish my supply in two weeks. She even sent me a custom-made holster to carry my wipes in—wearing them on my hip like a gunslinger.

Since I have graduated from college, I have broken most contact with my family, especially my mother, whose sanitary mania drove me away. Since the estrangement, I have gone to the other extreme. I smell like a blend of B.O. and unwashed butt. I don’t even look at my food before I eat it. The floor is sticky with untended spills. The bathroom is a mildew garden. The kitchen is a roach rodeo when the lights go out. In short, my apartment is teeming with life, but it smells really bad. So, I bought some Lysol. I told myself, “This is a one-time thing to kill the smell.” I took a shower before I went to the grocery store. When I got back to the apartment, I sprayed a couple of bursts of Lysol around.

I could feel a change was starting to flow over me. Although I had thought I had made a clean break from the past, things were bubbling up, and washing my preconceptions down the drain. I needed balance—we all need balance, everywhere in our lives, or else we wreck our own and others’ lives. I vaguely remembered from college, the Greek blabbermouth Aristotle, who makes us all look feeble minded, came up with the Golden Rule—not too much, not too little. Kind of like Goldilocks’ take on mattresses, and porridge, and other things. I took a sniff of my apartment and it all made sense. After spraying a little Lysol around, the smell had lifted. It hardly smelled at all—it smelled just right. I called my mother for the first time in months and told her what had happened. She told me I was in danger, and not to let my guard down. Just to be safe, I hung up and sprayed some more Lysol around the apartment and wiped down the kitchen counters with disinfectant.

Balance. I needed balance. Everything was going be just right.

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 a Kindle edition available too under the same title.

Leave a comment

Posted in symploce

Tagged , ,

Synaloepha

Posted on September 27, 2022 | Leave a comment

Synaloepha (sin-a-lif’-a): Omitting one of two vowels which occur together at the end of one word and the beginning of another. A contraction of neighboring syllables. A kind of metaplasm.

It was Halloween. The kids were finally old enough to go out on their own. Mickey was going trick or treating as a mower man, pushing our old broken rotary lawnmower around the neighborhood, wearing overhauls, boots, a t-shirt and a New York Yankees ball cap. Our daughter Roxanne was going out as a big lump of bituminous coal with “No Coal” painted on the front and back. We were left at home alone with two big bowls of candy—one filled with little ‘mprinted heart candies left over from Valentine’s Day, the other, filled with homemade candy I had made—cubes of sugar soaked in cherry Kool-Aid with a raisin on top. The raisins had kept falling off so I had glued them on with maple syrup and kept them in the freezer overnight. We were dressed all in black to try to be scary. We were a little eccentric, but that’s what we liked about us. The children headed out, each carrying a laundry basket for the candy they would collect—a family tradition. About five minutes later, the doorbell rang. Three little costumed guests pushed through the door and stood silently by the candy bowls.

They were weird looking. They wore black robes touching the floor, a small fire extinguisher on their backs, eye-masks, and knitted hats with a logo that looked like a liver with feet and raised arms with blue, very hairy, armpits. “What team is that on your hats?“ I asked. Their little eye holes flashed twice, once green once blue. I thought how clever they were to use solar-powered Christmas lights that way, but they didn’t answer my question. I was starting to think they were rude—they barged into our house and didn’t answer my innocuous question. I looked at my husband and he just smiled. I asked them if they were going to take candy. Once again, their eyes flashed twice, this time once red and once yellow. Then they immediately and simultaneously drew what looked like 1950s Buck Rogers Sonic Ray Guns from their robes. Playing along, I raised my hands and cried: “Ooh, don’t shoot me little Moon men!” That was a mistake. There was a flash of light and a tickling feeling in my stomach. I couldn’t move or talk. My husband was gone. A least I was conscious.

I was being dragged toward an old, rusted, dented up green Jeep Cherokee. It had tinted windows all the way around and NY vanity plates reading “BLASTOFF.” After a bit of a struggle, I landed on my back, buckled into a reclining seat, like a chaise lounge. I was shocked when I looked around. The Jeep was loaded with lit up consoles, some with what looked like typical computer and video screens, others I guessed, after all that had happened, with some kind of extraterrestrial technologies. That is, I came to the realization that my cute little “trick or treaters” were abducting me, and there was nothing I could do about it. They were actual space aliens on a mission to earth.

Suddenly I felt I had turned into a warm ocean wave. I closed my eyes and I could see my brain pulsing wildly, pushing out aloha shirt prints and finally turning into a baked ham with pineapple and maraschino cherries. Then it all stopped. We had arrived. My restraint unbuckled. The door opened and I stepped out. It was a beautiful day. The air smelled like jasmine and there was a tall woman walking toward me. She was smiling. It was Amelia Earhart! She reached out and we shook hands. She told me the “one good thing about this place is you don’t age—you’re immortal.” I was completely taken aback and thought I was hallucinating. But I wasn’t. Amelia was really there, but nobody knew why we were there. She invited me to dinner that night with Jimmy Hoffa and Anastasia Romanov. We had a wonderful time and I couldn’t help but wonder why a nobody like me had landed here.

I miss my family, but the longer I am away from them, the less I miss them, especially my husband who is a certified asshole. I have been dating D.B. Cooper for 4 years. We went parachuting again last week. I loved it. He is hot with the parachute and the sunglasses. He wants to get married. I told him I wouldn’t marry him in 100 years. He took off his sunglasses and said, “I can wait.”

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.

Leave a comment

Posted in synaloepha

Tagged , ,

Synathroesmus

Posted on September 26, 2022 | Leave a comment

Synathroesmus (sin-ath-res’-mus): 1. The conglomeration of many words and expressions either with similar meaning (= synonymia) or not (= congeries). 2. A gathering together of things scattered throughout a speech (= accumulatio [:Bringing together various points made throughout a speech and presenting them again in a forceful, climactic way. A blend of summary and climax.])

Prince Marnold was born to the Duke and Duchess of Oxford on the eve of 1614. There was a chill that arose with his first cries, despite the fact that the massive fireplace in the Duchess’s bedchamber was roaring, producing four-foot high flames. She shivered as she held the infant close and thanked God for his uneventful birth. She could hear the wind whistling through the corridor, and the snow brushing on the chamber’s windowpane as she thought about tiny Marnold’s future: “Music! Music will be his life.”

It was Prince Manold’s 16th birthday, an auspicious time for an Oxford Royal. It was when his childhood commitments were either cast off in favor of more attractive pursuits, or they would be fervently embraced and further developed. Of course, Marnold had been following music almost since he was born. He had mastered nine instruments, but was especially good at musical composition—producing innovative and provocative works, and even inventing a musical instrument, that sadly, had brought scandal and shame to his family. It was a 3-foot long ceramic phallus that was played by sitting on a stool, putting it between one’s legs, and stroking it up and down with both hands, which were resined and made a provocative moaning sound. He called it the The Moaning Maypole. He first played it as a surprise at his mother’s birthday party. When he took it out of its case there were gasps, and applause, and his mother passed out. When she reawakened, the Duchess, in her bed upstairs, was determined that Prince Marnold would never touch a musical instrument again. His birthday choice would take him in a new direction.

When his 16th birthday arrived, she summoned the Prince to tell him of her wish, a wish that was actually a command in the hierarchy of the family. She was a little concerned about his reaction, given that Marnold had some ugly habits, the worst of which was butchering rats and other small animals and hanging their dripping skins from the stables’ rafters.

The Duchess told Marnold of her decision that he take a new turn, and supervise the serfs in the fields. He went mad. His music was everything to him. It was his comfort, his desire, his direction, his life’s meaning, his one love. Then, he thought of his dripping animal skins hanging in the stables. He thought of the shining butcher knife in the drawer in the scullery where rabbits and other small animals were gutted, skinned, and dismembered. Then, he thought of his mother, no better than a rat for what she was doing to him.

The next day, the Duchess and her son took a walk in the fields so she could show him the lay of the land and prepare him to undertake their supervision. When they got down into a gully, out of sight, Marnold pulled out the butcher knife and murdered his mother. He did it swiftly and cut a rectangle from the back of her gown, and then, using his self-taught skinning skills, removed a corresponding rectangle of his mother’s skin from her back. Then, he buried his mother deep in ground. She was never found, but a headstone was placed in memoriam at Wolvercote Cemetery. Marnold kept the flesh rectangle.

Out of pure malevolence, Marnold dried and cured the rectangle of his mother’s skin so it had the consistency of parchment paper, making it into a music sheet upon which he intended to compose her requiem. He died before he could do so when he fell off a balcony at the Jay Bird’s Beak, the village pub. His belongings were stored away in a large trunk, with what proved to be an impenetrable lock. Many, many years later, it was found and sold at auction to an antiques dealer on London’s Portobello Road. He shoved it into a warehouse where it sat untouched for twenty-some years more. One night, thieves broke into the warehouse, spotted the trunk, smashed it open, and stole its contents, including the Duchess-skin music sheet. One of the thieves was an aspiring musician. He was delighted with the music sheet and wrote a composition on it. It was set to debut by his rock band, The Smooths, at the Tornado, a popular pub in Notting Hill. At the first note played, the music sheet screamed as if it were in horrendous pain and fell writhing to the floor. The Tornado cleared out in two seconds, except for a filthy teenaged boy. He screamed “It’s my mother,” snatched up the squirming music sheet, and ran out the pub’s door, where he disappeared into the night.

The band was dumbstruck. There were so many questions. They decided not to ask them, and instead, decided to get ready for their next gig, in Cambridge. The thief-composer swore he would go straight, even if he had to get a real job.

Occasionally, people report a sort of musical moaning sound coming out of High Gate Cemetery. Most people think it’s couples using the cemetery as a secluded place to have sex, but there’s an ethnomusicologist who believes it sounds like Prince Marnold’s “Moaning Maypole” that he had heard played from behind a curtain, due to its salaciousness, at the V&A in London. Could it be the ghost of Prince Marnold seeking further revenge on his murdered mother by playing the moaning musical instrument she hated? Or, is it simply the wind blowing past the large culvert down in the gully by the cemetery’s western wall, which, by the way, has provided shelter to vagrants and scoundrels since the 1840s?

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.

Leave a comment

Posted in synathroesmus

Tagged , ,

Syecdoche

Posted on September 25, 2022 | Leave a comment

Synecdoche (si-nek’-do-kee): A whole is represented by naming one of its parts (or genus named for species), or vice versa (or species named for genus).

I pulled my blade out of my pocket, pressed the button and felt it open firmly in my hand, making the lovely dull clicking sound a switchblade is known for. The steel blade gives me goosebumps as it flashes in the candle light. We’re at our favorite Italian restaurant—Parmesan Party—where my great-grandfather’s crew met for Sunday dinners back in the late 1940s. The waiter knew if he gave me any shit about my knife, I’d have one of his kidneys for dinner, and he would be lying dead in a back room somewhere, wrapped in a sheet, resting in peace.

The red plaid table cloth, the basket of bread and breadsticks, the tub of butter, the little pitchers of wine and water, the soft cloth napkins, the shining plates and silverware, and Dean Martin wafting through the air, were like traveling through time in a time machine made in Jersey City. I always had the veal saltimbocca. I could see my Great Grandfather sitting there with two goons standing behind him, ready to take a bullet if there was any trouble. I was sitting there in my short pants with suspenders and a white short sleeve shirt, like Pinocchio, our family’s guardian imp. I was so glad I didn’t have to wear the stupid hat, and that I was a “real” boy.

My father, the youngest member of the crew, was fidgeting in his chair and looking over his shoulder toward the restaurant’s entrance. Suddenly, four guys burst through the front door, pointing pistols out in front of them and firing as fast as they could pull their triggers. They killed everybody except me and my dad. In an act of treachery almost as bad as Pearl Harbor, my father had conspired with the Pronto family to have his own family whacked.

Revenge, vendetta and all the other stretched out hatreds were a normal part of life in my culture, but apparently not any more. I was marrying Mary Pronto the next day, 20 years later. This was an instance of hatchet burying on a par with a signature on a treaty. Mary and I didn’t like each other, but we had to do what we had to do. Taking no chances myself, on our wedding day I was wrapped in three layers of Kevlar underneath my monkey suit. When we got to the part of the ceremony where we put on rings, I reached in my pocket, pulled out my switchblade—my great grand father’s switchblade—pushed the button and jammed the blade into Mary’s chest. I ran out of the church in the middle of a phalanx of my family’s good fellas. The Pronto’s dared not shoot, afraid of killing one of their own. Also, in typical mob fashion, no investigation was undertaken, and no charges were pressed out of respect for my “balls.” I still hold a grudge against my father though, but he’s my father. So, I leave him alone.

The family’ next job is the Trump campaign. He’s a piece of shit, but the money’s good and his daughter Ivanka is a real piece of ass.

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.

Leave a comment

Posted in synecdoche

Tagged , ,