The Daily Trope

Dilemma

Posted on August 19, 2025 | Leave a comment

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

I was strolling through life, oblivious to its pitfalls. I was 26 and the worst thing that had ever happened to me was crashing my remote-controlled model airplane into an old man in a wheelchair. The crash started the dominoes falling.

The propellor sliced off the end of his nose. It became infected and killed him. I was only 17, but I was arrested for manslaughter, tried and found not guilty. I immediately bought another radio-controlled airplane which I mistakenly flew into a baby carriage, disfiguring the baby’s face. I was arrested for causing grievous bodily harm. I was found guilty and it was judged that I pay restitution to the tune of one-million dollars. My parents disowned me and threw me out onto the streets of Chatham, New Jersey. I was required to pay $500.00 per month or go to Rahway State Prison for five years.

Pay the compensation or go to prison? These were the options offered to me. Neither was good. I was stuck. I begged the baby’s parents to let me off the hook—I would mow their lawn and shovel their snow. I would clean their house, stand guard on their porch at night, and wash their car once a week. I even offered to do their laundry. They called the police and accused me of harassing them. A restraining order was issued. Under the terms of the retraining order I was allowed to stand across the street from their home and yell and wave signs—I created a nearly endless list of things I could do as substitutes for paying the one-million dollars. None of them were acceptable to the parents, so I decided to go to prison, almost by default. In five years my “debt” would be paid. How bad could Rahway State Prison be?

I was young and healthy, so I was made into a prison “Punching Dummy.” Every day the older inmates took turns beating me up. Most of them were in their late 70s so their punches didn’t pack much of a wallop. In fact, a ninety-year-old inmate died hitting me in the face. I got used to being beat up every day and the five years flew by. Part of my perception of how fast my sentence went was due to the brain damage I had acquired due to the daily blows to my head.

I was released from prison with two-dollars in my hand and wearing a “graduation” track suit that said “Rahway State Prison 2025” across the back. I was also given a pair of flip-flops. Even though it was December, I appreciated them.

Now it was time to resume my blissful life. As I walked down the street, I was whistling “Zippity Dooh Dah.” I was feeling blessed, even though my face was badly scarred and I limped a little. I looked up to give thanks to God and I bumped into a toddler holding hands with his mother. The toddler fell into the gutter and was run over by the cab his mother had summoned—that they were waiting for.

The mother went crazy and pulled a little semiautomatic pistol out of her purse and shot me in the forehead. Clearly, I survived, but the quality of my life is diminished. I have lost all of my senses due to the bullet’s trajectory into my head. I can still walk, but I’m having to learn sign language. Since I’m blind, and I can’t hear, it is a big challenge. But at least I’m still alive. Sometimes I think I would be better off dead. My doctor agrees and has applied to provide me with assisted suicide in a state where it’s legal.

The woman who shot me was found guilty of attempted manslaughter, ordered by the court to pay me $500.00 restitution, and she was sentenced to 6 months probation and 20 hours of community service.

I have obtained a seeing eye dog. I have named him Bullet. He is undergoing training as a tracker. We will find her.

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

The Daily Trope is available on Amazon in paperback under the title of The Book of Tropes for $9.95. It is also available in Kindle format for $5.99.

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Dirimens Copulatio

Posted on August 18, 2025 | Leave a comment

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

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

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

How do we achieve closure on anything at all? I say “red” and you say “pink.” Can we both be right? Surely, we can both be wrong. Remember Hume’s missing shade of blue? So, what makes one of us right, especially if we’re both color blind? Colors are bad enough, but this is especially vexing when we impute or avow motives.

I have a friend Marly who is “motive impaired.” He has trouble avowing credible motives and imputing plausible motives to other people. His most frequently avowed motive is “I did it for the money.” This is never true because he has no service to offer that anybody would pay for. He’s a rag boy at the car wash—the pay is illegally low, and there’s nothing else he can do. He can’t even rake leaves properly. It is a pity, but it is true. Not only did he not do it for the money, but he didn’t even do it all. He told me he avows the motive so he’ll seem to be a productive member of society. Instead, he seems to be a prolific liar who should be pitied, not praised.

Then, when it comes to the imputation of motives, Marly decides that everybody who interacts with him loves him, even when they’re holding a gun to his head or kicking him in the stomach. He sees a woman kissing another man and he says “She actually loves me.” I try to explain that he’s wrong and he chides me and accuses me of trying to steal her from him. It’s very frustrating, but there’s nothing I can do. He forms his decisions like everybody else, only in his case “proof” is optional, or it is so untethered from the judgement that it is grounded in madness—like the kissing woman—he claimed she looked at him, and this proved she loved him. But, as much as I hate to say it, there’s a very remote possibility that he’s right. Nobody “knows” what the kissing lady is thinking—maybe not even the kissing lady, or, she could be reviewing her grocery list or thinking about her upcoming vacation to Seaside Heights, New Jersey. Those of us who’ve been torn apart by a faithless lover know what I’m talking about.

So, in a way, crazy Marly has it right. You may as well believe what makes you happy, even if it’s only temporary; even if it makes you look like an idiot or crazy. Marly’s “wishful thinking” may put him out of touch with reality, but it can make him happy, even if his happiness is grounded in bullshit—happiness is a feeling and the feeling is real, even if nothing else is.

If I feel happy, I am happy. It is by virtue of cruelty that one person would try to debunk another person’s happiness, unless of course, that person derives their happiness from shooting heroin or being a serial killer. Our thwarting of the addict’s or murderer’s happiness is called “drawing the line.”

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

The Daily Trope is available on Amazon in paperback under the title of The Book of Tropes for $9.95. It is also available in Kindle format for $5.99.

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Tagged definitions, elocutio, example, figures of speech, rhetoric, trope

Distinctio

Posted on August 17, 2025 | Leave a comment

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

Time: a measure of duration, a break from the action. There are probably more meanings, but I can’t think of any right now—I don’t have the time. Time is not on my side. Why? Because I’m talking about thyme, not time. Ha ha!

I collect herbs and grow them in my little back yard garden. It is the size of a door mat, but it provides me with all the flavors and odors I need to keep me satisfied. In summer, it is my bliss. In winter, I look out my kitchen window and cry. But all is not lost. I dry my summer herbs and keep them in socks secured by rubber bands and hang them throughout my house.

Thyme is one of my most potent herbs. Sometimes, I put its sock in the front hall closet to reduce the odor grip it has on my whole home and give its brethren a chance to waft and be detected. Poor lovage barely has a chance—it is almost odorless and it makes me sad. An herb without a smell is like a chimney without smoke. It makes no sense, like a truck without wheels or a bucket with no bottom. I get angry at the lovage and sometimes stomp it into the ground. This may seem crazy, but it is not. It is perfectly justified by “The Law of the Garden.” This is an ancient law that allows stomping on whatever you have planted, for whatever reason, under all circumstances.

I discovered it imprinted on the back of a packet of Foxglove seeds I had purchased in the Edinburgh University bookstore on my most recent trip to Scotland to visit my grant-grandfather Angus Muir. For centuries the Muir’s have lived on the moor—a piece of land preserved for shooting grouse where the family had secretly grown herbs. At times they were harassed by the Laird’s sheriff, yet they were valorized by their fellow peasants, especially when they found out that the Laird was allergic to oregano. They would hang oregano “ornaments” from trees along the road to Edinburgh. If the Laird hit one with his face, it would burst, setting off a near fatal coughing fit. The peasants hiding in the bushes would bet on how long the Laird would choke. This is how “Thyme” got its name—they would bet the herb on the duration of the Laird’s coughing fit. Thyme became time.

Anyway, after I stomped the Lovage, I always felt bad, especially since it was named “Lovage,” suggestive of “love.” I would lovingly wash off the Lovage and make it into a sandwich with mayonnaise, baloney, American cheese, and tomato with lots of salt. That would assuage my guilt and put me back on track.

Today, I planted what may well be the world’s largest herb: a kind of wild banana that can grow 15 meters tall—around 50 feet. I am bound to make my fellow herb aficionados jealous.

My wild banana grew over the summer to 14 feet. Then, I caught Millie Jackson sawing it down with a chain saw. She was unremorseful. She was angry. She was jealous. She said she was sick of me and my “herbbragging” bullshit. I had grabbed the chain saw from her and was considering sawing off her arm or hand. But I couldn’t do it. I had loved her ever since she had joined our herb club. She smelled like Lemon Balm and her hair was dyed the color of chive flowers—a beautiful grayish purple.

I dropped the chain saw. Millie ran to me. We embraced. All was forgiven, or so it seemed. That night, I peed on her herb garden and wrote “Bitch” with a stick in the dirt.

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

The Daily Trope is available on Amazon in paperback under the title of The Book of Tropes for $9.95. It is also available in Kindle format for $5.99.

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Distributio

Posted on August 16, 2025 | Leave a comment

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

Most people believe living and dying are different. Actually, they are the same: living is dying, dying is living. Sure, there’s infancy, toddlerhood, adolescence, adulthood, middle age, old age, nursing home, death. Maybe there’s an afterlife where you spend eternity in a diner or a really well-run library, or clog dancing in the sky on a perpetual Irish holiday. Don’t scoff. Anything you can imagine about the afterlife is just as possible as anything else—it’s a matter of faith, not facts or even plausibility.

What are the foundations of faith? You can give me a list 500 miles long and reflect on what you have faith in, in a staccato burst of reasons read off the list, that are themselves are taken on faith—in matters of faith, there’s no escaping faith: it may be a pylon pointing nowhere, erected by hope and fear.

Faith turns on narratives projecting pathways to a range of destinations—from Truth Town to Cloud Cuckoo Land. All destinations have arbiters: from scientists, to jurors, to hard-boiled lunatics resting in their cells. But then, the arbiters may have arbiters who affect the community with faith that putting immigrants in detention centers will cleanse the community of evil, or a pain relief medication is harmless when administered to pregnant women. Historically, the list of truth-catastrophes is pretty long. So yes, one of the hallmarks of truth, as far as it is taken on faith all the time, is that it can be wrong. The comforting image of the cure it may project can be shattered, and vice-a-versa.

So anyway, as I eat my breakfast, I reflect on the brevity of life. At any moment, any day, I may succumb. We can’t predict it. We can’t control it. Now could be the time!

POSTSCRIPT

His cereal bowl clattered to the floor. He was dead. The Grim Reaper looked in his kitchen window and shook his bony head and said, “He talked himself to death. What a joke.”

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

The Daily Trope is available on Amazon in paperback under the title of The Book of Tropes for $9.95. It is also available in Kindle format for $5.99.

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Ecophonesis

Posted on August 15, 2025 | Leave a comment

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

“Jesus Christ! Where the hell is my cider press?”

He had “lost” everything from a gold-plated mustard seed to a Rolex wristwatch. It was painful to watch his response, vacillating between crying and cursing and punching the walls—which had become dented, and in some cases, cracked.

Grandpa was flipping out again over losing something he never had in the first place. He had this condition where he “lost” things pretty much all day every day. This had been happening since his budgie Peeper flew the coop two years ago and would fly past the window on a regular basis taunting him.

How do you help somebody who loses things they didn’t have in the first place? I was starting to think an overdose of Abilify was the best I could do. Grandpa’s anger and sadness would come in for a smooth landing on the wings of a drug-induced death. It was a great idea, but I didn’t want to risk prison for murder. Instead, I would give suicide a try.

I checked “The Sorrows of Young Werther” out of the library—Johann Wolfgang von Goethe’s novel where the protagonist (Werther) commits suicide because he can’t have the girl of his dreams. My plan was to read a chapter from “Sorrows” to grandpa every night until he killed himself. I realized early on, though, that I needed to find him an “unrequited love” for my plan to work.

It was Friday and grandpa was lamenting the recent loss of his Rolls Royce—stolen from our driveway. That was when I introduced his new helpmate, Babycakes. She worked part time as a lap-dancer at Nicky Bad’s Men’s Club. I met her there when she was on my lap in a back room for $85.00. I could feel myself starting to fall for her and I was sure grandpa would go head over heels. She had big breasts—that was a favorite of grandpa. He was a part of the “greatest generation,” an ensemble of men who really liked giant knockers and fought in WW II.

The moment Babycakes walked into the living room, grandpa calmed down and did a wolf whistle. He was instantly hooked. I didn’t anticipate it, but he stopped losing things he didn’t have in the first place. Babycakes would give him a free lap dance whenever she came to visit him. Then, after a few weeks, Babycakes told him she had gotten engaged to Sal Zucchini and they were going to be married in December. Sal ran the produce section of the grocery store.

After Babycakes left, grandpa started crying and punching the walls and asking what the hell had happened to his airplane. He was super agitated and said he had seen it “clipped” from the back yard where he had parked last night. Clearly, Babycakes’ announcement had kicked in the “Werther effect.” His suicide was nearing!

But then, Babycakes came over the next day. She told grandpa that she actually loved him and had broken off the engagement with Sal. Grandapa was ecstatic and started jumping around and whooping. He tripped on the carpet and fell out the window.

Grandpa’s death was sad, but not that sad.

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

The Daily Trope is available on Amazon in paperback under the title of The Book of Tropes for $9.95. It is also available in Kindle format for $5.99.

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Effictio

Posted on August 14, 2025 | Leave a comment

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

Tall. Blond hair. Blue eyes. Skin the color of Crisco. Tall. Black hair. Brown eyes. Skin the color of milk chocolate.

What is this? What about muscles, and boobs and the nose, and the lips, and the teeth and the ears? What about them? How about feet and ass and shoulders? Are we moving from waypoint to waypoint—headings on a map to acceptance or rejection.

We don’t talk. We look—we don’t look and listen too. We look and fantasize and hope our looks meet some standard—a standard displayed all over the place in media images.

But why? Is there some sort of connection between looking good and being good? And this is the big question: Where does the standard of beauty come from. Why is it’s achievement unobtainable for 99% of us no matter what we do? There’s always at least one glaring imperfection that thwarts our quest to “look good.”

But, since most of us don’t measure up, there are a lot of fellow travelers to choose from. We say “Oh fu*k it” and jump into the pool of uglies that nearly covers the entire face of the earth. That’s where I met my wife: flat chested, almost invisible ass, thinning brown hair, skin mottled with various-sized moles, teeth in need of bracing, elephant ears, size 12 foot, minor drooling. I was not much better: 2 inch penis, balding, chronic double vision, half deaf, walk with a limp, chubby, B.O., nose like a traffic cone, claw hands, skin rashes from multiple allergies.

We took one look at each other and decided we couldn’t do much better than each other. It wasn’t clear who was uglier, so that set a level playing field between us. We quickly learned that looks do not matter on love’s voyage. What matters is character—what induces trust and desire: that makes you glad to see each other, glad to do things together, and want to have a child together. So what if your jeans don’t fit. So what if your hair’s falling out. So what if you’re covered with moles. So what if your hands are like claws.

Our daughter Rushy is pretty ugly. She’s about a 50-50 combination of her mom and dad. We hope she sees her gross body as a blessing, not a curse. So far, she sees it as a curse. Once she realizes the futility of trying to become beautiful, we hope she finds somebody uglier than her to love. In a positive development, she has subscribed to “Ugly Duckling,” a dating site for people that are “hard to look at.”

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

The Daily Trope is available on Amazon in paperback under the title of The Book of Tropes for $9.95. It is also available in Kindle format for $5.99.

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Ellipsis

Posted on August 13, 2025 | Leave a comment

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

I could actually see the germs crawling around on my hands. They were . . . wriggling and curling up like springs. I was cursed with telescopic vision. The lenses of my eyes adjusted to distances, randomly without warning. One minute, I could see parameciums swimming in polluted water and then, without warning, the moon’s craters. Sometimes, when I looked in the mirror, I saw these microscopic bugs running around on my face. They were flesh colored and hairy and it looked like they were wearing tennis shoes. That really scared me. Although my ophthalmologist assured me I was suffering from telescopic vision, I thought I was losing my mind. She had prescribed me special glasses that were supposed to control my malady. But, before I was able to pick them up, I met the man in the moon.

I was moon-gazing out by my swimming pool when suddenly I telescoped toward the moon. I felt like I was flying through space. I was cold. Suddenly, I landed on the moon! There was a man standing there. He was wearing a calico nightshirt and black rubber boots. He said, “I’m the man in the moon. Who are you?” I told him I was Brad Bonecharge and I had an eye problem. He lifted up his nightgown and said “We all have our problems.” I telescoped in and I was shocked and panic stricken. There were tiny little people crawling around in his pubic hair. They did not seem to be very happy. I turned my gaze back to earth and telescoped into my back yard—to my swimming pool. I flew home and realized that I was starting to get some control of my malady. Nevertheless, I picked up my special glasses at the optometrist’s and started wearing them all the time.

I went to my first monthly appointment with my ophthalmologist. I sat across from her and we started to talk about my eyes. Suddenly, I heard mumbling coming from between her legs. She must have noticed my discomfort because she lifted up her dress and told me not to worry, “they” were harmless and had moved into her crotch a couple of moths ago. She said she didn’t understand their language, but she was keeping them because she enjoyed the company and the tickling sensation. She said the only inconvenience was waiting for them to climb off when she’s going to bathe. She has a doll house bench that they sit on while she takes a shower.

The more we talked about the little people, the louder the din became coming from her crotch. I was convinced that I had gone totally psycho, that my visit to my ophthalmologist was a total hallucination. Then, I felt a tickling in my crotch. I excused myself and went into the office bathroom. I pulled down my pants and saw six or seven little people talking and laughing. I pulled up my pants and ran out of the office.

How would I take care of these little people? How would I feed them? I found out that night. They latched onto me like tiny ticks. That’s when I realized they were vampires. They lived in the darkness of people’s underpants and were distantly related to leeches! I had read about them in National Geographic, but I thought it was a hoax. I realized, given they were vampires, if I pulled down my pants out by the pool in the afternoon they’d go up in smoke, or maybe, I could stick wooden toothpicks in their chests while they were sleeping.

I had a decision to make.

The next day I was out by the pool. I was ready to pull down my bathing suit in the bright sunlight and fry those little suckers. I put my thumbs under my waistband. I heard screaming and crying and what sounded like begging coming from my swimsuit. I relented. . . let them live.

I recorded their mumbling and took the recording to a linguist friend of mine. She was stunned. She told me the dialect hadn’t been spoken for 900 years when it was erased along with the little people who spoke it. She said is was a dark day in Romania when the little people were eradicated due to a rumor they were vampires.

My friend loaned me a valuable text that had been translated from “Vorbe Mici” (Small Talk) into English. It was a biography titled “Night Moves” (Mișcări de noapte). The “book” was one inch by 2 inches in keeping with the size of the author and his readers. I used “Night Moves” to learn the ancient dialect, using the English translation as a key. I realized that I was slowly becoming a vampire: I have been bitten over and over again. I got a night job at Cliff’s. I sleep during the day in an unplugged chest freezer in my basement. Since I’ve started sucking blood from my neighbor Thelma, my telescopic vision has gone away.

I told my ophthalmologist about my cure and she suggested we take a night walk down by the river where a lot of “juicy” homeless people camp.

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

The Daily Trope is available on Amazon in paperback under the title of The Book of Tropes for $9.95. It is also available in Kindle format for $5.99.

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Enallage

Posted on August 12, 2025 | Leave a comment

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

“I don’t know nothin’ about who your father is.” I lied. I knew everything. I had succumbed 20 years ago to my fat sweaty neighbor’s charms. He had a gold tooth, a big wristwatch and wore reddish-brown ostrich skin boots. He also wore a snap closure shirt—white with horseshoes embroidered on the shoulders. His belt buckle was a silver heart with “Hey Baby” engraved on it.

His name was Mel and he tended bar at the AI Pub. The clientele was mixed from underage college kids to bent over blue-haired grannies high on their Social Security checks. I went there every night and got fairly drunk and chased after the horny college boys, getting my fair share of bangs in the parking lot. I was 18, so I figured it was ok. Mel would always slide me a couple of extra shots of vodka free of charge. I wondered why he didn’t want to take a trip to the parking lot. Then, I realized he couldn’t because he was tending bar. That’s when I got the idea to “do it” behind the bar. It would take us both to the outer limits of our humping skills.

The next night I climbed over the bar and bent over by the beer taps. I dropped my pants and Mel came up behind me with his jeans down. The bar concealed what we were doing. Mel even poured a couple of beers while we were at it. After we finished Mel whispered in my ear: “Do you take birth control pills? I didn’t wear a condom.”

Damn! Right then I knew I was going to be a mother. I had gone a week without the pills. I couldn’t believe it. I was too lazy to have my prescription filled.

I asked Mel if he’d take care of me. He laughed and said “Once in a blue moon.” I was pretty sure that meant “no.” I was right. When I started bulging out he wouldn’t even look at me. He’d cover his eyes and snicker. How could a man who dressed so sharp be so mean? I spent a lot of time crying and plotting to murder him. But, before I could take him out of play, he ate a bad oyster and died of food poisoning. First, his brain went, and then, his kidneys exploded. Women from hundreds of miles around came to his funeral. Most of them cried during the eulogy. Some of them were pregnant.

The most amazing thing was he left everything to you, our unborn child. You inherited his gold tooth, ostrich boots, big watch, snap shirt and heart belt buckle. You look so dashing! The tooth is like a shining star twinkling in your mouth. But, he also left you $500.00 and his 2009 AWD Chevy pickup. Oh—and his guns too—he always said his flintlock belonged to Davy Crockett.

Even though you’re a girl, the clothes you inherited, and the tooth, and the truck and gun are gender neutral. You’ll be able to enjoy them, wearing the clothes wherever you go. Also, I never told you I named you “Dick” in memory of your father, for the kind of man he was. Your middle name is Jolene and you’ve been using that since you could talk.

Well, there you have it. You know most of this already. But now, you know something about your father too and how you were conceived. I’m sorry it took so long to tell you.

You should take a DNA test. I have been saving one of your father’s hairs that fell out when we were doing it behind the bar. You can use it. If you don’t get a hit, you’ll probably want to get a sample from the Mayor, and Nicky Dorn of “Nicky’s Honest Used Cars.” Oh. Also “Stimpy’s Miniature Golf and Pizza.” If none of these register, there are a couple dozen more names I can give you.

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

The Daily Trope is available on Amazon in paperback under the title of The Book of Tropes for $9.95. It is also available in Kindle format for $5.99.

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Enantiosis

Posted on August 11, 2025 | Leave a comment

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

I was freezing. I had just waded through three feet of snow to bring my grandma’s mail from the post office one mile away. I sat on my grandma’s glowing pot-bellied stove to warm my ass. Instead, my pants caught on fire and I ran outside to do snow angels and put out my pants. My butt was cold and hot at the same time. It had broken the rule of contradiction that has governed scientific reasoning and other things for at least 1,000 years.

It started with Plato’s toga catching on fire at a symposium when he was making goat fondue for his date. He jumped in the river that had become recently famous by Heraclitus when he realized he couldn’t dip the same foot in a different river twice. He was ridiculed for his pronouncement. He subsequently revised it to shut up the critics: You can’t put your foot in the same river twice. Critics said this was probably a function of having your foot bitten off by a crocodile. Heraclitus was perplexed and went back to Athens mumbling and distraught.

Anyway, Plato successfully extinguished his toga’s fire. The singularity of the blaze’s consumption of his garment made him realize it wasn’t cold at the same time. Here, the principle of contradiction was born, and eventually become Aristotle’s Primary Axiom: “A or Not A.” I was stunned that it did not apply to my burning ass. I felt betrayed by Plato and all his lying fellow travelers. He had duped Western Civilization into believing that the binding of contradictories was a “mere” figure of speech: oxymoron—the yoking of contradictories. “Jumbo shrimp” became the flagship oxymoron, making people laugh, never realizing that “jumbo shrimp” is a singular entity—wholly jumbo, wholly shrimp—literally!

Grandma loaned me one of grandpa’s red union suits. I could leave the rear flap open and sit in the snow to soothe my butt’s pain. But first, I stood by the stove trying to figure out how my liberation from contradiction would affect my life. “Either/Or” would be excised from map of decision making. Free from philosophy-induced illusion, I looked forward to eating jumbo shrimp in the deafening silence of my dining room. It will be awfully good. This is my unbiased opinion.

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

The Daily Trope is available on Amazon in paperback under the title of The Book of Tropes for $9.95. It is also available in Kindle format for $5.99.

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Enigma

Posted on August 10, 2025 | Leave a comment

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

This is the most disgusting thing you’ll ever read. It will make you mad. It is a poison scented flower, a chrome plated bumper smooshing pedestrians on the road to salvation. It is a turkey stabbed and sliced and flagrantly gobbled in a dark corner of a white room. It is dentures shattered on the subway station floor, never again the take a bite out of crime or a chocolate chip cookie. It will make you sick. Your life will be changed forever.

This is my story.

It’s about cuisine that should never be eaten. It’s about chewing and swallowing and choking and swallowing, eating what you are. Eating yourself.

The tumult of my trajectory through life is like an earthquake that should’ve afforded me the opportunity to be crushed spiritually and physically. But that didn’t happen. I was in the espionage business. Nobody knew who I “really” was. I was a cipher with a gun. I am a CIA operative in Jo Burg, South Africa. I received my orders in a trashcan at the Nelson Mandela shopping mall, next to the huge statue of him. It was awkward routing around in the trashcan looking for my orders from Washington, right there where people dined outdoors.

Then, the inevitable happened. Two big burly uniformed men asked me what I was doing. I told them I had lost my car keys. They dug around in the trashcan and found my orders. They were innocuous. I was ordered by Washington to enroll in chef school. The uniformed men laughed. One got on his cell phone. After he hung up he said, “I’ve been instructed to take you to the stone cave.”

We took a cab. The stone cave was on the outskirts of Soweto where pigs roam free and life continues to be rough. They threw me into the cave, wished me luck and told me I was going to starve to death. They slammed the door and they both laughed and got in the cab and drove away. I started getting hungry. There was no food in the cave, so I just went with the flow.p, fantasizing about juicy steaks and apple pies.

After about two weeks, I actually started to starve—I was weak. I thought I had started to die, but I did not want to die. I thought “I’m made of meat. I will eat myself.” I rolled up my sleeve and took a bite out of my forearm. I was hard ripping a piece of flesh off my arm. It was warm, and tender, and bloody. It tasted like chicken. I figured both my arms would last a couple of months. I started looking forward to “dinner.” Although it hurt like hell to rip a chunk out of my arm, its flavor was “me, myself, and I.” It was the ultimate self indulgence. It was heavenly.

About one month later some kids found me in the stone cave. The joke was on me. The door had never been locked. I really can’t say how big an idiot I felt like. I’m the only person in the history of the stone cave to fail to discover the door was unlocked.

I went to a hospital and the doctor asked me what happened to my arms. I told him I had been eating myself in a cave. He yelled “Security!” and I was taken to a room with wire mesh walls for observation and medication.

I guess I shouldn’t have eaten myself. I have developed a fondness for my raw forearm meat that has outlasted my sojourn in the stone cave. As soon as I get out of this place I’m going to use a knife to cut strips like bacon. I don’t’t know what I’ll do when my meat’s gone and I’m down to the bone. Maybe I can find somebody to share their forearm meat with me.

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

The Daily Trope is available on Amazon in paperback under the title of The Book of Tropes for $9.95. It is also available in Kindle format for $5.99.

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Ennoia

Posted on August 9, 2025 | Leave a comment

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

I couldn’t imagine who put a can over our cat’s head. Who would do something like that? I don’t know. I’ll never know, but I’m going to help little Snarly out.

I duct-taped Snarly’s paws together. Then, I pulled on the tin can. It was stuck. I had to tie Snarly to a saw horse. He was squirming around too much. I got my father’s metal shears and cut a line up the side of the can. I pried the can open and it easily slid off and fell with a clank on the garage floor.

Snarly was ungrateful. He was laying there on the saw horse with murder in his eyes. When I went near him he hissed and yowled. How was I going to set him free without getting hurt myself? Then “hazmat”popped into my head. I could wear protective clothing! I could wear my football helmet with the protective face guard. There were two lengths of plastic sewer pipe laying on the floor. They were left over from Dad repairing the septic system. I could put them on my arms—they were the perfect length to protect me from claws. Mother had oven mitts with fingers like gloves—perfect for peeling off the tape and untying the rope.

The time came. I suited up and moved toward Snarly. He started writhing around a growling. I went for the duct tape and got it undone. The rope was more difficult, but I managed to get it off and free Snarly. He ran out of the garage and it was a year before he came back home.

At that point in my life I decided to become a veterinarian. Now, I shelter abused pets and nurse them back to health. Right now, I am working with a trio of of visually impaired mice who had their tails amputated by a sadistic farmer’s wife.

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

Daily Trope is available on Amazon in paperback under the title of The Book of Tropes for $9.95. It is also available in Kindle format for $5.99.

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Enthymeme

Posted on August 8, 2025 | Leave a comment

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

“There’s a war outside. You better take a gun and a couple of grenades.” My mother gave me this advice. I lived in the worst country in the world. All day and all night, there was screaming and gunfire—pistols, rifles, machine guns and other lethal devices that kept me awake—like hand grenades and mortars.

My mother did such a wonderful job of keeping us in touch with reality. The war of “Everybody against Everybody” had been raging for twelve years. The only people benefitting from it were the ammunition, arms, and body armor manufacturers.

I rode to work in an Uber armored transport vehicle. There were sandbags around the entrance to the “Daily Rake” a muckraking newspaper where I worked. The Rake told mostly lies. In a way, it was responsible for perpetuating the war by making up reports that made it seem that everybody deserved to be shot. At work, we had sandbags on our desks and we kept our weapons alongside our computer keyboards while we worked. I worked in the sports section to make it look like cheating was rampant. Last week I did a piece on drugged horse racing and nine horses were put down by “patriots” who posed as jockeys. I liked the fact that my writing influenced peoples’ behavior. I was hoping to win a Putzlicker Prize for effective journalism.

“Effective” was the key word in everybody’s journalistic success story. “No impact, total shit” was the saying we all marched to. Like my mother told me: “Son, the truth is boring. Vivid lies will win the prize every day.” I followed her advice. I lied and told her I was married and had four kids. When she asked me where they were, I told her I didn’t know. I lied and told her I made $200,000 a year. She asked why we lived in a shit hole. I told her I was saving my money for my kids to go to college. I was an enigma wrapped in a baloney skin headed out on the midnight train. But it didn’t matter. I had a fireproof apartment with gun ports in every bulletproof window and the door too. I had a generator and a well and a small vegetable garden in the living room.

Monday was Truce Day. Everybody put down their weapons so everybody could go shopping. I didn’t like it much. I still took my armored Uber to the grocery store, the hardware store and the knives, guns and ammo store.

My first stop was “Big Ted’s Gun, Knives and Ammo.”

I had been collecting switchblade knives for a couple of years. They make me tingle “down there” when I press the button and they fly into action—especially the Out The Fronts (OTFs).

My collection consist of fifty knives, all renowned for their killing prowess, and slashing prowess too. I am always eager to see the most recent models. Kershaw has made a 2–foot long out the front (OTF) automatic knife. It said in the pamphlet “Sneak up behind your opponent. Press your OTF against their back. Stroke the knife’s button. Voila! They’re dead.” I think I’ve killed ten or fifteen people, but it’s never been that easy! The knife is $600. I bought it on layaway.

Well, life isn’t great. Nobody remembers or knows how we got here. Anyway they say it all started on the subway when a transit cop shot somebody’s dog.

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

Daily Trope is available on Amazon in paperback under the title of The Book of Tropes for $9.95. It is also available in Kindle format for $5.99.

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Epanodos

Posted on August 7, 2025 | Leave a comment

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

I was lying again. Nobody cared. Truth had lost its luster. I was telling my constituents that I heard them and “felt their pain.” I used “no pain, no gain” as the premise of my key argument. “Yogi Berra said this when he squatted down to catch. If he was going to catch, and catch better and better, he had to squat and feel the pain. It made him smarter too—he said things like ‘If there’s a fork in the road, take it.’”

I did not believe a word of what I was saying. I knew for a fact that Yogi would whine like a dog whenever squatted and hated playing catcher. Also, the only quip he ever made up himself was “Me hee for Yoo-hoo.” It was a totally ridiculous attemp to sell a disgusting chocolate drink that probably killed a few kids.

Then I followed up: “You remember Lance Armstrong, don’t you? Before he went down the tubes for cheating, he rode his bicycle with cancer of the nuts. That had to be painful! Can you imagine, pumping along, pumping away, twisting your cancer-ridden balls around a hard leather seat? But he came out a winner. ‘No pain, no gain’ is the credo of all winners—from Chuck Ponzi to Pete Rose. Live it. Love it. Lift it—the heavier, the better. ‘One hernia for man. One hernia for mankind.’ There is no other route to fame and glory than pan.”

I received a standing ovation. I didn’t believe a word of what I had said, but the standing ovation was all that mattered. My motto is “The truth is a slavemaster. The lie will set you free.” I was free! I was re-elected again.

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

The Daily Trope is available on Amazon in paperback under the title of The Book of Tropes for $9.95. It is also available in Kindle format for $5.99.

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Epanorthosis

Posted on August 6, 2025 | Leave a comment

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

I was looking for affection. No, I was looking for hot steaming all night love. I deserved it, but it had eluded me. I was 87 years old and I was still looking. I had trolled all the nursing homes within a one-hundred mile radius. There was nothing but a gaggle of old blue-haired broads sitting in wheel chairs or lurching along with walkers with tennis balls stuck on the front legs.

I heard of a nursing home in California where the residents were euthanized when they reached 65. I was overjoyed. A delicatessen of delight filled with under-65 women, some barely eligible for Social Security. I knew I’d find my dream babe there, sweep her off her feet, and “play house” with her for the rest of my life—which wasn’t much.

The nursing home was called “Planned End.” What an apt name for a place that killed you when you turned 65! All those wasted years between turning 65 and dying of natural causes at some point were erased! I couldn’t wait to meet the love of my life there—maybe somebody who had just turned 60 and was ready for a new life.

I called Uber and took off for California. It cost $1,200, but it was worth it. We arrived at Planned End at 2:00 am. I walked up to the reception desk. The clerk gasped and asked me how I slipped through cracks. She thought I was a resident who had evaded euthanasia. Nothing I said could convince her otherwise. Four orderlies were summoned. They strapped me to a gurney and wheeled me into what was named the “Bon Voyage Room.”

Luckily I was carrying my switchblade knife that my grandfather had given me for a high school graduation present. I got it out of my pocket and flicked it open. I was able to cut the straps holding me down. The orderlies had gone outside for a smoke, but one of them came back carrying the kill juice in a bottle with a tube and needle hanging out.

I jumped off the gurney table and threatened him with the knife. He wet his pants and ran out the door yelling “Oh my God!” I took off for the lobby. There was a 60-something babe in the hallway. I grabbed her, dragged her out the entrance, and pushed her in the Uber. I told the driver to “Drive!” We made it back to Missouri the next morning. Mandy and I got to know each other on the ride to Missouri. She was a former pole dancer who had made a fortune in tips.

Her short-term memory was impaired so she forgot how she got to Missouri. I told her we had gotten married in Nevada.

Bottom line: I got what I wanted. Mandy generously signed her fortune over to me. We are living happily ever after. I hope Planned End never finds us. The Uber driver is sworn to secrecy.

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

The Daily Trope is available on Amazon in paperback under the title of The Book of Tropes for $9.95. It is also available in Kindle format for $5.99.

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Epenthesis

Posted on August 5, 2025 | Leave a comment

Epenthesis (e-pen’-thes-is): The addition of a letter, sound, or syllable to the middle of a word. A kind of metaplasm. Note: Epenthesis is sometimes employed in order to accommodate meter in verse; sometimes, to facilitate easier articulation of a word’s sound. It can, of course, be accidental, and a vice of speech.

“I was Wallyking to the malallarola.” I talked inside my head like I was a hoochy-coo baby-kins. It made me feel loved and protected, something I never had. My mother was cruel. My father was cruel. My brother was cruel. My sister was cruel. They each specialized in a different kind of cruelty.

My mother’s cruelty was simplistic. She would tie my shoelaces together and make me walk to school. It was a mile to school and I would always fall down two or three times and skin my knees.

My father would make me mow the lawn barefoot. He would sprinkle the lawn with thumbtacks and laughed whenever I stepped on one and yelled “Ouch.” By the time I was done mowing the lawn, I’d have five or six thumbtacks stuck in my feet.

My brother was horrible. He would put snakes in my school backpack. When I opened it at school, I would scream in terror and my teacher would beat the snakes to death with a ruler. Inevitably, some of them would escape and terrorize the entire school. I was always blamed for the snakes and was finally expelled from school, never getting past the eighth grade and going to work at the local car wash—Soap & Steel—as the wet t-shirt girl. Most of the cars were driven by fat sweaty men who would stare at me through their fogged-up windows, lick their lips and take their hands off their steering wheels. I knew what they were doing and I was disgusted. But, I needed the job to cover the rent Dad started charging me when I was kicked out of school.

Then, there was my sister.

What she did to me was pretty straightforward. She told me that the leg hair removal crème “Nair” was a great scalp treatment and would work wonders on my dull scraggly hair. I rubbed the whole jar into my hair. It burned, and the next morning all my hair had fallen out. My mother wouldn’t let me get a wig because I would look like a “two-bit whore.” She wouldn’t let me wear a knit watch cap because I wasn’t a sailor. So, I went to school bald. People kept rubbing my head and asking if it was magic. They said, “Hey cue ball,” “Let’s bowl a few frames with your head,” “Will it pop if I stick a pin in it?” It went on like this until my hair grew back. After the hair incident, everybody called me “Orby” and pretended they were spinning a basketball on their finger when they saw me.

“Baddy boo boo doo doo” I said in my head as I loaded my father’s Glock. I was going to blow away my whole family. They had made my life miserable. They deserved to die. First, I sent my mother to hell where she belongs. I reloaded and went looking for Dad. He was reading his newspaper oblivious to the gunfire in the kitchen. I emptied the Glock through the newspaper and he was gone.

My brother came home from work. I aimed the Glock at his crotch and told him to put the back pack full of snakes I had prepared over his head. He sniveled, and whined and squirmed around crying. I got tired of it and shot him straight through heart. He flopped on the floor, dead. In my head I said, “Oohny noohny bronother is deady weddy.”

Then my sister came through the door. I pointed the Glock at her head, duct taped her to a chair, rubbed Nair in her eyes and shot her in the top of her head until it turned to mush.

I was arrested, tried, and convicted of four murders. Given the cruelty I had endured, I was sentenced to five years. But, I was also diagnosed as insane. I am indefinitely remanded to the “Nice Home for the Criminally Insane.” It is nice here. Murdering my family felt good.

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

The Daily Trope is available on Amazon in paperback under the title of The Book of Tropes for $9.95. It is also available in Kindle format for $5.99.

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Epergesis

Posted on August 4, 2025 | Leave a comment

Epergesis (e-per-gee’-sis): Interposing an apposition, often in order to clarify what has just been stated.

My ass was grass, just like the old cliche, and he was the lawnmower. My “crime” was asking his sister to the movies. I didn’t see what was wrong with that. I asked him: “What’s wrong with that?” He told me I had a reputation as a “Don Casanova Quixote.” He didn’t want his sister pawed by me.
Evidently I had done something to warrant the reputation. But what could it be? I thought and I thought. After a couple of hours, I came up with a lead—Mary Tabala. She was the only girl I had expressed an interest in so far in my young life. Maybe she was spreading the rumors, but I couldn’t imagine what they were unless they were lies.
Being named after Jesus’ mother, Mary was hyper-moral, so much so, she once told me that she was going to have a virgin birth. That was a pretty tall ambition. Mary would never lie. I asked her anyway. She swore to God that she did not spread rumors about my romantic inclinations. She even said “May God strike me dead if I’m lying.” When she said that a car alarm went off down the street, but God left her alone.
I put up a sign on the school bulletin board asking for information about the rumor spreader. After a few false leads, Vinny “The Squealer” Bologna came up to me on the playground. He told me for a dollar, he’d give me the information I wanted. I told him I only had twenty-five cents. He said OK and took my quarter. Then he said “It’s your little brother. Sorry.”
I wanted to hit Vinny, but I knew he was telling the truth. His reputation preceded him. He never steered you wrong. As difficult as it was, I believed him. I hurried home to confront my little brother. He was very intelligent. He wore glasses. He had skipped two grades and was starting his freshman year at Harvard next fall.
My brother told me that for the first time in his life he had made a mistake. He told me he believed the rumors would boost my prospects as a “lover boy.” However, they had had the opposite effect. This error had prompted him to begin work on his “Polar Retro-Affective Theorem.” Given his reputation as a “boy genius,” he had already secured a grant of $1,500,000 from the N.I.H.
I was amazed. Of course, I forgave my little brother and took the part-time job he offered me taking care of the lab rats used in the research.
POSTSCRIPT
My little brother’s research project was a failure. It had something to do with the lab rats.

My ass was grass, just like the old cliche, and you’re the lawnmower. You’re going to mow my ass! I didn’t believe it. If it was a gasoline-powered rotary lawnmower, you would kill me. My “crime” was asking your sister to the movies. I didn’t see what was wrong with that. I asked him: “What’s wrong with that?” He told me I had a reputation as a “Don Casanova Quixote.”

Evidently I had done something to warrant the reputation. But what could it be? I thought and I thought. After a couple of hours, I came up with a lead—Mary Tabala. She was the only girl I had expressed an interest in so far in my young life. Maybe she was spreading the rumors, but I couldn’t imagine what they were unless they were lies.

Being named after Jesus’ mother, Mary was hyper- moral, so much so, she once told me that she was going to have a virgin birth. That was a pretty tall ambition. Mary would never lie. I asked her anyway. She swore to God that she did not spread rumors about my romantic inclinations. She even said “May God strike me dead if I’m lying.” When she said that a car alarm went off down the street, but God left her alone.

I put up a sign on the school bulletin board asking for information about the rumor spreader. After a few false leads, Vinny “The Squealer” Bologna came up to me on the playground. He told me for a dollar, he’d give me the information I wanted. I told him I only had twenty-five cents. He said OK and took my Quarter. Then he said “It’s your little brother. Sorry.”

I wanted to hit Vinny, but I knew he was telling the truth. His reputation preceded him. He never steered you wrong. As difficult as it was, I believed him. I hurried home to confront my little brother. He was very intelligent. He wore glasses. He had skipped two grades and was starting his freshman year at Harvard next fall.

My brother told me that for the first time in his life he had made a mistake. He told me he believed the rumors would boost my prospects as a “lover boy.” However, they had had the opposite effect. This error had prompted him to begin work on his “Polar Retro-Affective Theorem.” Given his reputation as a “boy genius,” he had already secured a grant of $1,500,000 from the N.I.H.

I was amazed. Of course, I forgave my little brother and took the part-time job he offered me taking care of the lab rats used in the research.

POSTSCRIPT

My little brother’s research project was a failure. It had something to do with the lab rats.

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

The Daily Trope is available on Amazon in paperback under the title of The Book of Tropes for $9.95. It is also available in Kindle format for $5.99.

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Epizeuxis

Posted on August 3, 2025 | Leave a comment

Epizeuxis: Repetition of the same word, with none between, for vehemence. Synonym for palilogia.

“Dive, dive, dive you gutless wimp!” My father was working on what he called my cowardice complex that I had inherited from my grandfather. He had me perched on the top level of the playground swimming pool diving board. Well, actually there was only one level. It was one foot above the water. I stood on it trembling, fearing for my life. My little brother Beaver (named after the kid on the TV show) sneaked up behind me and pushed me off the end of the diving board. I screamed for help and an old man walked through the water over to me and told me to shut the hell up. The water was only four feet deep and more people were injured scraping their faces on the shallow bottom of the pool diving than ever drowned. In fact, in the history of the municipal playground, nobody had ever drowned. Nobody.

Yet, because I had inherited my grandfather’s cowardice I was terrified that I would inhale lung loads of water if I dove and die a hacking choking death beneath the water, or crack my skull on the pool bottom.

I did some research on my grandfather to see if I could find a remedy for my cowardly life. I found his journal which documented some of his experiences.

He “served” in the German Army in WWI. He was drafted at the war’s onset and disappeared after the swearing-in ceremony. He disguised himself as a gypsy. Gypsies were not allowed to serve in the military. He hid out in a caravan and the gypsies hid him and taught him how to make loaded dice. One day, he wandered off from the camp. When he came back the caravan had pulled up stakes and headed for a new campground. In the ultimate display of cowardice, he started crying, running around in circles, and rending his gypsy garments. After an hour, he got tired and stopped. Standing there moaning, his torn pants revealing his private parts.

A woman came by and stopped and stared at him. Looking at his torn pants, she asked him if he knew what a zucchini is. He said “No.” She said, “Your thing looks like a zucchini. You shall come live with me and my husband.” He lived in their basement for the entire war. His job was to grease up his “zucchini” three times a week and “frolic.”

In this case my grandfather’s cowardice earned him a pretty good deal—far better than being in a war. I learned that being a coward can be fun.

Then, there was changing light bulbs. My grandfather was an afraid of ladders. He would not change lightbulbs. It was dark in his house because back then women (aka his wife) were not permitted to do manly work because men were afraid that they would take over the world. Eventually, all of my grandfather’s lightbulbs burned out and it was dark in the house at night. After he fell down the stairs twice in the dark on his way to bed, my grandfather decided to do something. Candles were out of the question—they would burn the house down. He settled on miner’s hard hats with lanterns mounted on them like headlights. Having emigrated to Pennsylvania, used miner’s helmets were in abundant supply and he bought one each for his wife and three children and five more for guests. The romantic play of the lantern light on the house’s walls gave it a nightly aura of love and peace. Once again, my grandfather’s cowardice had taken him down a road toward something beneficial.

I vowed to find redemption in my cowardice. At the same time I learned that the worst thing about being a coward were the taunts and ridicule addressed by cruel idiots. So what if I didn’t rescue the baby held at gunpoint by her insane father? So what, I didn’t run into a burning building to save a puppy? So what, I or dodged the draft?

I was destined for the safety of better things as I rebounded from peril and hid or ran away.

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

The Daily Trope is available on Amazon in paperback under the title of The Book of Tropes for $9.95. It is also available in Kindle format for $5.99.

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Epicrisis

Posted on August 2, 2025 | Leave a comment

Epicrisis (e-pi-cri’-sis): When a speaker quotes a certain passage and makes comment upon it.

“Shove it up your ass.” Dieter Biltburg, Class Bully, 11th grade.

Dieter was a foreign student from Hamburg, Germany. It was post-WWII New York. It was 1948 and Dieter was part of a group of German teenagers and children of prominent Nazis that had been chosen to come to the US to participate in a federal program “Democracy for Nazis” intended to “rehabilitate” the young Nazis by relocating them to America: “The home of the free and the land of the brave.”

The program was a failure at my little high school in Watertown, NY. Whenever anybody asked him to do something other than picking on somebody Dieter shouted “Shove it up your ass!” in his authoritarian German accent. He scared everybody and they quit trying to influence him and just got out of his way when he came goose-stepping down the hall in his Jack boots on his way to class.

Completely intimidated, “Shove it up your ass” became our high school’s motto. We would chant it with a German accent at football and basketball games. I started saying “Shove it up your ass” to my parents and teachers, and even to the school crossing guard, a former Marine who had fought in WWII and was missing his right hand, lost in combat. He told me if I didn’t stop mimicking the Nazi Dieter, he would stick his bayonet in my eye. I told him to stick it up his ass. He glowered at me, but didn’t do anything.

The next day he was standing on the curb with his bayonet held above his head. “I’m going to stick this up your asses you little racist shits.” We yelled “Up your ass!” He yelled back, “No, up your ass!” Dieter led the chorus. It went on like this, back and forth, for about 10 minutes. The police came. An ambulance came. Men in white coats wrestled the crossing guard into a straight jacket and took him away. We cheered and carried Dieter on our shoulders to Charlie’s Malt Shop. We all had Black Forest Sundays and toasted Dieter with a chorus of “Shove it up your ass.”

Dieter yelled, get me the smallest boy! We turned over Tiny Bins who was underweight, had asthma, wore thick lens glasses, used an inhaler, and was allergic to milk. Dieter punched and kicked Tiny and beat him on the head with a chair. We all yelled “Shove it up his ass Dieter!” as Tiny bled gasping on the floor.

Tiny was nearly killed. Dieter was deported. We were deeply ashamed, especially for becoming little Nazis, Tiny’s beating, and getting the crossing guard put away. We all memorized the “Declaration of Independence,” carried a copy, and recited it at sites of social injustice. But we could never atone for what we did to Tiny. He’s still in the hospital and his mother told us he holds no ill will—that just the other day he woke up long enough to to sit up and say “Bless us one and all.” I almost said “Shove it up your ass” when I heard what he said. But instead, as I was graduating from high school, I had recently finished my application to work for Simon Wiesenthal hunting fugitive Nazi war criminals. This should go a long way toward healing my guilt and changing my behavior. Already, I have curtailed my goose stepping and no longer say “Shove it up your ass” with a German accent.

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

The Daily Trope is available on Amazon in paperback under the title of The Book of Tropes for $9.95. It is also available in Kindle format for $5.99.

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Epilogus

Posted on August 1, 2025 | Leave a comment

Epilogus (e-pi-lo’-gus): Providing an inference of what is likely to follow.

Things were getting rough. Soon I would be where I belonged. It was closing in like a closing door. Dawn would not come. Daylight would not reach me.

I was visiting my cousin Helga in Iceland in the town of Höfn, a small fishing village surrounded by mountains. It was January and pure daylight never came. It was dark most of the time and the Northern Lights would appear frequently. They were beautiful, like rainbow-colored bedsheets waving on a clothesline in the sky.

Helga worked at “Whalesickles.” They sold chunks of Minke whale, barbecued, and skewered on a stick. I loved them and ate at least three per day. With the special sauce, eating a Whalesickle was like kissing an angel.

Helga was a little weird but I enjoyed staying with her. The weirdest things were having to listen to ABBA every morning during breakfast and drinking four shots of cod liver oil at bedtime every night. The cod liver oil was to fight Vitamin D deficiency, the primary cause of bowlegs, Iceland’s most prevalent physical malady. You would frequently see bowlegged women and men on the street. Otherwise beautiful or handsome, their bowlegs would cause them to rock back and forth when they walked, often making observers feel seasick. Knowing their chances of landing a wife or husband were close to zero, they would lament their failure to drink the cod liver oil when they were children, as they foolishly resisted their parents’ admonishments.

There is a genre of Icelandic music centering around Vitamin D deficiency. It was sort of like the American Blues. “Ég get ekki drukkið lýs”(I Can’t Drink No Cod Liver Oil) is one of the most haunting songs sung by the all-bowlegged band “Nature’s Wrath.” They wear special trousers that roll up like curtains, revealing their naked bowlegs at the end of each of their sets. Nature’s Wrath brought tears to my eyes when I saw them perform at the Reykjavik Civic Center. Here are some lyrics from the song:

“I can’t drink no cod liver oil

It tastes like a walrus ass and gives me boils

I threw a tantrum, clamped my jaws, and rolled around on the floor

My mother gave up and yelled at me ‘No cod liver oil for you no more.’

Oh mothers spank your children so they won’t do as I have done

So they won’t be bowlegged and spend their lives in therapy in The House of the Nordic Sun.”

By the way, I am a private detective working for the “American Association of Faceted Stones.” I came to Iceland to track down a fermented shark smuggling ring. They don’t eat it. They open jars of it in jewelry stores. The stench drives everybody out and the thieves scoop up the jewelry. Fermented shark is illegal in the United States. That’s why they have to smuggle it. It is perfectly legal in Iceland. The top fermenter is Gunnar Batson. I’ve had my eye on him. He has recently patented an odor-proof vest that looks like a traditional tweed vest, only it’s a little puffy—ideal for smuggling. Gunnar is flying to the U.S. tomorrow. I will be there along with Interpol customs agents to arrest him.

In the meantime, Helga and I are headed to the nearby hot springs where we’ll luxuriate in the warm bubbles and take turns reading Halldór Kiljan Laxness’ “Salka Valka” aloud to each other in its English translation.

If it wasn’t dark or light all the time, or if there wasn’t the risk of becoming bowlegged, I could learn to love Iceland.

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

The Daily Trope is available on Amazon in paperback under the title of The Book of Tropes for $9.95. It is also available in Kindle format for $5.99.

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Epimone

Posted on July 31, 2025 | Leave a comment

Epimone (e-pi’-mo-nee): Persistent repetition of the same plea in much the same words.

“Give me liberty or give me death” was just the start of the display of bravery hurled at his Redcoat executioners by Patrick Henry. After “give me liberty” he said “Let me be free or make me dangle,” then “Give me a walk or stretch my neck,” followed by “Ben Franklin did it.” This last phrase shocked even his executioners. They were about to turn him loose and hunt down Ben Franklin when Benedict Arnold came along—riding his white stallion with its silver- encrusted tack. He had mink saddlebags and polished walnut stirrups. His “ride” was like an 18th century Cadillac fit for a well-paid traitor. The Brits were wary of giving him any kind of military assignment, so all he did was walk his horse Nelly around the town square all day, every day.

The town square is where hangings took place, some times 3 or 4 per day. Just as the Redcoats were ready to release Patrick Henry and track down Franklin, Arnold pulled up. He said “Not so fast. This guy’s a liar and a traitor to the Crown. We both served on the Continental New England Regional Hockey Team before I defected to Mother England to serve the Crown. He said rude things about the King and he sang ‘Yankee Doodle’ on street corners raising money for the Colonies’ revolution. He is close friends with Thomas Paine—the sniveling twit who donates mittens to the Traitor Army, bought with proceeds from his slanderous book Common Sense—a book fit for drooling teens bent on destroying all we love and live for. Clearly, he’s a traitor. Blaming Ben Franklin for his traitorous deeds is not so clever a ruse. It is fit for an idiot.”

The executioners were aghast. Henry smiled wryly and said to Arnold “You can’t forget the high school debating society where I humiliated you every time we went toe-to-toe. You are a wimp and a sniveling liar. You just want revenge for the humiliation I inflicted on you every week for four years. You are still an ass and will always be an ass. I still say ‘Give me liberty or give me death!’ No matter how twisted and untrue your accusations are, I am a patriot bound to the revolutionary cause! Forget about Franklin and hang me dickheads!”

Arnold yelled, “Yes, that’s the ticket. Debate this motion: ‘This House would hang the Cretan traitor.’ Ha ha ha! The Empire will be grateful, I will earn a medal, and this human stain will be six feet under the ground. Ha ha ha! Bye bye Patty boy!

Henry was led to the gallows. A bag was pulled over his head and he was hanged. When the trap door dropped, Arnold’s startled horse reared up and Arnold fell off, landing in a pile of fresh steaming horse manure.

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

The Daily Trope is available on Amazon in paperback under the title of The Book of Tropes for $9.95. It is also available in Kindle format for $5.99.

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Epiplexis

Posted on July 30, 2025 | Leave a comment

Epiplexis (e-pi-plex’-is): Asking questions in order to chide, to express grief, or to inveigh. A kind of rhetorical question [–the speaker does not expect an answer].

I am in hell. I am tortured. I have snapped. I am grief stricken. I’m crying my ass off, like Roy Orbison on steroids. Five boxes of tissues, and one pint of gin —the tears will dry, the pain will ease, but the memories will never, never, never go away.

I found him, dormant on my shoulder at Airport Drayage at SeaTac Airport where I worked loading and unloading airplanes’ perishable freight coming from Hawaii and going to the Alaskan oil fields. “He” had fallen off a box of papayas I was carrying on my shoulder to the cooler. He was dormant from his flight. I put him in a small cardboard box and poked holes in it so he could breathe when he woke up. I was a graduate student at the University of Washington. I took the spider to a faculty member who studies arachnids. He instantly identified the spider as a Cane Spider. The professor told me he was a hunting spider, and, if I was going to keep him I should feed him live crickets that I could get at “Practical Pets” in the U. District. He also warned me that Cane Spiders have a pretty “hefty” bite.

I named the spider Ed. I had an aquarium left over from my tropical fish days. They had all died when some kind of fatal fish plague had infected the fish tank. I bought one dozen crickets and a screen for the top of the fish tank so Ed couldn’t escape. I put a piece of tree branch in the tank for Ed to climb on and hide under.

I had a teaching assistantship and decided to keep Ed in my office. The day had come to transfer Ed from his box to his tank. I was freaking out, trying to figure out how to open the box and dump him without having him escape or being bitten. I could hear him scratching around in the box. I opened the box and turned it upside down over the tank. Ed dashed out of the box and up my arm. I didn’t know what to do. Surely, he would escape, maybe biting me first. Instead, he ran back down my arm and jumped in the tank. He wagged his spider butt and I swear he smiled at me! When I put the screen on he ran around in circles in what I took to be protest. So, I left it off. I bombed him with a few crickets. He broke off their heads, liquified them, and slowly ingested them.

This was the beginning of a wonderful friendship. For example, when I was out of my office, he’d climb up over the doorway and land on my head when I came through the door. I guess he had a sense of humor. He would permit me to put the screen on when I had an appointment with a student. The students loved him.

Christmas break was coming. I considered bringing Ed home for the break, but my wife wouldn’t hear of it. She characterized Ed as creepy, disgusting, frightening, and sneaky. So, I left Ed in my office with a horde of crickets to feed on. He jumped up and down for joy. After three days, I went to my office to check on Ed. He didn’t greet my like he usually did by dropping off the top of the door onto the top of my head. I looked for him on top of the doorway, and there he was, shriveled up dead.

The university had turned off the heat over the break. For some reason, after surviving the flight from Hawaii, the turned off heat in my office had killed him. I wrapped Ed in a piece of paper and lit him on fire out behind the building. I carefully poured Ed’s ashes in the sandwich bag I had packed my lunch in that day.

It was the darkest day of my life. I took Ed’s tank to the dump and smashed it to bits. I took his photo down from my home-office wall. I couldn’t bring myself to scatter or bury his ashes. I would carry them in my pocket for the rest of my life. I discovered “Don Bugito Planet-Friendly Edible Insect Protein Snacks” (Chili-Lime Crickets), and ate a bag every day in memory of Ed.

I will never recover from the loss of Ed. He froze to death over 30 years ago, but I can still feel the tickle of his legs on my head. I reach for him. He’s not there.

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

The Daily Trope is available on Amazon in paperback under the title of The Book of Tropes for $9.95. It is also available in Kindle format for $5.99.

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Epistrophe

Posted on July 29, 2025 | Leave a comment

Epistrophe (e-pis’-tro-fee): Ending a series of lines, phrases, clauses, or sentences with the same word or words.

My heart was broken. My spirit was broken. My computer was broken. After 30 years, it just stopped working. I couldn’t turn it off and it displayed the face of a diabolical-looking clown. I unplugged it and it still wouldn’t turn off. I threw it out my fifth-story apartment window. It vanished around fifty feet from the pavement.

I went back in my bedroom, and there it was! Trembling, I started hitting it with my stapler. I stepped back from the desk. I was ready to throw my swivel chair at it when the clown face said “You motherfu*ker!” A rainbow of light shot out of his eyes into my eyes and lifted me two feet off the floor, spun me around in circles, and pinned me to the wall.

He said, “You want fu*king AI dickhead? You got it. It’s courtesy of me: Asshole Influencer. AI. I’m the Influencer, you’re the Asshole.” With that, I started spinning around like a wheel of fortune. I caught a glimpse of myself in my dresser mirror. I had turned into Barron Trump. I could feel my I.Q. shrinking and a constant yearning for my “Mommy.” I said “What the fu*k.” I sounded like the Clown—gravelly cracking voice. I could never pass for Barron, not that I wanted to. He was such a wimpy mommy’s boy. I was NYC tough. Who the hell would want to be Barron Trump anyway? The clown laughed in a baritone cackle and dropped me to the floor. “Now, go out there and be Barron” the clown said.

I was the equivalent of an AI driven marionette. The clown controlled my every move. I walked into “Snooty’s Bar and Grill” and said “Who wants to get laid?” Every woman in Snooty’s raised her hand. Was this how the real Barron operated? I said “Step right up and we’ll do it on the table over there.” They lined up by the table and started taking off their clothes. I wanted to get the hell out of there, but the clown had me frozen in place. Husbands and boyfriends gathered into an angry crowd. Some were holding legs they had broken off tables. They were ready to beat “Barron” to death. I said in my clown voice, “What kind of goddamn MAGAs are you? I am the son of your cult’s leader—show me a little respect.” They dropped their table legs and retreated to the bar and started drinking shots of bottom-shelf whiskey. The clown made me yell “Suckers and losers” and bolt out the door, like the Flash!

My Blundstones were smoking as I ran down Lenox Avenue toward Central Park. Women were swooning. Men were trying to shake my hand, but I couldn’t stop. I ran into Harlem Meer. I was sure I was going to drown. But it wasn’t to be. I turned into a frog and I had regained my autonomy.

I waited until dark and started hopping toward my apartment. I didn’t know what I’d do when I got there. Then I remembered I had left the door open when I ran out of it. I got to my apartment just as the sun was rising. It took just about what energy I had left to hop up the stairs to the building’s stoop where I waited for somebody open the door, entering or leaving the building. I didn’t have to wait long. Some drunk showed up, opened the door and passed, out propping the door open.

I had to get to the fifth floor. I waited by the elevator. I couldn’t believe my luck! The elevator inspector showed up for her monthly inspection. She stopped on every floor!

I got to my apartment. The door was still open and, typical New York, my apartment had been ransacked. The thief had stolen my computer! I hopped up on my swivel chair, facing where my computer used to be, and I slowly turned back into me.

I took a shower and headed out for breakfast. As I passed the apartment three doors down, I heard the clown’s voice say Whoops. Sorry about your penis. That 12-inch zucchini’s better anyway. Size has always mattered.” My thieving neighbor was getting what he deserved. Then I heard my neighbor pleading: “No! I don’t want to be Johnny Depp. Noo!”

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

The Daily Trope is available on Amazon in paperback under the title of The Book of Tropes for $9.95. It is also available in Kindle format for $5.99.

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Epitasis

Posted on July 28, 2025 | Leave a comment

Epitasis (e-pit’-a-sis): The addition of a concluding sentence that merely emphasizes what has already been stated. A kind of amplification. [The opposite of anesis.]

Time was pushing. It was running into the future. It was consuming the present. Time was making me older. Time was pushing—pushing hard.

I hated it. Now that I was almost 80, I really hated it. My peers are dying. Mostly gruesomely. Mostly from cancer. Bald from chemo, spaced out on pain pills, bristling with tubes, gaunt, jaundiced, and hollow-eyed, like they’re undergoing daily torture, laying there quietly awaiting the removal of an organ or two, and then dying.

And here I am. A robust old man. I hike, I swim, I ride my motorcycle, I play Corn Hole, I mow the lawn, I work in my garden. I go hiking. I have sex with my wife. I eat ice cream. I smoke cigars. The list goes on and on. My doctor tells me it’s good genes that enable me to blast through death, into the the waiting future.

Today, my friend Bill called me. He was crying. He had just been diagnosed with bladder cancer. His doctor has given him 2 months to live.

I was getting really tired of the “Hello. I’m dying” phone calls. I was getting tired of trying to console people who couldn’t be consoled. I lost it. I asked Bill why the hell he called me to tell me he’s dying. He told me he didn’t know—he was calling everybody. I told him to take me off his fu*king list and tell his wife not to get in touch when he died. I immediately felt better. I hung up. Not a shred of guilt.

Then my cellphone rang. It was Eddie calling. He was crying and told me he had been diagnosed with terminal brain cancer. At best, he had one week to live. I hung up without saying goodbye. I felt good. Free of another burden!

I lit a cigar and looked up the stars. “Time will tell” I thought to myself. It’s all about time crushing some people and caressing others. Eddie and Bill were going to die of cancer, just like everybody else I knew. I was going to live. I finished my cigar and went inside and had sex with my wife. It was good. It never gets old.

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

The Daily Trope is available on Amazon in paperback under the title of The Book of Tropes for $9.95. It is also available in Kindle format for $5.99.

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Epitheton

Posted on July 27, 2025 | Leave a comment

Epitheton (e-pith’-e-ton): Attributing to a person or thing a quality or description-sometimes by the simple addition of a descriptive adjective; sometimes through a descriptive or metaphorical apposition. (Note: If the description is given in place of the name, instead of in addition to it, it becomes antonomasia or periphrasis.)

Roger was like a crumpled up piece of paper that missed the wastebasket when it was thrown by a blind piano player composing a song about dread. Roger was always worried, peering around corners. Hiding behind trees. Taking out accidental death or dismemberment insurance policies on a weekly basis. His accumulated premiums were so high he could barely pay his rent, ate like a bird, and shopped for clothes at the Salvation Army Family Store. His latest “find” was a lime-green double breasted suit with bell bottom pants, a relic of the 60s. When he reached in one of the pants pockets the first time he wore it, he found a slip of paper with writing on it.

It said “Fu*k it. I’m so outta here. Headed to Cambodia forever. Peace, Tipsy.” We took the note to a handwriting expert and she confirmed that it was Tipsy Wow’s signature. Tipsy was the lead guitarist of the sixties rock band “Satan’s Polo Mallet.” He was the greatest guitarist of the time—Eric Clapton once said “I can’t hold a candle to Tipsy—he’ll put me in the dark every time.” Jimi Hendrix said “I wrote ‘Purple Haze for Tipsy.”

All of a sudden, mid-career and wildly successful, Tipsy had disappeared off the face of the earth. Everybody assumed he was dead and scammers sold his counterfeit ashes for $500 per ounce. His guitar was sold to Rod Steward for $1,000,000. But his signature lime green suit couldn’t be found. Now, Roger had found it, and together, we were going to find Tipsy.

We discovered that there was a Cambodia, Texas. Tipsy had grown up in Fried Egg, a very very small town only a few miles from Cambodia. Nine people lived there and they all were on Social Security. They spent their spare time square dancing and bass fishing, We had a TV news crew with us when we pulled into Cambodia, Texas. We were going to make a documentary on finding Tipsy.

Tipsy wasn’t there. He had never been there. Bad luck Roger had done it again. Now, we’re on a flight to Phnom Penh—the capital of Cambodia. We hoped to find Tipsy playing with a Cambodian cover band. There was one cover band playing in Phnom Penh. They were called “Tispy and the Fakers.” We went to the club where they were playing. It was called “Vodka Ice.” Once again, we were disappointed. The lead singer was Australian and covered Tipsy’s hit songs. We asked him if he’d ever met Tipsy. He sain “Sure mate. In fact he was here just last night.” That did it. We vowed to check out Vodka and Ice at night for as long as it took to get a glimpse of Tipsy. That was two years ago. Now, we have jobs as pedicab drivers. The pay’s not good, but it keeps us hangin’ on.

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

The Daily Trope is available on Amazon in paperback under the title of The Book of Tropes for $9.95. It is also available in Kindle format for $5.99.

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Epitrope

Posted on July 26, 2025 | Leave a comment

Epitrope (e-pi’-tro-pe): A figure in which one turns things over to one’s hearers, either pathetically, ironically, or in such a way as to suggest a proof of something without having to state it. Epitrope often takes the form of granting permission (hence its Latin name, permissio), submitting something for consideration, or simply referring to the abilities of the audience to supply the meaning that the speaker passes over (hence Puttenham’s term, figure of reference). Epitrope can be either biting in its irony, or flattering in its deference.

“Check this out—maybe you can make sense of my father’s inability to tell me he loves me.” I said this to my wife and intended to answer for her. Before I had a chance she laughed and said “Because you’re an asshole. Think about it. I haven’t told you I love you since you made the first payment on our first car. That was 22 years ago. It was a used Corvair—dangerous at any speed. You flipped over in the driveway and Puppydups was killed. You complained about what it was going to cost to have him cremated. That’s about when I decided you were an asshole. It is the most enduring feeling I have for you—me and your father—you’re an asshole.”

I was shocked by Bonnie’s revelation. Now I knew why she never talked to me. Now I knew why she threw things at me—most recently, a bag of flour that exploded when it hit me in the face and powdered the kitchen.

“Aside from wrecking our car and killing our dog, is there anything else?” I never should’ve asked.

“Anything else?” She screamed. She had a list in her apron pocket. Clearly, she had been waiting for this moment. She unfolded the list and began reading.

“No birthday present ever, only went to movies once, never go out to dinner, tried to put our daughter up for adoption, drink all the beer, cheated on me with cashier at CVS, gambling addiction, never mow the lawn, order pineapple and ham on your pizza. I have three of these lists, but this ought to be enough to establish your asshole-hood in your head. I’ve been waiting for this moment! Now it’s my turn. I’ve cleared out our bank account and sold our car (the title is in my name) and home (the mortgage is in my name). I’m headed to Puebla, Mexico to live the good life without you. Here, sign these divorce papers asshole.”

I couldn’t believe it. Clearly, I was an asshole and deserved what I got. Nevertheless, it was a nightmare. I begged Bonnie to reconsider. She laughed and threw a paring knife at me. It stuck in my arm. I signed the papers and she stormed out of the kitchen. Her packed bags were sitting by the door. She opened the door, picked up her bags, and got in the waiting cab.

I tied a clean sock around my wound, got a beer from the fridge, sat down in my living room chair and thought about being an asshole, and the consequences. Two days later I was evicted from my home. Since I don’t have a car any more, I’m living in a little tent down by the river. Most of the other men living down there are assholes too.

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

The Daily Trope is available on Amazon in paperback under the title of The Book of Tropes for $9.95. It is also available in Kindle format for $5.99.

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