Inter se Pugnantia

Posted on June 30, 2025 | Leave a comment

Inter se pugnantia (in’-ter-say-pug-nan’-ti-a): Using direct address to reprove someone before an audience, pointing out the contradictions in that person’s character, often between what a person does and says.

You tell me and everybody else you’re going to make America great again, but you’re actually making it worse again. You’re the greatest con artist in American history—better than Jim Jones and Bernie Madoff combined. You’re taking everything away from America that made it great: freedom of speech, civil rights, women’s rights, environmental caretaking, international food aid, and the so-called social safety net, which actually could’ve used more help, but food stamps, SNAP, and Medicaid helped.

Citing corruption and waste for cuts and the elimination of programs and entire agencies, is a mask for an ideology that respects only money. If saving money and increasing profits kills people—babies and the elderly alike, so be it. Money accumulates. Money is the answer. Money is God.

But money spent to save lives and improve lives—to feed minds and stomachs—is a wiser investment than whatever cutting down the safety net accomplishes, killing many people who have no other place to fall as they plummet toward the cold hard ground of poverty. If people chcan live people can eventually flourish. America will be a better place. America will be great again when the hell you’re inflicting on it goes away.

As the next three years unfold, what will the Great America look like? Will there be riots and flames as people realize you ripped them off—that what you promised and what you delivered were vastly different—that what you said and what you did were two different things?

You’re making America into a shit hole.

You are a scumbag.

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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Intimation

Posted on June 29, 2025 | Leave a comment

Intimation: Hinting at a meaning but not stating it explicitly.

“I’m goin’ to the go-go if you know what I mean. Don’t worry, I’ll be back.” My nursing home cohort was on a day trip to the Museum of Natural History. We were viewing some giant dinosaur skeleton when it hit me. My walker was tied with a piece of clothesline rope to my partner Mitzi’s. It was supposed to keep us from getting separated and lost.

I didn’t want to embarrass her by dragging her into the go-go while I did my business. I pulled out my switchblade that I kept from my years on the streets of New York—they had been recently legalized by Cuomo before he got the boot. I had a fishing license in my wallet which allowed me to carry it concealed.

Mitzi screamed, thinking I was going to finish her off in the middle of the museum. I was only going to cut the rope. I cut the rope and took off with my walker, running as best as I could. I didn’t make it. My sweat pants had a big wet circle on the front. The museum guards had called the police when Mitzi screamed. I was being handcuffed.

Mitzi was crying and apologized. She told me if I was more straightforward and had just said I needed to take a leak, none of this would’ve happed. She talked the police out of arresting me and we went AWOL from our cohort. They would be panic stricken at “Shady Lakes Nursing Home” when they couldn’t find us.p, but I needed some dry pants.

Mitzi managed to find a Salvation Army Family Store. We bought me a used pair of sweatpants. They were pink and said “Villanova” in huge blue letters up the right leg. I liked them and so did Mitzi. She paid for the sweatpants—she could afford them. She was a millionaire whose children had put her away so they could get their hands on her money. Her husband had died in in 1990 after making a fortune in the 70s in the coke spoon and disco suit business, importing the spoons and suits from China and marking them up %1,000.

Mitzi’s children, Buck and Lola, were classic children of wealth—selfish, lazy, and privileged. Mitzi was 92 and they’d been mooching from her for decades. They never had a job or did anything for humanity. They just laid about drinking expensive champagne, complimenting each other on their good taste, and plotting ways to steal their mother’s money.

Mitzi and I decided to “visit” them. I would threaten them with my knife and they would leave Mitzi alone. We revved up our walkers and took off for their posh condo.

When we got there, they weren’t home. There was a message on their doorbell cam saying “We’ve gone to Greenland and we have insurance.”

Mitzi called an Uber and we went back to Shady Lakes. Mission unaccomplished.

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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Isocolon

Posted on June 28, 2025 | Leave a comment

Isocolon (i-so-co’-lon): A series of similarly structured elements having the same length. A kind of parallelism.

My ears. My feet. My dick. I was trying to figure out how to prioritize my body parts. I had double-crossed Alfonso LaGuardia. I ran numbers for Mr. LaGuardia before the state of New York put us out of business with scratch-off lotto tickets with stupid names like “Gold Pot” and “Pirate’s Buckles,” We used the last three numbers of the number of stocks sold every day on the NYSE for the winning number. The number published for us in the evening edition of the “Daily News.”

Back then, I was desperate for money. My daughter needed tuition to go to Rutgers in the fall and I needed a new Cadillac to replace the rusted hulk that mine had become. The tires were bald, the seats were torn and it smoked like a fog machine. I had a reputation to keep up as a “salesperson” for Mr. LaGuardia. Running numbers was an art.

It was bookkeeping intensive. Keeping track of the slips was a huge part of my job—making sure people didn’t try to rip me off and I had included everybody that made a bet. I had 100 “bookers” working for me who sold bets on street corners all over New York. I collected their daily takes out of a sleazy hotel that was populated by whores and drug dealers. I was on the third floor. Sometimes, I’d have a line of bookers snaking down into the street. I packed a .45 in case anybody tried to rob me (which was at least once per month). I had a suitcase that I carried all my stuff in—including the money. I would deliver the money to Mr. LaGuardia at 10 Pm every day. Sal would count it out and give me my cut.

I was going to fake a robbery and keep all the money for myself. My own son, “Scimunito,” ratted me out. He was a total idiot who didn’t look at the big picture. He thought he would ingratiate himself to “The Boss” if he turned me in.

Mr. LaGuardia called me into his office: “Your own son has betrayed you. I must teach him a lesson. After I amputate your ear, I will deep fry it and feed it to him, telling him it is Calamari. Then, I will reveal the truth, that it is your ear. This will teach him a lesson he won’t forget. Every time he sees you with one ear, he will remember, and it will torment him.”

Mr. LaGuardia listened to my explanation for what I had done. He took my ear, but he let me keep the money. He understood my plight. He was a sensitive man.

Now, I sell condos in Miami. I had a prosthetic ear attached. I make a good living but I am still estranged from my son who manages a bowling alley in Weehawken.

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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Kategoria

Posted on June 27, 2025 | Leave a comment

Kategoria (ka-te-go’-ri-a): Opening the secret wickedness of one’s adversary before his [or her] face.

I was just a normal guy. I rooted for the Yankees. I paid my bills on time. I wore black wingtips with my charcoal suit. I drove a two-door Chevy, and went bowling every Wednesday night. My landlord loved me and I went to the Poconos for two weeks every summer where I helped out at a kennel for stray dogs. It was called “AWOL Woofers.” It is personally rewarding to help out there, especially when some kind person adopts an “AWOL woofer.”

For a living, I work at factory that makes paper dinnerware. I work in the salad bowl division, overseeing quality control. I make sure the bowls all have a uniform depth and a perfect circular shape. I also keep an eye on the floral patterns imprinted along the bowls’ rims, making sure they are a uniform distance from the edges. My favorite print is foxglove. Although, in reality it would be poison, on the bowls it is a simple decoration.

This summer I brought a dog home from AWOL Woofers. He is a large one-eyed German Shepard. I named him Gutenberg. I took him with me to visit my former girlfriend Norma. I called her “Normal Norma” because she was so strait-laced. She had been the perfect girl for me—just an everyday person with everyday tastes and needs. But, she betrayed me and now I actually hated her. I pretended to be friends so I could hang out with her and find a way to get back at her.

When we got to her apartment, Gutenberg started barking and pulling on his leash until he pulled it out of my hand and bounded toward Norma’s bedroom. I ran after him. When I caught up with him, he had his head stuck under Norma’s bed and was barking like crazy.

I looked under the bed and there was a large vibrator. I picked it up, turned it on and went into the living room with it buzzing to confront Norma. “Why do you keep this hidden under your bed?” Norma blushed and told me it was none of my business. She was right, so I pretended to relent and blamed Gutenberg for what had happened. “Crazy dog made me lose my mind.” I said with a frown, but in my head I knew I had “gotten back” a her. I had found her secret vice.

When we got home, I gave Gutenberg three dog biscuit treats

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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Litotes

Posted on June 27, 2025 | Leave a comment

Litotes (li-to’-tees): Deliberate understatement, especially when expressing a thought by denying its opposite. The Ad Herennium author suggests litotes as a means of expressing modesty (downplaying one’s accomplishments) in order to gain the audience’s favor (establishing ethos).

It was no great thing. So what, I earned a PhD when I was 11 years old. My dissertation “Calculated Lobbing” received the “Popular Mechanics” “Scientific Breakthrough of the Year Award.” It became a bestseller among baseball coaches and was made into the smash hit movie “Knuckleball” starring Robert Dinero as Goofball Johnson, the Little League pitcher who never lost a game. It won a pile of Academy Awards and is still frequently viewed on Hulu.

As far as I’m concerned this is all “dust in the wind,” not worth dwelling on here tonight. Like you, I’m looking toward the future. My latest creation will help make the future bright, offering peace, love, and happiness in return for a modest subscription fee. Once installed in your brain, your step will become lighter, your outlook will become brighter, and love will rain down on you from the heavens like coins of gold pouring from an angelic vault.

Made from three micro-stainless steel paperclips clutching a tiny cats-eye marble, and powered by an unobtrusive solar battery mounted on top of your head, the “Savior 25” will operate silently and flawlessly—just avoid thunder and lightening storms and airport security scanners. I have one implanted in my brain, topped by a solar battery, and I feel great. My world is paradise. Being a multi-billionaire helps, but it doesn’t account for what I’m feeling now. The “Savior 25” is the ultimate supplement—no prescription needed!

Although I created the award I’m receiving this evening on Zoom, I still more or less deserve it. But not enough. I will continue to break new ground, but I will not totally save humanity, I leave that to God if he so chooses. I will make incremental baby steps toward the world’s salvation. It isn’t much, but it’s all I can do from my prison cell. My accountant died, but it was an accident and I got 50 years.

Thank-you and God bless 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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Martyria

Posted on June 26, 2025 | Leave a comment

Martyria (mar-tir’-i-a): Confirming something by referring to one’s own experience.

You want to know what this is all about? Ha! You came to the right place buddy. I’ve been using a screwdriver since I was 16. I started working at “Sal’s Auto Repair” when I was still in high school. That was forty years ago. You may have noticed it’s named “Big John’s Auto Repair” now—after me, the proud owner and proprietor.

I love the smell of lithium grease in the morning. Holding a cup of coffee in one hand and a grease gun in the other, lubing a ball joint, is one of my favorite things—it’s like inoculating the ball joint with some kind of vaccine to keep it lively and lithe, sucking up the turns and bumps like nobody’s business—rejuvenating it—like slopping a dollop of RediMove on your knee or shoulder!

Anyway, getting under the lift with a car posed above is like being some kind of voyeur. I’m not ashamed to say it gives me a thrill to look up from underneath at a chassis—the tailpipe, the gas tank, the drive shaft, the brake lines, the transmission, the brakes, the coil springs all give me a thrill. I like going under the hood too.

Everything’s right there. The engine! My God. A massive machine, running on explosions, rotating a crankshaft and propelling the entire car wherever you want it to go, producing swirling exhaust fumes and making the exhaust pipe growl like an angry bear.

I wield my screwdrivers all over a car—one for slotted screws (“regular” screws) and phillips head screws—screws with star-shaped slots in their heads. I grip the screwdriver by its handle, stick its tip in the slot and twist—one direction to screw the screw in, and the opposite direction to unscrew it. Sometimes the screw is rusted in. In that case, I spray the screw with WD-40, a rust-busting solvent that smells almost as good as grease does!

Today, I’m taking the license plates off a car for my friend Ralphy. When he dropped it off he said “Where else can you get a new Caddy for five grand?” I didn’t ask him where he got it. It’s none of my business.

I’ll be using my standard screwdriver to do the job. There’s no rust so it ought to go pretty easy. I’m replacing the Cadillac’s plates with the plates from Ralphy’’s mother’s car. It might be illegal, but I’m just screwing the screws, four out, four in—out and in, the “ways” of the screwdriver.

The screwdriver is a tool with one specific intended use—screwing. But, screwdrivers offer an invitation to misuse, like everything else that people use.

Some people misuse screwdrivers by using them as chisels! But the worst: using a phillips head screwdriver to stab somebody! Its pointed dagger-like tip readily penetrates skin, making a wound capable of murder. I am opposed to this.

So, despite its occasional misuse, the screwdriver is one of my favorite tools in my toolbox. With a twist of the wrist, it binds things together and takes them apart. They were first used in the fifteenth-century for armor maintenance. The phillips head was invented in the early 1930s.

Well, there you have it. Here, take my screwdriver and give it a try.

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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Maxim

Posted on June 25, 2025 | Leave a comment

Maxim (max’-im): One of several terms describing short, pithy sayings. Others include adage, apothegm, gnome, paroemia, proverb, and sententia.

“If your pants fall down, keep walking.” This was inscribed in Latin on our family crest: “Si bracae tuae decidunt, perge ambulare.” There was also a picture of a man from behind with his pants down walking up a staircase to heaven, with two angels with lyres playing from above. The man wasn’t wearing underwear, so his butt was naked. It shone like the sun with a halo of light encircling it.

We came from humble origins. The crest is post penury when our ancestors established the “Waygone” distillery specializing in 100 proof grain alcohol. Their motto was “Keeping the peasants down” and it was distributed free by the nobles to keep the peasants “half crocked” and unable to do anything about their “despicable” circumstances. Whole families (including infants) were give a ration of Waygone every day. They worked a little more slowly than they would’ve otherwise, but they wouldn’t run away.

My ancestors were dirt poor before the founding of Waygone. They were unwashed and ill-clothed. They worked as wipers at the public restrooms using scraps of newspaper to tend to the hygiene needs of the local citizenry. They were poorly paid and barely able to survive. They obtained their clothing from discards thrown out of peoples’ windows into the street. The clothes were already worn to the edge of disintegration, but my ancestors were desperate. They couldn’t be picky, so they wore what they found. Among other things, often the clothes were far too big for their starving frames. This was always the case with the breeches. Hence, their pants fell down. But that did not deter my great, great, great, great grandfather. He would stumble and pull up his pants, stumble and pull up his pants, etc. and keep on walking. After years, eventually he came to a mountain of grain that had been discarded because it was “bad.”

When he had been stationed in Crimea he had learned about vodka and how make it for him and his friends from stolen grain. He made a deal with “Gargantuan Bakers” to share liquor profits from the vodka he could make from their discarded grain. All they had to do was provide him with the equipment he needed to make it. It was readily available from Ireland.

He embezzled enough money over the course of five years to buy the distillery and nearby grain-growing farmlands. Along the way, he bought a pair of pants that fit, made up the family motto, and commissioned the family crest. He became a multi-millionaire, and we live on his legacy today.

If he had just sat on a curb with his pants down, we would have nothing.

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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Medela

Posted on June 24, 2025 | Leave a comment

Medela (me-de’-la): When you can’t deny or defend friends’ faults and seek to heal them with good words.

Bill was the worst. He smelled like marinated onions topping a piece of boiled cabbage. Every other word was fu*k or fu*kin’. He borrowed money from me and never paid it back. He tried to talk me into doing crazy shit, like planting opium poppies in my back yard, or robbing a convenience store: “Steal those scratch-offs. You’re bound to hit it big. Do it!” I almost did, but my wife talked me out of it.

Everybody tried to talk me into dumping Bill as a friend, but I couldn’t bring myself to do it. He had saved my life several times and I owed him. Somehow we ended up together in the 173rd Airborne in Vietnam. We were pulling an all-nighter on a listening post. We had been given doses of speed to keep us awake. It had a powerful effect on me. I couldn’t sit still and I kept laughing maniacally. Bill thought it was funny to tell me his “best of” knock-knock jokes and see me roll around on the ground laughing hysterically. Given my state, he was going to radio back to camp to have me extracted. That’s when we heard the unmistakable sound of AK 47s locking and loading. 4 VC popped out of the underbrush with weapons aimed straight at us.

I still couldn’t stop laughing. One of them asked in broken English “What the hell you do? I hear way over there.” Bill said “I tell jokes, make him laugh.” Then he unloaded a knock-knock joke. The VC who could speak English translated and the four started laughing hysterically, until one started choking. The other three dropped their weapons and went to help him. How stupid. Bill picked up his weapon and shot each of them once, making sure to give them non-fatal wounds. Under the circumstances. He couldn’t bring himself to kill them—they were obvious raw recruits who had been turned loose with no training.

Bill radioed and we were extracted and didn’t say anything about the VC. We probably would’ve been Court Martialed if we did. So, Bill’s jokes saved my life. I’ll never be able to repay him.

Another time, we were getting drunk in a biker bar in Salinas, CA. Foolishly, I told this biker his girlfriend looked like well-plowed field. I don’t think he understood what I meant, but he got really mad. He said “I’m gonna kill ya, ya little piece of shit.” He pulled out a 10-inch stiletto. Bill grabbed the basket our nachos had come in and held it up like a shield between me and the biker. The knife got stuck in the basket and I was saved. Bill was carrying a .45 auto and it helped us get out of the bar alive. We sped off in Bill’s red Corvair. I looked out the back window and we were being followed by at least twenty bikers. I fired a couple of shots at them and they peeled off. Saved again! There are a lot more examples, but these two should suffice make my point.

Despite Bill’s ghastly smell and hellish demeanor, and all the rest, I owe him my life, and I’ll be his friend forever. So, leave him alone.

Just ask him to tell you a knock knock 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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Meiosis

Posted on June 23, 2025 | Leave a comment

Meiosis (mei-o’-sis): Reference to something with a name disproportionately lesser than its nature (a kind of litotes). This term is equivalent to tapinosis.

“God is mud.” Most people would believe I’m belittling God. But what I’m doing is reminding them that God is ubiquitous—that God’s infused in the sum of His creation. It is blasphemous to think otherwise. This is hard for most people grasp, but I am an “Evertrhinganarian.” We are a sect that was established in Rhode Island in 1699. The founding fathers were disgusted with the prevailing religion’s separation of Being into Godly and Ungodly, as if anything in the created universe could not be God’s doing. How foolish they were. How biased they were.

Things earned the title “Ungodly” pretty much randomly so they could be boycotted and fall into disuse. For example, prostitution was designated as ungodly as if whoring wasn’t invented by God.

You can see how the “Everythinganarian” stand may put some people on edge. But, there’s no way around it—God is everywhere. Our task is to find a way of understanding prostitution that aligns it with God’s will. “Impossible!” you say, especially as it may abet adultery. Well, adultery is God’s creation too! Adultery is usually one of the first steps toward getting out of a failed relationship, here, the failed relationship and turning to a whore is a godsend, prompting you to find a new life—perhaps a husband or a wife, by the grace of God, by divorce’s blessing.

Morality is like a hinge on a swinging door. No matter which way you’re going, it’s aways opening. In, or out, it doesn’t matter—“in” can be out and “out” can be in—it’s a portal of interpretation that allows it to open or close on anything you choose it to be, not in itself, but as it intersects your hopes and dreams. It can appear to be an exit or an entrance, but it is actually both—an “extrance.” Once we see its multiple likelihoods, we are ready to choose what it is by focusing on its end as its end intersects our desires. So, what is”good” is always a matter of interpretation. As Stanley Fish tells us, “One person’s hope is another person’s fear.” This goes for material objects as well: One person’s cherished artifact is another person’s pain in the ass.

So, as long as we’re going to be free range individuals, we must honor morality’s swinging door. I am not obliged find my place in your life along the path of your preferences. If I do, it’s solely my choice. So, shut up and accept me as one of God’s children.

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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Mempsis

Posted on June 22, 2025 | Leave a comment

Mempsis (memp’-sis): Expressing complaint and seeking help.

“I stuck my goddamn cane in dogshit again. I need your help cleaning it off. Here’s a napkin from Wendy’s.” I was laughing inside. I was 87 and my brother was 85. I loved sticking my cane in dogshit and watching him clean it off. It happened every time we went for a walk and the stupid jerk hadn’t caught on yet.

I hated my brother. He was a draft-dodging, wife -stealing dog. He stole my first wife, Sonia, when I was 22 and she was 20, He bought her a red Cadillac Eldorado for her birthday. All I could afford was a “Kiss” t-shirt and a macrame bracelet. Sonia was impressed and rode off in the Cadillac with my brother and never came back,

At the time I was working as a busboy “Pyro Gyros Greek Cuisine.” All I earned was tips I split with the waitresses and waiters. My brother, on the other hand, owned three successful businesses: “Modeling Clay Sensations,” “Lolita’s Lotions,” and “Thick Strip Pork Products.” He was a millionaire and scoffed at me every chance he got, or made.

He called me “Busboy” instead of John—my real name. He and Sonia would eat at Pyro Gyros at least three times a a week. He would give me a “secret tip” that I didn’t have share. No matter how much he spent, he’d dangle a five-dollar bill in front of my face and make me bark like a seal, clap my hands like flippers, and make me take the money in my mouth. It was humiliating, but I desperately needed the money. My second wife had shingles and I could barely afford the medicine. Her upper torso and face were covered with the rash. She laid in bed cursing me out and whining with pan. She admitted having an affair with my bachelor neighbor Hugo. She assured me she will be leaving me as soon as she’s cured. I thought about murdering her, but kept blocking her out of my head with liberal doses of vodka. As soon as she was cured, she jumped out of bed, packed her bags, and moved in with Hugo. Good riddance!

So, Sonia died two years ago and in the wake of her death, my brother has become more charitable toward me. Hence, the dogshit wiping. That’s one of the many ruses I use to get back at him. For example, I don’t need adult diapers but I wear them anyway so my brother can change me when I soil them. I love asking him to “please wipe my ass” when we’re out in public somewhere. He’ll bring me into a restroom and and I climb up on the changing table.

“Turn about is fair play.” I learned that from watching the “Apprentice” on TV. Ha ha!

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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Merismus

Posted on June 21, 2025 | Leave a comment

Merismus (mer-is’-mus): The dividing of a whole into its parts.

I was going to divide a hole into its parts. It had a top,, sides and bottom and a vacant center. But is a vacant center actually a part? Maybe if we call it an empty space it would be clearer. In reality it is a void—a column of nothingness. If it’s connected to whole/hole and is integral to its being, it’s a parted. Take it away, or fill it n, there’s no hole any more—maybe just a dent in the dirt on the ground. So, what’s all this speculation about holes worth? I don’t know, and I don’t have to know.

Take a shoe for example. Knowing its parts makes you a more canny shopper. You ask questions and impress the salespersons with your shoe knowledge. He or she will realize they’re not dealing with an uninformed Custumer and be less likely t try and hit you with a she scam, like selling you Odor Eaters or shoe balm.

So, what are the parts of a shoe? I’m not sure, but I’ll give it a try.

1: The big part you put your foot in (the upper).

2. The laces.

3. The tongue.

4. The sole.

5. The heel.

6. The midsole.

Now you are equipped to look like you “know” shoes. You ask “What is the midsole made of. This question will embarrass the salesperson and make you feel superior.

The more parts you know. The more you know. Think about love. Does it have parts! What about the descent into mental illness. Say, you are normal one day and then you’re standing in your living room pointing a loaded hand gun at your TV set. What are the steps to losing your job? What were the parts of the argument with you wife that ended in divorce.

See? Knowing the parts of everything will make you wise like an owl. Only, of course, you won’t actually be an owl. That’s not possible. in fact, nobody knows what makes owls wise, or even if they are actually wise. I don’t think an owl can take an IQ test. There—we have advanced our knowledge with facts—by questioning an old worn-out saying. Clearly, owls’ natural wisdom has declined to the point of no return.

My girlfriend has a pet owl. She feeds it dead mice she buys frozen at the pet store. The owl never goes “hoo” and just sits on its perch eating mice and crapping on cage bottom. Its name is Vick. He pays no attention when my girlfriend calls him. We think he fell out of his nest and hit his head when he was a baby. It is a shame. My girlfriend is considering putting him up for adoption.

Anyway, every whole has its parts.

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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Mesarchia

Posted on June 20, 2025 | Leave a comment

Mesarchia (mes-ar’-chi-a): The repetition of the same word or words at the beginning and middle of successive sentences.

“Joy will pleasure make. Joy will pleasure take. Joy is fleeting and takes pleasure with it when it goes.” Parnell Pack.

Pack was a 19th century poet/philosopher. His works uniformly stink, but they are still read by young writers as a rite of passage toward earning an MFA. They want to learn to say bad things about other’s writing and Pack is a great model of bad writing that they can easily cast aspersions on. It is sort of disgraceful, but that’s how you easily learn critical analysis, which is solely about fault finding. The easier the target, the better the critique. This goes for people too. Get in a relationship with an idiot and the door to endless belittlement opens wide. You bask in the inferiority of your partner, achieving a level of superiority for yourself that only a relationship with a total dolt can achieve. Congratulations.

Then there was Bartholomew Canon. He wrote romance novels situated in insane asylums. He wrote the famous line “A crawfish cannot smell worse.” This was uttered by Bertrand Feckless as he crawled across the concrete floor of the asylum’s recreation room. He thought he was a dog trained to hunt crustaceans. His lover, Pony Rutledge, was sitting in a rocking chair across the room unimpressed. She was feverishly crocheting a butter dish for the Matron’s dining room table. This was not therapy. It was an attempt to win the Matron’s favor. She had tried once already and failed. She had failed when had made a floor mat for the Matron’s pickup truck. Foolishly, she had woven it out of strips of newspaper and it disintegrated the instant the Matron’s wet boot touched it.

Bartholomew and Pony were due to be married soon. People said it was illegal, but they went ahead and planned. They had already gotten in trouble for throwing rice at each other and making a mess of the recreation room. Then, the state of Louisiana told them they could get married as long as Pony was sterilized and Bartholomew was castrated.

So, you can imagine how this ham-fisted piece of garbage writing turns out. Oh? You can’t?

They get married and adopt a duck. They named the duck Quacky and taught it to smoke cigarettes. The duck became a chain smoker, rapidly contracting emphysema, and coughing, drowns in the duck pond.

Very sad. Very trite. Almost funny.

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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Mesodiplosis

Posted on June 19, 2025 | Leave a comment

Mesodiplosis (mes-o-dip-lo’-sis): Repetition of the same word or words in the middle of successive sentences.

I have been big and tall all my life. I was big and tall when I was six. Obviously, I’m big and and tall now—6’ 8” and 347 pounds. I’ve been shopping at the big and tall clothing store since I was fifteen. The proprietor, Mr. Crease, gave me a goldfish the first time I went for “shutting up and standing still.”

I named the fish “Taylor” and kept him in a bowl in my room. One night I heard a little voice say “Wake up numb nuts.” I suffered from insomnia, so I was already awake. Now, I was wide awake—Taylor could talk! In bits and pieces, he told me came from a goldfish farm in Muncie, Indiana. The farm sold goldfish in bulk to pet stores. Mr. Crease had purchased him at “Get-A-Pet” down the street from his big and tall clothing store. Taylor couldn’t stay out of water long. Before he dove down under the water, he said, “See this guy. He can help me: Micro Jim, 315-229-4818.” I called Micro the next day and asked him how he could help my goldfish. He said, “Oh, you must have a ‘Golden Talker.’ Very rare. I can help you out.” He told me his address and took the bus there.

I rang his doorbell around 25 times until he finally answered. He said he was working on a top secret project and became distracted. Then he held up some kind of device a little bigger than a peppercorn. “This is an underwater micro Bluetooth microphone that will transmit voice signals to your iPhone. You charge it by laying it in direct sunlight. Now, your goldfish won’t have to surface to talk to you. Golden Talkers like to tell stories, so get ready to be entertained.” He gave me instructions on how to operate the micro-microphone.

I got home and Taylor swam to the surface to greet me. I put the microphone over his mouth and turned on my phone’s Bluetooth. They instantly paired.

Taylor said, “I’m going to tell you a story.”

“Once there was a big and tall brown bear named Brutus who roamed free on a 600 acre estate owned by Lord Gilligan who was big but not tall. He was 5’ 7” and weighed 23 stone. He had Trifle for breakfast and lunch 7 days a week. He was so fat he had personal he also had Court Hoisters who would pull him out of bed and chairs. He also had a Paige that pulled him around in a gilded wagon,”

“Brutus was in really good shape and was dismayed by Lord Giligan’s horrible condition. Brutus decided to break into the manor house one morning, and growling viciously, knocked over Lord Giligan’s trifles, spilling them all over the floor. As a consequence of his behavior, Brutus became a fugitive and was hunted by Lord Giligan’s gamekeeper for the £200 bounty put on his head.”

“Still, Brutus did not regret what he had done. His attack had instilled fear in Lord Gilligan and he no longer ate trifle twice a day. He rapidly lost weight and his wife Lady Sizzlecrepe was attracted to him once again. The Lord called off the hunt for Brutus out of gratitude for providing him an incentive to abstain from trifle. The newly svelte Lord was able to get out of chairs and his bed on his own. And he could walk around the manor again. Trifle was outlawed and Brutus was made a Knight—as Sir Brutus, he lived a long and noble life with a string of weight loss spas throughout the kingdom.”

Taylor said “Good night” and I went be and fell asleep immediately. My insomnia was cured!

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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Mesozeugma

Posted on June 18, 2025 | Leave a comment

Mesozeugma (me’-so-zyoog’-ma): A zeugma in which one places a common verb for many subjects in the middle of a construction.

Trucks, wagons, and wheelbarrows carried the loads, some small, some large, some medium-sized. I wielded a wheelbarrow made of iron and oak with a wooden wheel. My cousin Eddy used his Tonka truck, pushing it along, crawling through the dirt. My next door neighbor, Caroline, had conscripted her brothers red Radio Flyer wagon, pulling it with grace and dignity. She was beautiful. I loved her, but she didn’t love me. She loved Ritchie the rich bastard who lived on the hill and didn’t even know she existed. It was pitiful, but someday she would be mine.

We were building the biggest pile of dirt in history. While we hauled the dirt, my little brother Klause and two of his friends dug it up and dumped it in our conveyances. Klause thought he was named after Santa Claus. He was fat and wore a fake beard and red lumberjack shirts and black patent leather boots year round. My mother nurtured his delusion by encouraging him to go “Ho, Ho, Ho” every few minutes. It got so bad that neighborhood kids would tell him what they wanted for Christmas!

Suddenly Klause’s shovel hit something with a hollow sound. He said “Ho, Ho, Ho” and hauled it out of the ground. It was an old ice chest—also called a “cooler.” It said “July 1951 Time Capsule” across the top in black paint. We opened it to see what was inside.

We found a big tube of “Off!” insect repellent, a replica of General MacArthur’s corn cob pipe, a picture of the “Thing from Another World,” a tube of “Super Glue,” a non-stick frying pan, “Backseat Bingo” instructions (rated R), a Tupperware hot dog container, an autographed picture of Marlon Brando, Pink capri pants, madras shorts, and more!

We gave up on the dirt pile. It was 1999, so our trove was pretty valuable. We assembled the collection in my falling-down detached garage. We put up flyers that said “Come see the return of 1951 in Johnny’s garage 50 cents.” It was a hit. Mainly grown ups came to see the exhibition. Then one day this big fat man with gold rings on his fingers, and smoking a cigar, walked into the garage and said “I’ll buy the whole lot.” So far, we had made $200 and weren’t about to sell until he said “I’ll give you $80,000.” We all yelled “Sold!”

That’s it. I used my share to pay for college. Now, I own an ice skating rink and a used car lot. My wife and I are quite happy and are expecting our 5th child. She’s the girl next door from the old days. By the way, I kept the box of Maypo from our trove. I don’t know why, but I have “I WANT MY MAYPO” tattooed across my chest backwards so I can read it in the mirror. I repeat it and it makes me feel assertive as I get ready to go to work at the car lot. My brother Klaus moved to Alaska.

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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Metabasis

Posted on June 17, 2025 | Leave a comment

Metabasis (me-ta’-ba-sis): A transitional statement in which one explains what has been and what will be said.

Now, by “insult you” I mean to say something rude to you that will hurt your feelings or make you mad, or both.

“You’re a stupid loser and so is your mother.”

There, that was an insult, not my best I admit, but good enough to insult you. Next, I’m going to elaborate on the insult’s two key terms: stupid and loser and how they apply to your mother and you, which is the crux of this particular insult.

Ok, let’s take a look at “stupid,” from the Lathn stupidus. All cognitive deficiencies came down to stupid. That’s it, plain and simple. Dull-witted and lacking in intelligence say it best. You know, like you reading at a fourth grade level when you’re 25, or learning to tie your shoes when you’re 15, or getting lost on the way home from school when we were kids, or jaywalking and getting hit by a car, or eating poison ivy leaves as “salad,” or, like your mother, marrying your father and bringing stupid you into the world, to its great detriment.

Now, let’s shed some light on “loser.” A loser is not a winner. They are always bested in some way. Not only that, they may continuously come in last. As a person, a loser is a failure. They never succeed at what they strive for no matter how big or small—from failure to get a promotion, to failure to pick up your kids at school like you were supposed to, while they wait in a blizzard.

As far as we live in a social order founded on competition, “losing” is the worst thing that can happen. What’s worse, like I said, no matter how well you do, if you don’t come in first, you lose. If you come second you lose. Number 1 is all that counts.

Often, being stupid and being a loser overlap, or are in an antecedent/consequence relationship—where stupidity may make you a loser. Like it clearly has with both you and your mother. If she had put you up for adoption when you were born, she wouldn’t be such a loser today, stuck with you as a son, like a malignant tumor.

In sum, you’re a stupid loser abetted by a mother who is also a stupid loser. Together, you have no foresight and waste your lives by living them. As stupid losers, you should take shelter in a monastery, making sandals and, as much as possible, stay out of other people’s lives, including each other’s.

What stupid losers!

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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Matalepsis

Posted on June 16, 2025 | Leave a comment

Metalepsis (me-ta-lep’-sis): Reference to something by means of another thing that is remotely related to it, either through a farfetched causal relationship, or through an implied intermediate substitution of terms. Often used for comic effect through its preposterous exaggeration. A metonymical substitution of one word for another which is itself figurative.

“You’re like a roller coaster: you go up and down and give me a thrill.” My wife told me this on our 30th wedding anniversary in front of our children and grandchildren. Our 16 year-old grandson applauded and said “Way to go Grandpop—you’re a legend. Keep it up. Ha ha!” My sister blushed and said “I don’t believe you! He always looks like he’s going to collapse any minute, or just have a heart attack and die.” My wife said “If you only knew Betsy.” Our son Ed said “We all know mother’s fading into dementia. Let’s just leave alone.” Then, with a sarcastic tone he said “It’s OK Mom. We believe you. Dad’s always been a bit rambunctious.”

That did it. I had taken a selfie video clip of us doing it the the night before. I pulled out my cellphone and yelled “You want proof? I got proof—right here in my phone!” I held up my phone and aimed its screen at my family. My daughter screamed and in a panic driven voice, told her children to “shelter in the kitchen.” All the kids scrambled into the kitchen except my 16 year-old grandson who yelled “I’m ready for some proof” and stood his ground.

I yelled “Do you really want see this, or are you going to take her word for it? I’m still good for a jounce, and I hope I will be until the day I die.” They capitulated. The kids came out of the kitchen and we resumed our celebration.

However, I couldn’t help noticing how my son’s third wife Tember was eyeing me. She was blushing and staring at my crotch. I asked her if she wanted something in particular. She looked away and ran out the front door. I was going to chase her, but I decided not to. My son didn’t need a fourth wife.

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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Metallage

Posted on June 15, 2025 | Leave a comment

Metallage (me-tal’-la-gee): When a word or phrase is treated as an object within another expression.

You chicken livered twit. The saying “Chicken-livered” insults chickens. The same goes for the catchphrase, “dumb cluck.” “Chicken” too, to mark a coward. We mustn’t forget “chicken shit” for trivial or “chicken scratch” for poor handwriting. Then there’s “chicken feed” for a small payout. One more: “chicken hearted” for coward.

Chickens are up there with rats and snakes on the “Grand List”of insulting catch phrases. Why is this?

Well, first they are birds with wings that can’t fly. What could be more absurd? They run, and may use their wings to add a little speed to their running. They look absurd rushing across the barn yard for some feed or for nothing at all. Most likely, they are running away from something anyway.

Second: if popcorn made a whining sound, instead of popping, it would sound like a chicken. “Buck-Buck-bah-dawkit” comes close. Or they may sound like a group of jabbering grandmothers trying to boss each other around in a kitchen. It is shameful and irritating.

Third: the chicken has three purposes as their existence intersects human interests: drumsticks, eggs, pillow stuffing. The myriad ways that chickens and their eggs can be prepared for eating bears witness to their centrality to human flourishing. Southern fried chicken—mmm. Baked chicken—mmm. Grilled chicken—mmm. Fried eggs—mmm. Poached eggs—mmm. Hard-boiled eggs—mmm. Need I say more?

I will say more.

Growing up in New Jersey, I had a chicken for a pet. Yes, a pet. Despite what I’ve written above, PET for me was the foremost trait and purpose for my chicken. I wrote what I wrote in my lifelong quest to manage my grief at Cluck’s sudden violent demise. My mistaken assumption is that by denigrating chickens, I can be finished with Cluck and make her loss inconsequential, like losing a paperclip or a postage stamp. I hope my grief will disappear.

Cluck and I were very close. We spent a lot of quality time together. She followed me around like a dog. When she was happy, she would flap one wing and spin around in circles. Then, one day when I was at the country fair, I saw a chicken in a glass box that played the piano. There was a dispenser that dropped corn kernels on the piano’s keys in a sequence according with the tune “Farmer in the Dell.”

My sister had a toy piano! I would sprinkle corn on the keys in the right sequence and Cluck would tap out the corresponding song. I would gather my friends in our old broken-down garage and Cluck and I would perform Fats Domino’s “Blueberry Hill” and Elvis’ “Heartbreak Hotel.” We were minor celebrities in the neighborhood.

One of Cluck’s favorite things to do was to perch on my bicycle’s handlebars and go for rides with me. One day, we were riding down my street when we came to the low-hanging branch of a maple tree. A big gray cat jumped off the limb and knocked Cluck to the ground. Before I could do anything, the cat ran off holding the unconscious Cluck’s neck in his mouth. The cat ran into the bushes. I threw down my bike and followed. I searched and searched and to my horror found a small pile of Cluck’s feathers, and then, his mutilated carcass.

I sat there and cried and cried. Then, I picked up one of Cluck’s feathers as a momento and went home. I wanted to wreak revenge on the cat, but was unsuccessful. I never saw him again. So, I had to stuff my grief. I’ve borne it all these years. Saying mean things about chickens hasn’t helped. Whenever I think about Cluck I take a couple of drinks of vodka. I think I am an alcoholic.

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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Metaphor

Posted on June 14, 2025 | Leave a comment

Metaphor (met’-a-phor): A comparison made by referring to one thing as another.

His ass was a desert. Nothing was there. It was flat. It was an embarrassment.

He was the Duke of Ruddyville, and basically, he was assless. It was 16th century England and an ass was imperative, especially for a Royal who made many public appearances where his ass, although covered by trousers, was put on display. The Duke suffered from ass absentia.

It was a malady acquired from eating pickled butterflies in excess. Once acquired, the malady became permanent. The ass cheeks atrophied creating a flat plane stretching from the lower back to the upper legs. The flatness presented trousers with no protrusion to rest upon. Hence, the Duke’s trousers continuously fell down—on every occasion, even occasions expected to be conducted with the utmost gravity, such as his daughter’s wedding.

He was escorting the Lady of Ruddyville down the aisle at the most ostentatious wedding ever conducted in the history of the realm. The aisle had been trimmed in gold brocade. The flowers bedecking the altar had been imported from Nederduytsch (Holland) at a cost greater than the lifetime earnings of a typical peasant. They were called “toylips” and came in every color.

As the Duke slowly walked down the aisle, his trousers fell down. It happened so quickly he tripped over them and fell down upon his face breaking his nose and dislocating his left shoulder. His daughter helped him up. Clutching the waistband of his trousers with his right hand, and with a rivulet of blood dripping off his chin, he buried the pain of his dislocated shoulder and continued his march down the aisle. The wedding was completed. He drank an ounce of laudanum and continued on to the reception where the court surgeon relocated his arm and set his nose.

The Duke was humiliated, but his subjects acted as if nothing untoward had transpired. They knew there would be a price to pay for showing anything other than blank-faced stares at the Duke’s plight.

The Duke decided to seek a remedy for his asslessness. He had his woodcutter fashion a 10-foot pole, not unlike the one the he used for punting. He had his blacksmith fashion a hook and affix it to the end of the 10-foot pole. Then, his seamstress sewed a buttonhole in the back of the waistband of each of his trousers. Finally, he assigned a page to insert the pole’s hook in his trousers and walk or stand behind him holding up his trousers with the pole. It worked! It was acclaimed far and wide as “Duke Ruddyville’s Pants Pole” and was adopted by ass absentia sufferers throughout the land.

One month later, a farrier from Norlyfield tied a piece of rope around his waist to hang his tongs from. To his great delight, the rope held up his trousers! The Duke heard of the new pants-holding remedy. He was delighted and obtained a length of rope for himself. The device was called “belt” after the Latin word for girdle. The farrier was knighted. He sold his “belts” as “Sir Prichard’s Trouser Lifters.”

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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Metaplasm

Posted on June 13, 2025 | Leave a comment

Metaplasm (met’-a-plazm): A general term for orthographical figures (changes to the spelling of words). This includes alteration of the letters or syllables in single words, including additions, omissions, inversions, and substitutions. Such changes are considered conscious choices made by the artist or orator for the sake of eloquence or meter, in contrast to the same kinds of changes done accidentally and discussed by grammarians as vices (see barbarism). See: antisthecon, aphaeresis, apocope, epenthesis, paragoge, synaloepha.

I was a “Blipper.” I blew tiny farts that no one could detect. I coulda’ farted in an elevator and nobody could tell. Blippers did not smell like ordinary farts—that’s why people couldn’t detect them as farts. They would think they were part of the olfactory ambience of wherever they were. For example, if I ate a Mounds Bar, my Blipper would smell like coconut. People would say “Mmmm, what’s that smell? Mmmm.” I would never eat cabbage, beans, broccoli or things like that.

I enjoyed bringing pleasure and monitored my food intake accordingly. My farts were delicious smelling. If I could’ve drank cologne or perfume, I would’ve done so. But there were Blippers who took their “gift” to the dark side and specialized in “silent but deadly” farting. They took sadistic pleasure in stinking things up undetected. They drank tea from a rare plant grown in the Amazon jungle. Its scientific name was stenchus leaficus. It made farts that smelled like rotting flesh. They could actually make people vomit and writhe around on the floor or ground.

Once it was determined that the sadistic Blippers took pleasure in blowing death-smelling farts, they were required to register their intestinal tracts and their farts were made illegal with a $1000 fine and six months in jail. The ingredients in rotting flesh tea were outlawed, but they were easily smuggled, so the tea was still readily available. People were willing to risk jail to stink up small venues.

This is where I came in. I invented the anus filter, a small lubricated charcoal filter the size of a wine bottle cork. Convicted and registered stench makers were required to insert a fresh one every day. They were randomly screened to assure compliance. Failure to comply would earn them another six months in jail and $1000 fine. Of course, I started my business “Anal Filtration” one week after the FDA approved them. I am on my way to becoming a millionaire.

I receive death threats daily. The scariest one is “See you in the elevator, traitor.”

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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Metastasis

Posted on June 12, 2025 | Leave a comment

Metastasis (me-tas’-ta-sis): Denying and turning back on your adversaries arguments used against you.

There’s no way I kicked that dog! Where were you when it happened? I heard you yell “Bad dog!” In the alleyway, and I heard a yipping sound that sounded to me like a dog in pain. My girlfriend was standing next to me when it happened. She saw what I saw and heard what I heard. So, go fu*k yourself. I’m rescuing that poor little puppy from you. If you complain, I’ll turn you in to animal control.—you’ll be arrested and pay a hefty fine for animal cruelty. The abuser told me to take the goddamn dog and “shove up my ass” if I wanted to.

I took the dog.

His markings were weird. He was black with a white 666 on his left side. I had heard that 666 was the mark of the devil, but I wasn’t concerned: I was an atheist and didn’t believe in the devil. The markings were just some kind of coincidence. I named him Clutch and had him neutered. As he grew, he became more attentive, like he could understand every word I said. One day as an experiment I told him to go downstairs and fetch my I-Phone. He promptly complied. Not only that, somehow he managed to send me a text telling me he was on his way back upstairs with the phone. I probably should’ve been frightened, but I wasn’t. I thought it was cool.

Then, one night he jumped up on my bed and said in a raspy voice “Kick me asshole.” I couldn’t help myself. I stood up on my bed and kicked him. He went flying and hit the wall pretty hard. He whined and jumped in his doggie bed and went back to sleep.

Knowing he could make me do his bidding for god knows what, I had to get rid of him quickly. I bribed the Vet to euthanize Clutch even though he had nothing wrong with him. It was Monday and the appointment was Wednesday. When I made the appointment, Clutch looked like he knew something was up.

That night, he woke me up and said in his raspy voice “Joy ride.” There was a bottle of vodka and the keys to my father’s car on the bed. I cracked open the vodka and took a big swig, put on some clothes, picked up the keys, and headed out the door. Clutch followed me. We got in the car. I drank two more big gulps of vodka and started feeling pretty good—in fact, I was getting drunk. I backed out the driveway and knocked over the neighbor’s mailbox. Clutch laughed diabolically. His eyes gleamed red. I mowed down all the mailboxes on my street. I headed downtown. I was riding on the sidewalk when I heard sirens. A police car pulled in front of me. Clutch said “vanish” and the police car disappeared in a puff of smoke. I took another swig of vodka. Clutch got behind the wheel and drove us home.

Wednesday came,

I wanted Clutch gone more than ever. I had to drag him out the door and drag him to the Vet’s. Dr. Bedfloor was ready when we got there. He gave Clutch a shot to knock him out. Then, he and assistant hoisted Clutch onto the table. Needles were inserted and the lethal mixture started to flow. Suddenly Dr. Bedfloor and his assistant clutched their hearts and fell to the floor. I sat there horrified as Clutch stood up, shook out the needles and started to grow. He grew to the size of a Shetland pony, turned bright red and said “You were fun. I’ll let you live.” Then, he turned back into regular Clutch and ran out the front door when a customer came in.

Dr. Bedfloor and his assistant regained consciousness and remembered nothing. The police questioned me for two days before they finally released me, satisfied I had nothing to do with the Vet’s and his assistant’s “weird” experiences.

Yesterday, I got a cat. He looks at me like he’s hungry for human flesh. I named him Chewy.

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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Metonymy

Posted on June 11, 2025 | Leave a comment

Metonymy (me-ton’-y-my): Reference to something or someone by naming one of its attributes. [This may include effects or any of the four Aristotelian causes {efficient/maker/inventor, material, formal/shape, final/purpose}.]

I was watching my watch. It was almost time to scoop my hard-boiled egg from the boiling water. My watch didn’t have a functioning second hand so I had to wait for the big hand to move. The suspense drove me crazy. Not only that, my watch would randomly stop. I’d have take it off and hit it to get it going again, and then, I didn’t know what time it was. I needed a new time piece so I could get back in sync with the world.

I Googled “men’s watches” in my zip code. I found a vender that looked promising. The store was called “ Big Ben’s.” It specialized in “multifunctional” watches. I hopped on my cycle, flipped it to electric. and buzzed off to Big Ben’s.

I got there in about five minutes. When I opened the door it made a cuckoo clock sound. There was the proprietor standing behind the counter wearing a white lab coat. He said “Hello. I am Adolph Pecker. You want a watch?” I said “yes” and he hoisted a tray full of watches onto the counter. He held up a watch that had buttons all around the edges. “This one’s named the Safari“ he said as he pushed one of its buttons. A small OTF switchblade popped out. He pressed another button and a BB-sized gun barrel popped out. He said “It’s velocity is the same as a .22.” Then he pointed to a red button. “Press it and it makes a smoke screen. See here, the watch crystal is a Morse code key!” I told him it was impressive, but the Safari wasn’t what I was looking for.

He sad, “Hmmm. Then have a look at this. It is called the ‘Streamer’ and it will keep you connected to your media. It has Face Time and Amazon Prime. There’s a projector built in so you can watch your favorite movies on the nearest wall. Not only that, it is Siri enabled.” Then se said, “Siri, where the hell are we?” Siri replied “Big Ben’s, Adolph.” I told him I wasn’t interested. He said, “Well then. You’re a young man out there on the dating scene. What about this one, the ‘Making Time?’ It emits pheromones and comes in models that attract females or males. They can’t resist. Just press this button here when you’re within 5 feet of your target. You will be smothered with affection.”

I bought it. $1200 was a small price to pay. I’m trying it out tonight at the “Hen & Rooster” a notorious pickup joint.

I sat down at the bar next to a very attractive woman. I pressed the button and she moved her stool closer to me. She put her arm over my shoulder and asked me in a whisper what I wanted to do next. I told her I wanted to take her to my apartment. Then she said “Ok. That’s a very handsome watch. Can I have a look at it before we go?” I took it off to show to her and it slipped out of my hand and fell on the floor. Right then, her boyfriend came back from the Men’s Room. He saw what was going on and stomped on my watch and punched me in the nose, pushed me down, and kicked me.

I’m saving my money for another “Making Time” wristwatch. I should’ve read the owner’s manual before I pressed the button. it warns about targets’ boyfriends and girlfriends

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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Ominatio

Posted on June 10, 2025 | Leave a comment

Ominatio (o-mi-na’-ti-o): A prophecy of evil.

Nothing was right. Nothing was good. Nothing was the way it was supposed to be. I could smell it in the wind. Something bad was going to happen. It would be bad, we would moan and whine, seeking solace in the midst of unforgiving pain and karmic remorse.

At that point, my father told me to shut the hell up and light candles on his birthday cake—nothing was going to ruin his birthday again this year.

There were three of us at Dad’s birthday: Dad, me and a homeless man I had brought along to liven things up. Dad had alienated my mother and four sisters in various ways, for example, although he was wealthy, he wouldn’t pay college tuition for my sisters because they were “girls.” He did so many bad things to my mother, I can’t recount them all, but one of the worst was making her eat until she was a bloated blimp and then relentlessly making fun of her. There was no way my mother and sisters would come to his birthday celebration, or to anything that had anything to do with him. I stuck it out because I hoped to inherit his wealth.

I lit the candles on the cake. We sang a bad rendition of Happy Birthday. Then, we ate slices of cake.

The homeless man cried a shook his cup. Dad told him to go get hit by a car. He cried harder and ran out the front door. We heard car brakes screech but we didn’t care. That’s when I gave dad the joke gift. It was a loaded Glock with a hair trigger and an instruction manual listing where best to shoot yourself if you wanted to commit suicide. He thought it was great! Dad took the gun and pointed it at his forehead and said he didn’t need any “goddamn” instruction manual. Then, the gun went off and he blew his brains out.

I called Mom and told her “The old bird has landed.”

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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Onedismus

Posted on June 9, 2025 | Leave a comment

Onedismus (on-e-dis’-mus): Reproaching someone for being impious or ungrateful.

I rode his staff. I gave him a bath. I dried him off. I dressed him. I tied his shoes. I combed his hair. I shaved him. I splashed on his aftershave. I made him breakfast. I drove him to work at Fungu’s Corporate Law. He could’ve done it all himself, but he expected me to.

After I drove him to work, I went home and cleaned the house, and then, went grocery shopping for his favorite foods: Porterhouse Steak, Cod, lamb chops, potatoes, smoked oysters, hot dogs, salmon, and Chips Ahoy.

The more I thought about it, the angrier I got. Our marriage was a one way street headed in his direction. He was a selfish, ungrateful bastard. In four years of marriage there had been no thank-you for all I do. I decided then and there to have an affair with a man who cared and wanted to treat me right. So, I signed up for a dating site called “Ding Dong Dell.”

I logged in. I couldn’t believe it. There was my husband holding his sizable rod. The picture was captioned “Let’s do the Pokey Pokey.” It had his demographic information plus his status. It was Platinum ++++, a far cry from my experience which was more like Lead+. It said he liked sailing and there was a photo of a sailboat I didn’t know we had.

Now, I was more determined than ever to strike up a meaningless relationship with a good-looking humping machine. I would show that bastard husband! I found my humper after a whole day of searching. His name was Buck Fever, obviously a fake name, but I didn’t care. he had a perfect body, long black hair, blue eyes, and a promising bulge.

Our first date was at “Roadside Rendezvous” where all the local cheaters went to do the mattress tango. I wore a mask so nobody would recognize me. It was a perfect likeness of Taylor Swift. Buck texted me when he was checked in and I headed for our room: Room 9. I knocked on the door. It was unlocked, so I went in. He was lying on the bed naked. He was wearing a sock puppet on his hefty hard-on. He said “Come and play with Mr. Clowns” in a high-pitched puppet voice. I sat down by him and started pulling the puppet off. In the same high-pitched voice he said “Oooh!” Then, in the same high-pitched voice he sad “I’m so glad we could meet here today.” That’s when I found out he had a vocal cord injury as a child which made him into a permanent falsetto.

He and he mother were shopping at a Christmas door-buster at Kohl’s. The PA system announced there were blenders for sale in Appliances for 90% off. His mom took off running, knocked him down and rode over his throat with her loaded shopping cart. She kept on going and left him sitting on the floor, crying, with a crushed larynx. A security guard found hm and took him to customer service where his mother found hm two hours later.

He told me he was sorry as I ran out the door. I sat there in my car trying to decide what to do next. I drove home and logged onto Ding Dong Dell. I spent the rest of the day looking for something promising. But, after Sock Puppet Man, I had lost interest in the whole cheating thing. Instead, I decided to confront my husband. Maybe he would take me for a sailboat ride.

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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Onomatopoeia

Posted on June 8, 2025 | Leave a comment

Onomatopoeia (on-o-mat-o-pee’-a): Using or inventing a word whose sound imitates that which it names (the union of phonetics and semantics).

Boom, boom, boom. My heart went boom, boom, boom when I snorted the cocaine. Then I fell to the floor and started to twitch. Even though I was probably dying, and was worried about where I was going next, I felt great. The party kept going on around me. My buddies Nick and Jim dragged me out into the back yard and dumped me in a lounge chair by the pool. I couldn’t talk so I couldn’t ask them if they’d called 911. As I lay there twitching, I imaged I was making disco moves to the Bee Gee’s “Stayin’ Alive.” I wanted to be stayin’ alive, but I wasn’t optimistic. I had had rheumatic fever when I a kid, and my heart going boom, boom, boom was a bad sign. My pediatrician had told my mom if my heard went boom, boom, boom to start shopping for a headstone. My mother was not good at handling bad news, so she just ignored it. It wasn’t until my 21st birthday that she told me I had a bad heart because I was “old enough” to know.

So now, here I was in a lounge chair by a pool dying. All of a sudden Nick’s wife popped into the picture, standing with her legs apart at the end of the lounger. She said, “I always wanted to lie on a dying man, but you can’t always get what you want. I’ve never given up, and here I am.” She climbed on top of me. Her perfume smelled sweet. She kissed me and my heart went boom, boom, boom.

I woke up in a hospital bed. I had stayed alive. I gave up my “disco ways” and went to divinity school. Now, I’m a Minister at Boonton First Presbyterian Church. I still snort a tiny spoon load of cocaine as a prelude to my sermons. It makes me look more engaged and doesn’t hurt anything—I’m riding the glory train high on cocaine, taking my congregation higher, up that stairway to heaven.

POSTSCRIPT

Dr. Pendergast died of a heart attack mid-sermon one Sunday morning. His last words were “Boom, boom, boom” as he talked about Paul’s stroke on the road to Damascus.

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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Optatio

Posted on June 7, 2025 | Leave a comment

Optatio (op-ta’-ti-o): Expressing a wish, often ardently.

“When I wish upon a star, I want a Cadillac car.” Then, I wished upon a star. It was outside my bedroom window waiting to honor my wish. I was specific—color red and four-door sedan.

I had been making this wish ever since I gave up on small time crap a couple of months ago. I was 15 and I was going to hit the jackpot.

My wish manual, “Keep Wishing” said in its first prnciple: “Keep Wishing” followed by “Always Use the Same Words.” My Wish Coach, Mago Flaptwiller (the author), had had 17,000 wishes fulfilled when he wrote the book. He probably has 50,000 by now!

I had had a few wishes come true. Once, I wished for pancakes for breakfast and Mom delivered! Another time I wished the smog would blow away so I could go outside and play—it went away and I played tether ball for about twenty minutes and then it came back again. Then there was the time I wished for a letter in the mail, just so I could say that I got a letter. The very next day I got a letter. It was addressed to “Occupant.” Mom told me I was an occupant, so it was addressed to me. I opened it and it offered me an acre of land in the “healthful desert” with many recreational opportunities. They wanted $50.00 for it, but I couldn’t afford it. Mom called it a scam.

So, I got tired of the penny ante wishes and decided to go big time with the red, four-door Cadillac, Something every 15 year-old boy wanted. It was risky. I still hadn’t figured out where I would park it or how I would pay for gas and insurance. To soften the blow when it arrived, I told my father what I was up to. He laughed and asked me if I had been smoking “whacky tabacky.” He never took me seriously. I told Mom and she asked me where I was going to park it. I told her I had thought about it, maybe the mall parking lot.

Two days later, I was walking along a back country road, on my way to go fishing at Peterson’s Pond. A red Cadillac came roaring around a bend in the road up ahead. It was my wish car! It came straight at me and slammed on its brakes stopping about a foot in front of me. A man dressed as a movie theatre usher jumped out and yelled “Sometimes you get what you want, but most of time you don’t!”

I was gleeful and puzzled. I jumped into the Cadillac and made the electric windows go up and down a few times. Then, the car slowly became transparent and disappeared, leaving me sitting on the pavement.

The man who had been driving it said, “You didn’t tell us how long you wanted it for,” He disappeared in a puff of red smoke. I started crying and then noticed a toy red Cadillac by the side of the road. It had a note attached that said “This is better than nothing.”

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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