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Chiasmus

Posted on January 27, 2025 | Leave a comment

Chiasmus (ki-az’-mus): 1. Repetition of ideas in inverted order. 2. Repetition of grammatical structures in inverted order (not to be mistaken with antimetabole, in which identical words are repeated and inverted).

Yesterday, I sent an email to you expecting a reply, But today, no, no answer, just a blue screen with a cursor’s arrow resting in the upper left-hand corner. But then, a message lit my screen telling me I have a new email—maybe a reply! A new communication blinking on my desktop. Then, I realize that I must open my email app to see and retrieve my messages. Oh silly me, as foolish as a circus clown.

Her reply is “Leave me alone or I’m calling the police.” I thought that was rather harsh. After all, I had sent her ten messages. When she didn’t answer, I worried. Maybe she was tied up and couldn’t access her keyboard. Maybe she was critically ill, on the floor unable crawl to her computer. Maybe she was locked in her bathroom. Or, God forbid, maybe she was dead lying in a pool of blood on her kitchen floor. All of these scenarios were troubling. Then I realized! She hadn’t sent the email! It was her assailant trying to throw me off. So, I sent another email saying I wasn’t going to send another email, that I was leaving town for a week. But, how to make my ruse work?

Anyway, I couldn’t imagine why she rebuffed me—she had to be in dire trouble. I had spotted her at Starbucks. She was talking to some guy. She lit my fire. She had given her business card to the guy and he left it on the table when they left. I snatched it up. Her name was Jane Doe. I thought that was weird, but life is weird. Nevertheless, it forced me to have an image of her lying naked, dead on a slab in a morgue. The card had her address, phone number, and email address. I was too shy to call her, so I emailed her. I told her I had used magical powers to find her, powers I had been granted during my sojourn on Planet Blue, where everything was blue. I told her that my affection for had made me want to teach her a couple of magic tricks—I would show her how to turn into an Audi and turn cold water into warm Ovaltine. How could she resist my boundless generosity? She’d have to be crazy turn me down. Or not to realize I was just kidding. I could hear her laughing all the way down in my basement apartment. I could be a comedian..

But, even then, I was crazy and I wouldn’t turn her down. Love was in the air. When I opened my window, I could smell it. It smelled like pepperoni pizza.

I was going to take a chance. There is a dimly lit alley near where I live. We could meet there without bright lights that would break the mood. One more email. Just one! “Jane, meet me in the dark alley across the street from the church on Bow Avenue. Please.” I expected the police to pound on my door. They didn’t!

I put on a splash of Brut, my black leather jacket and gloves. Just in case, I pulled my balaclava out of my sock drawer and stuffed it in my back pocket.

I walked to the alleyway. She was standing there smoking a cigarette. She said, you remind me of my loony second cousin Red. I loved him. She smiled at me and started into the alleyway. I was overcome with excitement. I pooped my pants—it was a full load.

She took a whiff and ran into the alleyway. I was right behind her, sort of limping/hopping along, my load swinging in my underpants. She stopped and turned and said “I know what you did, follow me.” So, I followed her. She lived across the street from the end of the alleyway. She told me to leave my pants on the stoop and come inside. She pointed down the hall and said “The bathroom’s on the right. Take a shower.” I told her she was the most wonderful person I ever met, ignoring my poopy pants and welcoming me into her home. When I got out of the shower, I heard a washing machine running. She was washing my poopy pants!

There was a bathrobe hanging from the bathroom door, so I put it on and stepped out into the hallway. There she was with a machete in one hand and my balaclava in the other. “What the hell is?“ she asked, shaking my balaclava in my face. I told her it was supposed to go down to 10 below tonight, and I thought I might need it. At that, she calmed down a little bit, but the machete still looked pretty threatening. She put it down and came toward me laughing affectionately. “Open the robe,” she said in a soft voice. I knelt down and picked up the machete and cut her head off.

I put my pants in the dryer and checked the refrigerator for a snack. I opened a container of yogurt and laughed diabolically. I was getting good at that.

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

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

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Chronographia

Posted on January 26, 2025 | Leave a comment

Chronographia (chro-no-graph’-i-a): Vivid representation of a certain historical or recurring time (such as a season) to create an illusion of reality. A kind of enargia:[the] generic name for a group of figures aiming at vivid, lively description.

It was a typical winter day. It was five below zero and the wind was blowing 47 MPH—the wind sounded like “Don’t Fear the Reaper” performed by Alvin and the Chipmunks on helium. I looked out my back window and wasn’t surprised to see my neighbor’s four-year old go sliding by on the snow’s surface, like a human sled. His father Jim was chasing him struggling through three feet of snow. I kept watching and saw the little boy get tangled up and stopped by the hedgerow along my property line. Jim got to his kid before he froze to death stuffing him into his over-sized down parka. He saw me in the window and waved and smiled as he trekked past, the ice glistening on his beard.

Jim and his family had moved here from a place that was pretty-much summer all the time. They didn’t know the ways of the Great North and hadn’t done research before they moved here. He had worked as a Tallyman at a 200-acre banana plantation. In August it was 110 degrees in in the plantations’ banana groves. Usually, about 4 workers would die from heat stroke each week. As Tallyman, he was responsible for weighing pickers’ banana bunches as they finished their 15 hour day’s work as “daylight came and they wanted to go home.” Acutely aware of the need to tally rapidly, he started estimating, rather than actually tallying the bananas. His boss caught on to what he was doing and he was fired.

He was forced to leave the land of parrots, coconuts, and alligators, where snow was unknown and you would run over the occasional anaconda on the way to work. He liked wearing shorts year-round and breathing clear air conditioned air. He had learned how to surf and could shoot selfie videos while riding a wave. He had two orange trees in his yard. The season was stuck on summer—on sun, and heat and the occasional hurricane or tornado. As far as Jim was concerned, it was paradise.

Now he was headed north—way up north. He had gotten a job at a Walleye packing plant, called “Eye, eye, eye.” His job was to fold the boxes that the Walleyes were frozen in and shipped. It was summer when he arrived, so he didn’t see any difference from where he came from. He was puzzled by the lack of alligators and giant cockroaches.

Then, summer turned to fall. He was resentful, but he got used to wearing long pants and hoodies. Then, bam! It was winter. Around December 2nd he had a mild heart attack shoveling snow. Then it snowed three feet and he was trapped with his family in their little home. That’s when I saw him chasing his wind-borne little boy across the snow.

I had a “Nordic Blaster” snow blower and worked six hours liberating his family from the snow. He opened his garage door from inside and had a banana in each hand, holding them like pistols pointing at me. He asked “Who the hell are you? How did you get here?” I reminded him I was his next door neighbor and he put the bananas down on the hood of his car. He invited me in for a drink.

I went inside and it was about 80 degrees. His wife and the toddler were wearing bathing suits. There was sand spread on the floor and three beach lounge chairs facing the TV. We had Piña Coladas while he whined about moving up here. I got mad and told him to go back where he came from and went back home.

I called him the next day to apologize. His phone message said “I’ve gone back to where I came from. Please leave me a message.” I hung up.

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

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

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Climax

Posted on January 25, 2025 | Leave a comment

Climax (cli’-max): Generally, the arrangement of words, phrases, or clauses in an order of increasing importance, often in parallel structure.

“1, 2, 3, Reality!” A rabbit was supposed to come out of my hat, but instead, it was a bill from the Japanese company whose snack service I had been subscribed to by my daughter for my 78th birthday. I received a box of Japanese snacks each month. It was hard to decide which one to eat. The wrappers were undecipherable with lots of stylized Japanese writing, and pictures of Pokémon-like creatures smiling and dancing. There could also be a picture of an item on the wrapper that hinted at what the snack was inside—but it was never enough to use it as a guide to make a choice. So, I just dove in!

When I opened the first snack it looked like pieces of string on a flat piece of cardboard. There was a mound of sugar on the string as well as what looked like red BBs. The wrapper had a message printed inside in Japanese, ending with three exclamation points. I should’ve taken heed: three exclamation points surely meant something, but foolish me ignored their potential as a warning. I took a bite. Nothing happened. The candy was delicious, but the BB sprinkles were a bit too crunchy for me.

My daughter called me down for dinner. After eating the candy, I wasn’t too hungry, but I went down anyway. We were having meatloaf—my favorite. When I walked into the dining room there was panic. My daughter picked up a knife while my grandson and granddaughter ran into the living room screaming. My drunken son-in-law said “What’s the fush, I mean, fuss?” And proceeded to take a bite of his meatloaf and another gulp of wine.

My daughter said “Don’t you see? He has turned into a mini-Godzilla—a Japanese fire-breathing monster. He’s 78 and he’ll be terrorizing major cities. He will probably be killed by drones. Father, what should we do?” I looked in the mirror on the wall at the end of the table. It was the same old me. I was confused beyond belief. In all my years on planet earth, with the exception of Woodstock, this was the weirdest experience I had ever had. Then, the doorbell rang. I answered the door and there were two Japanese men dressed in black standing on the porch. One of them was holding a box. Held it out to me and said “This is your snacks. Take!” I was just about to tell him what had happened when he asked “Where first shipment of snacks now?” I took them both up to my bedroom and pointed to the open box on my bed. One of them put on a mask and rubber gloves and picked up the box and dropped it in a silver-colored bag the other one was holding. There was a muffled explosion and flash of light. They bowed and then left through the front door, they threw the smoking bag in the trunk of their Toyota and took off, burning rubber, yelling “Sayonara,” and waving their arms out the rolled- down windows as they fish-tailed away.

I no longer looked like a mini-Godzilla to my daughter and grandchildren. Our meatloaf had gotten cold, but it still tasted good. My son-in-law was passed out on the couch. I was looking forward to digging into my new box of snacks. Things could only get better.

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

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

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Coenotes

Posted on January 24, 2025 | Leave a comment

Coenotes (cee’-no-tees): Repetition of two different phrases: one at the beginning and the other at the end of successive paragraphs. Note: Composed of anaphora and epistrophe, coenotes is simply a more specific kind of symploce (the repetition of phrases, not merely words).

“I am the master of my destiny!” I yelled this at my medicine cabinet mirror every morning at 7:00 am, either before work, or taking up my position on the sofa on Saturdays and Sundays. And then, I yelled as loudly as I could “My future is bright!”

“I am the master of my destiny” is purported to have magical aspects, translated from an Icelandic Rune found in the stomach of a Minke whale being prepared for “Moby Dick on a Stick” in Reykjavik. It was purportedly a popular saying among Vikings. I had been doing what I was told all my life—from my mother admonishing me to use a fork instead of my hands to eat, to being on time for appointments, to refraining from murdering people, no matter how much I hated them. I was a follower. A dupe. A pushover. A wimp. But now, my future is bright!

I AM the MASTER of my destiny. I stopped using toilet paper. At first this was difficult, but now I just stand up and pull up my pants, confidently striding out of the bathroom. I am a law unto myself. There is no limit to what I can choose to do or not do. Now, I push people out of my way on the sidewalk. Now, I fart with gusto on elevators, or in other enclosed places. Now, I call people “shithead” whenever I feel like it. Last week I called my son shithead twice a day. He is a toddler, but I’m sure he got the point. Then, I flipped over my desk at work and yelled “This place sucks!” I was escorted from the building, but I had made MY point. I am autonomous. Let’s face it: my future is bright!

POSTSCRIPT

“I am the master of my destiny” turned out to be the wrong credo to guide me! It might have worked for Vikings, but it didn’t work for me. Unfortunately, my “master hood” has not worked out very well. My wife left me with our son and has filed for divorce. I lost my job over the desk flipping incident. My abstinence from toilet paper has cost me all of my friends. They don’t want to hang out with a guy who smells like shit. But worst of all, my wife told me she would consider foregoing the divorce if I checked into “Rising Purpose.” It is a “refuge for lost souls who have gone bug nuts, providing custom-tailored therapy to meet their needs, and render them less looney.” Their credo does not say it, but drugs are a part of the therapy. My therapy is “Yes Therapy,” where I say “yes” to everything a Rising Purpose confederate says. I am rewarded with a candy kiss for “suspending” what they call my “Nasty No-No.” I take three pills a day from an unmarked red bottle. They make me compliant and what the doctors call “Yessed Up.” I graduated from “Rising Purpose” with honors and continue “Yes Therapy” over Zoom. I’m still taking my medication and get “Yessed Up” every day. I got my job back. My wife and I are happy together again. Our son is more less normal, and I’ve started using toilet paper again. My future is bright!

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

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

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Colon

Posted on January 23, 2025 | Leave a comment

Colon (ko’-lon): Roughly equivalent to “clause” in English, except that the emphasis is on seeing this part of a sentence as needing completion, either with a second colon (or membrum) or with two others (forming a tricolon). When cola (or membra) are of equal length, they form isocolon.

“I am happy. I am lovin,’ I am Pappy.“ This was Daddy’s favorite saying. He’d sit on a log in front of our two-room shack singing his favorite songs, tipping his little brown jug, and smokin’ hand rolleds out of his special homemade brand of tobacco he called “Whacky Backy.” Daddy didn’t work. He told us God had released him of that responsibility and given him four healthy sons all in one burst outta Ma. We all had jobs, such as they were.

I commuted down to the flat lands seven days a week to muck Mr. Windbark’s horse stalls and brush his horses too. He had 25 thoroughbreds, so I had to get to work at 5:00 am, and work until 10:00 pm every day. I had biceps the size of cinderblocks, and I could imitate all the birds I would hear outside the stalls while I was workin’. Mt favorite was the cardinal.

One day, Mr. Windbark’s brother-in-law was visiting him. He was checking out the horses down at the barn when he heard my bird calls. He invited me up to Mr. Windbark’s mansion. He told me to listen to what he played on the piano, and then, whistle it back at him. He played some French song called “Clear the Loon.” I whistled it back and a couple of Mr. Wingback’s female guests swooned. Even though I smelled like horse shit, a number of them embraced me, kissed my neck, and handed me notes. I’m illiterate, but I think they were invitations of some kind. Mr. Windback’s daughter looked me in the eyes and said “I am yours. I will never leave you.” I was dumbfounded.

Mr. Wingback’s brother-in-law had a traveling vaudeville show. They toured the Northeast and featured entertainers of all kinds—from snake charmers to contortionists. He offered me a job whistling in his show and I took it. I was to be a featured act in “The Wing-Zing Traveling Vaudeville Show.” I was to go on after “Madame Cruncher” who was fed spoonfuls of gravel while she quacked like a duck.

When I told Daddy, all he did was tell me to send him half of my payscheck every month. Ma gave me a pair of mittens, and my three brothers pooled their resources and bought me a used vintage suitcase—the kind with no wheels.

I was billed as “Whistler’s Brother.” I would begin my act with bird calls, followed by a repertoire of well-known songs like “Are You Lonesome Tonight?” The audience favorite was always “Stairway to Heaven.” Then, I would take requests from the audience. A favorite request was Blue Oyster Cult’s “Don’t Fear the Reaper.” Then, I’d finish the show with The Village People’s “YMCA.” I’d do a little dance with my fists in the air. The audience always went wild.

I became a wealthy man. Mr. Windback’s daughter was true to her word. We love our life together, especially now, since our first child is due in two months. Unfortunately, Daddy died. His liver exploded when he was competing in a hog calling contest over in Booker’s Hollow. Ma said he should’ve just stayed on his log and not become involved with “them hog callin’ people.”

I gave Ma money to build an addition on our shack and make it into a bed and breakfast. It’s on the main track between Hellbore’s Ridge and Hunchback Mountain, so, Ma is pretty busy. The B&B is called “Whistlers.”

My brothers work in the B&B but spend most of their time sitting on what they affectionately call “Daddy’s Log.” We buried Daddy behind the shack, in the middle of his “Whacky Backy” patch. His headstone is a big flat piece of river rock from Stinky Creek. We had it engraved and his epitaph reads: “I am happy. I am lovin,’ I am Daddy.” Even though he used to say “I am Pappy,” we figured “I am Daddy” is more of a tribute to him. I whistled “Leader of the Pack” at his funeral, while my brothers made motorcycle sounds. It was his favorite song.

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

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

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Commoratio

Posted on January 22, 2025 | Leave a comment

Commoratio (kom-mor-a’-ti-o): Dwelling on or returning to one’s strongest argument. Latin equivalent for epimone.

I told you so. Now that our brother Nigel and his whole family have been deported back to the UK, maybe you’ll believe me. They made no attempt to conceal their Brittyness. For example, when they complained that the grocery store didn’t carry “Spotted Dick.” They caused near-riot at the butcher’s counter. They were called cannibals and perverts. The butcher called them “pasty-faced limeys,” a dead giveaway to the accuracy of his assumptions regarding their nationality.

Nigel, talking to the guy sitting next to him on the subway said “You look like a hard-working bloke” and almost got the shit beaten out of him. The guy, a typical New Yorker, responded: “Are you talkin’ to me? What the fu*k is a bloke? Call me that again, and I’ll kick your ass. So shut the fu*k up!” Another subway adventure happened when your son Dudley asked the woman sitting next to him to if she wanted to “budge up.” We know it means “move over” but she thought differently. She thought it had some kind of sexual connotation. She hit him twice in the face and moved her seat.

Aside from the foods, and idioms, the worst giveaway is your accent. I’ve bought you a subscription to “Talking American.” I used it, and now I sound like I’m from Kansas. It’s web-based so you can access it with any of your internet enabled devices. Here’s how it works: you mimic the speaker on the site for three hours a day until your accent is gone and you’re able to go undetected as an illegal immigrant. You should prolly change your first name too. I switched from Alastair to Pete. Mom might roll over in her grave, but we’ve got to do what we can do to stay in the USA.

But remember, it’s your accent more than anything that’s going to get you nailed and deported.

It’s all in the voice—in your accent. Start using “Talking American” today!

POSTSCRIPT

His brother grabbed the “Talking. American” box and exclaimed, “I’m chuffed now!” Then, he scooped up a giant spoonful of Trifle and shoved it in his mouth.

He was deported two days later, while his brother’s American accent left him undetected to continue pursuing his criminal activities as an undocumented alien— feeding homeless people at his neighborhood shelter, and reading books to elderly people.

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

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

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Comparatio

Posted on January 21, 2025 | Leave a comment

Comparatio (com-pa-ra’-ti-o): A general term for a comparison, either as a figure of speech or as an argument. More specific terms are generally employed, such as metaphor, simile, allegory, etc.

How many times have you been compared to a pig? A dirty dog? A cow? A manatee? A landfill? A piece of meat? A toad? A hippo? A snake? A pile of shit? A rat? A worm? An asshole? A scumbag? A skunk?

How many times have you used these comparisons due to anger, being hurt, or being drunk, or all of the above? Do you remember calling your mother a scumbag? No? We both know it was because you were drunk. You are all a bunch of irresponsible drunks. You call people names. You get in trouble and may get punched in the face, pushed down a flight of stairs, or you may get shot.

In short, you are what we call “nasty drunks.” There’s nothing wrong with getting drunk, but there is something wrong with being a nasty drunk. Coping with your miserable life is enhanced by an alcohol-induced sense of well-being, no matter what the circumstances—from living in a mansion on a hill, to sleeping on a cardboard bed on a cracked sidewalk. But nastiness has no place anywhere.

You have come to “Last Chance LLC” because you have no other place to turn. For those of you who have insurance, you’re covered. For those of you with limited resources, you’ll be donating two pints of blood per day and be a test subject for our experimental tattoo removal equipment. You will receive a complementary tattoo each week that will provide a site for our equipment’s weekly testing.

THE PROGRAM

The Program lasts eight weeks. In pursuit of the Program you will be provided enough vodka to get you drunk by 7:00 pm every evening. Then, you will join a nastiness workshop. Participants will be seated in a row. Ms. Crane will parade past you, pausing in front of you and farting loudly in your direction, and saying something nasty to you. You must frame a rejoinder that does not escalate things, and enables you and Ms. Crane to vigorously shake hands before she moves on to the next participant.

At the end of the Program, you will be awarded a lapel pin and a framed “Certificate of Civility” that states: “The person named on this certificate has undergone a rigorous program of training purging them of nastiness, enabling them to maintain an appropriate level of decorum while drunk. They are qualified to attend social events where alcohol is served, and to frequent bars, pubs, and taverns, and get drunk.”

As you move ahead into your nasty-free life, disorderly conduct may be a thing of the past. You’ll stumble through life with the buzz you need to cope with it all, without fearing fistfights, being shot, or the alienation of friends and people you love. You will be a nice, and possibly entertaining, drunk

Our credo is: “Get drunk, be nice.” When you graduate, we hope our credo becomes your credo.

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

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

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Comprobatio

Posted on January 20, 2025 | Leave a comment

Comprobatio (com-pro-ba’-ti-o): Approving and commending a virtue, especially in the hearers.

“We’ve endured a lot and accomplished a lot here on Cellblock Five. Mickey: Your shivs make my world go around. I’ll never forget seein’ Kelly laid out on the concrete floor, wounded, pumping blood like an oil well, trying to say something before he went to the great beyond. And Sam, Jeez Sam: Your cell-made raisin ‘wine’ sent us all over the top last New Year’s Eve when we beat the shit out of three guards and sent them to the hospital. You are the vintner of vintners and I commend you. And Ox Eye Teddy, every time you sing ‘Memory” from ‘Cats,’ we all sit in our cells and cry like babies—murderers, thieves, burglars, embezzlers, and arsonists—criminals of all kinds, heaving with sorrow, emotionally taken to the edge of repentance from the song you so movingly sing.

All of you have something to offer that makes us a strong integral whole, strengthened by our common motive and desire to excel, to be all we can be. And it is Ox Eye’s singing that brought to me, Machine Gun Gerry, the idea that we should do something together so our ‘Memory’ holds fewer regrets, that our past misdeeds may be overshadowed by what we may accomplish today, for families, friends, and the state of Iowa.

We will make earrings, and sell them on Etsy.”

These are the opening paragraphs of my new book “Pardon Me.” I am a Business Professor at Golden Chance University in Mojave City, California. We specialize in making greedy and unethical young men and women into greedy and unethical entrepreneurs specializing in exploiting desperate people to achieve their ends: wealth and power.

My book is a fictional account of a group of imprisoned felons, who, through a rigorous program of threats of physical harm, coupled with blackmail supported by a well-considered archive of photographs undeniably documenting a variety of the Warden’s misdeeds, mostly of a sexual nature, we are able to start a profitable business. With a Warden reticent to being arrested and humiliated, and beat-up by his wife, it was smooth sailing all the way.

The prisoners’ utilization of threats and blackmail illustrates the variety of sources that capital may spring from, and that it needn’t be money that initiates the creation of a viable business, such as the prisoners’ earring business.

One character in the book, Weelon Cruk, is a self- absorbed loose canon who nearly ruins the plan with his grandstanding. We show our readers how he is “quietly” put away in the prison laundry. I use this to show my students the importance of consensus and how people who think for themselves need to be terminated.

It’s no surprise that I have recently been appointed Head of the Small Business Administration by our beloved President. “Pardon Me” Will point the way toward the reaffirmation values that will “Make America Great Again.” As our country prepares to take a giant step backwards I am proud to be the wind beneath its wings, traveling the yellow brick road back to the future. Here I come!

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

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

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Conduplicatio

Posted on January 19, 2025 | Leave a comment

Conduplicatio (con-du-pli-ca’-ti-o): The repetition of a word or words. A general term for repetition sometimes carrying the more specific meaning of repetition of words in adjacent phrases or clauses. Sometimes used to name either ploce or epizeuxis.

“Dive! Dive! Dive!” I was yelling in my head. I was standing on the diving board, knees shaking, terrified by the distance to the water below. It was a two-foot jump—the water was perfectly calm below. If I laid on the diving board it I could reach the water with my fingertips. When we installed the pool, we purposely had the diving board installed unusually low, in the hope its proximity to the water would help me get over my problem. The liquid is forgiving unlike the dirt that grew grass under my bedroom window.

When I was nine I had tied a towel around my neck and “flew” out my bedroom window in the name of “Truth, justice, and the American way.” I landed on my chest and broke most of my ribs. I spent five months in a hospital recuperating from the fall. I received no counseling. I just lay in bed thinking impure thoughts—thoughts about triple scoops of ice cream, endless candy kisses, French fries smothered in gallons of bright red ketchup, and more.

When I got out, all healed, I had trouble stepping off curbs. My mother had to push me. Getting out of cars was the same, only my mother had to pull me out. Anything I did that took me abruptly down terrified me. Both my mother and my father had to pull me screaming from bed in the morning and off the couch after watching TV at night. Eventually, I learned to do everything sitting on the floor and cross the street at curbless handicapped crosswalks. When I was old enough to drive, I had ramps installed that opened out of the sides of my car when I turned off the ignition. In fact, I had ramps installed everywhere I had to go up or down.

Now, here I was for the hundredth time trying to overcome my phobia by jumping off the diving board. Suddenly there was an earthquake. The pool water was sloshing around and the diving board was bouncing up and down. It pitched me into the water. As I was flying toward the water, I felt exhilarated. I felt like an Osprey or an Eagle. When I hit the water, the earthquake stopped. The water flattened out as I surfaced and looked around. The spell was broken. My phobia was cured!

I climbed out of the pool, walked to the diving board, and jumped again—the Eagle. I hit my head on the bottom of the pool. The pool’s water had been lowered by the quake’s sloshing effect. I was hauled out of the pool and revived by my sister.

I had the pool filled in by bulldozers. I resigned myself to my flattened existence. I live in a one-story ranch-style house—sitting, eating, and sleeping on the floor; avoiding curbs, and installing ramps.

My girlfriend Akiko has been a godsend helping me decorate.

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

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

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Congeries

Posted on January 18, 2025 | Leave a comment

Congeries (con’ger-eez): Piling up words of differing meaning but for a similar emotional effect [(akin to climax)].

“Help, murder, police!” This is what my kid yells whenever I try to give him advice. I think it’s a quote from one of Shakespeare’s plays—maybe “Merchant of Venice.” His mother hears him and comes running yelling “What are you doing to my precious baby boy?” “Giving him advice.” I calmly say. She yells, “Stop tormenting him with your sanctimonious bullshit.” I say, “It’s not bullshit—I was telling him he shouldn’t wear his dress shoes to play in the snow—they’ll get ruined and they’re expensive to replace.”

My wife makes it up the stairs. She’s standing in the doorway of our son’s bedroom. She’s wearing her pink terrycloth bathrobe—it looks like a belted bath towel. It has a spot of egg yolk on the collar and a coffee stain further down. She has a mug of coffee in one of hand and a cigarette in the other. She takes a drag off the cigarette and exhales the smoke as she talks: “Look, Arnie, does he look like he needs your crazy-ass advice? So what if he gets in trouble or ruins a pair of friggin’ shoes he never wears? I’m his mother, and I decide what’s good for him.” I looked at her and said: “Like the time you told him to go ahead and make his own fireworks? Now he only has four fingers on his left hand.” She said what she always said she I brought it up: “Arnie, he’s right-handed, who cares?”

Our son Gomer (she had named him) was on his way to hell. Ruining his dress shoes was another step along the way. He knew his mother would override any advice I gave him—just for the sake of having her way. That’s when I decided to take him somewhere his mother couldn’t get into and fill his head with my advice, which I had written down in a diary to give him. It was titled “Don’t Listen to Your Mother.” I took him to the men’s room at a nearby Thruway rest stop. I started giving him advice, secure in the belief his mother wouldn’t enter the men’s room—especially since we had left her at home. He looked at the diary and yelled “Help, murder, police!” I was held in police custody until I could prove I was his father and had no intention of murdering him.

We drove home in silence.

When we got home, it dawned on me! If I gave our son bad advice, my wife would intervene and give him good advice just to spite me. it worked like a charm until one day when my wife was visiting her mother, the first time she’d been out of house in six years. I told Gomer to use his new toothbrush to brush his teeth and if he didn’t like it to “shove it up his ass.” He yelled “help, murder, police,” but his mother wasn’t there to countermand my bad advice. I had really screwed up. I had to drive him to the emergency room to have the toothbrush removed from his ass.

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

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

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Consonance

Posted on January 17, 2025 | Leave a comment

Consonance: The repetition of consonants in words stressed in the same place (but whose vowels differ). Also, a kind of inverted alliteration, in which final consonants, rather than initial or medial ones, repeat in nearby words. Consonance is more properly a term associated with modern poetics than with historical rhetorical terminology.

I smiled at the dead cat, food for vultures and crows lying by the side of the road. I’m a road kill scraper and I thought I was permitted to smile at what could’ve been some little kid’s dead pet. I was smiling at the cycle of life, the inevitability of death, and the consumption of its remains to nurture the living.

Then, I saw my reflection in a puddle. A frustrated nerd with no friends, a shitty little apartment, a nagging wife, and the disgusting job of scraping up roadkills for “Karma Arc Jerky,” a company that recycled roadkills and made them into jerky with exotic names like “Floral Flats,” “ Rembrandt’s Chewy,” and “Repurposed Raccoon,” the only jerky stick with a name that approximated the truth. Despite where it came from, Karma Arc Jerky tasted damn good. I had to have one per day or I’d go off the rails, swearing at my coworkers or calling my wife names at breakfast—names like “Stinky Dog,” and “Hitler.”

But today, I reached end of it all. I was going to take the flattened cat to the pet cemetery, have it cremated, and scatter its ashes in the Hudson River, like I did with my dad’s. I would try to think of something nice to say in the cat’s memory. In the meantime, I will quit my job.

A few days later, I said “I actually like cats” and threw the cat’s ashes into the river. It wasn’t very eloquent, but it did the job.

It was on day four after I quit my job and went jerky-free that I realized I was addicted. I found fault with everybody and called them names. I kept calling my wife “Hitler.” I called the guy sitting next to me on the subway “Beetle Breath” and he beat me in the face with his rolled-up newspaper. The worst was the woman. She shot me twice in the leg when I called her “Madam Barn Smell.” It took the police weeks to track her down.

When I checked into the hospital, I told the doctors what had been going on and they immediately diagnosed me with jerky withdrawal—specifically Karma Arc Jerky. They told me Karma Arc was under investigation by the FDA for using tainted road kill in their jerky, and “seasoning” it with “Triple Hemperino,” a highly addictive roadside weed that grows only in British Columbia. While I withdrew, they put me on a regimen of watching videos of live bunnies, squirrels, raccoons, cats, and opossums. The videos were designed to induce affection for the animals and repulsion at the thought of eating their flattened remains.

I started to calm down naturally. My new job at the car wash helped immensely—I felt like the hot water and suds were washing my woes away. When a car came through with the rust proofing option, I felt like I was being protected too. I started calling my wife Ringo and felt good about my fellow human beings. I even visited the woman in prison who shot me and we made amends. We write to each other now. Ringo doesn’t like it, but she understands.

We’re renewing our wedding vows and we’re going to British Columbia for our second honeymoon!

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

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

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Correctio

Posted on January 16, 2025 | Leave a comment

Correctio (cor-rec’-ti-o): The amending of a term or phrase just employed; or, a further specifying of meaning, especially by indicating what something is not (which may occur either before or after the term or phrase used). A kind of redefinition, often employed as a parenthesis (an interruption) or as a climax.

It was a warm spring day. Winter had finally gone away. Sockatrees and Manatees were lounging by the Passaic River, relaxing under the Jackson Street Bridge, a cool and shady spot frequented by homeless people and prostitutes. Two crows were picking over a dead sewer rat, taking turns hoisting it up and shaking it around. The sandy bank was littered with used condoms, empty beer and vodka bottles, and rusting shopping carts from the nearby A&P. The cars rumbling over the bridge gave the place an air importance, like the Garden State Parkway or Route 22.

Sockatrees: Tell me Manatees, now that you’ve graduated from high school after staying back twice along the way, what do you plan to do with your life? Will you go into the Army? Work at Taco Bell? Pray, tell me, what’s next on your agenda?

Manatees: I‘m going to rob the Summit branch of ACCESS Savings and Loan. I bought a handgun from Joey’s Dad. I got one of those balaclavas at the ski shop, and I’m going take a car for a test drive from “Golden Wheels Used Cars.” It’s gonna be my getaway car—after I’m done I’ll light it on fire down here by the river—ooh—on the other hand, maybe I’ll take to “Earl Scheib’s” and have it painted for $99.00. I don’t know—maybe it would be best just to return it in the middle of the night—yeah, that’s what I’ll do, bring it back to “Golden Wheels.”

Sockatrees: Have you purchased a gym bag to put all your ill-gotten gains in?

Manatees: Wow! I forgot that one. Thanks Sockatrees!

Sockatrees: Don’t thank me. Why in the name of all that’s true, good, and beautiful do you want to rob a savings and loan?

Manatees: What’re you drunk? What a stupid question! I’ll be rich! I’ll be able to boss people around. I’ll get lots of girls. All my desires will be gratified. My life will be good.

Sockatrees: Good!? You are a fool Manatees. The “Good” is not to be found in the satisfaction of your desires. It is to be found in the pursuit of Justice, obedience to the Law, and the rehabilitation of your soul so you remember the far away planet you come from where everything is True: where everything is unchanging, and your soul was in sweet harmony with it. You will remember how you looked down at Earth, saw it’s shifting swirling colors, leaned too far, and fell down to it and landed in a body demanding its satisfaction with donuts, and sex, warm baths, and candy, and greed. Save your soul! Refrain from robbing the savings and loan! Stealing is unjust.

Manatees: Huh?

Manatees robbed the savings and loan. He made a clean getaway and returned the car to “Golden Wheels.” He found a college with open admissions, and used some of the money he robbed to pay his tuition. He graduated with honors. Eventually, he became a brain surgeon, saving the lives of hundreds of people, including infants and children. He donated a significant portion of his wealth to a foundation devoted to paying needy high school graduates’ college tuition.

Sockatrees was on his deathbed. He had been given three days to live. He struggled with the immorality of keeping Manaees’ secret all his life. He ratted out Manatees and died the next day. The statute of limitations on armed robbery was 55 years.

Manatees was arrested, and went to trial. He was found guilty. Given his wealth, Manatees was able to bribe the judge, who vacated his sentence of 20 years. Although he was a convicted felon, his work as a brain surgeon continued. The good he did as a brain surgeon and philanthropist far outweighed his criminal past. Everybody loved him.

The judge was pleased with his new Bentley and used his connections to help get Manatees nominated for President.

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

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

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Deesis

Posted on January 15, 2025 | Leave a comment

Deesis (de’-e-sis): An adjuration (solemn oath) or calling to witness; or, the vehement expression of desire put in terms of “for someone’s sake” or “for God’s sake.”

She: I swear to God if you put it in there, I’m going to pull it out and put it where it belongs—I might even light in on fire along the way. Were you raised in a zoo with a bunch of free-range Baboons?

He: It’s a book. This is a bookcase. I’m putting the book into the bookcase. What the hell is the problem?

She: Is that a work of fiction?

He: No. it’s “Make Your Bed,” a self-help book I was was going to. . .

She: Shut up micro-brain. Shut up the fu*k up! See that label on the shelf where you put the book? What does it say?

He: Fiction?

She: That’s right Mr. Troll. Is “Make Your Bed” fiction?

He: No?

She: That’s right numb nuts. I swear, if you ever put a work of non-fiction on the fiction shelf again, I’ll have you killed. Well, maybe not killed, but seriously injured. Well, maybe not seriously injured, but hurt in some way.

The whole purpose of bookshelves is to keep books organized into categories so you can find them when you want them, so you can read them instead spending all your time looking for them. My mother was a librarian and instilled the ideals of librarianship in me at a young age. Look around you Bozo Boy, everything in this house has a place and everything’s in its place. If you’re going to be my man, take heed.

POSTSCRIPT

He went crazy and flipped over the living room sofa, threw crumpled-up paper towels all around the kitchen floor, and mixed up the silverware drawer—putting knives and forks together and mixing soup spoons with desert spoons. To top it off, he unmade her bed.

She: Damn you! Barbarian! Visigoth! Hobokenite!

He: I’m a slob. I’ve always been a slob. I’ll never stop being a slob. I hate you and all your fu*king rules. Find yourself a man of clay that you can mold, or a puppet whose strings you can pull. Goodbye bitch!

She: Fu*k you and your mother too.

POST-POSTSCRIPT

She was diagnosed with compulsive-obsessive disorder and institutionalized. She had tried, at gunpoint, to “organize” her neighbors to stand in a line.

He, on the other hand, became an international sensation with his blog “Mr. Slobbo’s Neighborhood.”

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

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

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Dehortatio

Posted on January 14, 2025 | Leave a comment

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

Her: Don’t do that. I don’t like it.

Him: What? I was smiling. How could you not like a smile?

Her: It reminds me of my creepy Uncle Andy. He would smile like that right before he scratched his ass. He would keep smiling and looking at me. He did this little dance squirming around on his index finger. Then, he’d pull out his ever-present tube of cortisone and duck into the bathroom. When he came out of the bathroom, the creepy smile was gone—he was restored.

Uncle Andy has hemorrhoids—they cause chronic itching. It’s not Uncle Andy’s fault, but he should load up his butt with cortisone before he goes out. His ass itching is too weird for me to discuss with him.

I found out about the hemorrhoids by accident. There was a copy of the AARP magazine on his toilet opened to an article titled “Are You Itching for Them to Go Away: Coping With Hemorrhoids in Your Golden Years.” The title had been circled with a magic marker with “ME!” written alongside it in huge letters.

So, please, don’t smile at me. I don’t want to be reminded of Uncle Andy’s plight. I’ll never be able to get used to his/butt scratch dance. It gives me the creeps.

Him: OK, no more smiling. I ‘ll give you a thumbs up instead.

Her: Thumbs up? That’s not funny.

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

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

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Dendrographia

Posted on January 13, 2025 | Leave a comment

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

It was getting dark. The woods were changing from welcoming to foreboding. I had wandered off the trail in search of mushrooms, became disoriented and lost my way back to the trail. I could hear traffic sounds in the distance. If I got totally lost I could follow the noise and eventually find my way home. But it was getting dark. At this point the trees started to look like pen and ink sketches, their branches sharply outlined against the darkening sky, living silhouettes framed by the remnants of light. The stars were starting to come out.

Luckily there was about an inch of snow on the ground so I could backtrack my footprints. Why hadn’t I thought of that before? I don’t know.

So, I was slowly slogging along. The snow reflected the meager light of the twilight sky—it was beautiful. The snow was sparkling —this sounds cliched—but the snow was sparkling like the flakes were diamonds. I wanted take a picture, but my phone camera wouldn’t capture the sparkle in the waning light.

Then I saw the mushroom tree—a dead oak with its upper half blown to the ground many years ago. What’s left stands there by the side of the trail. It is about 15 feet tall, 3 feet in diameter, and has no bark. It’s one of my favorite landmarks. One spring it became covered with oyster mushrooms on its northern side. That’s how it came to be named “The Mushroom Tree.” My daughter and I “discovered” it. We went back home and got some old shopping bags and harvested a good number of mushrooms. The Oyster Mushrooms haven’t come back, but other species of mushroom have taken up residence over the years.

I love the woods. Now that I’m almost 80 I don’t go outside much anymore. I am losing my vision and my hip hurts too. I have balance issues and have fallen down several times. The last time was in the woods. I had to crawl to a small tree and use it to help me stand up. I sort of climbed up it.

My house is surrounded by woods. I sit on my couch and marvel at the 50-foot high pine trees. They were 6 inches tall when my wife and I planted them around 25 years ago. They’re just getting started. I’m rounding the bend.

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

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

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Diacope

Posted on January 12, 2025 | Leave a comment

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

Trouble, gargantuan sky-scraping trouble. Trouble—life threatening trouble. I’m so frightened I can’t stop wetting my pants. I don’t know how it’s possible, but my pants are dripping wet and I smell like a Thruway restroom. I’m in trouble, BIG trouble.

I stole a “Little Debbie” Jelly Nougat Bomber Log Roll. I don’t know what happened to me. I saw it. I grabbed it. I ran out of the Winky Mart. They got me on CCTV. If I had walked out the door, nobody would’ve noticed and I’d be eating my Little Debbie, sitting on a log here in the woods. Instead, I’m being hunted by dogs—BIG dogs. I’m running and eating my Little Debbie at the same time. If they catch me, there’ll be no evidence except maybe the little bit of jelly on my T-shirt.

I came to a small creek. I saw in a movie how a fugitive evaded the police dogs by wading in a brook. Dogs can’t smell in water! Hallelujah! I was saved. I was wading in the creek when I heard the dogs come up to where I had stepped in. They were whining in frustration. I had foiled them! Thank God for movies—I think it was titled “Escape From Jesus.” But that’s beside the point. I was standing there celebrating in my head when I felt somebody tapping on my shoulder. That was it. I was dead meat. I turned around and nobody was there. I was losing it. Then I heard one of the men hunting me yell “I can smell you Mr. Piss Pants!” I took off my pants and underpants and hung them in a nearby tree. I rolled around in the creek and washed off the pee smell. I kept running and heard gunfire. They had shot my pants and underpants, mistaking them for me hiding up in a tree.

I came to a bridge and climbed up out of the creek. I wrapped a strand of wild grape vines around my waist covering my privates and started hitchhiking. The first car slammed on its brakes a backed up. It was Ms. Hander my art teacher from high school. I hopped into her car. She told me she thinks of me often and that she thought my clothing motif was creative and innovative. She put her hand on my leg. Since I had graduated two years ago, I guessed she thought I was fair game.

I didn’t know what to do, so I put my hand on her leg. We rode along in silence, hands on each other’s legs. We pulled into the parking lot of the Bumkiss Motel—a notorious playground for deviants of all kinds. I got out of the car and started running—a tryst with Ms. Hander was the last thing I wanted. I wanted to go home.

It was a short run from the motel. I walked in the front door wearing my grapevine skirt. I walked past my father and he yelled “Stop you little bastard!” I stopped. He eyed me up and down, snorted, and went back to watching Lawrence Welk with mom. I could Lawrence saying “A one, and a two, and a three” as I climbed the stairs to my bedroom and sat on my bed.

I vowed never to steal again. They had me on CCTV. I knew it was just a matter of time before there was a knock on my door. I regretted turning down Ms. Hander at the Bumkiss Motel. Just then, the doorbell rang. It was Ms. Hander. She told me she loved me and that she was leaving town to start a new job out West. She wanted me to come with her.

I packed my bags, said goodbye to my parents, and jumped in her car. We drove two days to Las Vegas where we’re getting a “fresh start” as newlyweds. She works at UNLV as an assistant professor. I’m studying slot machine maintenance and repair at Caesar’s Palace Community College.

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

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

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Dialogismus

Posted on January 11, 2025 | Leave a comment

Dialogismus (di-a-lo-giz’-mus): Speaking as someone else, either to bring in others ’ points of view into one’s own speech, or to conduct a pseudo-dialog through taking up an opposing position with oneself.

What would Donald Trump say?

Donald, how old are you?

D: 25.

Wow, you look a lot older. Where did you meet Melania?

D: In Church.

Have you ever been convicted of a felony?

D: Not that I know of.

Have you ever committed sexual assault?

D: Sexual assault is a myth.

Was Stormy good in bed?

D: Yes.

Better than Melania?

D: Tied, but maybe Stormy’s just a touch better. She fainted when she saw my giant 2-foot wiener. Maybe she was just acting. I don’t know. Melania is more sincere. When she makes pleasure noises, they have a Slovenian accent.

What is your hope for America?

D: Bring Canada to its knees.

When will we have war?

D: It is a secret.

With who will we have a war?

D: Like I said, Canada, but Greenland and Panama, and Puerto Rico too. All very aggressive and threats to America’s sovereignty. Especially Greenland. They’re laughing at us over there.

What about so-called illegal aliens?

D: They will be hunted, captured, crated up and mailed back to where they came from, with their home countries paying the postage and insurance. We may institute a bounty on illegals and supply shipping crates free of charge at local Post Offices. Hunter NGOs will be required to provide photographic proof of their quarry being dumped into crates and nailed shut. Then, we will pay the bounty.

What is the most important thing that will make America great again?

D: Me.

INTERPRETATION

We did not know beforehand how Trump would answer any question. The questions above are real, the answers are fake, but they are possible. Anything is possible with Trump. We never thought, for example, we could ask “When will you invade Greenland?”

We here at “DREG” have been unable to conduct a meaningful poll or an accurate interview since truthfulness stopped being a social value and lying became a valued skill. Trust has vanished, or should I say that “trust” is viewed as the ‘food’ of suckers and losers. They are the dupes that make it all possible, and make us laugh at their “MAGA” mania.

While the liars and cheaters revel in interests, the dupes have become used to believing lies and being cheated. The ‘truth’ has been forgotten and can no longer be used as a reason that will get anybody’s attention and induce belief, although it’s name is invoked every day to float lies. .

It’s all about interests. Interests. Interests.

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

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

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Diaphora

Posted on January 10, 2025 | Leave a comment

Diaphora (di-a’-pho-ra): Repetition of a common name so as to perform two logical functions: to designate an individual and to signify the qualities connoted by that individual’s name or title.

They worked for Red Cross as a husband and wife team. People called them “The Saviors.” In the aftermath of fires, earthquakes, hurricanes, tornadoes, and flooding, all around the world they were there, providing first aid, distributing food and clothing, and when they could, counseling the bereaved. Pakistan. Tibet. Afghanistan, Thailand, California, Florida, Hawaii and other places too numerous to list, Mike and Carla saved the day.

Somewhere along the way, Carla became pregnant. She had their child in Bangkok, a little girl born with shiny black hair. They took a 6-month leave of absence and then took off for Africa to distribute food in the face of severe famine. They left their daughter with her grandmother, her mother’s mother.

They had named their daughter “Charity” after what they believed was the supreme virtue, and a virtue that drove their lives. The Christian Apostle Paul believed that charity (caritas) is a kind of love that is patient, kind, and immoveable. He also believed that charity is the most important of the three Christian virtues, the other two being faith and hope. Mike and Carla hoped that every time Charity heard her name, she would somehow subconsciously feel the influence of love and walk on charity’s path. They knew it was a wild hope, but they hoped it anyway.

They were gone for six years “saving the world” and had to come home after Mike’s malaria got the best of him, especially in combination with his tuberculosis and elephantiasis testicles. They flew into JFK from Belize where they were helping with an inoculation program to combat a polio epidemic.

When they came through Customs, Charity was waiting there with her grandmother. She was wearing a Halloween costume. She was dressed as Satan. Her parents slowly made their way to her. Mike’s testicular elephantiasis slowed him down. In fact, he could barely walk. Carla cried “Charity! My dear little Charity!” Little Charity shook her Devil’s pitchfork and yelled “Here’s your charity you poo-poo parents!” Right then Mike and Carla’s hope was dashed, that naming their daughter “Charity” would help make her a more loving person. Charity was the opposite of what they hoped. It turned out she was petty, cruel, and unlikeable. Charity laughed diabolically at her father’s testicular limp and threw grape soda in her mother’s face.

Charity was a walking talking hell.

Three year’s went by and nothing got better. In elementary school, charity was expelled for encouraging her classmates to run with scissors with their pointed ends facing up. In middle school, she stole the Principal’s car and drove it into a lake. She was expelled. In high school she blackmailed her history teacher for having an affair with her. She was convicted of blackmail and spent three months in the Silver Lining Juvenile Detention Center.

Of course, with all the expulsions she was home-schooled. In each case, she burned the course materials and told her parents to “fu*k” themselves. She started calling her father “Thunder Balls” and took delight in taping signs on his back that said: “Thunder Balls: Do Not Touch.” At this point Mike’s testicles were the size of volleyballs and he was expected to die in three months. Carla would sit sobbing in her living room chair, lamenting her poor parenting, leaving her with her mother whose bi-polar disorder probably made things hard for Charity.

When her father died, Charity moved away. She got a job as a bill collector—drubbing pitiful lowlife people on the phone. She loved calling them names and threatening to send thugs to their homes to beat them, or even kill them. She brought in what were considered uncollectible debts and made “Drubber of the Month” almost every month. Her rude and cruel fellow employees loved and hated her at the same time. That was fine with Charity. She was into bondage, so the blend of love and hate pleased her.

POSTSCRIPT

Charity hadn’t turned out like her parents hoped when they named her. It was foolish of them to believe Charity would be charitable because she was named Charity.

Name your children after their ancestors for their memory, not for inspiration. Wait for your children’s nicknames to indicate who they are. Charity’s nickname was “Scumbag.”

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

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

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Diaporesis

Posted on January 9, 2025 | Leave a comment

Diaporesis: Deliberating with oneself as though in doubt over some matter; asking oneself (or rhetorically asking one’s hearers) what is the best or appropriate way to approach something [=aporia].

Do you really enjoy having bad breath? What about your sagging ass? Oh, and we can’t forget farting. Do you like to fart and stink up a ten-foot radius with your naturally-produced stench? I don’t think so.

All of these things have been deeply studied by NASA scientists. You may be saying to yourself “What the hell does my sagging ass have to do with space travel?”

What? You have to ask?

The “sagging ass” has posed a serious problem to spacesuit safety ever since John Glen’s sagging ass almost got him killed when his left cheek’s sag pinched his spacesuit’s air transportation system on his second orbit of earth. He passed out and floated to his capsule’s hatch where his butt lodged on a bolt and pulled the pinch out of his spacesuit, restoring the flow of air and saving the mission.

To keep this from happening again, NASA scientists developed a butt-firming supplement tablet that also included organic ingredients to combat bad breath and farting, two maladies that are anathema to working with others in enclosed spaces. The first space mission was nearly scrapped due to Robert Crippen’s bad breath and John Young’s farting problem. Neither of them wanted to spend one minute together flying around in the Space Shuttle, STS-1.

Working day and night in the weeks before the shuttle launch, NASA hired experimental test subjects from all walks of life. A major breakthrough on an anti-farting medication was enabled by the famous flatulist Lars Pow. Pow farted “Flight of the Bumblebee” while NASA scientists observed his sphincter and tested rubbing various substances on it as it expanded and contracted. They found a supplement that would open the sphincter very wide, and affect the gas’s oder too. The open sphincter would also allow farts to blow noiselessly, allowing people to stay focused, being unaware of the fart’s presence. This breakthrough was made possible only days before the shuttle’s launch.

The same was the case with bad breath. NASA scientists tried everything from a bottle-brush like tool that scrubbed the inside of the mouth, to a mouth-mounted breath filtering device. None of the mechanical devices proved efficient. Then, one of the scientists on the team from Bolivia, told the team that there were natives living along the Amazon who were known as the “Sweet Breath People.” NASA dispatched the Bolivian and two other team members to find out what made their breaths sweet. They discovered that the natives cultivated a plant whose leaves they chewed. Bingo! The NASA scientists bought one kilo of the plant’s leaves, and 100 live plants to grow in their laboratories.

Upon their return they discovered that the leaves’ special properties could only be released by chewing—by mixing with the mouth’s saliva. The scientists scrapped the tablets they earlier created and worked day and night on a chewing gum. They succeeded, and then added the remedies for sagging ass and farting to the breath gum. They called the all-in-one gum “NASA All in One Gum.”

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

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Diaskeue

Posted on January 8, 2025 | Leave a comment

Diaskeue (di-as-keu’-ee): Graphic peristasis (description of circumstances) intended to arouse the emotions.

I couldn’t get over it. All my life I had struggled to achieve it. I didn’t falter. I didn’t waver. My resolve was firmly embedded in the depths of my emotions and the firmament of my soul. I had sacrificed companionship, family and anything that distracted me. I live in a pup tent behind Walmart. I live off my veterans benefits for PTSD and bi-polar disorder. I had my $349 check mailed to Walmart and cashed it at the service desk. My medication (Lithium) was mailed to Walmart too. I was so grateful to Mel the store manager. I shower, brush my teeth, and shave at the YMCA. It’s all the Village People say it is.

All my life I wanted to be a professional tap dancer. I have an unwavering desire to succeed. I will be 80 on my next birthday, so time is running out. I am still taking lessons and I haven’t improved. My psychologist tells me my insistence on doing something I can’t do is what makes me “mentally different.”

Some days I sit in my pup tent and cry, hugging my worn out tap shoes to my chest, wanting my mommy to assure me that some day I’ll be a success, and hearing my father say in his stern voice: “If at first you don’t succeed, try, try again.” “Over and over, father, I have tried, tried again,” I say to the door flaps of my lonely little tent.

6 MONTHS LATER

Now that I am dying of cancer, I have slacked off on practicing. I put on my tap shoes and crawl out of my tent and struggle to stand up. I grab ahold of a dumpster and pull myself up slowly and painfully. I hum “Mr. Bo Jangles.” I let go of the dumpster, take a step, and fall on my face. The asphalt smells like garbage and I feel sick. With great effort, I drag myself back inside my pup tent.

I lay on my back. I look at my tent’s ceiling and try to ignore the pain, but I can’t. My abdomen is burning. The pain is excruciating. I have failed. I close my eyes.

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

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

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Diasyrmus

Posted on January 7, 2025 | Leave a comment

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

It was time to go to work again. Many students hated me. They called me Professor Piss-Face, or PF for short. I had learned to be an intolerant bastard in graduate school. My university had a religious affiliation. Dogma ruled and unflappable single mindedness was prized. Being impervious to other peoples’ points of view was the gold standard. We brought in unwitting zealots and believers of all stripes as guest speakers so we could gang up on them, disorient them, and send them away in a state of anomie. This is what God intended: total unremitting intolerance for all “ways of thinking” different from our own.

We were taught how to smash others’ arguments with “ridiculous comparisons.” Our university was named after what, for thousands of years, had accomplished this purpose: Diasyrmus University. When I had completed and defended my dissertation “Your Argument Wreaks of Sewer Gas,” I was ready to take my first teaching position. I had been employed by Tough University. It admitted students who had a hard time dealing with criticism. Most of them have terrible relationships with their parents—ranging from yelling matches, to fistfights, to sobbing, to death threats. The problems are rooted in ill-founded recalcitrance. We are there to provide them well-founded recalcitrance.

My first day of class.

Course Titled: “I’m Right, So Shut Up.”

Some Critical Gems From Class: Your argument is nothing more than a fart, your argument is like a banjo with no strings, your argument is like a raspberry stuck up a baboon’s ass, your argument is like using baloney slices to sole your shoes, your argument is like cheating on your girlfriend with a tomato.

As you can see I blew them apart. One guy wet his pants when I laid into him. There was a girl who became paralyzed and had to be carried out of class. These “bad” kids crumbled like Graham crackers. Through their tears a number of them begged for more. Of course, I had office hours in my “Cell” where I meet one-on-one to give individual students the verbal lashings they crave.

My article “Eat Me” will be published in spring in the philosophy journal “One Truth.” It is a dialogue between Goog, a cave man, and Jockatres an adherent of “The Sarcastic Method.” It vividly displays the power of the put-down as an instrument of philosophy. I’m sure it will win some kind of award and a fat pay-raise for me.

Dean Hellbrighter came by my office yesterday and told me she wanted one of my fabled tongue lashings. Of course, I complied. Afterwards, she told me my discourse was like a wet noodle looking through the keyhole of a door I will never open. Her insult was edifying. I’m planning on quoting her in my next class.

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

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

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

Diazeugma

Posted on January 6, 2025 | Leave a comment

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

I was riding with my parents to my twelfth birthday party at Chucky Cheese. I was strapped into my car seat. My overprotective parents thought I was too small for a seatbelt. They believed I would fly through the windshield if we had an accident. My car seat didn’t bounce, rock, or wobble. It was solid. It took up the whole rear passenger area of the car and was bolted to the floor. It was upholstered with kangaroo hide. It had two cup holders—one on each side—a headrest, and a tray for snacks and my laptop. There was a pocket on the side where I keep my lotto tickets, cigarettes, cocaine, and newspapers.

The big newspaper headline this morning was “Trump Can’t Stop Saying “Mallard Duck.” Last week it was “Gooey Mittens. “Mallard Duck” seems to be an improvement. The thing is, nobody seems to care. Already, they’re selling hats and t-shirts that say Mallard Duck on them. JD Vance is telling us that “the mallard duck” is a strategy for “ducking things” that pose a threat to national security. That would include Chow Mein, Bidets, Maple Syrup, Cuckoo clocks, and Doc Martens.

It was hard to believe that he’d only been President for a week. So much had happened. Hilary Clinton was jailed for “taboo behavior in an automobile” for reclining her seat “all the way” in a public parking lot. Bernie Sanders has been compared to Freddie Kruger and is being sought for “crimes against humanity.” Obama has been deported to Kenya.

Now that fully-automatic weapons are legal and issued to every American, 50-1,100 people are being mowed down on a daily basis—schools and malls are the most likely places to die, followed by sporting events and dance clubs. Desolate areas of Texas and Arizona have been made into concentration camps for the anticipated influx of at least a million of captured illegal aliens. Trump’s first “catch” was a Canadian man who tried to marry an American woman he had been dating for two years.

The worst is the requirement that every American eat at least two beef patties with onions per day. People are subject to random blood testing of cholesterol levels. If you fail the test you’re remanded to “Beef Camp” for reeducation; slaughtering cows and dismembering them with electric chainsaws. A close second is “Tribute.” Income taxes have been abolished. Now, my parents pay trbute directly to Trump and he doles the money out at his discretion to government entities and family members.

2025 can only get crazier. I want to fly away on one of those drones hovering over New Jersey.

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

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

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Dicaeologia

Posted on January 5, 2025 | Leave a comment

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

I held up ten fingers. It wasn’t a gesture. I was looking at my fingernails. I had cut them two days ago. They had grown an eighth of an inch already. I was sick of clipping them, so I let them go. Now, they were one inch long. I couldn’t push buttons—I couldn’t open the trunk of my car, I couldn’t turn on my blender, I couldn’t pet my cat, but at least I could scratch him. My claws were better than his. I thought about getting a scratching post to keep my nails in line, but they weren’t abrasive enough. Eventually, I settled on a rasp which is a mega-file. I got a 10″ Flat Bastard Cut Wood Rasp, designed to quickly make its way through wood-working projects.

Although the rasp worked like a charm, it was still a pain having to tend to my fingernails every day. Then I remembered that veterinarians did surgery on cats where they removed their claws. Maybe that would work for me. I told Morty’s (my cat) veterinarian about my problem and asked her to remove my fingernails. I showed her my hand. She put her hand over her mouth, gasped, backed up against the wall, and pulled out her cell phone. I told her I was only kidding—who would want to do that? She laughed uncomfortably, put her cellphone away, and told me our appointment was over.

My nails kept growing and I kept rasping. My life was miserable. I remembered seeing a movie where a Japanese soldier pulled out fingernails as a form of torture during interrogation. I went to a Sushi restaurant. I asked if any WW II vets worked there who knew how to extract fingernails. The waiter yelled “Asshole!” and hit me over the head with a chair. The other employees formed a circle, put me in it and took turns hitting me in the face. Clearly, I had insulted them. They threw me out into the street, where my foot was run over by a motorcycle returning from a delivery.

I crawled the 5 blocks home, leaving a trail of blood behind like a wounded animal. The next morning my head was swollen up like a pumpkin from being beaten, my foot was sore, and my nails had grown again. I started crying, picked up my rasp, and headed to Morty’s vet.

I burst into her front office brandishing my rasp. I dragged her into the surgery with my rasp to her throat. “Pull ‘em” I yelled “Or I’ll file your nose off.” She told me to calm down and sprayed my hand with lidocaine. She got a pair of surgical pliers out of a drawer behind her. She told me to put my hand flat on the operating table.

Suddenly there was a pounding on the door. “Open up! Police.” I said, “I will kill Dr. Leah if that door moves. I am desperate.” The pounding stopped.

She pulled out my thumbnail. The pain was horrible, but fleeting. She did all ten fingers and bandaged my hands. I put down the rasp, opened the door and was arrested.

I was charged with false imprisonment, disregarding police orders and making death threats. During the trial, I told my fingernail story, and how, since I had them removed, I was living a normal and productive life working as a masseur, where having no fingernails was a real advantage.

I was found guilty. In his sentencing, the judge cited mitigating circumstances and gave me two weeks of home confinement.

I noticed the judge had longer than normal fingernails.

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

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

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Dilemma

Posted on January 4, 2025 | Leave a comment

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

Making choices is overrated. I was stuck on the horns of a dilemma. You know, animals have two horns, and either one will hurt if it pokes you. But, the cow decides whether to stick you with one or both of its horns. You can try to escape both horns and escape injury. Otherwise you’ll be gored and make a mess on the barn stall floor and, with luck, maybe survive.

But what I’m talking about is making a choice between equally bad alternatives that are impinging on your life, and it can be as minor as between spinach and broccoli—if you have to make choice at all. Abstention from both is an option, unless your mother’s standing there with a spatula ready to beat you on back of your legs if you don’t choose one or the other, of both, “for your own good.”

So, you run away from home and live on the streets and discover you can’t live a dilemma-free life. If you had to do it over again, you would’ve eaten the broccoli. It’s flowers. There’s no grit. It may smell bad, but it tastes good. You needed to learn that smell is less important than flavor when it comes to eating. If I had only known then, what I know now, I wouldn’tve had to fend for myself on the streets of Camden, New Jersey.

Since nobody ever went out for a walk in Camden for fear of being mugged or shot, panhandling on the street was out of the question. So, my plan was to seek alms door to door. That was a a mistake—begging for money door-to-door angered my prospects. The first time I was hit on the collar bone by a length of lead pipe should’ve been a wake-up call. But, I persisted, absorbing the obscenities, thrown objects, and the doors slammed in my face.

Then I came to a house with peeling paint and an overall look of disrepair. When I climbed the front steps one of my feet broke through the step and a cat meowed from under the porch. I rang the bell and nothing happened. I banged on the door. A girl my age answered. Her hair was dirty. Her nightgown was dirty. There was dirt under her fingernails and she smelled strongly of butt. But I could see—under it all she was beautiful. I said I was there to beg for money. She said, “Ok. My parents are in the kitchen.”

She motioned me into the house. Her mummified parents were sitting at the kitchen table with bullet holes in their foreheads, posed as if they were playing poker, with a huge pile of hundred dollar bills between them, and falling off the table 2-feet deep on the floor. She flashed a cute smile and I almost fainted. Then, I thought: “Its a friggin’ gold mine!”

She told me she had shot her parents “Just to see them die.” She said she was ashamed to admit it, but she was inspired by the Johnny Cash song and asked if I wanted to hear her perform it on her karaoke machine. I said “Yes” to appease her. Her voice was enchanting—she made murder sound like “Onward Christian Soldiers.” I was hooked.

We dismembered her parents and burned them in the fireplace piece by piece. We scattered their ashes in the Delaware River. We had 10 million dollars cash. I asked her where all the money came from. She told me her father was an exiled politician. She didn’t know from where.

By the way, she started practicing admirable hygiene, washing and brushing everything. She was beautiful. We fell in love. We got married. We decided to stay in Camden and raise a family. We rehabbed the old house, installing a walk-in vault in the basement.

Then one day, she aimed a pistol at my head and said, “I want to see you die.” I was ready. I drew my .44 and pretty much blew her head off. It was self defense. Now, everything would be mine.

I was tempted to sit her body at the kitchen table holding an Ace of Spades.

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

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

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Dirimens Copulatio

Posted on January 3, 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 Logoi of 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.]

The complexities of life are never-ending. Just when I think I have an answer, I am confronted with another question I need to resolve. As long as there are answers, there are answers that are liable to repeatedly fail and, over time, may become foundations for questions, or themselves become questions.

We live in time—time consciousness is life itself. However perceptible, or imperceptible, change is the horizon of life’s striving. Life’s contingencies become “settled” by choice— they are “held” near and dear, and as we know, they can can be let go of—often to maintain our sanity, self-worth, or to release one’s self from the bonds of a broken heart.

We know, as we engage with other people, we differ. As two people look at the “same” set of circumstances, one may see reason for hope, the other may see reason for fear. Or, one may see reason for a judgment of guilt, the other for a judgment of innocence. Depending on the contexts, these differences are expected and negotiated by opposing discourses that may “win” a judgment commensurate with an advocate’s standpoint. In short, the so-called truth does not speak for itself, rather it may be spoken for by an advocate in a contest with an opposing truth, that may more plausibly affect the judgement of auditors—here truth functions as veracity and must appear relevant to a sound judgment of the case at hand.

And why must this happen? Because nobody knows—nobody knows what happened in the past and nobody knows what’s going to happen in the future. In sum, neither the past nor the future exist in the present.

This is what makes life so difficult, unsettled and unsettling. I don’t know if my girlfriend’s story of what she did before we met is true. I don’t know if her promises for our future are true—are sincere, as are her avowals of love and affection. I have to constantly impute motives for all she does—from giving me a ride to work to paying for our dinner and drinks on my birthday.

I suffer from “Suspicious Minds Syndrome.” Elvis sang about it, and probably suffered from it. When two people with suspicious minds try to form a relationship, they are doomed—there is no faith between them.

I am undergoing suspicion therapy—learning how to summon belief in my partner, without being duped. it is a kind of secular faith and a gamble.

Viva Las Vegas!

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

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

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

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