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Anacoloutha

Posted on July 13, 2024 | Leave a comment

Anacoloutha (an-a-co’-lu-tha): Substituting one word with another whose meaning is very close to the original, but in a non-reciprocal fashion; that is, one could not use the first, original word as a substitute for the second. This is the opposite of acoloutha.

I made my bed, I smoothed my mattress. I was getting up, unready for another day. My head felt like a rusted pitchfork was poking it over and over. Yet, I had to go to work. If I didn’t, I would lose the roof over my head, I wouldn’t eat, my sartorial splendor would whither and die, and my love would become a raging tigress and scratch out my eyes. We were set to be married “pretty soon” and I needed to maintain my solvency. As a cruel and misguided bastard, my plan was to put her to work as a streetwalker and go on permanent vacation. If she sad no, I was prepared to become a rent boy, although I had just turned 33. If I wore makeup, I was pretty sure I could pass for 20. Maybe we could team up!

Anyway, my job was odious. I worked in a laundromat named Bright Linens.” We washed “linens” that had obtained skid marks due to illness, overindulgence, merrymaking, or fear. Our clientele consisted of upper-class sons of royalty: n’er do wells—sons Lords, Dukes and Barons, and scion’s of business.

I was a linen scraper—my job was to scrape the skid mark to prepare the sullied underpants for laundering. My scraper tool looked like a teaspoon. I would brush the scrapings into a barrel alongside my workbench. Once full, the barrel would be taken to a French bakery where it was ground into powdered and made up the principal ingredient of “Merde Buns,” an almost impossible to obtain delicacy, selling for outrageous prices to French emigres and Francofiles.

I resolved to steal a bag of Merde Buns and sell them on the black market. I would be wealthy and I could escape the city with my new wife-to-be. To hell with scraping! The buns were made and ready by 6.00am every day. I went into the bakery disguised as a Kure vicar and grabbed a bag—the Merde Buns Were still warm. I ran out the door and headed to the Black Market. It was a place where stolen and illicit goods were sold. Some of what was sold was the result of robbery and murder. I stood by a guy selling stolen wigs—stolen off the heads of titled women. They had tags like “Princess, hardly used.” I told him I had Merde Buns and he edged away from me shaking his head.

Suddenly, Viscount Flamboo jumped out of the crowd. He had a satchel filled with cash. He had been banned from buying or eating Merde Buns. He had fed one to his neighbor’s auk after it had delivered a ransom note announcing the kidnapping of his hamster Reginald. The auk died almost ss immediately. Over the years, Flamboo had become addicted to Merde Buns. He would die for one. “Give me the buns, and I’ll give you the cash!” He shouted. I handed over the buns, he handed over the cash.

That was it. Now that I was rich by (peasant standards). I got married. As I had hoped, my wife became a streetwalker, but she kept walking one night and I never saw her again. She left behind our little Ned, who works as a street waif, dancing jigs and collecting money in a wooden bowl.

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

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

Anadiplosis

Posted on July 11, 2024 | Leave a comment

Anadiplosis (an’-a-di-plo’-sis): The repetition of the last word (or phrase) from the previous line, clause, or sentence at the beginning of the next. Often combined with climax.

My heart was broken. Broken into pieces. Pieces of love were scattered on the floor, as if my hopes had exploded, fragmented, and rained down in a torrent of loss, a deluge of disappointment, and painful precipitation.

My pet spider Ed had died. He was a banana spider from Hawaii. He had landed on my head when I was unloading papayas at SeaTac Airport. I had left him on the back porch over night. It went below 40 and he had frozen to death in his terrarium. I found him on his back with his legs curled up. His last meal of crickets had escaped death and were hopping around on his corpse. I picked them up one by one and pinched them to death for desecrating Ed.

Next, of course, I would bury him with the respect due to a close friend and confidant. When he was alive, I would sit up late with Ed and spill my fears and share my hopes. I was afraid that the IRS would catch up with me, especially after I got a letter informing me that I was being audited. I had lied about having $1,000,000 in medical bills for my loose brain—a condition where your brain is too small for your skull and it sloshes around, giving you thoughts you don’t understand. Scientifically, it is known as “Pea Brain.”

In a way, as a pea brain, you’re in an ideal position to be a philosopher, and if you get a PhD, you may succeed at being one and being a professor. The only known instance of becoming a pea brain philosopher was Dr. Huh? who taught symbolic logic and a course titled “Knowing Pink Floyd.” But anyway, the IRS determined that “Pea Brain” had been made up by Dr. Huh? in a grant proposal. Auditors charged him with fraud. Dr. Huh? argued that he did not understand and was let off with a slap on the wrist, in a way proving that “Pea Brain” was real.

My major hope was for world peace and free beer. Together, they would induce Utopia and we would live happily ever after—we would have ice cream, chocolate, scented candles and all the good things we are intended to have as human beings.

But now, it’s time to plant Ed. I dug a burrow hole six feet deep in the middle of the back yard. I stuffed him into a Romeo and Julietta cigar tube. I used a stick like a plunger. One of his legs came off, but it didn’t matter. I put the cap on and dropped him down the hole. I filled in the hole. I pushed a tongue depressor into the ground as a grave marker. It says “Here lies Ed, he is dead.” Everything was fine for two days, and then a squirrel dug up Ed’s marker and buried it somewhere.

I went back to work at the car wash yesterday. I am a rag man. I am still very sad about Ed, and feel guilt over my negligence that killed him. But there’s a saying I’ve seized on that is helping me cope: “Fu*ck it.” It’s what my mother said when my father went missing. She still says it once or twice a day. I am following her lead.

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

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Anamnesis

Posted on July 10, 2024 | Leave a comment

Anamnesis (an’-am-nee’-sis): Calling to memory past matters. More specifically, citing a past author [apparently] from memory. Anamnesis helps to establish ethos [credibility], since it conveys the idea that the speaker is knowledgeable of the received wisdom from the past.

“Back in the good old days.” What made them good? Like Plato said in his dialogue on interest free loans: “Daracmagoras,” “if it’s old it isn’t true.” He argues that truth is unchanging and timeless and can only exist in your head. Ironically, it makes you believe that it exists “out there.” It’s a lie, and so is our talk about it, which is more of an illusion than a lie. We are persuaded that things are true and we disagree about what is true—it’s all a dream, but it works.

The used car salesman told me: “It has a little rust on the body, but under the hood it’s like a new born baby.” It smelled like it needed its diaper change. I looked under the hood—it looked like it had been used as a kitty litter box. The salesman said he would knock $500 off the price and get it cleaned up, and also, it came with a five-day warranty covering the tires and trunk lock. That reminded me: I looked in the trunk. There was a homeless man eating a peanut butter sandwich and pan handling. I gave him a dollar and told him to go somewhere else. He shook his head and climbed out of the trunk. He thanked me. He had been stuck in the trunk for two days. He said “men with guns” had pushed him into the trunk when he skipped two car payments. The car salesman raised his hands and shook his head, “No, no, no, that’s not true! If it is true, they pushed him into the trunk of the wrong car. I’ll knock another $200 of the price, for all your trouble.” I heard a voice in paint saying “I’ll pay! I’ll pay” from behind the showroom, along with a rhythmic whacking sound.

So far, I had a $700 discount and a warranty on the table. I told the salesman he needed to knock another $200 off the price. He said he couldn’t do that, but he’d could clean the windshield with a special formula and make sure the horn worked properly at no extra cost. I told him it sounded like some kind of scam. He backed off and gave me another $100 discount and a lace-on steering wheel cover, and a toy black cat that went in the back window, and whose eyes were directional signals. That sealed the deal!

The car broke down as I drove it home. The blinking cat had short circuited and started a fire in the trunk. We didn’t have cell phones, but the fire department showed. By that time, the trunk was a blackened smoking mess. They sawed it off. As the sparks were flying from the saw blade, I thought, “It was the damn cat, not the car that caused all this mayhem.” That helped. AAA arrived and towed my car away to “Nutty Putty Collision Repair.” I was close enough to home to walk. As I walked along, I saw a black kitten sitting on the sidewalk. It meowed as I walked past. It looked like the blinker cat who had burned to a crisp in my car’s back window. It followed me home. I let it in and kept it. I named it “Smokey.” He changed my life. I believed I loved him—everywhere, all the time, the same.

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

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Anapodoton

Posted on July 8, 2024 | Leave a comment

Anapodoton (an’-a-po’-do-ton): A figure in which a main clause is suggested by the introduction of a subordinate clause, but that main clause never occurs.

Anapodoton is a kind of anacoluthon, since grammatical expectations are interrupted. If the expression trails off, leaving the subordinate clause incomplete, this is sometimes more specifically called anantapodoton. Anapodoton has also named what occurs when a main clause is omitted because the speaker interrupts himself/herself to revise the thought, leaving the initial clause grammatically unresolved but making use of it nonetheless by recasting its content into a new, grammatically complete sentence.

She yelled, “if you think I’m going to stand here and take your bullshit!” Because she had big feet, the feet were the first thing people noticed. And they made fun of her. She had developed a come back for nearly every foot or shoe joke. Somebody would say “Nice gunboats—they look like battleships.” She would say, “Yeah, they’re gun boats and they’re aimed at your balls, so shut up!”

It was hard to find a decent cobbler, so her shoes were frequently misshapen. She was stuck for six months one time with giant clown shoes that had originally been made for Ronald McDonald, but gave him blisters on his heels because they were too small. At 20 inches long, that’s hard to believe, but Ronald wore a size 22. She, Rosetta, wore a size 20. In winter, she wore specially crafted shoes that looked like snowshoes. It was a real relief not to be teased, until she went indoors and clomped around in her “snowshoes.” The rest of the year was tough. She had special boots made of alligator skin that curled up at the toes—they looked like Mexican pointy boots. She spent her summers in Juarez where she was one of many pointy boot wearers. In addition to alligator she had anteater, plain calfskin, and shark skin pairs made. She picked up the nickname “Botas” (Boots) and felt more respected than she had ever felt in her entire life. Everything was going great, until on night, somebody stole all of her boots out from under her bed. She was panic stricken. If she had new boots made in Juarez, word would get out that she was using them to conceal her giant feet. She was ready to dive out her window, when she thought of cosmetic surgery. She was told when she was young that her feet could not be safely reconfigured with a scalpel.

She looked out her window and saw a boy walking down the street wearing her alligator boots. She yelled out the window, “Hey kid, will you sell me your boots?” The kids asked “What’ll you give me?” “She yelled back “$200, and that’s final. Leave them with the desk clerk, and that’s where the money will be.” The exchange worked perfectly. She wore pillow cases over her feet when she went down to the lobby to pick up the boots. It was like her life had been restored—like she had come back from the grave. She got a padlock for her door and a .357 derringer. “Never again!” she yelled at her mirror and went out to celebrate her good luck.

She got drunk and woke up with an ugly old man trying to pull one of her boots off. She pulled her .357 out of her backpack and aimed it at the old man. He pulled off her boot and was shocked by the size of her foot. She was compromised! In a split second, she decided not to shoot him. Instead, she packed her bags and went back to Wisconsin where her feet were still a secret. As usual, she had to fly first class because her feet wouldn’t fit under economy class seats—even with extra legroom.

When she got home, her friends were waiting for her, with a cake shaped like a pointy boot, candles and balloons. “We know about your feet!” they yelled and presented her with a new pair of pointy boots. It was the high point of her life—accepted, feet and all. Jack Placker stepped out from the crowd, embraced her and asked her to dance. They put on “Dancing With Myself.” Rosetta and Jack went wild. He tripped over her pointy boots, hit his head on the radiator, and was knocked unconscious. An ambulance took him to the hospital, and the next thing she knew, Rosetta was being sued for “wearing dangerous footwear, and thereby, causing bodily harm.” She was shocked. Everything was going so well. She decided to have foot reduction surgery. It was a dangerous procedure. One out of five people died of post surgery complications. Post-surgery, Rosetta developed fatal “complications.” She was found hanging in her garage wearing only one pointy boot. Her death is being investigated as a murder. The missing pointy boot was from what was left of her left foot. There was a note pinned to the remaining boot. It said “Walk a mile in my pointy boot.”

There was a memorial service. The guests all cried, out of grief and shame, and wore pointy boots to show their love for Rosetta. Then, there was a miracle! Rosetta showed up on crutches. The guests were stunned. The police explained that the ruse had worked and Jack Placker had been arrested.

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

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Anesis

Posted on July 6, 2024 | Leave a comment

Anesis (an’-e-sis): Adding a concluding sentence that diminishes the effect of what has been said previously. The opposite of epitasis.

There was nothing to worry about, I had blotted my “t’s” and crossed myself. I had all the bases colored and I was dauntless—like a steam roller with wheels. Like a litter of kittens curled up in a box. Well, maybe I had a little something to worry about. Once again, I had garbled my preparedness similes and metaphors. Let’s just say, I’m ready for spaghetti.

It’s my second anniversary. My wife’s pregnant, and I don’t love her anymore. I’m not sure whether I ever loved her. We met at a hog calling contest in Arkansas. She could make sounds come out of her lips that were hypnotic. The crowd went quiet when she started her call. She articulated her call for a full six minutes, blowing notes that had never been heard before—at the low end it sounded like a baritone frog with tuberculosis. At the high end she sounded like a canary starting to sound like a crow with digestion problems. It was my second contest and I didn’t know what was going on, but the audience sure did. Also, four random pigs came running toward her grunting and drooling.

I lost my mind that day, and have just begun to recover it. The more we spend time together, the more she seems like a pig. She wants to name our child Petunia if it’s a girl, and Porky if it’s a boy. The naming thing confirmed my fears. I started having a recurring nightmare where she was laying on the dining room table with an apple in her mouth. I should be ashamed, but I’m not. However, I did want to fix things. I asked my friend Brad what I should do. He is a leader in the “Pincher Cult.” He believes if he pinches himself in the right place, he will achieve Tornana. He has been pinching for 18 years and hasn’t found his pinch spot yet. However, he has friend, the Earl of Wow Man, that could possibly help out. I asked the Earl for help. He said he would, but my wife had to lay on a table with an apple in her mouth during the procedure. He came over that night. He was wearing pink Bermuda shorts and a white Izod golf shirt— quite different from the animal skins and chicken hat he was wearing when I met him.

He put dimes on my wife’s eyes and a big candle in her hands. He used my Bic to light the candle—it smelled like Old Spice. Then, he petted her and scratched her behind her ears, like she was a big dog. Then, the Earl started speaking tongues. Suddenly he screamed and his eyes started bleeding. He said very clearly “Oink” and collapsed on the floor. Then, he stood up and said “She is possessed by Ham, Maker of Bacon and linker of Smokey Links.” The Earl said we needed an exorcism. This would involve putting a piece of Pork Roll over her mouth and holding it there until Ham rose to her lips to eat the most delicious of all pork breakfast products in the whole world.

Everything went according to plan. Ham was caught and placed in a pickle jar. He was turned loose in a 24-hour diner where he hasn’t bothered anybody yet.

My relationship with my wife is slowly on the mend. In her pregnancy she’s developed a craving for Pork Roll. The Earl says this is “totally normal, man.”

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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Antenantiosis

Posted on July 3, 2024 | Leave a comment

Antenantiosis (an’-ten-an’-ti-os’-is): See litotes. (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 accompli

I am no genius. So what? You all know I am Jasper Magnesium and I finished the Rubic’s Cube faster than can be timed—there is no timepiece anywhere in the world up to the task—not even Switzerland’s famous “Jarlsberg Hydrogen Nano Blaster.” What’s a Rubic’s Cube in the grand scheme of life? Nothing, Less than nothing. If I had had an affair with Jimmy Carter’s wife, Rosalyn, that would be worthy of world wide acclaim. I gave her a stealthy goose at a White House cocktail party celebrating peanut butter’s 100th birthday. She reached behind her and gave me a squeeze and walked away. From this, I concluded the rumors were true. The First Lady liked to fool around. Although never proven, it is rumored that Henry Kissinger fathered Amy Carter during a wild romp at Gamp David.

But what have I REALLY done to actually earn the unreserved praise of my peers?

I have made a life-like animatron of myself. It attends boring events like this one, sits for interviews, cooks dinner, and manages my scams on the internet. In addition, he is a life coach, a race car driver and one of Google’s top three AI innovators. His most recent project was a facsimile Taj Mahal that could not be distinguished from the original. It was claimed that the Pakistanis were involved. But then the so-called “real” Taj Mahal went missing. Thank God they had aperfect facsimile or there would have been war. In sum, my animatron saved the world. That’s something to think about! And moreover, I am the animatron!

My name is Pedro Lasko and I am three years old. Jasper Magnesium has been missing for three years. He went to Cliff’s to buy ten scratch-off lotto tickets, a six pack of “Struggles” beer, and some cheap plastic-tipped menthol cigars. He never returned. He never made it to Cliff’s. Somebody said they saw him coming out of a bank with two pillowcases filled with $100 bills. That could be true. We found two empty pillowcases in his bedroom, a sure sign. We are fearful that Jasper Magnesium is dead.

“I think you hit the nail on the head Lasko.” It was a little man with dark hair wearing a dirty rumpled trench coat, “My name’s Columbus and I’m a homicide investigator with the metropolitan police.” All that Lasko could summon was a startled “Wah?” “We wondered why you never reported your boss missing. Today, we found out why. He’s hanging in the meat locker in the basement, as frozen as a pack of peas. I’m afraid I’m going to have to arrest you.” “Ha ha! Good luck” Lasko cackled as they led him out the door to a waiting police car.

POSTSCRIPT

Since Lasko was an animatron, he couldn’t stand trial. They had to let him go. Since he functioned autonomously, nobody could be blamed for what he had done. It was terrible. Columbus was devastated. There was “one more” question he wanted to ask. We’ll never know what it was. He was run over by a self-driven KIA.

Lasko has taken up a life of crime. He advertises his services on the dark web: “Robo Whacker will remove your woes.”

Legislation is pending to make animatron’s criminally liable.

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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Anthimeria

Posted on July 2, 2024 | Leave a comment

Anthimeria (an-thi-mer’-i-a): Substitution of one part of speech for another (such as a noun used as a verb).

He was a goer—always tapping one foot and looking at the sky. My mother had dropped him on his head three times when he was a baby. The first time it happened she was trying to mix a gin and tonic. She blamed Sylvester for “moving” as if babies weren’t supposed to move. The second time she dropped Sylvester, she was trying to unlock and open the car door, which took two hands. The third time she was holding Sylvester’s hands while she spun around. Although, technically not a drop, she sneezed and let go of Sylvester and he landed in Dad’s prize rose bush. Sylvester was scratched by the bush, but didn’t bleed much.

Sylvester’s “falls” didn’t seem to affect him in any critical ways. Instead of a backpack, he wore a parachute. Instead of a ball cap, he wore a motorcycle helmet. He wore a first aid kit on his belt and kept his cellphone pre-dialed to 911 in case he fell and couldn’t get up. Lately, he’s started growling at things that are red. He had a fit over a radish, foaming at the mouth and scratching himself. Yesterday, he saw some strawberries in the refrigerator and went berserk. He growled and foamed and peed into the refrigerator. That did it,

We were sure his behavior was due to his head injuries. We took him to Dr. Grinder, a noteworthy psychologist specializing in people with mental difficulties. Sylvester was rolling in mental difficulties. After two years, Dr. Grinder determined that everything was my mother’s fault. She showed no remorse until the Doctor told her she should pay reparations for what she had done. She exploded with rage. She pushed Sylvester to the office’s forty-story window. “You wanna hit your head big time?” She yelled at Sylvester. “Yes” he quietly said. My mother shoved him out the window. You could hear him laughing, and then there was a popping sound—it was Sylvester’s parachute deploying! We also heard sirens—Sylvester had hit his pre-dialed 911 and the police were on the way.

My mother was remanded to the “Penal Home for the Criminally Insane.” She is not permitted to carry anything breakable. She has a rubber doll she calls “Sylvester” and throws on the floor repeatedly.

Sylvester is totally cured (of what we’re not sure). He has stopped growling and does not wear his “falling down” equipment any more. In fact, he met a woman who is a professional high-diver. He jokingly says they are making a big splash.

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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Anthypophora

Posted on July 1, 2024 | Leave a comment

Anthypophora (an’-thi-po’-phor-a): A figure of reasoning in which one asks and then immediately answers one’s own questions (or raises and then settles imaginary objections). Reasoning aloud. Anthypophora sometimes takes the form of asking the audience or one’s adversary what can be said on a matter, and thus can involve both anacoenosis and apostrophe.

Am I going to die? No! I take “Spinning Melon” organic extract everyday. The “This Product Contains” label on the bottle says “censored,” which makes it illegal to sell. Although I pay money for it, it is not technically buying, according to the manufacturers. They call it donating to their LLC “Fountain of Yule.”

I had a friend who took “Spinning Melon” every day. He said he was 96, but he looked like a teenager. He said he hung out with Perry Como back in the day. He had an affair with Cuomo’s wife and the local Mafia was hired to hit him. He stopped taking “Spinning Melon” for a week and he turned so old the hitters couldn’t recognize him. He got out of New York and escaped death. He moved to Las Vegas, started taking “Spinning Melon” again and went to work for Wayne Newton. He wrote “Danke Schone” and talked Newton into singing it. It was a hit and Newton was so grateful he paid my friend $5,000 every time he sang it.

So, of course, I started taking “Spinning Melon.” I was 60 and I looked 29. It was amazing until I found out it was made of babies who had died in their cribs and whose corpses were stolen from morgues and sold to Fountain of Yule. It was too gruesome to be true! I had to investigate. I got a job driving a delivery truck for Fountain of Yule. When I interviewed for the job I had to sit behind a screen. I couldn’t see my interviewer, but I could smell him. He smelled like decaying flesh.

I went around to morgues picking up baby-sized body bags. I was sick. My heart was breaking. I had to look in one of the baby bags. I pulled over, climbed in the back of the truck, and unzipped a bag. It contained a watermelon. Yes, a watermelon! I asked my boss, what the hell was going on. From behind the screen, he told me that watermelon juice was the key ingredient in “Spinning Melon.” But, it was special watermelon grown on Incan garden plots located deep in the jungles of Peru. The export of the watermelons is prohibited, so we disguise them as dead babies packed in body bags. The watermelon juice has regenerative properties. What a relation!

So, I asked my boss why he smelled so bad. He told me he had become addicted to fermented shark while traveling in Iceland. It stinks so bad it is served in sealed jars and eaten as quickly as possible.

I’m still working for Fountain of Yule. I’m as young as ever. I’m in charge of watermelon quality control. I have a girlfriend and have developed a taste for fermented shark. Me and Boss share a fermented shark sandwich every once-in-awhile. I like mine on a hamburger bun with tartar sauce.and iceberg lettuce.

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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Antimetabole

Posted on June 30, 2024 | Leave a comment

Antimetabole (an’-ti-me-ta’-bo-lee): Repetition of words, in successive clauses, in reverse grammatical order.

Time stole my pants. My pants stole time. My pants were abducted by a jaunty clock poking away at the future with his lance-like hands. But then, my pants pocketed the clock and bolted out the door in a blur of blue denim. I lived in a fantasy world that gripped me instead of me gripping it. I am completely unable to function as a normal human being. I live in an animate world where everything seemed to have a soul, although they didn’t talk. They moved, and wiggled, and danced and fought with each other. Just last night I witnessed a fight between an aluminum mixing bowl and a potato masher. The bowl was burdened with a good deal of pink cake icing. But, it slowed down the masher, giving the bowl an edge. The fight was refereed by a carrot who seemed to me to be drunk. Then, I observed a bottle of vanilla extract spilled on the granite countertop—a sure sign of intoxication. The granite countertop looked like it was ready to shake the whole mess onto the floor. Of course, the floor looked angry at the prospect and rippled a little.

At that point, my mother waltzed into the kitchen smoking a “Lucky” and clutching a pint-bottle of gin (half-empty). “Cowsill! What are you up to?” she asked. In case you’re wondering, I was named after “The Cowsills” a one-hit wonder 1960’s rock band modeled after the Partridge Family. I was going to change my name to “Luger” when my mother died. I thought naming myself after a Nazi handgun would scare people and keep the bullies off my back. I had an uncle that everybody called “Slasher.” People left him alone, partially because he was in prison.

Anyway, I didn’t know what more I could say to my mother. I had told her in my head countless times that the world was alive—if the hills could be alive with the sound of music, why couldn’t everything else at least be alive, if not with music? I would hold a cocktail glass up to my mouth and start singing “Edelweiss” into it and she would sing along, half-sobbing. It didn’t help me at all.

I couldn’t tell anybody about the animate world I lived in. If I did, I’d get hauled off to the “Jerry Lewis Center.” This was a place where half my family had unwillingly stayed. Lewis’s farting shoes from “The Nutty Professor” were used therapeutically to great effect. But anyway, I kept my mouth shut. Mom’s midnight forays came close to catching me talking to the wall or a soup spoon. But, I was safe.

Then, one night, the world started talking. A dish towel told me to “Get the fu*k out of the kitchen.” Suddenly, the world fell silent again. I followed the dishtowel’s rude advice and discovered that outside of the kitchen objects are inanimate. I would go into the kitchen late at night solely for entertainment. I thanked the dishtowel, but it was it was too soon. The whole world went animate again. I went mad. I tried to poke out my eyes. My mother bought me my own farting shoes. She believes in Jerry. For my part, I’ve developed a friendship with a bedpan. We use Morse code to communicate. He can rattle out a message quite quickly. I put a dowel under him and he moves up and down like a seesaw. I facilitate his communication, like my mother did with my brother Bard, with a computer keyboard. My brother wrote a book about the benevolence of hamsters titled “Hamster Philanthropy and the Rationale of Seed-Based Economies.” He claimed to have interviewed 5,000 hamsters, but his ruse was quickly found out when he was confronted by a women holding a hamster that squeaked loudly and that Bard confessed he didn’t understand. His book booth was dismantled and all copies of his book were recalled.

Well, it’s time for bed. I just wished Pan “sweet dreams.” “Pan” is short for Bedpan. My nurse places him under my bed in case I need his help during the night.

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

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Antimetathesis

Posted on June 29, 2024 | Leave a comment

Antimetathesis (an-ti-me-ta’-the-sis): Inversion of the members of an antithesis.

Thinking makes dizzy. The vertigo makes me nauseous. I think, therefore I barf. Mine is a rare disease: “Wayne Fontana’s Syndrome.” Named after the unpopular 60s rock band “Wayne Fontana and the Mind Benders.” It is not a neurosis or some kind of psychosis. It is purely physical, has a genetic base, and is borne primarily by people of Viking ancestry. It can be managed by taking daily doses of cod liver oil and a half-pound of Minke meat skewered on a fresh-cut branch from a fir tree.

When I was a child, before I had been diagnosed, when they would ask me a simple question, I would fall down and throw up—down and up—it was uncontrollable. I made a mess of my classroom. I was expelled with honors because I usually cleaned up after myself.

We turned to grandpa Olafson Copenhagen for answers. I held my vomit bag under my chin as my mother strapped me into my special vertigo chair. I called it my “Dizzy Chair.”

Grandpa Olaf began: “Millions of years ago a spaceship landed in Denmark carrying colonists from another planet. Oh, ha ha, I am full of shit. Actually, your anscestors came by boat from some unknown place. Along the way they caught a weird fish with antlers that glowed “like the embers of a cooking fire.” They ate it. They all went crazy fighting with each other and jumping overboard. In the end, only your great, great, great, grandfather Ronson was left. He was thirsty when he awakened. He kept falling down and dry heaving as searched for something to drink. He found a jug of cod liver oil and drank it—he was cured! He drank two shots of cod liver oil every day for the rest of his life. Samson, you have inherited the disease. Follow your ancestor’s cod liver oil regime, and throw in a couple of pounds of Minke and you’ll never kiss the floor or think-puke ever again.”

I thanked grandpa and crawled to the bathroom for a slug of cod liver oil. Immediately, I felt better. I headed to the fiish market for some Minke. The proprietor told be Minke fishing would be banned as of July. So, I entered into the fishing business and became a Minke poacher. I take one Minke per year. Accordingly, along with cod liver oil, I am able to manage my “Wayne Fontana’s Syndrome.” Someday, they will find a true cure, and I will no longer have to live like a criminal. Besides, I’m sick of eating Minke and drinking cod liver oil. I long for a plate of fermented shark soaked in olive oil

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

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Antithesis

Posted on June 28, 2024 | Leave a comment

Antithesis (an-tith’-e-sis): Juxtaposition of contrasting words or ideas (often, although not always, in parallel structure).

“You’re the antithesis of good taste.” I didn’t know what he was talking about. “Taste” is a worn out word that had some bang in the 18h century. “Good taste” was the name of the game, but it boiled down to “I know it when I see it.” And coming from the tongue’s chief function, it set the stage for all sorts of nasty consequences rooted in palate talk that went in circles battling over whether something was tasteful or tasteless. Anything that people did or had that were tokens of choice were matters of taste actualized in the media of hair, food, clothing, and art.

There was constant high anxiety among the gentry. They bit their fingernails and had nervous stomachs, often vomiting in their carriages on the way to social events. This went on for hundreds of years. Wars were fought. Dynastys fell. People stopped caring about taste.

In the 21st century “taste and tasteless” have given way to “chic”: to stylish and fashionable, and stylish and fashionable are often taken as insults and ironic barbs “beautiful sweater” is not a compliment. It is an insult it says, “You’re trying too hard.” We live in a time of “negligent diligence.” We try hard not to look like we’re trying hard. And then we come back to the anthesis. While antithetical terms may exemplify hierarchies, that may not be a good reason to choose one over the other. Rather it’s a question of timing (kairos). Or, there’s a time and a place for everything (Ecclesiastes). That’s where antitheses fall off their wagon, spilling “what ifs” between them that reckon their relative status in particular cases. It could be either, or it could be or. Neither has primacy in the play of opposites. Stanley Fish was right: “One person’s hope is another person’s fear. Which is it: Kill your neighbor? Love your neighbor? It depends.

So, I’m sitting by my pool drinking a gin and tonic (my third). I’m shooting at sparrows with my BB gun as they make a racket in the wisteria growing by the pool. I smell like coconuts and my hair is plastered down by “Atomic Gel.” I am smoking a Cohiba and I have a beard. I have a giant crow tattooed on my chest.

My chic-o-meter tells me I’m so stylish it will blow up. Of course, you agree. If you don’t agree, I don’t care. That’s the 21st century.

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

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Antisagoge

Posted on June 27, 2024 | Leave a comment

Antisagoge (an-tis-a-go’-gee): 1. Making a concession before making one’s point (=paromologia); 2. Using a hypothetical situation or a precept to illustrate antithetical alternative consequences, typically promises of reward and punishment.

I know I’m not the world’s smartest man, but I don’t have the to be to know the difference between ale and lager. It’s a close call, but they’re different. They’re both beer, but it takes less lager to get drunk, if you have the right lager in hand, maybe 20-25% alcohol, you get totally shitfaced after six mugs in 20 minutes, and then stumble home or run into a tree with your pickup.

Think about it, you’ve had five ales and you’re still standing. You live in NYC and you’re in for $50. You can still see straight. Your speech isn’t slurred. You didn’t stagger to the men’s room—even after your third visit. You haven’t gotten in any fights. You haven’t even come close to falling off your bar stool. If you stick with ale, you’re looking at another 30-40 dollars down the hatch to get good and drunk. You suck it up and order another ale. I, on the other hand, have already vomited and almost wet my pants. I’m going to have another lager anyway. I’m looking forward to giving everyone the peace sun as the bouncer leads me out the door. I’m no genius, but I think being “bounced” is a noteworthy accomplishment. The last time it happened to me, I got a standing ovation as I was shown to the door.

So there! Walking home drunk from “Zulu Spear Bar and Grill” is dangerous. One section of the street is called “Mugger’s Run.” After 11.00 pm, you run down it as fast as you can with your pockets turned inside out and your wallet stuffed in your underpants. When they ask where your wallet is you tell them: “The guy up the street got it, Sorry.” They’re too lazy to strip search you, so you’re off the hook. Talking about hooks, you’ve got to deal with hookers too. After you refuse their pleasures, they’ll insist on taking selfies with you with your phone. They will put your hand on a part of their anatomy that is incriminating. They’ll take a picture with their phone too and ask for your number so they can text the picture to you. You’re in a drunken haze so you’ll agree to anything (except their advances). Why are you able to nix a romp is your vivid memory of an unholy STD. You had used a condom made in China and it failed—it caught on fire and you were in hospital for a week, fighting the clap and relatively minor burns. So, I had sworn off sex forever. But anyway, you see the selfie the next day on your phone with a “bill” for the photo, taken by a pro on the street. You pay the $50 and get another bill for $50 later that afternoon. You resign yourself to paying $100 a day to keep the photo in the right hands.

There’s more to the drunken walk home, like being chased by rats, tripping over a dead body, seeing an alligator’s head poking out of a storm sewer, seeing a guy playing a guitar with no strings and mouthing the lyrics silently, and worst, a guy in some kind of uniform with a kettle hanging from a tripod, and a hand bell bleeding from a gunshot wound to his shoulder. Nobody called 911. He shouldn’t have been there. It’s bad enough you see him at the mall at Christmas time.

So, in the future, you take a cab, or a bus home, loaded on lager and lost in space.

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

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Antistasis

Posted on June 26, 2024 | Leave a comment

Antistasis (an-ti’-sta-sis): The repetition of a word in a contrary sense. Often, simply synonymous with antanaclasis.

Time was important, but I felt like I was running out of time. I had fallen down a marble staircase. Despite the fall and the injuries I felt privileged. They were the same stairs Mozart had fallen down after a night of drinking. Unlike me, he had stood up at the bottom of the stairs. He walked up them and composed one of his greatest musical wotks, Don Gionetti. It is about an Italian shoe repairman who is overcome by glue fumes, falls down a flight of stairs, wets his pants, and is bitten by his own dog, Mandrake. While he is sitting holding his bleeding hand, Mandrake runs away, but a woman appears wearing a powdered wig fashioned after a tree trunk with a bird’s nest holding a cheeping sparrow. Don Gionetti reaches out and crushes the bird with his hand. “How annoying your hair is madam,” Gionetti says holding up the dead bird. The woman pushed Gionetti down and his head hit the sharp edge of one of stairs. He groaned and dropped the bird. By some kind of miracle it flew back to its perch in the woman’s hair and began cheeping again.

“I am the Marquess of Bolly-Brooke. You are a drunken dog. I out- rank you by the distance from London to Inverness. You are scum. You are filthy. You smell like a barn housing pigs. Your linens are surely soiled. You are a Rotter, a cut-purse, and a seducer of innocents, like me.”

There is a puff of smoke and Gionetti turns into a well-dressed bearer of a royal comportment. “Come my dear, let’s go to “The Rook and Pawn” for a couple flagons of shandy—my treat!” Gionetti suggested.

Off they went together into the unknowable future, lacking in well-functioning faculties like most people of Royal blood. They woke up together with a third person in the bed. He was very apologetic as he expressed his gratitude for a most memorable evening. Neither Gionetti nor the Marguess remembered him being there, although the Marquess thought he looked a lot like her betrothed, sir Norbert of Sticky Gables. .

Clearly Gionetti and the Marquess are part of the 18th century’s lost generation.

They ate lobster three time a day, along with drinking gallons of shandy and smoking tobacco from clay pipes. Mozart had perfectly captured the ethos of time, doing his best work, a work which was to some extent autobiographic.

I am currently writing a musical play titled “Under the Rug. I won’t provide a synopsis here. Suffice it to say the “carpet” is Persian.

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

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Antisthecon

Posted on June 25, 2024 | Leave a comment

Antisthecon (an-tis’-the-con): Substitution of one sound, syllable, or letter for another within a word. A kind of metaplasm: the general term for changes to word spelling.

I was lost. I was always lost. When I was headed to Alabama in search of wisdom and a catfish sandwich. I ended up on the beach in Corpus Christi with a banjo super glued to my knee. I know it sounds crazy, and it is! It took a week to find a solvent that would cut th glue. While I was waiting I had to wear shorts all the time and I pretty much stayed in my hotel room reading. I read four books. The best was “I Was a Teenage Middle-Aged Man.” It grabbed my hart-strings and womped my soul. The man was known as “Bill Booring.” Only gin and tonic would put him on a role—three and he became the lite of the party—juggling 3 flashlights while the other partygoers watched, awestruck.

Anyway, I hired a certified “Wayfinder” to lead me “somewhere.” I had spent more time in the middle of nowhere than any human being should. The middle of nowhere can range from a Kansas cornfield to a Mormon commune somewhere at the outside edge of Utah, somewhere near Nevada. I once spent a week at a landfill that had all the trappings of nowhere—which will remain unstated here. The worst was the Microsoft administrative offices. The people all looked the same—all men, perfect teeth, skinny asses, glasses, white socks with black shoes. They treated me like I was one of those poison toads. When they talked they sounded like mating gerbils—or muskrats in love. When I tried to leave, the supervisor gave me a work pouch—a large zip loc bag containing black shoes, white socks, clip-on teeth and an elastic ass shrinker. I said “No thanks!” And threw the bag on the floor. A “Get Out” app came out of the floor and grabbed me by the feet and dragged me out the door.

The “somewhere” I went to first with my Wayfinder was Grant’s Tomb” in NYC. It was somewhere for sure! It is gigantic and you can smell cigar smoke wafting through the air. Then, we went to Howe Caverns in Central New York. It was a thrill riding the elevator to the caverns and riding in a boat to view them. I thought I saw my dead grandmother float past—it was like the River Styx.

I’ve been traveling with my Wayfinder to “somewheres” around the world. Next, we are headed to a place called Chernobyl. It is in Russia. There, we hope to see the five-legged dog, the man with nine penises and the woman with a fin on her back between her shoulders.

So you can see! No more middle of nowhere for me! We’re speeding to the airport in my Somewhere Mobile. It always takes us somewhere after my Wayfinder programs it.

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

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Antithesis

Posted on June 23, 2024 | Leave a comment

Antithesis (an-tith’-e-sis): Juxtaposition of contrasting words or ideas (often, although not always, in parallel structure).

Either or. In out. You know what I’m talking about—all the opposites that send us on decision’s trajectory, and may be accented by all the in-between, which themselves maybe further divided. We live in a world of thought that is fissured and refissured, over and over.

The divisions create conflict, hierarchies, and coerced choosing. I see it every day at my fruit stand. “Oh dear, should I get the strawberries or blueberries?” I say “get both” and some customers do get both. But most go into a quandary and I end up telling them which one to choose. People with lots of money tend to buy one of everything—from apples to zoo fruit, which is a really weird fruit. Two bites and you become a honey bear—only in your head. Zoo Fruit is still legal, but not for long. People who are “on” the fruit can be seen trying to climb telephone poles and rummaging for figs in the grocery store, or surreptitiously eating a mango in the grocery store’s back storage area, making loud slurping sounds and bouncing up and down. If you know what’s going on, it shouldn’t be alarming, but if you’re not familiar with the Mango Dance it can be shocking. The police are routinely summoned and they have to explain what’s going on to the naive observer. This usually works out just fine. Yet, there is a group that want Zoo Fruit banned.

They claim the “Zoosters” make a mess and mate in the back rooms of grocery stores.These assertions are both lies. There has never been a recorded instance of either one. In fact, the opposition group was caught making a sexually explicit movie in a grocery store to pass off as zoosters mating. They were fined $3,000 and prohibited from the back rooms of grocery stores forever.

Still, the legalization of Zoo Fruit is in jeopardy. Mango growers are up in arms over the mango eating zoosters giving their product a bad name. We laugh at that!

Anyway, I have to help this customer make a choice between apples and oranges. She says she teaches logic at Martha Washington College. In her mind apples and oranges are an irreconcilable binary—like spam and pork roll—that can’t be mixed. Buying both would violate logic’s primary axiom and put her life into free fall. I recommended she consider the peaches. She picked an apple up and ran away, stepping in a large puddle, slipping, falling down and dropping the apple. People started laughing and she yelled, “Do you know who I am?” Somebody said “Nobody gives a shit lady, this is New York.” I picked up my apple and threw it at her. It hit her in the head. Then I said, “That’ll be a Buck-fifty Ma’m. Cash only. I’ll throw the orange in for free.”

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

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Antitheton

Posted on June 22, 2024 | Leave a comment

Antitheton (an-tith’-e-ton): A proof or composition constructed of contraries. Antitheton is closely related to and sometimes confused with the figure of speech that juxtaposes opposing terms, antithesis. However, it is more properly considered a figure of thought (=Topic of Invention: Contraries [a topic of invention in which one considers opposite or incompatible things that are of the same kind (if they are of different kinds, the topic of similarity / difference is more appropriate). Because contraries occur in pairs and exclude one another, they are useful in arguments because one can establish one’s case indirectly, proving one’s own assertion by discrediting the contrary]).

The full moon was like a pitted rock hanging in the sky. Its beams of light were soft and bright, casting shadows across the mall parking lot. The street lights’ shadows stretched across the asphalt making it seem like daytime. I had been sitting there for an hour, waiting for Becky, waiting for our bi-monthly romp at the “Gallopin’ Rabbit” motel. We were both married. We were both wicked. I had met Becky at church. She sat close to me, touching me. When we stood to sing the hymn, she squeezed my butt cheek and stuffed a business card in my back pocket. My wife didn’t even notice. She was too busy praising the Lord.

When I got home, I read the card: “Lookin’ for love in all the wrong places. Becky: 214–555-6969.” Should I call her? If I do, it will probably end badly. But, I would miss out on the pleasures of the flesh that surely awaited me with Becky. i thought it might ruin my marriage. But I laughed to myself—“My marriage is already ruined. Haha.”

So I called her and we met at the Gallopin’ Rabbit. We went wild. The room’s windows were steamed up and I learned two new positions—the “Merry-Go-Round” and “Mozart’s Banana.” My life was complete. Becky had become my shelter in life’s storms.

We were going to meet tonight in my car to discuss the possibly of divorcing our spouses and getting married.

Suddenly there was a bump on my car’s rear bumper. I thought it was Becky fooling around. It wasn’t. It was a red 1960 Plymouth. I recognized it because it was the first car I ever loved as a kid. A short man with a foot long white beard wearing a New York Yankees uniform got out of the Plymouth. I got out of my car and walked up to him. He punched me in the nose and yelled “You’re wreckin’ your life boy. You’re on the highway to hell. Forget about Becky. Play ball with me and you’ll be Ok. I’m Yogi’s grandfather. Would I lie?”

Just then, Becky pulled up. She and the old man got in his car and drove away, burning rubber. I just stood there. I thought about chasing them down, but, then I thought “Why bother. I don’t want her any more. She’s no good.” Then the Plymouth flew overhead with the Shirelles blasting “Will you still love me tomorrow.” That was like another punch in the nose, but the flying Plymouth erased all my doubts about everything I ever doubted. Nobody would believe me when I told them about it. I gave up and stopped caring.

One day when I was headed out to work, I saw Becky dead on my front lawn. She was wearing a short black dress and red high heels. She looked like she had fallen from the sky. Her neck and back were broken. I knew exactly what had happened, but I wasn’t going to tell anybody. I reported it to the police and went to work. Later that day I was called in for questioning. The police had found a nude photograph of me tucked in Becky’s bra. I was arrested and tried for murder. In the newspaper it was called the “Front Lawn Murder.” I got off on a technicality. I had a nervous breakdown and am currently under care at “Root and Branch Home for Total Lunatics.” One of the orderlies is a short old man with a foot-long white beard. Whenever we cross paths he points at me laughs and I yell “Murderer!”

I was finally allowed to go on a home visit. When I got there in a cab, I saw a red 1960 Plymouth back out of the driveway and run over the spot where Becky had fallen from the sky. The Shirelles were playing on the radio. I got out of the cab, walked to the front door and rang the doorbell. My wife answered the door wearing a scanty nightgown, surely from Frederick’s of Hollywood. She said, “I wasn’t expecting you.” I took her by the hand and walked into the kitchen, turned on the blender and stuck her hand in it. We told the insurance company it was an accident. She was remorseful about the bearded man and told me she would never tell how I was responsible for the loss of her left hand. Then, I heard a horn honking in the driveway. It was the red 1960 Plymouth. I ran upstairs and got my .45 so I could blow the bastard away. By the time I got downstairs, he was gone. There was a note in the driveway: “I hope you’re enjoying my twin brother’s company at Root and Branch. Haha. Lunatic.”

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

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Aphaeresis

Posted on June 20, 2024 | Leave a comment

Aphaeresis (aph-aer’-e-sis): The omission of a syllable or letter at the beginning of a word. A kind of metaplasm.

‘Bout time you got here Bozo. You know, time does not last forever. It is like a frozen lily or a bowl of ice cream. Here today, gone to Hoboken tomorrow. It’s complicated. It’s complex. It’s convoluted. It goes tick tock or it hums with electric inner workings.

I tried to explain the majesty of time to my nephew. I bought him a wristwatch on his third birthday. He said, “Time fly” and threw it at the living room wall, laughing. The watch was destroyed. I wanted to hit him, but I knew my sister would get mad, so I hit her instead. She punched me between the eyes and I fell down. When I woke up I had a cuckoo clock mounted on my head. I couldn’t remove it and it never needed winding. I would cuckoo every hour, without fail. I’d be riding on the bus and I’d start to cuckoo. It irritated the other passengers, and often, I’d be removed from the bus forcefully by them—once when the buss was moving.

So finally, I got a job as a cuckoo clock in a pawn shop. I was not for sale and lived in the back room of the pawn shop, “Mr. Fence’s.”

Then one day I was standing there marking time when a pocket watch flew through the door like a flying saucer. It hovered in front of my face and said “Your time is up.” My cuckoo clock fell off my head and smashed on the floor. I was “normal” again! I thanked the pocket watch and it said “no problem” as it settled in to the top of my head.

Suddenly my mind was filled with sayings about time—time flies, time is a thief, a stitch in tine, let the good times roll, etc. I didn’t know what it all meant. But I felt like I was becoming a ticking time bomb. I lost my job and wandered the streets of Athens, GA. The pocket watch said “You need a time out.” The pocket watch had an alarm. I was hired by a wealthy man to be his human alarm clock. He would set me before he went to bed and I would wake him up in the morning. If he did not get up, I would yell at him. One morning he hit me in the face with a hiking boot. I had no idea why. I retaliated with my box cutter. Now I’m serving 12 years for manslaughter. Time passes slowly here in prison, but there’s a time and a place for everything. I’ll serve my time and then take my time rebuilding my life. My hope is to learn how to repair wall clocks, and time is on my side. I’m only 34. The pocket watch is hidden away in my hair. He served my time with me. We’re together all the time, but he stopped talking to me. I think his battery went dead around five years ago. Oh well, off we go. We can’t afford to waste any time.

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

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Aphorismus

Posted on June 19, 2024 | Leave a comment

Aphorismus ( a-phor-is’-mus): Calling into question the proper use of a word.

Rick: He has a peach on his mind. Me: I think you mean “leech.”

Rick: oh you must be right, even though it never occurred to me. Your book “Right Word, Right Life” shows should’ve been in my hand. I wear it around my neck on a bootlace, but I’m reticent to use it all the time. Me: Uh oh. It’s “hesitant” not “reticent.” Shame on you for word abuse. I’m gong to have to fine you $50. I let “peach” slide. It is a common and quite harmless error. In fact, peach is the most misused word in the English language, right next to “addendum.” There’s an ATM right across the street. Get the money or you’re going to the Thesaurus for the night. You’ll be made to say the same thing in different ways until bedtime. You will be given a ten pound dictionary for a pillow and expired galley proofs for a blanket—boring classifieds from years ago.

Nobody knows why, but “Criers” are housed in Thesaurus too. Criers have an inherited malady that has been traced to the Stoic Marcus Aurelius. Criers cry for no reason. Sometimes they sniffle, but often they blow a bomb laced with machine gun-like sobs. That’s why they are jailed here in our little corner of dystopia. Marcus Aurelius developed Stoicism in an attempt to stem crying. It didn’t work, so he came up with idea that you can’t control how people see you, so screw it and them. This made him happy.

Roy Orbison is a noteworthy 20th century Cryer. He was “all right for a while” but then he had an uncontrollable crying fit, and had a hit record.

So now you have the whole picture. Get me the $50 now or I’m calling backup.

Rick: I’m reticent to . . .

Me: Stop! I’m calling backup. Be prepared to be kept awake by the Cryers! You fool. You foul-mouth turkey butt. You’re a rotten peach.

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

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

Apocope

Posted on June 17, 2024 | Leave a comment

Apocope (a-pok’-o-pe): Omitting a letter or syllable at the end of a word. A kind of metaplasm.

“Nothin’ says lovin’ like somethin’ from the oven.” Why do I remember this? I don’t remember what it’s a slogan for—maybe oven, or cake or a Thanksgiving turkey. I can see us now—huddled around the table—the table piled high with steaming food. My Grandfather would slip out his 2 foot carving knife—so dull it shouldn’t be called a knife. It was more like a tire iron. He’d slam it down on the turkey, and as he started to carve, the turkey would move around propelled by the dull blade

Uncle Carmine would yell “Chadrool” from across the table and pull out a ten inch switchblade knife, get up, and push my grandfather out of his chair. He had the turkey sliced and diced in about two minutes—he was like one of those Japanese chefs at Benihana. Aunt Candice told Carmine he should apologize to grandpa for pushing him. He told he to go “F” herself. Her husband, Uncle Buck didn’t like that one bit. He told Carmine “You apologize to Candice or I’ll cut off your nuts and put ‘em in the gravy.”

Carmine was ready to blow. Then Grandma chimed in: “Stop this bullshit right now—nobody’s going to cut off anybody’s nuts. This is Thanksgiving for God’s sake. Carmine! Apologize!” Carmine closed his switchblade and apologized.

Uncle Filbert started the prayer. He was a fake Catholic Bishop. He had no pull or influence as such. His primary motive was the vestments. He loved going to the mall in full dress and have people make the sign of the cross at him, and from time to time he would say “Bless you.” He began the prayer: “Father, thank-you for the bounty we are . . .”

Carmine yelled “Fuc*k you!” He grabbed his wife’s arm and headed for the door. Filbert yelled “You Goddamn hothead. Go! Leave! Get out of here. May your mother burn in hell!” Carmine pulled his knife and started climbing across the table. Filbert held up his cruxifix like he was trying to ward off a vampire. Grandpa hit Carmine over the head with a silver gravy boat. The gravy poured over Carmine’s face and he hit the floor out cold.

Thanksgiving dinner went on with unconscious Carine stretched out on the kitchen floor. It was peaceful. It was family like it ought to be. After we finished dessert, Grandma called an ambulance for Carmen. As they wheeled him out the front door we yelled “Asshole” in one familial voice. He heard us and started struggling on the gurney. Grandpa said “We shoulda’ killed him.” We all laughed, even Carmine’s wife and children.

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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Apodixis

Posted on June 16, 2024 | Leave a comment

Apodixis (a-po-dix’-is): Proving a statement by referring to common knowledge or general experience.

A. I can tell you’re sad—you’re crying.

B. I’m not crying, I’m whimpering and I’m not crying, my eyes are watering from the cigarette smoke filling your room. I’m going to open a window.

A. Open the window and you’re going out the window. I have a smoke lizard from Columbia. They live on the walls of bars where there’s plenty of smoke in Columbia, they are nourished by nicotine and go crazy without it. They will attack your face and tear off your lips. My smoke lizard’s name is “Don Quixote” and he makes a little squeaking noise when he wants me to light him a cigarette.

B. This is crazy. Do you expect me to believe your bullshit about a smoking lizard? This is the worst first date I ever had—you scare me.

A. Calm down. He’s just a little lizard—only one inch long.

B. I feel something crawling up my leg! Ew—it’s a tiny lizard—ew get it off

A. Don’t swat it! He’ll emit a potentially fatal gas. I’m sorry, but we’re in a world of shit. No! Don’t do it.

POSTSCRIPT

She swatted Don Quixote. They were both dead in seconds. One the EMTs heard a cute little squeaking noise. Don Quixote came running out of a closet and scampered up his pants looking for a cigarette. There were none. He became enraged and ate the EMTs lips. There was a lot of screaming and blood. Then, Don Quixote died.

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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Aporia

Posted on June 13, 2024 | Leave a comment

Aporia (a-po’-ri-a): 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 [=diaporesis].

“Do you like women out on work release?” That’s what it said on the dating site “Dating the Damned.” It was sponsored by the New York State Department of Corrections. It was believed that forming relationships would help rehabilitate offenders. The name of the site was offensive, but it had been coined by the Director who is known for his insensitivity, hollowness, and broken sense of humor, He has a chair in his office labeled “The Chair,” after the electric chair, a banned form of execution due to its cruelty and frequent malfunctioning, where for example victims would smoke and bounce around and survive, only to be re-executed the following day. And then, if he has negative feedback, you “get the chair” by being made to sit in the chair while he yells at you.

So I say to myself, “Should I give the woman on work release a spin? What could be the possible benefit? There’s only one way to find out.” I contacted her. Her name was Martha Muzzle. We made a date to meet at I-Hop. She ordered the Pink Pirate pancakes. She poured ketchup on them and spit n them and stabbed them repeatedly with a knife. She had a twisted look on her face and said “you bastard” over and over as she stabbed the pancakes. I told her I thought she was she was filled with emotion and it was beautiful. She pointed the knife at me and said “Good. How’d you like to be my next bastard?” I looked at my watch and said “Wo! It’s time for you to get back to the half-way house. I’ll drive you.” As we drove along, I noticed she had stolen the knife from I-Hop, and it was pointing at my leg. She said “Feel like bleeding?” Without waiting for my answer, she jammed the knife into my leg and said, “The halfway house is right there. I’ll get out and walk. I hope we can have another date.” She kissed me on the cheek and hopped out of my car.

I drove myself to the hospital. They asked what had happened. As I told them they nodded their heads and told me I was the fifth victim that month. I called the police. They told me she was about to go back to prison and that she would be tried for multiple stabbings, none of them fatal. I couldn’t contain my anger. I got my old baseball bat out of my garage and went to the halfway house to beat her to death. She opened the door and stabbed me in the stomach. I fell to the floor and she yelled “You bastard!” and kicked me in the stomach. Luckily, one of the residents called the police and an ambulance.

I’ve healed, but I’m lonely. For some reason “Dating the DamnEd” still appeals to me. In a way Martha Muzzle was exciting, even though she almost cost me my life. My new interest is Bongos Beatty. I’ve bought a Glock to take on our first date. Self defense is always a good excuse for murder.

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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Aposiopesis

Posted on June 12, 2024 | Leave a comment

Aposiopesis (a-pos-i-o-pee’-sis): Breaking off suddenly in the middle of speaking, usually to portray being overcome with emotion.

My time is. . . is run . . . ing out. The clouds are gathering. My sight is dimming. Shot 42 times in the stomach I should be dead already. I can hear you asking through the fog of my demise: “How do you know it’s 42 times.” I don’t know. It’s hyperbole, a figure of speech. Maybe if I said 100 times it would be clearer that I’m exaggerating for effect. You know, like there’s a million reasons for you to shut up and let me die in peace. But, there wasn’t going to be any peace. A dog started barking in his face and a car alarm went off and a motorcycle roared by.

Maybe his final wish would be fulfilled: win $5,500 on the Take Five scratch-off lotto ticket. His brother Thor was kneeling alongside him. They had been on their way to the marijuana dispensary to get a vape for their dad for Father’s Day. With great effort he pulled his wallet from his back pocket, pulled out a dollar, and told his brother to go to Cliff’s and get him a Take Five scratch-off lotto ticket, and also, call an ambulance.

He had been shot up by a gang of crackheads who roamed the neighborhood, mugging people, pushing people down and yelling insults—then they’d go back to their crackden and gloat over the evil they’d done. Somehow, they had gotten their hands on a bunch of handguns. They were shooting them in the air and dancing around. One of them tripped and accidentally shot him. If only he had been running his usual 3-card Monte scam, he would not have been shot. The crackheads had apologized promised him an ounce of crack if he kept his mouth shut.

Keeping his dying wish, his brother came running up the sidewalk waving the lotto ticket. He handed it to his brother who vigorously scratched it. It won a free Take Five ticket. He tore it up, dug out another dollar and told his brother to get another one.

Just then, the ambulance pulled up. The attendant said “What’s this red stuff?” and laughed. He said, “It’s my blood you f-ing shit for brains!” The attendant said “if you keep talking to me like that, we’ll leave you here.” He laughed again. They loaded him in the ambulance and took off for the hospital siren blaring. He underwent 6 hours of surgery, removing the bullets from his stomach. He died asking for his lotto ticket.

Meanwhile, his brother came back and nobody was there, so he scratched off the lotto ticket. He had hit the $5,500 jackpot. He kept it for himself.

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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Apostrophe

Posted on June 11, 2024 | Leave a comment

Apostrophe (a-pos’-tro-phe): Turning one’s speech from one audience to another. Most often, apostrophe occurs when one addresses oneself to an abstraction, to an inanimate object, or to the absent.

“Marty had a little clam. It’s shell was brown as mud. It followed him to school one day and was dissected in biology class. Mrs. Smart pulled out his guts and swung then around, making them go up and down. The clamshell was made into a brooch painted with purple flowers. Marty sold it at the farmers market for”$2.00 and bought 10 comic books for him to read in bed.”

Now, this story is all well and good with the exception of the walking clam. There is no such thing as a walking clam. If there were, they’d sell clam leashes at pet stores. And that’s that. The story is fictional, and certainly, is a vehicle for animal activists—the clam as alive when it is dissected—alive! If clams could only speak and cry out. What would the clam say?

What would you say clam? “Ow that hurts. Stop. You are killing me. Ooh that’s my belly! Yaaaa! Hellp! My foot—it’s ooozing.”

Now you are dead poor clam—diced up for no good reason. Laid out on a blood-stained table for the children to see—to learn it’s ok to hack things up for, in this case, for a lesson in biology. And then, the children are given dead frogs to hack up and revel in removing their organs and learning the organs’ names which should be “perversion” and “madness.” The children go home and attempt to to practice their new found skill on their puppies. They put the puppy in the oven and turn on the gas. Once the gas has done its job, they take the puppy out of the oven, lay it on a cutting board on the counter by the kitchen sink. They find a steak knife and begin their macabre task. When his mother returns home she sees the horrific scene: Buffer’s insides neatly arranged on the cutting board. Timmy walks slowly toward her with the steak knife pointed in her direction. She calls the police on the phone behind her on the wall. By the time the police arrive, it is too late for Timmy’s mother. Timmy had her liver and kidneys neatly arranged on the kitchen floor. He looked at Sgt.. Meally with a twisted grin and asked: “Do I get an A?”

Timmy became known as the “Dissection Devil.” He was convicted of murder and is serving a life sentence in the Iowa State Home for Convicted Criminals. Timmy pleaded insanity, but that was rejected because he had learned what he did in school in his biology class. Now, he strives to catch rats in the prison yard. Since he’s not allowed to have a knife, he tears them apart with his bare hands and arranges their insides neatly on the yard’s dirt surface.

What is the moral of this story? Knowledge is dangerous. If you don’t need it to do your job, stay away from it.

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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Apothegm

Posted on June 10, 2024 | Leave a comment

Apothegm (a’-po-th-e-gem): One of several terms describing short, pithy sayings. Others include adage, gnome, maxim, paroemia, proverb, and sententia.

“If you have a jar, you have a lid.” For hundreds of years this saying has been used in Belgium to catch criminals. It is like the American saying: “Where there’s smoke there’s fire.” The “smoke” might be a robber’s loot. The “fire” may be the robbery. It is all complex and deeply enmeshed in drawing inferences. Instead of simply asking, “Where did you get that?” The saying projects a sophisticated nuance that dazzles the perpetrator, keeping them from fleeing while they try to figure out what you mean.

Sayings have been used to great effect over the course of human history. In fact, they have been around since prehistoric times. There is a cave painting in France that depicts a cave person talking a bite out of a roasted hairy mammoth. Clearly, it is telling us “Don’t bite off more than you can chew.” This sage advice reaches through eons to affect our decision-making in the 21st Century. How many times have you employed it to keep from overdoing something—like cooking dinner and doing the laundry at the same time. Don’t bite off more than you can chew! Remember that the next time you agree to take care of your brother’s pet bird when he goes on vacation!

What about “In the valley of the blind the one-eyed man is king”?

This saying is highly insulting and perpetuates disparaging myths about seeing-impaired people. It goes hand-in-hand with Nietzsche’s unremitting belief that only Superman is equipped to control the world by bragging about how about great he is with his two eyes and hands and arms and legs and feet. Bah!

People with one eye have achieved success in life, even to the point of being portrayed on playing cards as the “One-Eyed Jack.” One-eyed people can excel in almost all walks of life. Although they respect them, they don’t need blind people to promote their interests.

Anyway, what about “Visitors and fish stink after 3 days?” This was coined by Simon, one of Jesus’ fishing buddies. Some say he had Judas in mind. Anyway, like a lot of things he did and said, Ben Franklin stole this saying, attributing it to himself in his book “Big Ben’s Wise Sayings.” Alas, the stinking fish allusion has become an anomaly with the advent of refrigeration. However, it is still possible to catch a whiff from canned cat food, sardines and pickled herring. Also, the advent of Air B&B has trashed the three day rule, with hosts allowing unlimited sojourns in their dwellings. This shows there is nothing timeless about sayings—the human condition, like everything else, changes.

I’ve never been able to “See the forest for the trees.” I just don’t think you can “see” a forest, except maybe from an airplane or helicopter. That said, I’m going to fade away—back into oblivion where some mode of public transportation will carry me home where my heart is.

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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Appositio

Posted on June 9, 2024 | Leave a comment

Appositio (ap-po-sit’-i-o): Addition of an adjacent, coordinate, explanatory or descriptive element.

Life was good—good as a slice of pumpkin pie. I was living the sensual life—no reins, no steering wheel, no rudder. If anything directed my trip through life it was cheesecake, chocolate candy and marshmallow fluff. I frequented soda fountains and candy stores. Sometimes I’d pop a Jolly Rancher out of nostalgia. Once in awhile I remembered my elementary school days when I started my turn toward sensuality. It was the chocolate pudding served with lunch that hooked me in sugary treats.

I inherited a fortune when I was 19. Self indulgence is not much of a feat. I have bins of candy in the basement of my mansion. The basement smells so delicious it brings tears to my eyes. Taking a page from Scrooge McDuck’s book, I swim in my candy daily—my favorite flavor to swim in is cherry—the fragrance is intoxicating.

Every morning I have a bowl of malted milk balls in heavy cream followed by two raspberry jelly donuts and a shot of Lumber Jack Joe maple syrup from my 200 acre sugar bush in northern New York. I’d set my Stairlift on full speed to get down to breakfast. It went so fast, I got butterflies, but maybe they were just in anticipation of starting another sweetened day. After breakfast my butler would help me put on my swimming trunks and help me get seated in the Jacuzzi. I would have a glass of Kool-Aid plus—my own invention with quadruple sugar and a handful of sour balls and one cup of grenadine syrup. This was the time of day when I composed poetry about my obsession and good fortune to be surrounded by sweets:

“On my tongue,

Not my lung

The red hot dollar lay

And chewed and swallowed

it would pay

My desire’s flicking flame.”

I wrote this just last week as I was wiggling my toes in the Jacuzzi. It is titled “Red Hot Dollar.” It queries he price of desire. It will be worked into the opera I am composing titled “Caked in Trouble.”

Next, my butler hauls me out of the Jacuzzi with our water-ski tow rope and ferries me off to lunch in our battery-powered “Little Roller.” I eat outside whenever I can, getting my Vitamin D and a healthy tan. A typical lunch consists of a craft made Peruvian dark chocolate bar on rye, sprinkled with chocolate flavored Jimmie’s, soaked with chocolate syrup and topped with Fluff and a dollop of peanut butter. The beverage is mango keifer blended with molasses and Red Bull. After lunch, I feel like I’ve died and gone to heaven. I ride Little Roller back up to the mansion and my butler lifts me out with a tow truck crane bolted to the concrete driveway and sets me down on my feet.

Walking is difficult, but I make it to the media room. I watch “Charlie and the Chocolate Factory” until it is time for dinner. With great effort I make it to the dining room. I sit on my throne at the head of the table and survey the meal set before me.

First, I notice the chocolate-covered yams. Hmmm. Then I see a small gumdrop mountain on my salad plate—bravo! Kudos to the chef. Next—a chocolate five foot replica of the White House filled with blackberry jam. I almost fainted—it combined so many edifying themes. There were other lesser dishes. One that stood out was sugar-covered wild boar jerky. We had a light desert—hills of whipped cream garnished with red M&M’s.

Time for bed with a bowl of “Carnal-Nut” ice cream and 3 packs of Little Debbie “Swiss Rolls.” They remind me of Heidi without the goats. Well, it’s been another stellar day consuming my nummie edibles! Good night!

POSTSCRIPT

Known worldwide as “The Sweetest Man,” Edward Ronka lived his life steeped in sweets. He died last week from every known malady associated with over indulgence in sweets. At 425 pounds, he was a formidable presence. Watching him consume sweets with two hands was awe inspiring, especially handfuls of candy kisses. We will miss him as a symbol of freedom from the constraints of good judgment and moderation.

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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