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Catachresis

Posted on May 24, 2024 | Leave a comment

Catachresis (kat-a-kree’-sis): The use of a word in a context that differs from its proper application. This figure is generally considered a vice; however, Quintilian defends its use as a way by which one adapts existing terms to applications where a proper term does not exist.

I was parking my thoughts under the overpass. Then, I would abandon them—leaving them behind like a salad with no croutons—just romaine lettuce, cheddar chew, cherry tomatoes and cucumbers, with oil and vinegar dressing. The more words I use, the more likely it is that ai’ll say what I mean to say. I am reticent to speak my mind because the world waits to respond and I have to pretend I care. I am not good at that as my wife will tell you. She’s filing for divorce because I didn’t on’t “listen.”

So what if she was yelling for help when she got stuck in the dishwasher. She got out on her own, Anyway, you’d think she was helpless the way she talks. I believe that “No island is a man.” Anybody can see that. So why do we keep trying to make islands into men? Think about it. I think it might make sense to a poet or a king, or a geographer.

Anyway, I’m going to take a walk down by he river. I like to look at the garbage washed up on the bank. I especiallynnnnnń like shopping carts. They are like woven metal sculptures with wheels. How do they end up there? I think it’s my wife. She’s Trang to please me to make up for the divorce.

This how I wrestle with my thoughts. It is as if they don’t exist. I don’t wonder any more. I drink and do unsafe things—like going home.

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

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Cataphasis

Posted on May 22, 2024 | Leave a comment

Cataphasis (kat-af’-a-sis): A kind of paralipsis in which one explicitly affirms the negative qualities that one then passes over.

Joey: Your interior decorating skills have made your home look like a nouveaux rest stop. The only thing missing are the urinals and the antiseptic smell. But I don’t have the time to rant and rave about your decor. Let’s take a swim in your pool.

What the hell is that in your pool? What? A friggin’ manatee!

Barbara: I got it at the pool supply store Swim! for $600. I licks the algae off the side of the pool and make chirping sound when intruders enter the yard. Last week we caught a feral poodle that had to be put down by animal control. He was wearing a collar that said Pierre on it.

Joey: But the manatee takes up half the pool! And the manatee poop sort of disgusting. It looks like floating potatoes.

Barbara: That’s true. I hired Wes from Swim! To keep things clean and keep me focused with poolside exercises. He’s a genius. My favorite is “put the ice cream in the cone.” I sit on a traffic cone while he spins me around.

Joey: That’s disgusting. I think Wes has made you into some kind of pervert.

Barbara: That may be true but his “Perversion” has made me into a more relaxed, open and fearless person. I can handle just about anything. With Wes behind me I don’t feel pushed or shoved. Rather, I feel like a pony delivering mail on the the Pony Express. I surprise my neighbors plucking their mail from their mailboxes and delivering it to their doors in my mouth with a celebratory whinny. Wes comes along to explain. I don’t know what he says because he goes in my neighbors’ houses and spends about an hour with women, and five minutes if it is only a men are home. Anyway, as you can see it’s all above board.

Joey: I don’t know what hoard you’re talking about. Pallet board? I thought your home decor was a horror. But it is eclipsed by your Wes escapades. I’m guessing he was recently released from someplace— like maybe a mental facility.

Barbara: Yes! He recently got out of “Left-Handed Studies Institute—about five years ago. They study left-handed people for criminal tendencies. Wes was left-handed and took pleasure in choking chickens with it when he was a boy. After choking 226 chickens his mother sent him to the Left-Handed Studies Institute, where he lived for thirty-two years being presented with a chicken every day until he lost interest in them and took up an interest in marine biology and obtained a degree from UC Santa Cruz. Hence, his interest in pool maintenance. Alice (my manatee) was his senior project at Santa Cruz.

So, don’t worry about Wes. He’s on the up and up.

Joey: Up what? It is clear to me that he’s a nutcase. Some day he’s going to confuse you with a giant leghorn and send you to the big nesting box in the sky. I say, tell him to take a hike. Buy him a plane ticket if you have to.

Barbara: Don’t be silly Joey. We’re getting married and he’s moving in with me. The only difficulty is that he insists that my manatee come to the wedding as a bridesmaid. We’re working it out.

Joey: You better work it out or things might get dicey.

POSTSCRIPT

The first responders found Alice dressed as a bridesmaid, lying on top of Barbara, suffocating her. Wes was nowhere to be found, but he left a note that was gibberish: “wa ooh, wa ohh gropple we Ho.” It was determined that it was written in porpoise, but in a dialect nobody understood.

Joey sent flowers.

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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Cataplexis

Posted on May 21, 2024 | Leave a comment

Cataplexis (kat-a-pleex’-is): Threatening or prophesying payback for ill doing.

Husband: You have done me wrong. I am on fire with anger. You ignited my matchbook collection. They traced my travels through the 70s. The 100s of bars I hit, slowly building my collection of East Coast matchbooks, sometimes going to a bar just to get a matchbook.

My collection won first prize in ‘78 in the National Assemblers Sweepstakes. All you cared about was the giant wine glass I kept them in and how “ugly” it looked as a centerpiece on the dining room table. It was an icon—a token of excellence from a time gone by, along with my disco suit folded in the chest up in the attic waiting to be resurrected as time reaches back to the past and time returns us to the good times when bell bottoms flapped and the top three buttons of our shirts were unbuttoned revealing our manly chests. It is people like you who want to obliterate my past, to make me a living anomaly—a doorway to nowhere, a highway to hell. A living landfill.

Well baby, we know we all collect something. We gather together objects that are the same in some way—like matchbook! My beloved matchbooks! Damn you! Well, have you seen your thimble collection lately? I know, your answer is “No.” That’s because I have—that damn tray with your carefully arranged thimbles—metal, wood, ceramic, rubber, plastic—antique to contemporary. I’m especially going to enjoy crushing the Mary Todd Lincoln thimble she used to repair the seat of Abraham’s pants because he insisted on wearing cheap suits for at least four-score and seven years. Then I’m going to grind up the Winston Churchill thimble—made of rubber and used by his doctor to examine Churchill’s prostate. It saved Churchill’s life when it was discovered he had an enlarged prostate and stopped eating fish and chips. Then, there’s the John Glenn thimble he carried to moon in case his spacesuit got a leak, he could sew it shut. Part of his training involved sewing classes. He was supposed to embroider a lunar landscape, but was unable to do so because of “issues” with the lunar lander. I can’t wait to turn the John Glenn thimble into dust, along with commie dictator Kennedy’s portrait on the tip.

Wife: Where are my thimbles you loon?

Husband: At the divorce lawyer’s. I’m holding them hostage until you beg for my forgiveness for destroying the greatest matchbook cover collection ever.

Wife: If you must know, I staged their demise—I burned random matchbooks to account for the collection’s absence from the dining room table, I had a crystal chalice made for it for your birthday. It was a bad decision, but all’s well that ends well. Right?

Husband: Well umm . . .

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

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Charientismus

Posted on May 20, 2024 | Leave a comment

Charientismus (kar-i-en-tia’-mus): Mollifying harsh words by answering them with a smooth and appeasing mock.

Bill: You’re the world’s biggest schmuck.

Me: That’s totally wrong! You’re talking about my brother! He’s the king of the schmuck-a-lucks. He makes me look smart and likeable like Santa’s Claus or the Cat in the Hat.

Shh. Here he comes. What’s that you’ve got there?

Brother: A magnifying glass. I thought we could fry some ants. Sizzling ants makes me happy.

Me: You’re 26 years old and I’m 30. My time for frying ants has passed.

Brother: Then what about this? Ha ha!

Me: That’s a baby bird! You are truly twisted. They never should’ve let you out of Gurney Hill. I told Mom and Dad they were making a mistake. When you head-butted the orderly who was escorting you to the exit, they should’ve known. You’re psycho. These things escalate—first it’s baby birds and eventually it babies.

Brother: Bullshit. I am very normal. That’s what my therapist Dr. Bugles tells me. We build little matchstick dungeons and pretend we’re inside torturing each other. I paddle him and he whips me. Sometimes he makes me sit on nails.

Me: Give me the baby bird. It is an innocent little creature that should live!

Brother: Over my dead body. See this? It’s a .22 auto. I got it at the flea market with no background check. You told me all my life I have a hole in my head. Now, I really will.

Me: My brother shot himself in the head. The .22 didn’t make much of a hole, but it was big enough to kill him. As he lay there bleeding the baby bird got loose and ran down the driveway where it was run over by a FedEx truck delivering my “Candles in the Rain” mantle decoration. When you turned it on the “candles” flashed red, yellow, blue and green. And, it played the song “Candles in the Rain” by Melanie. I thought I had heard it at Woodstock, but I wasn’t sure.

At that point I called 911. My brother had started twitching around on the ground.

Somehow, he had survived a self-inflicted wound to the head. As he convalesced we discover he could speak six languages, knew the entire contents of the dictionary, wrote beautiful poetry and gave excellent advice based on his encyclopedic knowledge. It was a miracle! He became an actuary, got married and had two daughters. People ask him how he got so far in life. He says “I took a shot.”

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

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Chiasmus

Posted on May 19, 2024 | 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).

In morning the sea retreats. In evening it attacks the shore. It destroys sandcastles, washes away the seashells, and winds around the pier’s pilings making them sway, showing their age and need of repair.

When I was a kid I watched a show called Diver Dan. He wore a diving suit and had fish friends and enemies who talked to Dan. But most important, there was a mermaid queen named Laura who he had a passionate love affair with until he decided to move to the Galápagos Islands. How sad.

The show taught me that I could like somebody who acted like an absolute A-1 bastard. Dan had to do what he had to do. I don’t remember why he moved, but I know it tore Laura the Mermaid to pieces. She almost climbed into a lobster trap to die. But she didn’t because her anger outweighed her grief. She conspired with Baron Barracuda to cut Dan’s air hose and murder him. Baron demanded that Laura “be his girl” if he was going to help her cut Dan’s hose. She said she would think it over, but by the time she made up her mind, Dan was gone to the Galapagos Islands where he planned to build an army of Blue-footed Boobies and invade the small fishing village of Salango and become its Mayor for Life. There was an archaeological dig there that gave him further motivation to invade. He would open a stand on the beach selling artifacts, including fake native bracelets made in Taiwan, and t-shirts saying “Kiss an Archeologist.” Dan was ambitious. Meanwhile, Laura was wasting away from a broken heart. She stopped eating and just sat on a rock looking sickly with scales coming off her tail. Yet, Dan was not taken in. He persisted in his plan and never came back.

Dan’s plan failed. His flotilla of Boobies was intercepted by the Ecuadoran navy and flew off to better places. They left Dan by himself about a half-mile off the coast bobbing on his Ski Doo, with the Boobie flag mounted on the stern. Dan revved up the Ski-Doo and headed for Costa Rica, but he was too late. The naval vessel fired its deck-mounted fifty caliber machine gun at Dan and his Ski-Doo. Dan was hit in the head by a round and his decapitated body slipped into the sea in a circle of blood. The sharks soon arrived and ate the hapless Dan. Hundreds of the cowardly Blue-Boobies circled the carnage silently out of respect for their leader Dan. They were hypocrites.

Laura recovered her health. She met another diver—Diver Dave—and fell in love. Still, though, she would cry in her Boobie flag at night and pine for Dan who she hated and loved at the same time. When the Blue-footed Boobies recounted to their children what happened that day, they lied.

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

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Chronographia

Posted on May 18, 2024 | 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.

All night long! It’s the right time for everything on the edge, like romance, armed robbery or hit and run. I can’t tell you how many times I fell in love in the back seat of my parent’s Subaru on a Saturday night. Maybe three times—ha, ha! My first liquor store I robbed was on a Wednesday night. I swooped in, cleared the cash register, and faded back into the night. It sounds pretty good, but I got caught and spent the next six months in county jail, where I met the worst people I ever met in my life. One guy had spray painted his landlord’s face. Another guy had stolen his mother’s washer and dryer and sold them to a family up the street. There’s more, but let’s get back to night time.

When we were kids we would play flashlight tag at night. If you got shined on you were out. It was usually over pretty quickly. If you got somebody in the back, they would call you a liar and stay in the game. Then, we’d go to the park and watch for shooting stars. They were beautiful. We would smoke and argue over whether they were shooting stars or falling stars. Then one night, we heard a woman yelling “No, no. Stop it!” It was coming from the woods ar the edge of the park. We decided to sneak across the park and check out the yelling.

It was Mr. and Mrs. Torbow. Mr. Torbow was wearing black underpants, black shoes and black socks. He was holding a fly swatter. Mrs. Torbow was wearing a wedding dress and was tied to tree. We watched them for about 15 minutes and went back to star gazing. We didn’t talk about it except to ask why they used the park for whatever the hell they were doing.

Then one night my father took us night crawler hunting behind our house. He had gotten plans for a worm shocker from “Popular Science” magazine. He stuck it in the ground—it was a metal rod with an electric extension chord hooked to it. we stood around it in anticipation of worms flying out of the ground. He plugged it in and electric current pulsed through our legs—started dancing and he pulled on the chord and unplugged it. Everybody went home without a word.

There’s a lot more I could say about nighttime as the best time: shooting out streetlights, stealing lawnmowers, hanging out.

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

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Climax

Posted on May 17, 2024 | Leave a comment

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

I was angry. I was outraged. I was ready to go ballistic, somebody had stolen my pin cushion. It looked like a strawberry and it had been in my family for 800 years. Betsy Ross had rented it from my ancestors during the American Revolution when she was sewing the flag. She said it’s strawberry motif worked to motivate her to “keep going” in the face of Ben Franklin’s “incessant” overtures. He was overweight and the creepy glasses he wore repulsed her. She said Tommy Jefferson would’ve been a real catch, but he already had a girlfriend.

Then, we got into the wedding dress business. Great-Great Grandmother “Lippy” used the pincushion when she made wedding dresses for rich people. One dress is especially interesting p. It was for Duchess Binger of the tiny European Duchy of Droppenstain. Duchess Binger was known far and wide for her dishonesty. She had “dishonest” breasts stitched into the dress. Her soon-to-be husband, the Duke of Earl, would be none the wiser. He was blind. She was taking a huge risk. If he touched them he would know—he had touched them when they first met. He knew how big they were. The Duchess had to keep him at bay until the wedding was over. When Grandmother Lippy asked her why she “was ding this,” she said she didn’t know. That was normal for the Duchess. Nobody had ever taken the time to teach her how to make good decisions. People believed that her unlimited wealth would shield her from the consequences of her bad decisions. For example, recently she had salted the manor’s fields, rendering them unsuitable for farming. She believed salting the earth would make food taste better.

But enough of this—where the hell is the pin cushion now?

Holy crap! The dog had gotten ahold of it! It was soaked with saliva and he looked like he had had an altercation with porcupine. My wife sat on him while I pulled out the pins and needles with a pair of pliers. After I got him straightened out I put the pin cushion up on the mantle on a dish towel to dry out.

This was the closest the pin cushion had come to being destroyed. The only other incident I’m aware of was Uncle Zombro’s carrying the pin cushion during the Civil War as a lucky charm. His diary recounts many time how it saved his life. For example, at the battle of Knuckle Ridge, he was juggling the pin cushion, a crumpled piece of paper and a rock. A Rebel sniper who was going to shoot him was so impressed he came down from his tree and asked Zombro to show him how to juggle. Zombro shot him in the head and took his boots, which were in great shape for a Rebel’s boots.

Well, the family heirloom is home! We’ve had it appraised and it is worth $25. That’s not much, but it’s ours. To family it’s worth $25,000,000. It’s packed with history, like a suitcase full of time. When the pin cushion dries out, I’m going to put it in a showcase and insure it for $50.

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 May 16, 2024 | 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 don’t know how I ended up in a field surrounded by a herd of circling deer—some the size of dump trucks. I don’t know why these things keep happening to me with things the size of dump trucks. I don’t work in construction or paving, but there they are circled around me, snorting and pawing the ground. The circle is starting to close. I am doomed. I try to scare them by clapping my hands. They rise on their hind legs and start to dance. I faintly hear “jingle Bells” and realize that one of them has a blue tooth speaker paired with a cellphone playlist consisting of pop Christmas music. I was completely weirded out. Where did they get deer-friendly electronics? It was bad enough I was in the middle of nowhere when spikes of light shot out of the ground, each one with a pole-dancing woman wearing a black spandex body suit. It was beautiful seeing them dancing with shafts of light. It was “Jingle Bell Rock” blaring out of the ground.

Then suddenly, it all disappeared and I was left alone in darkness. There was a full moon hanging on the horizon and billions of stars spread across the sky. I stood and raised my arms. Something grabbed them by the wrists. It lifted me off the ground and started swinging me back and forth, and eventually, in complete circles. Whatever it was lost its grip and I went flying across the field. I slammed into the front door of a little cottage that looked like a cartoon. A cartoon version of me opened the door and asked me what I wanted. I ask him “Who drew you?” He told me that I had drawn him in my Drawing class at the Community College 50 years ago. He told me I had drawn the cottage too. “No wonder!” I exclaimed. I never thought I was a very skilled artist. The guy standing there looked more like a road kill version of me than an artful rendering of my being in the world. I told him he depressed me. He changed into a stand-up comic and started telling art jokes to cheer me up.

He led off with: “What do you call a drawing of a cow? A moo-sterpiece.” It went on like this for five minutes, and then, I cut him off. At that minute, a sedan chair pulled up and carried me along the Garden State Parkway and dumped me out at the Union exit. It hurt. I got up and started walking. Two girls picked me up in a Land Rover. We went to a golf tournament at Bedminster. They were members of an environmental activist group targeting golf courses for the environmental damage they cause. We lit the golf carts on fire, headed for Newark Airport, and took off for Costa Rica. The girls had a condo there overlooking the ocean.

We’ve been planning our next mission for the past 6 years. I don’t think it’s going to happen. I miss New Jersey. I wonder what Jon Bon Jovi’s up to.

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

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Colon

Posted on May 15, 2024 | 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.

There was a time before time—no time, no measure of duration, no deadlines. People lived and then they died—no yesterday, no tomorrow. Just now. this is how you live. I’ve known you for 22 years and you’ve never been on time. I remember when we were going on vacation together. You were driving. You were two days late picking me up. I waited with my suitcase on my front lawn. When you finally showed up it was pouring rain. I was wrapped in a plastic tablecloth I pulled off the picnic table in the garage. It leaked and my head got wet. When you finally got there you didn’t apologize because you didn’t know what “late” means.

The time has come. Cuckoo cuckoo me and you are going to Switzerland. Enough is enough. There is a clinic in Geneva—“The Max Plonk Clinic.” They have developed a foolproof surgical procedure for awakening your time onsciousness—to get the ticker in your head tocking. Phil was opposed to it at first. But when I pointed out how being bereft of time consciousness had negatively affected his life, he capitulated. I had reminded him how he was 3 years late for his daughter’s birth and almost destroyed his family. So, we took off for Switzerland.

I made sure we were on time to the Max Plonk Clinic. It was still beyond Phil. The surgery was bizarre. Dr. Chronoveaux cut a slot in Phil’s head like a piggy bank slot. It was about the size of a quarter. he dropped a watch the size of a quarter into the slot. And then pugged it with a little rubber plug. For purposes of battery changing, he implanted a small spring that would enable the watch to pop up like a little piece of toast when the skull plug is removed. As far as the way the mechanism works, it is a mystery to me. Dr. Chronoveaux would only say, “It puts zee time in zee head. Ha, ha, Zo vunny to me!”

That didn’t help. But when the watch was inserted in Herb’s head, he started tapping his fingers and his eyes darted around. At one point he looked at his wrist like he was wearing a wristwatch. When he fully woke up he asked what time it was. Success! but then, he asked again in five minutes, and again in five minutes. It needed to be fixed. They sedated Phil and used the toast popper function to remove the watch. There was a picture of Mickey Mouse on the watch’s face. “Vee must upgrade!” Said Dr. Chronoveaux. He went to the Mall and came back in around 30 minutes. He had a small watch with Taylor Swift embossed on the face. The Doctor dropped it in the slot and Phil was repaired! Aside from wanting to time nearly everything, Phil is just fine now. He is on time most of the time and he apologizes if he’s late by saying “Taylor and I apologize— it’s really not her fault.”

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 May 14, 2024 | Leave a comment

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

I am right. Do you understand me? I know the answer. My answer is the “right answer”always—even if I’m wrong. And it does not matter. No matter how wrong you think I am, it is you who’re wrong. You might think there is something beyond the wall of convention that makes you right. Well, I’ve taken a few bricks out of that wall in anticipation of change. We are not talking natural order here. We’re talking about everything else. Do you remember when marajuana was illegal? Well, it is not illegal any more. It is wrong to call it illegal. What about abortion? Now it is illegal. What about gay marriage? Now it is legal.

So, if you have a hope, you may be able to induce a change. This is how democracy works. Nobody is %100 in favor of everything, so there’s always a chance for change—for better and for worse. Accepting the status quo is functional if you’ve thought about it and it aligns with your values—what you think is right. Just because it is true that abortion is illegal, it does not make it right that it is illegal.

This is all pretty basic, but it opens the portals of change. So you reflect on what keeps you party to the status quo. What motivates whre you reside? Laziness? Happiness? Trapped? Lack of vision? Fear? Every motive term you can imagine is operative here. And then, on the other side are the motives for change. We live in the grip of motives. They fuel our choice making. They are the foundation of our character. As you make your trajectory through life they answer the question “Why?” They answer to our conscience internally, and externally to people who care about the meaning of our actions. Of course, as Kenneth Burke tells us, we avow motives and others impute motives to derive meaning—the why. For example, the meaning of a handshake isn’t in the handshake, it’s in what motivates it.

Anyway, I am right. Whatever I project on the screen of social reality is in some way right. I don’t know why. I just think it. Thinking it does not make me wrong. It makes me like everybody else.

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

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Comprobatio

Posted on May 12, 2024 | Leave a comment

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

“God bless us, everyone.” Tiny Tim was such an ass kisser, he was hoping that Scrooge would pay his college tuition. As far as he could see, his loser father was going nowhere, supervising a pack of rats at Scrooge’s accounting firm. Scrooge had had the crap scared out of him by an extended nightmare that, ironically, woke him up from being a the stingiest man in London.

Tiny Tim had been posing as a cripple for the past five years. It was part of an insurance scam that he had pulled on Royal Haulers, the King’s vegetable conveyance. He made it look like the cart ran over his foot. He got no insurance settlement, just a free crutch that he used to his advantage to display his infirmity and garner pity, worth a few pence. But Scrooge’s nightmare psychosis had made him ripe for conning.

Tiny had managed to get a check from Scrooge’s checkbook. He had filled it out for 50,000 pounds and was waiting for Scrooge’s signature. He couldn’t figure out how to pull the check scam off, so he decided to burglarize Scrooge’s apartment.

It was 2.00 am when he quietly broke in. Scrooge had curtains around his bed and he was carrying with Trollope Lil who lived next door. Scrooge had a pile of cash on his desk. Tiny stuffed it in the pillowcase he had brought along for that purpose. When he picked up the final 20 pound note a jingling bell went off. Scrooge came out from behind his bed curtains wearing only his night cap. “What are you up to, Tim?” Scrooge asked with an angry look on his face. Tim responded: “Sleepwalking.” It was all that Tim could think of and Scrooge bought it.

Tim made off with all of Scrooge’s cash and had to leave London as he was being hunted by the police. He move to Glasgow and bought a canned haggis factory: Scotty Mac’s Highland Haggis. Scrooge had a relapse and started saying “Humbug” again and fired Bob Cratchet. He hired his girlfriend in Cratchet’s place. She started a nearly undetectable embezzling scam. Her name was Belle. That was enough to blind Scrooge to her scam.

Tim made millions under the name of Ginnis McCorckle. He branched out into single malt scotch and became obsessed with the Loch Ness Monster, and was instrumental in the resurgence of the kilt. He was developing cellophane sticky tape when he 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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Conduplicatio

Posted on May 11, 2024 | 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.

Ho, Ho, Ho! I did it again. It was at my brother-in-law’s funeral. “Ashes to ashes. Dust to dust. Ho, Ho, Ho!” That’s how it went, but I could not help it. I had come down with “Santa-Clausis” after sitting on Santa’s lap and telling him what I wanted for Christmas. When I left, Santa’s I said “Ho, Ho, Ho” and my mother thought it was humorous and cute. But then, I saw a bird squished in the street and said “Ho, Ho, Ho.” My mother didn’t think it was cute and admonished me, but I couldn’t help myself—the worse it was the harder I laughed. Like the time an elderly woman fell out of her second-story window and died at my feet with her head cracked open. I couldn’t stop laughing for ten minutes. I was beat up by the crowd that gathered.

For the past twenty years I’ve been tying to cure myself of “Santa-Clausius.” I’ve come close—once I only giggled when a kitten was run over by a steamroller. I thought I was on the road to recovery. I wasn’t. The next day I saw a man’s taco stand go up in flames with him in it. I laughed a full fifteen minutes. I felt like something had a hold of me, making me laugh.

Finally, I went to see a gypsy. She told me that the only cure is the blood of a Santa. She gave me a syringe. Christmas was only a week away so there were plenty of Santas to “draw” on. She told me to bring the blood back as soon as possible after I drew it.

I went to the Santa shack in the park. Wearing a balaclava, I burst in the door, knocked a kid off his lap and stabbed him in the leg with my needle and filled it to the brim. I gave it to the gypsy and she injected it into me. Immediately, my white beard fell off and I lost 40 pounds. The gypsy pulled a white mouse out of a cage and smashed it with a hammer and killed it. I didn’t laugh. I was cured!

After that, I hammered a mouse every month to make sure I was still cured. No laughter. No Santa-Clausius disease.

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 May 10, 2024 | Leave a comment

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

Wee haa! Wo hoo! Yody Ho! Yippee! As you can tell, I am relatively elated—making some stock elation sounds, and a couple of new inventions. I am easily elated. An airplane landing elates me. Sunshine on my shoulders elates me. A chicken crossing the road would push me over the edge without asking why. I would just watch, and then break out in joyous noises when the chicken reaches the other side.

There are so many goals to be achieved in life that are not extraordinary but yet help make the world go around. Think of the humble nitwit. Consider how they must contemplate the steps in a process and diligently strive to complete it without causing too much damage, but nevertheless be yelled at by an angry boss.

Once one becomes an avowed nitwit, life’s burdens build into mountains of incompetence topped with grief and anger. For example, what about the guy whose job was to scrape gum off the floor at the Notting Hill Tube Station in London. People would walk by and kick them, pretend he was a horse because he worked on his hands and knees, and rode horsey on his back while he scraped. They would also swat his butt with “The Evening Standard.” He stood up, posing like the Statue of Liberty—holding his scraper up like Lady Liberty’s torch. One of his knee pads slipped down his leg and all the commuters stopped and fell silent.

Collectively, they could see what they couldn’t see individually. There was a doctor from Vienna standing by the stairs holding his arms in a circle. He was holding a pastie in one hand and chewing a bite from it very slowly while the wheels spun in his head. They were snow tires and unsuited to London’s summer. He tried revving them up while he contemplated the crowed. He hoped to wear the treads off on the rough edges of his skull’s interior. He dropped his briefcase. It startled him and provided a road to revelation: collectively the commuters came to conensus without saying a word. This must mean when people are packed together they think alike. The have a “collective” consciousness. They are like ants or honeybees, or flying geese or schools of fish.

The gum scraper lowered their scraper and pulled up their knee pad. The commuters became animated again and headed down to the tube platform. The sun came out behind the doctor’s back and he forgot everything, picking up his briefcase and blending in with the commuters. He kicked the gum scraper as he went past and felt very good after doing so.

He was a fake. He wore a second-hand sports coat and pretended to be a doctor. He had a fake office and receptionist. He spoke with a fake Austrian accent, that was actually German and had learned from Colonel Klink on “Hogan’s Heroes.”

Life is complicated.

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 May 9, 2024 | 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.

Herbert: Tumbling dice. Shallow ditch. Sky-blue donut. It all fits together—everything fits together. Just look! Use your eyes—both of them. Just look. Don’t listen. It is not in your ear, although it could be. This is one of the interesting things about repurposing your senses. Look! Don’t listen or smell for awhile, just see and feel. Then, after a week let smelling be your companion. Sniff it out, twist and shout—shake it up baby.—do the jerk! Do you love me now that I can smell?

You are sugar and spice and everything nice, pony tails and hiking trails, toilet seats and doggie treats, selected meats, and big plump beets.

I feel so much better. A visit from Marshmallow Man always sweetens things up. I wish they’d let you in my cell. I’d take a big bite out of you. Probably, your face.

Susan: Herbert, it’s me your mother. Today is visitor’s day, and I’m visiting you like I do every month hoping you’ll return to normal—like when you were a little boy and played your days away with Chip the neighbor boy. I’ve told you before, but you don’t remember. He broke into Micky’s Pet Store and ate the tropical fish, got sick and had to be taken to the hospital to have his stomach pumped. I always knew you’d be good friends, but the pet store incident would’ve sealed the deal if you weren’t locked up here at “Don’t Worry, Be Happy.” Who knows, maybe some me day you will snap out of it.

Herbert: Chip was such a good influence. I remember when we made kites out of our underpants and flew them over the playground. They were too heavy to fly, but we tried. Miscalculation is 50% of calculation. I learned that from Chip. One enchanted evening we were wearing blue suede shoes and pink carnations. We went to the bowling alley, had a cherry coke and then talked about Kansas City and then I went directly home to murder you, mom. It was my best plan ever, but you were in the bathroom and I wanted to kill you in your bed, where you slept, and I would stab you with my Boy Scout knife. With, in addition to the main blade, has a small blade, can opener, a corkscrew and an awl. You were too cheap to get me one with a fork and spoon.

When you came out of the bathroom, I chased you across the hall into your bedroom. You ran into your bedroom, locked the door, and called the police. That was it for me.

Susan: Oh Herbert! You’re so funny! Your needs and desires are hilarious. You’re such a clown. Just think, if you had murdered me, where would you be now? You’d be right here because you’re insane. Ha! Ha!

Herbert: Ha! Ha! Ma, you light up my life. But really, you’re nothing but a hound dog. Go home!

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 May 8, 2024 | 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.

There was a mess in my living room. Crumpled newspapers. Dirty clothes and dishes. Cookie crumbs all over the couch. Stains everywhere. Wait! No! In keeping with my Delusory Regime, I’m going to say that I’ve got an organic room-size sculpture going.

It was determined by my doctor that most things are beyond my reach—for example, neatness, and drawing on Protagoras’ “Beauty is in the eye of the beholder” as a guiding Maxim, I went through 10 weeks of training in renaming what I couldn’t understand or achieve. For example, roller blading was renamed “stupid shoe rolling with wheels.” This made me feel much better about my inability to learn how to roller blade.

The Delusory Regime worked like a charm. It boosted my self esteem by encouraging me to disparage what I couldn’t do, or understand. I had gotten to level 10 where I insulted people who were clearly superior to me, even challenging them to fights.

Then it all fell apart. I was at the zoo enjoying looking at the caged animals. A siren went off with a voice saying “a tiger has escaped. Please evacuate the zoo.” I thought, “What a bunch of chicken shit bastards.” And kept my strong string of insults going at an elephant. I felt good! But then, the tiger came bounding out of the bushes and stopped and looked at me. I yelled at hm “You striped orange bathrobe from a nursing home.” It did not work. He was still a tiger from the jungle. I tried “Here kitty, kitty.” That didn’t work either. Right before they shot and killed him, he bit my left hand off—he twisted it back and forth and dropped it on the ground. The pain was awful—actually it was unbearable. Luckily, there was an ambulance standing by. The hand was too mangled to put back on. Now, they think it’s funny to call me lefty. I wear medically themed socks over the stump— I’m trying to make it into a sort of billboard that I can rent out.

Now, I go through life “calling them as they are.” For example, I’ve accepted the fact that I’m a slob while suing my doctor for losing my hand. I keep my hand in a jar in my office to make the point that I used to have two hands, and also, as a conversation starter with new clients: “Do you need a hand?”

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 May 7, 2024 | 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.”

Marla: “For God’s sake. Put down that knife!”

Wally: “I’m not done buttering my toast. Wait a minute!”

Marla: “You’re not buttering your toast, you’re buttering little Ralphie. For Ralphie’s sake, put down the knife and hand him to me,”

Wally: “Let me butter his head first and slick down that ugly cowlick. He takes after you in so many ways. Look at the drooling smile—it’s you all over!”

Maria: “My drooling smile is the result of an injury, not heredity. You may remember: you stepped on my face when we were camping. You got up in the middle of the night to pee and you stepped on my face with your big hiking boot when you tried to go out the back of of the tent and tripped. God! Put down the knife!”

Wally: “Relax! I’m going to put Ralphie in the oven—it’s freezing- ass cold in here. I’m setting it at 100 so he can warm up and we can heat some leftovers too..”

Marla: “Ok, you’ve gone around the bend Wally. Hand him over right now! I’ll put him in the garage while you calm down, have some coffee, and return to normal.”

Wally handed Ralphie over and Marla put him in the garage in the lawn spreader. It was like a cradle. Ralphie liked the lawn spreader. He spent 3-4 hours in it per week. He liked the smell of the weed killer residue and the spreader’s bright green color. If he could talk, he would say “Oh my God! This is great!”

Now that Ralphie was out of the way in the garage, it was time for Marla and Wally to play Sudoko. They would quietly sit on opposite sides of the kitchen table nodding their heads as they scored. Wally picked up the knife and licked it. That reminded Marla that Ralphie was out in the garage.

When she got inside the garage, Ralphie was gone. She looked out the garage door and saw Ralphie crawling across the street. A pickup truck veered around hm blowing its horn. She ran out in the street and grabbed him. She noticed he had white powdery weed killer on his nose. She couldn’t help laughing and was still laughing when she brought Ralphie inside the hose. Wally started laughing too. They took a picture to send to Ralphie’s grandma.

Wally and Marla were not model parents. Ralphie grew up to be a daredevil. He would jump a Queen size bed full of live lobsters with a Vespa motor scooter.

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 May 6, 2024 | Leave a comment

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

“If you don’t stop playing that damn guitar, I’m gong to hit you over the head with it.!” I knew my father wouldn’t follow through on his threat. I played an electric bass. A blow on my head would probably kill me. I was wrong. I woke up in the hospital with a concussion. They told me my father had clobbered me with my bass. He had nearly killed me and had been in police custody for three days. I said, “That’s good. I hope he never gets out.” I was shocked by my voice. I had Elmer Fudd syndrome cupped with a vice an Elvis impersonator would die for. The doctor told me that my pronunciation was called rhotacism—a condition where you have trouble pronouncing “r”__ also called “Barbara Walters Syndrome.” The Elvis thing cannot be accounted for. But combined together rhotacism and Elvis Voice sound amazing. Imagine this in an Elvis voice:

“ Little wed cowvette,
Baby, you much too fast
Yes, you awe
Little wed Cowvette
You need to find a love that’s gonna last

Little wed Cowvette
Baby, you much too fast
Yes, you awe
Little Wed Cowvette
You need to find a love that’s gonna last.”

Again, just imagine this sung in Elvis’ voice. I couldn’t wait to get out of the hospital to start a band. I got together with three guys I went to high school with. We had a band back then. We covered Bee Gees music. We weren’t too popular, but I had kept practicing and driving my father crazy. We reunited and named our new band Concussion after my recent head injury that had prompted my musical gifts.

Our first gig was coming up at “Blankety Blanks,” a club in Elizabeth, New Jersey right off the Rte. 1 Circle by the Goethals Bridge. We decided to do covers of Nirvana, The Police, and Jefferson Airplane. The crowd was wild, foot stomping for us to start. We led off with “Smells Like Teen Spirit.” The crowd stood still, mouths open like they were hypnotized. When finished the first set, the crowd went wild, applauding and fist pumping for 20 minutes. Concussion was a raging success. Word spread. Gigs piled up. Money rolled in, along with a lucrative recording contract.

My brain damage had made me a star. We’re still flying high. To keep my gift, I discovered I had to be hit in the head with a brick once a month. It’s like my dad says, “It’s the price of success.” I forgave him and he’s part of the crew and does a good job smacking me on the head.

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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Dianoea

Posted on May 1, 2024 | Leave a comment

Dianoea (di-a-noe’-a): The use of animated questions and answers in developing an argument (sometimes simply the equivalent of anthypophora).

Sheriff: Can you give me a hug? Sure you can! Can you tickle my ear? Sure you can! Can you give me a smile? Sure you can! Did you shoot Mr. Buckworth in the head with that shotgun over there? Sure you did! Boom! Where’s his head? Over there by the bed! Are you in big trouble? Yes you are! Is murder a big deal? It sure is Miss Pondlake! Come back here! Hey!

Miss Pondlake ran down the stairs and out the front door. The man she had murdered was the plumber. He was rude and too familiar with her. She had phoned him and when he got to her front door, he had pushed it open and barged in waving wrenches and carrying a yellow no, 2 pencil stuck in his protruding butt crack, and he said “ain’t” which frightened her—she had only heard “ain’t” in detective shows on TV. Especially, from the bald man who ate lollipops.

The plumber said he was going to “clear her pipes upstairs in the bathroom.” That alarmed her. She did not want him to “clear her pipes,” it sounded lewd. He said, “Come on. Let’s go upstairs so I can take care of those pipes.” He insisted, so she could give hm a recommendation for his “work.”

She kept a loaded shotgun by her bed since her former husband had broken into her house and insisted on reading her “The Little Prince” to her at gunpoint. It was the worst experience of her life, defamed “The Little Prince,” put her into 2 years of therapy, and motivated her to keep a gun by her bed.

Now she was on the run from a huge misunderstanding. She was living in Mexico City playing accordion in a Mariachi band named “Camino Del Amor.” She learned how to play the accordion in high school, where she played mostly German and Italian music growing up in New Jersey. “Camino” worked in one bar in Mexico City. They played every night and she loved it. However, she missed her cat Toolabelle. Her sister was shipping it to her—quite a convoluted process. Convoluted enough so it put the police on her trail.

Then, one night, what looked like a cop from back home showed up at the bar. He told her the case a had been dropped—it was a tragic misunderstanding, triggered by lingering trauma and threatening-sounding ambiguous language. she thanked him for bringing the news, but she was going to stay in Mexico City. She was going to marry “Camino’s” harmonica man Jesus.

But, then the “policeman” pulled of his jacket revealing a yellow wooden pencil stuck in his butt crack. He said: “Everything I told you is true, but I still can’t accept my father’s murder, and you murdered him.”

She said, “Come over here for a big hug.” The Plumber’s son complied and headed toward her with arms outstretched. He called her “Mommy” as they hugged. She was repulsed, but did not want any trouble.

The plumber’s son left in a couple of days, and Toolabelle, her beloved cat, showed up at the post office. It was wonderful having her to pet and play with again. She stopped thinking about her past and made her way into the future.

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 April 29, 2024 | 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].

I can’t find my car in the parking lot. The lot is one square mile and cartoon character coded. I am almost certain that I parked in sector Sylvester Cat. But no, it seems there is no Sylvester Cat sector. The closest is Baby Huey the unbelievably strong goose. I can see Baby Huey about a half mile away, bolted to a pole like Sylvester Cat should be.

The lot is nearly full, so I’m going to have the walk up and down the rows to find my car. “What is going on here?” I ask myself. “Is this some kind of cruel trick?” It seems like the rows and rows of cartoon characters are laughing at me.” My little VW Beetle is lost among the SUV’s and mammoth pickup trucks. I’m a lost cause. I’ll never find my little VW by walking up and down the rows of parked cars.

All of a sudden, I hear “Sufferin succotash.” That’s Sylvester Cat’s signature utterance! I look under the cars and see nothing but oil-stained pavement. I’m tired. I’m thirsty. I should go home and then come back around midnight when the lot has emptied out. I think that’s a good idea, so I call Uber. I hear “Sufferin succotash” again. I think some kind of delirium is settling in. I see a white patch of fur sticking out from under a black Lincoln Navigator. I run to the Lincoln and there’s nothing there. I start crying and rolling around on the ground. I yell “Sufferin succotash!” And my Uber pulls up. I notice the Sylvester Cat sign is sitting on the front seat. “What should I do?” And, oh no! I have to share my ride with a little man holding a shotgun. He says “Damn wabbit” as I get into the car. I ask the driver where he found the sign. He said, “Up here about a half-mile. We’re headed there now. Pay me $50 and we’ll be right there.” I was prepared t pay $500 to get my car back! I paid the $50 and the driver handed me the sign and the Uber sped off. Suddenly, I was swarmed by mall security guards: “Gotcha, sign thief! Right here at the scene of the crime!” They didn’t even let me explain and accused me of extortion. They summoned the police. I was arrested and denied bail because I posed a flight risk. How the hell was I supposed to go anywhere? I had not found my car yet. Will I ever find my car? Sufferin succotash!

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 April 27, 2024 | Leave a comment

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

This “case” is a basket Cael. I’m not sure what that is, but I know it’s bad. Maybe it’s like a glass that’s half paper instead of half full. But maybe it is like a broken toilet or stapler that won’t staple. Or better yet—that smells like fresh roadkill—a raccoon perhaps?

My name is Professor Dirtwedge. My nickname among my students is Dr. Prick. I am cruel. I have never given a grade above C. I humiliate my students by belittling their intelligence in class. Nobody volunteers to speak. I have call on them to thwart their fear of participation. I am a philosophy professor and teach an introductory course titled “You are stupid: Admit it.” The course is centered round the works of the renowned hippie philosopher Californicus. His work was based on the Rolling Stones’ “you can’t always get what you want, but at least you don’t get what you don’t want, and if you do, you have to act like you need it.” Mr. Jimmy’s utterance (dead) frames the text’s intention of celebrating our shared fate: dead. It elaborates on the different ways you can become dead: disease, accident, suicide, murder. Californicus elaborates the received list with less conspicuous ways that the end comes. For example, laughing, foot stomping, dancing to frenetic jazz music.

I study the games insects play and their ethical dimensions. I have discovered that all ants cheat at everything they play. To be a consummate cheater is an aspiration of all ants. As they plod along building their mounds, protecting each other and gathering food, they would rather be playing ant checkers and cheating. I have been able to interview ants by using pheromones smeared on sweet-smelling candy wrappers. Their poetry and short fiction are mesmerizing. A scrap of a poem by a carpenter ant: “I make sawdust, oh I must. I chew for you. Some day this old house will fall, and become a shopping mall.”

This is a remarkable meditation on the passage of time and the fools it makes of us all. It’s like the Bible or a sticky note stuck on a car’s speedometer or a wheel of fortune that never stops turning, and if it does, it goes the opposite direction afterwards.

So, how did I become a tenured professor here at “The Meter’s Running University”? My mother died during my oral defense of my dissertation. I started crying when I was informed, so my committee took pity and passed me. I received tenure when the President found out I had “a story to tell.” He overrode the tenure committee after he heard my story. His wife had gone missing and my ants had told me where she was buried. When I showed him the map they had drawn, he knew he was had.

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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Diazeugma

Posted on April 26, 2024 | 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.

The truck hit the pothole, flipped over, caught fire, and exploded. I felt like I was watching a movie— maybe something ok like “Death of a Truck.” Maybe its remains could be piled in a dump truck and driven slowly to the junkyard followed by a procession of truck drivers, including Amazon, UPS, and followed by a column of independent truckers.

Lately, I’ve had too many of these experiences—observing tragedies. Two weeks ago I was doing my three-card monte scam, cruising along, fleecing the punters out in front of Trump Tower. This is a great place—it has a con vibe the covers the scam and makes it look like a legitimate gamble.. I even wear a blond wig and a blue suit. I tell the punters I’m Trump’s cousin and they eat it up. That day, I had about ten people clustered around the game, taking turns losing their money. Suddenly, a drone flew in and hovered overheard. The punters looked up and said chorused “Oooh!” I got under my card table. It started playing Deep Purple’s “Space Truck’n” as it hovered overheard. Then it said “Bobby Boy, you’ve reached the end of the line.” I invited Bobby under my table. The drone dipped down and blew my table over. Bobby was exposed! A tow hook lowered from the drone and hooked the back of Bobby’s pants and flew off with Bobby yelling “I didn’t know. I didn’t know!”

The next day, the headlines read “Stockbroker Skyhooked to Hell.” I read the story and Bobby had been dipped in industrial waste, sewage and the giant grease trap in Hoboken behind Ghost Burgers, the first burger joint opened in the Colonies in 1791. they found Bobby barely with blistered skin covered with sewage and grease.

The police determined that had invested all of a client’s capital in Truth Social. Bobby would not say who the client was and he’s afraid he’ll be attacked again. At one point, he winked at his interrogator and sad “I musk go to the restroom.” Hmmm.

There have been many more strange episodes. A hyena stole my car last Friday. He drove by with his big toothy smile and then sped away. A troupe of rats was doing acrobatics on the sidewalk in front of my apartment. They were wearing tights advertising d-con: the rat poison. I saw a woman juggling three babies in car seats with a bottle of Mr. Clean balanced on her head. I was impressed by her strength and choice of cleaning products.

One more: I saw a man stuck to the sidewalk by a piece of bubble gum. He had been there for three hours. He was begging for somebody to bring him a putty knife or some WD-40. A passing teenager offered to cut off his foot. Eventually, the man took off his shoe and was freed.

So, if you keep your eyes open, there is a plethora of weird things to see.

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 April 25, 2024 | Leave a comment

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

The corrals are smaller. Where have all the lone prairies gone? I won’t be buried there, that’s for sure. Carbon monoxide fills the air, slowing down my thinking and making my eyes water and my vision blur. I was driving my manure spreader down Main Street. I don’t know how it happened. The bottle of whiskey wrapped in a rag under the seat is used for lubrication. Sometimes I take a yank, but it’s just to clear the dust away. It was a very windy night and my throat was filled with dust. Ah wait! Now I remember! My mother had called me and asked me to spread some manure in her front yard. It was Dad’s birthday the next day, and he always likes a load of fresh manure on his birthday. It’s a tradition that stretches back to the year we sold 90% of the ranch to a hockey rink, a parking lot and an airport. We kept the house, the barn and 25 acres—I raise miniature cows on the 25 acres. I sell them to people as pets and for diet sized cuts of meat. They are very popular with 30-something professionals who like little things like iPhones, ear buds, and electric sports cars. I also grow weed and have chickens. I sell bags of dope and eggs by the highway. All perfectly legal.

When I delivered the manure, Dad took off his boots and ran around the yard while me and Mom sang happy birthday. At one point he slipped and fell down and we all laugh together. We went inside and had cake while Dad talked about back in the day when commanded 10,000 acres of prime pasture land. He had to sell it off because his brother Bill, the co-owner had taken out 3 second mortgages on the property that he used to buy condos in Palm Beach, Vegas, and Hawaii. Soon after Dad found out, Uncle Bill disappeared without a trace. The properties were foreclosed on and Dad had to sell the ranch.

But why am I telling you all of this? I don’t know. It’s just stuck in my gut. Almost like a piece of barbed wire. Well, anyway, it was time to head home from Dad’s birthday. I said “bye” to Mom and Dad and hopped on my manure spreader. I backed into the Dormal’s house, tore off the front porch and smashed into their car in the driveway. I totaled it. At first, I thought it was my blurry vision from all the pollutants in the air. But then, I realized somebody had glued a picture of an open plot of land to my rear view mirror. It must’ve been done when we were inside having cake. The picture was very high resolution, so it would be mistaken for the mirror’s actual reflection.

After we discovered the picture, the police cordoned off the area and conducted a thorough search. They found Uncle Bill cowering in the garage. He had a couple of high resolution landscape photos trimmed to fit my ,mirror, a squeeze bottle of Super Glue and a Glock. He kept saying he hated his brother (my dad) and he had come to kill him. It was Mom. It was all about Mom.

Dad had stolen Mom from Bill when they were teenagers. It is amazing how the most blissful emotion can become so riddled with hatred that it can become a motive for murder. I wondered why uncle Bill didn’t want to kill Mom too.

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 April 23, 2024 | Leave a comment

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

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

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

I was and I wasn’t. I wasn’t what I was. I sounded like a riddle looking in a mirror. While something may be known one at a time, at another time it may be something different—now it’s a car, now it’s a cube of steel riding a magnet across a junkyard. Or, maybe not. Maybe it was a cube of steel when it was a car—a potential of steel, an actual car. Can you look at the cube as steel and say “That’s a 1992 Mercedes.” But I walk down the street swinging my arms back and forth like an ape. I am not an ape though. I am a cup of tea with legs. I must be careful not to spill. I do not want to stain the sidewalk Orange Pekoe. Why do I keep changing? Are they incarnations, or am I insane, or both? I think both. Or better, madness is a sort of a new incarnation. You forget your previous self and take on a brand new guise. When you’re really crazy you don’t remember your past. When you’re sort of crazy, you do remember. In a way being sort of crazy is worse than being totally crazy—you may be tantalized by a recent past—a reality that is “sort of” but not palpable enough to thwart the vague recollections that intrude on your dream and hurt. Being totally crazy is a glutted maelstrom of meaningless ooz with untraceable emotional import, like abstract art free from the canvas, possessing you with its colored fluidity.

There are many variations on this theme. I don’t know them. I don’t care when I roll around on the sidewalk singing Elvis’ “Don’t Be Cruel.” People look at me and step around me with disgusted looks on their faces. Why? Not because I’m in mental distress, but because I’m in their way. Then a guy that looks like Jesus hovers above me, motioning for me to get up. This happens once or twice a week. I usually get up and continue my crazy trek through the day. But today, I can’t get up. I am dead. A half-dozen teenage boys kicked and beat me to death while I lay drunk on the sidewalk. I look down and see my bloodied torso. The Jesus guy points. I look in the direction he’s pointing and there is a golden elevator. I climb on the elevator and ride to Heaven. As I step off the elevator, I become sane. I see my grandma coming toward me with a bouquet of flowers.

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

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Ecphonesis

Posted on April 20, 2024 | Leave a comment

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

“What the hell do you think you’re doing Leonard?“ it was my father. I was doing my homework. “Homework, Dad,” I said. I was hunched over my desk, tapping away on my laptop. Our assignment was to write a job description, and then write a letter of application for the job. My job description was: “Wanted: stupid-ass drunk with no skills or common sense.” I thought my teacher, Miss Trank, would find it humorous and give me an “A”, especially when she read the cover letter: “Dear Potential Boss: I am drunk right now. I have had three gin & tonics for breakfast and will be drinking a half-bottle of MD-40 for lunch. So, I am a drunk. Stupid-ass describes me very accurately. For example, I sent away to Amazon for a hammock. The assembly instructions were complicated and I got tangled up in the webbing part.i was drunk so I didn’t care, but my mother cut me loose and and I fell on the ground and threw up. How’s that for stupid-ass? The only skill I have is taking a shower, and I have trouble with that. Apparently, my father is right: I don’t know my ass from my elbow. I have a picture of them with labels hung up in my shower. But they fall down from time to time, if they land face down, I’m screwed. I yell for my dad and he comes into bathroom and picks up the pictures and holds them up for me. Then, I can resume showering. Other than showering, I have other possible skills—well, maybe eating and getting dressed too. But that’s it. On the no common sense front, I can give you a quick example: I go out in the rain with no raincoat or umbrella. I get soaked and have suffered from hypothermia several times. I almost died once when I went camping in my bathing suit. Also, once I threw an alarm clock so I could see time fly. I can report for duty tomorrow. I will be drunk and ready to go.”

Leonard finished his third gin and tonic and started off for school. He staggered across Maple Street and was clipped by a car. He was knocked down on the pavement, but wasn’t hurt (so he thought). He was actually unconscious and dreaming that he was uninjured. A fifth-grader, Billy Wack, poked the crack in Leonard’s head with a stick. Leonard flopped around like a fish.

A crowd gathered. Mr. Topi, who lived on the street, called an ambulance to come get Leonard. He was still dreaming inside his cracked head—dreaming he was dreaming that his head had cracked open and leaked most of his intelligence, which he didn’t have very much of in the first place. Then, he heard a voice say “How many fingers am I holding up?” Leonard saw 300 fingers and fell off the stretcher, a common problem with the Hill Dale EMT team. They were different heights and had trouble keeping the stretcher level. When Leonard fell off the stretcher a small amount of his brain leaked out of the crack in his head.

Suddenly he was being shaken. Miss Trank was trying to wake him up. He had no idea how he had ended up in class. Miss Trank said: “Leonard, I am giving you a double zero on this assignment and you are being suspended from school for two weeks for educational sedition.” I had no idea what Miss Trank was talking about. The crack in my head was healed. I went back to the cloakroom, dug out my back-up bottle of gin and took three big swigs to hold me until the 3 o’clock bell rang.

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

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Effictio

Posted on April 19, 2024 | Leave a comment

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

He was the tallest man in the world. His name was Ted. He worked in the Blim Brothers Sideshow. When he stood up he was nearly nine feet tall. For one dollar, he would put a ring on his massive finger and let you pull it off. The ring was made of lead with “Tallest Man in the World,” and the year, engraved on it. Ted’s head was like a large watermelon with dark brown hair on top. He had brown eyes and beautiful teeth—when he smiled they looked like the mother of Pearl handle of my straight razor! Of course, he had massive shoulders. There were no off-the-rack clothes that could fit him. His mother still acted as his tailor, making him quite fashionable looking clothes. She even made him a “skinny suit” to wear to his sister’s wedding. His shoes were custom made too. He preferred suede swashbucklers—size 18. They cost over $400.00 a pair. So, Ted only wore them to work. Otherwise, he wore flip-flops made out of all-weather tires. “Just in case” he had a pair made out of snow tires.

Ted has trouble walking. It’s a consequence of his height. He has a custom made walker that is 18k gold plated and encrusted with Swarovski Crystals. It is quite beautiful—the way it flashes in the light.

My name is “Botch.” It’s a nickname from frequently screwing up. I’m used to it and it doesn’t hurt my feelings any more. I work as a handyman for Blim Brothers. That means that just about anything that needs repairing or adjusting comes my way: from a trapeze to a tent. I’m also pretty good with a shovel. My wife is a seamstress, repairing and making costumes. Our daughter, Lux, is 19 and runs the box office and handles the accounting—she has a degree in accounting from “Column B.” It is an online school. It is unaccredited, but it was cheap.

Lux is in love with Ted, but she does not know what to do. She said: “He’s so big. It would be like dating a tree.” I told her to just go ahead—to talk, to get to know him and then worry about dating. So, they met and they talked.

Lux wasn’t happy about their meeting. Ted had insisted she sit on his lap like a dummy. Ted put his hand up the back of her sweater and told her to speak whenever he scratched her back. He asked if she liked him and scratched her back. After how he was acting, she sad “No” and Ted pushed her onto the floor. “That’s assault!” she yelled. Ted stood up used his walker to quickly leave the room.

We couldn’t bring charges against Ted or we’d all lose our jobs. We sucked it up and went on with our lives. Then, 1 year later, Lux became pregnant and she told us Ted was the faher. When she told me, I got this image in my head that I can’t erase. I am ashamed of myself, but I can’t do anything to get rid of it. Lux had a Ted-sized baby. She was in labor for three days.

Lux and Ted got married and they are quite happy. The dummy incident is long-forgotten.

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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