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Scesis Onomaton

Posted on January 12, 2024 | Leave a comment

Scesis Onomaton (ske’-sis-o-no’-ma-ton): 1. A sentence constructed only of nouns and adjectives (typically in a regular pattern). 2. A series of successive, synonymous expressions.

Big dreams. Piled promises. Cautious optimism Why? “Because, because, because, because, because.” I learned this wise saying from being a scarecrow, looking for The Wizard of Oz with loony. Dorothy and the crew. She’s trying to provide a justification for going to Oz to see the Wizard. Dorothy, our leader, is still high on opium poppies so it takes her awhile to disclose the foundation of the justification. Her crew, the Scarecrow (me), Tin Man, and the Lion are immune to the effects of opium, but we are hesitant to speak over her due to her singleminded commitment to going to Oz. The Scarecrow (me) has some brains and could probably fill in the blank, but I know Dorothy would admonish me for being a know-it-all, which as a matter of fact Dorothy was. If she had’t rescued me from crows pecking at me in a corn field, I would’ve taken off days ago. The Tin Man and Lion were too stupid to realize that Dorothy had snagged them when they were down and out, and like a good cult leader had pumped up their self-esteem by making empty promises—courage for the Lion, a heart for the Tin Man. Absurd! She promised me a brain. I knew I already had one. I knew Dorothy was full of shit and just bossed the three of us around to serve her obsession to go to Oz to fulfill her self-absorbed fantasy of getting back home to Kansas. I considered sabotaging her by cluing in the Tin Man and the Lion that the real reason for going to Oz, and following the Yellow Brick Road, was all about Dorothy’s selfish desires.

So, as we’d just emerged from the poppy field and could see Oz in distance, Dorothy snapped out of her daze and began to sing:

“If ever a wiz there was
If ever, oh ever a wiz there was

The Wizard of Oz is one because
Because, because, because, because, because
Because of the wonderful things he does
We’re off to see the Wizard
The wonderful Wizard of Oz”

“Oh my,” she yelled. So now we knew, it’s “because of the wonderful things he does.” I asked Dorothy: “Can you give me an example?” She told me to shut up and keep walking. I did.

We got to the Oz city gates and headed to the Wizard’s palace. He was drunk and had a hot-looking munchkin on each knee. They were singing an off-color song about lollipops. The Wizard said “What do you sorry looking stooges want?” “I want to go back to Kansas,” said Dorothy, pulling the lollipop out of the Wizard’s hand. “What do I look like United Airlines?” The Wizard asked. Dorothy yelled “You bastard! You’re nothing but a con artist.” “So what? This is Oz. Get used to it—you’re not in Kansas any more, baby.” Said the Wizard with a scornful look on his face.

That was that. We had to get jobs. I found a field where I could set up a scare crow operation. The Cowardly Lion joined a small traveling circus. The Tin Man became a mime performer in Oz Square. He would chop wood and oil himself and have his picture taken by tourists. Dorothy didn’t do too well, as a “normal” human, she had trouble finding a job. She worked as a towel dryer in a car wash. Then she worked pumping septic tanks. Her last job was working in the emerald mines where she met the millionaire munchkin Yelson Popchick and married him. She still wants to go back to Kansas, but alas, it will never be. She has started a movement to impeach the Wizard of Oz. She will fail because, because, because, because, because.

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

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Sententia

Posted on January 11, 2024 | Leave a comment

Sententia (sen-ten’-ti-a): One of several terms describing short, pithy sayings. Others include adage, apothegem, gnome, maxim, paroemia, and proverb.

“Go to the ant, you slacker! Observe its ways and become wise.” Proverbs 6:6

I wanted to become wise. I had tried everything. I was reading the Bible’s Book of Proverbs and came across the saying about ants. I wondered how ant-watching would make me wise. How long should I watch them? Are some ants wiser than others? If they’re so wise, why are they only ants? There was an ant mound in my back yard. I would set up an observation site. I had a lawn chair and a beach umbrella. I had a six-pack of Coke in a small cooler, and I set my iPhone on “video” to document the wise things the ants would do.

Basically, they did nothing. I sat there for a half-hour and there were no ants to be seen. Is this the wisdom: stay inside on hot days? I poked the mound. The mound came to life. Hundreds of ants came streaming out. They were like a wave. I was wearing shorts and they streamed up my legs. That’s when I realized the mound was a fire ant mound. They started stinging my legs and crawled up into my underwear, then, across my stomach, relentlessly stinging me. I started getting chills up my spine and I felt dizzy—my vision was going blurry and my legs were swelling up. Lucky for me, I had my cellphone. I called 911. I was on the verge of passing out when the paramedics arrived. They tore off my clothes and sprayed me all over with wasp killer. That killed the ants. They loaded me in the ambulance and took me off to the hospital for observation.

After I had been “observed” overnight, and soaked in Benadryl, I was released and my girlfriend drove me home. When we opened the door, there was a swarm of ants on the living room floor. They reared up like little horses and shook their heads. We stood there looking at each other while my girlfriend backed out the door. Suddenly, they came racing toward me making a collective hissing sound. I turned to run and I slipped and fell. I felt them biting my feet and calves and my legs went numb. I couldn’t get up. I was going to die from fire ant venom poisoning.

I yelled: “God! Please help me! I go to church some times! I followed your instructions in Proverbs. How can ants teach me wisdom? Does being killed by ants do it?” Out of nowhere Blue Oyster Cult’s “Don’t Fear the Reaper” started playing on my stereo and a spinning color wheel light popped out of the floor. A deep male voice said “Go away!” And the ants disappeared and my legs could work again. And God said, “I’m sorry about the ant thing. I should’ve been more specific. I should’ve said ‘Carpenter ants’ or something like that.” There was a wooshing sound, and then, silence and the light wheel disappeared. God was gone.

Next week, I’m setting up a new observation site down the street. There is an old oak tree that carpenter ants are destroying. They seem quite friendly. I can’t wait for the wisdom lessons they’re going to teach me. I will set up a blog: “The Wisdom of the Ants.” Make sure to tune in!

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

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Simile

Posted on January 10, 2024 | Leave a comment

Simile (si’-mi-lee): An explicit comparison, often (but not necessarily) employing “like” or “as.”

He was like a bee gathering pollen from Hog Weed.

He had spent 3 years in the Army as an enlisted man. He was used to taking orders, not giving them. You couldn’t just say “Meet me at the mall.” You had to say “Convey yourself in your motorized transport vehicle to the west end parking lot, exit your vehicle and make your way to the portal marked ‘Entrance.’ Take 25 steps and turn north. Proceed to the fountain in front of you. I will be positioned at 11:00 o’clock on the ledge circling the fountain, with Dick’s marking 12:00.”

I put it in writing. As I handed him the paper, he said, “I appreciate the written documentation, but I’m afaraid I’ll lose it. Can you just tell it to me again so I’m sure to follow your orders? I’m a good listener.”

Actually, he was like a slug in blue jeans. He was like a piece of gum that needed to be scraped off the floor. He needed to get out of the habit of needing a book, or a spreadsheet, or a roadmap to tell him what to do.

His retraining began at my house. I thought I could help him. He was sleeping over. I was going to say “Time for bed” to kick things off. We had just finished watching “Barbie.” It was 11:30. I looked at him and said “Time for bed Carl.” He looked at me with a blank look on his face—like a dog who had lost its hearing—like he knew I wanted him to do something, but he didn’t know what. So, I said it again: “It’s time for bed.” He started squirming around and scratching his armpit. I wondered what the hell that was about. Acting like nothing weird was going on, Carl asked me to give him a couple minutes while he got a drink of water from the kitchen. I said “Roger that.” He headed into the kitchen. The next thing I knew, I heard the kitchen door slam. I looked out the window, and there was Carl running down the driveway carrying my toaster oven. That was it. I took off after him. He dropped the toaster oven and climbed a small apple tree. I hit him over the head with the toaster oven and knocked him unconscious. I ran back to my house a got a roll of duct tape. He was coming to just as I got back to the tree. I grabbed him and wrapped duct tape around his wrists, behind his back. Then, I marched him back to my house and sat him down on the couch. I asked him: “What the hell is going on?” With great effort, sweating, eyeballs popping, he answered my question.

“There is a psychological disorder endemic to the military. It is called Obedient Solider Syndrome (OSS). It happens when a soldier becomes obsessively concerned with following orders and cannot do what he is expected to do unless it is spelled out in great detail. These soldiers end up in a Psych ward, and subsequently, they are discharged. I am one of them.

I have a particularly acute case of OSS and the VA will be employing me to write instructions for shampoo bottles, assembly manuals, for camping tents, and lawnmowers, recipes for cookbooks, and myriad other things where my malady is a benefit. I thought, “This is the craziest bullshit I ever heard.” I asked Carl: “Are you going to get help for your condition?” He asked, “Can you be more explicit?”

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

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Skotison

Posted on January 9, 2024 | Leave a comment

Skotison (sko’-ti-son): Purposeful obscurity.

The thing was moving around the other thing, slowly without joy or remorse. It was the kind of thing that affected other things in unpredictable ways. I was walking my dog and I looked down, and it, the thing, was there on the sidewalk, on its side, like it had been put there by something that wanted me to trip and fall on my face, which I did because I didn’t see the other thing alongside it. The thing made me skin my chin and made my dog run away when I fell. “Somebody’s got to do something about these things,” I thought as I stepped around them. But I had better things to do. Things had been piling up on my desk—things that were urgent, things that needed to be taken care of or other things would pile up.

“How things have changed,” I said to one of the things on my desk. It had been there so long that I threw it away. “It’s just one of those things,” I said as I started neatly stacking up the rest of the things, preparing to shove them off the side of my desk in a pile, into the trashcan with the things I had already discarded. They belonged together—a bunch of things with nothing in common except being things. I swore if I got one more thing in the mail I would stomp on it and leave it on the floor.

Just then, my wife walked into my office. She was carrying a tray. “Honey, I’ve made you your two favorite things. “Oh!” I exclaimed, “These things make my life light up. Not like these things in the wastebasket that do bad things.” I had something to drink and gobbled up the 2 sugary things on the plate on the tray. I told my wife, “These are the things that make life worthwhile.” She said, “Honey, I wish you wouldn’t say ‘thing’ all the time.”

I was shocked. “Thing talk” had always been a hobby of mine. In our 8 years together Marissa had never complained. “Why do you mention it now after all these years?” “Your ‘thing’ has lost its meaning to me, as surrounded as it is by all the other things, it does not stand out. It is just another thing.” I stopped calling everything “thing” and reserved it solely for my thing. Marissa was overjoyed. Something had returned to our marriage. Things returned to normal.

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

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Syllepsis

Posted on January 8, 2024 | Leave a comment

Syllepsis (sil-lep’-sis): When a single word that governs or modifies two or more others must be understood differently with respect to each of those words. A combination of grammatical parallelism and semantic incongruity, often with a witty or comical effect. Not to be confused with zeugma: [a general term describing when one part of speech {most often the main verb, but sometimes a noun} governs two or more other parts of a sentence {often in a series}].

I was spooning my soup, but I really wanted to be spooning Nell. I couldn’t show my romantic inclinations in front of her mother at the dinner table. My presence was an experiment. Her mother wanted to see what kind of person I am and she felt that the dinner table—with the play of manners—was the best place to do so. Nell and I had been dating for one year, and this was my 75th dinner with the Tonbells. We have the same thing every time. Leek soup, bread and butter, meatloaf, potatoes, and carrots with ice water and ginger snaps and hot tea for dessert. The food was pretty good, but enough was enough. Nell said that I should wait for her mother to ask if I wanted to marry her (Nell). I had agreed up until now. The time had come for me to ask for Nell’s hand. When we were having our tea, I asked.

Nell’s mother looked at me as if I had punched her, and that asking for Nell’s hand was a curse from hell. I was shocked when she pulled a handgun out of her dress and pointed it at her head and said, “If you marry my daughter, I will kill myself.” I had recently completed a course in conflict management at the local community college, so I was ready.: “Conflicts are over who has what rights and responsibilities, facts, and motives. Listening is . . . “ She didn’t let me finish. She aimed the pistol at me and said “I’m going to shoot you when we finish our tea.” “What’s so bad about me?” I asked in tears. She said, “You want to marry my idiot daughter, that’s what’s so bad. She has no taste. She would marry an SUV if it was wearing pants. She needs to marry a doctor who can take care of her.” We were almost done with our tea. The end was near.

I told Nell’s mother that I would go to medical school and become a brain surgeon. She put down the gun and said she would reconsider. That night she fell out of her bedroom window and broke her neck and died. I thought “Good riddance.” She was completely insane. Nell’s father had left years earlier, after Nell’s mother had put marbles on the stairs and he had suffered a broken leg and arm and a concussion.

Nell and I got married. We had leek soup once a month in memory of her mother. I’m pretty sure Nell killed her mother, but I’m not going to ask her.

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

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Symploce

Posted on January 7, 2024 | Leave a comment

Symploce (sim’-plo-see or sim’-plo-kee): The combination of anaphora and epistrophe: beginning a series of lines, clauses, or sentences with the same word or phrase while simultaneously repeating a different word or phrase at the end of each element in this series.

There was a time when I gave a damn. There was a place that was worth a damn. There was a suit I wore that made me go “woah damn,” Everything’s in the past—a tower of memories babbling in my brain like a polluted brook outside the factory in New Jersey where they make glow-in-the-dark radioactive key rings at the dawn of the keyless epoch. And Margie used to matter, going bald from the radioactivity, with bleeding gums, and chronic diarrhea, and corns. She could barely talk and maybe that’s why I loved her. Her cognitive capacities had deteriorated to the point that she couldn’t talk back without tremendous effort that would induce an attack of diarrhea. So, Margie was docile—like one of Bo Peep’s sheep, wandering quietly through life in the pasture of the shadow of death.

We moved in together. We had four children. None with birth defects. When we moved in together, I figured she had around 6 months to live. Instead, she lived 10 years. We were not wealthy, or even middle class. We were poor. I stole a shopping cart from Hannaford’s to take her for walks. We would go to the park and I would splash water on her from the park’s fountain and take selfies together with the gazebo in the background, or a random squirrel. She loved laying on her back, rolling along, looking at the sky. I thought of her as my Tiny Tim from “A Christmas Carol.” I had planned on parking her empty shopping cart by our fireplace after she died. Then, I realized we didn’t have a fireplace and had to change my plan. Instead, I was going to park the shopping cart in the back yard, like a birdbath, as a sort of memorial.

When my dear Margie finally died, I needed to get a suit for her funeral. The children had a lot of money from their scratch-off lotto winnings. I had stolen 4 Take Fives when the Cliff’s clerk wasn’t looking. Between them, they had won $1500. On the other hand, my unemployment benefits had run out, and although my new job polishing slot machines and emptying ashtrays started the next week at the casino, I had nothing. It was so bad that we were burying Margie in a cardboard casket. The casket was closed at the funeral to save money on clothing for Margie by burying her in her favorite pajamas. At least, I wanted to look my best for the funeral. I didn’t know what to do.

When I was walking home, I saw a container that looked like a dumpster. There was a slotted opening, and above the slot it said “Clothing Here” with an arrow pointing down at the slot. I thought it would be hard to shop there because the entrance was narrow and required athletic abilities to negotiate. I climbed up anyway, and in I went.. I landed on a dead man. He was wearing a beautiful suit—just my size. It was black silk. I wrestled it off of him. I put the suit on. It, along with his shoes, were a perfect fit. I climbed out of “Clothes Here”and went home.

The funeral was beautiful. The kids looked like angels and I looked like a Mafia hit man. When I saw my reflection in a mirror, chills went down my spine and I did a little dance. My friend “Chainsaw Labatt” gave the eulogy. He is a professional wrestler and Margie was his biggest fan. He talked about tearing off death’s head and feeding it to ravens. It was beautiful.

My first day of work at the casino, I wore my suit. I was given an instant promotion. My new job is to watch for card counters at the blackjack tables. I have purchased four black silk suits. Even though I’m bitter about Margie’s death, things are slowly improving. Her shopping cart in the back yard has become home to a family of raccoons.

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

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Synaloepha

Posted on January 6, 2024 | Leave a comment

Synaloepha (sin-a-lif’-a): Omitting one of two vowels which occur together at the end of one word and the beginning of another. A contraction of neighboring syllables. A kind of metaplasm.

I had a boatload of bliss. I was smuggling opium over the Pacific Ocean, headed for San Diego in my big black freighter “Mickey Mantle Maru.” The opium was disguised as baseballs, made in Afghanistan, packed with drugs. They were piled high in boxes down below—enough to supply every opium den on the coast of Californi.’ And we were set to reap a bundle of cash from proprietors up and down the coast. Half the state would be in a daze—dreaming of puppy dogs and butterflies.

I had gotten in this business when I was in high school. I had an internship at a health food store called “Eat Me Raw.” We specialized in organic produce. Our clients were mainly hippies with dazed looks on their faces. They said things like “Wow man” and “Far out,” and “Right on” to almost everything you said to them. I liked them with their long hair and beads, and sandals, or bare feet.

In addition to the produce there was a bin filled with baseballs. We didn’t sell a lot. They were really expensive: $600! I asked my boss Trolley Carr why we sold baseballs in a health food store. He said: “Don’t ask me that question again, or you’re fired.” I was shocked—he would never say that if I asked him why we sold carrots or radishes. But I was curious—too curious—I couldn’t stop wondering.

I usually stayed after closing to sweep up and get the store ready for the next day’s business. That night, I picked up one of the baseballs and shook it. It slipped out of my hand and broke open on the floor. Trolley yelled from the back room “What the hell was that?” And came out of the back office. I was screwed. Trolley wasn’t supposed to be there. The open baseball revealed a plastic bag filled with white powder. I asked him what it was and he told me it was buckwheat flour from China. He told me to clean it up.

In about 10 minutes, three men came out of the back room with Trolly behind them. One of them said to me: “You’re goin’ to Afghanistan boy. Your boss does not want to kill you. So we go to Plan B. That white powder is opium and you’re going to work in the poppy fields.” That night, they hid me in the hold of a freighter and we took off. I worked in the poppy fields, and, to make a long story short, I became one of the most notorious warlords in the region. I had 200 men backing me up. I had a jeep with a .50 caliber machine gun mounted on it. I had traded it for opium and then mowed down the guy I traded with, and got the opium back. I took control of his and other poppy fields and the manufacture and sale of opium-filled baseballs. My nickname was “Opie” after Andy Griffith’s son in “Andy of Mayberry” and also, short for “opium.” All the Afghanis had seen “Andy of Mayberry” reruns with subtitles on satellite TV. They got the joke and loved it.

Well, that’s the long and the short of it. Here we are at now.

Now, we were docked and were nearly unloaded, filling trucks with baseballs to be delivered up and down the California coast. Then, a CBP car pulled up. The agent asked if we were importing counterfeit baseballs. I said “No” and I was telling the truth. The agent drove away. I was going make another $10,000,000. Baseball! The American pastime, ha ha! Gotta love 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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Synathroesmus

Posted on January 5, 2024 | Leave a comment

Synathroesmus (sin-ath-res’-mus): 1. The conglomeration of many words and expressions either with similar meaning (= synonymia) or not (= congeries). 2. A gathering together of things scattered throughout a speech (= accumulatio [:Bringing together various points made throughout a speech and presenting them again in a forceful, climactic way. A blend of summary and climax.])

High. Tall. Statuesque. Altitude: that’s what they called me: Altitude. I was 6’ 8” in the fourth grade. I had what my mother called a “growth spurt.” School taxes went up that year so I could be accommodated. For example, I had a desk that could be jacked up and down so other kids could use it. The ceiling had to be raised in the cloakroom. I had a seat with the legs sawed halfway off that I used in the lunch room so I could fit under the table. My knees were up around my shoulders, but I got to eat with my friends.

My dad suggested I play basketball. I wasn’t very athletically inclined, but I was tall. So I played basketball. The middle school baskets were nine feet high. I just stood by the basket and waited for a pass. I’d catch it and put the ball in the basket. As many passes as I could catch, I could make as many baskets. Lewis Middle School was unbeatable. Other schools started to complain that Lewis was cheating—that I was a freak of nature with no business playing middle school basketball. The other schools agitated for the School Board to make a ruling and put a cap on player height. The School Board ruled in their favor. Lewis Middle school sued the School Board, won, and I continued to play. Fans from opposing teams would throw things at me. A favorite was little plastic toy Jolly Green Giants. The game would have to be stopped after I was bombarded so the plastic giants could be swept up. It was humiliating and made me angry.

I stopped growing in the fourth grade. I was still very tall and my height was still exploited on the basketball court. By the time I graduated from high school I was a “normal” size basketball player. I got a scholarship and actually learned how to play basketball. Then, I started growing again. I was 8’ 1” tall when I graduated from college. I was recruited by professional basketball teams, but I was burned out. I turned down 8 million dollars from one team.

Instead, I started a business changing light bulbs for the elderly and disabled. With my height I didn’t need a ladder. I had a van refitted with extra legroom. My service caught on by word of mouth. Now, I have a constant supply of clients who’re appreciative of what I do. I call my business “Light Twisters.” So far, I’ve changed over a half-million light bulbs of all kinds—flourescent, incandescent, halogen. I have started hiring disabled former NFL players, who may be rich, but who are bored sitting at home watching TV or trolling the internet.

All in all, it has been a wild ride. By the way, I’m married and have a beautiful 11 foot-tall daughter. Ha ha. Just kidding. She’s normal height.

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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Synecdoche

Posted on January 4, 2024 | Leave a comment

Synecdoche (si-nek’-do-kee): A whole is represented by naming one of its parts (or genus named for species), or vice versa (or species named for genus).

He couldn’t get a handle. There was always a gap between what he thought things were and what they were. He thought his mother’s iron was a frying pan. He thought his face was a mask. He thought his hands were those clamp things in the glass boxes, used to pick up teddy bears, at rest stops on the NYS Thruway. He thought people were dolls and he had gotten in trouble several times for molesting them. He thought fried eggs were all-seeing eyes. He thought books were animal traps—you open them and bait them.

So, he was as as crazy as a loon—he was no brain and he was so far out of touch, we called him Socrates, living in a cloud-cuckoo land of ideas, not manifest in the material world. In fact he thought he was a balloon and lived in fear of being punctured. His father, Milton Rub, was a famous and wealthy chiropractor who kept people in tune for miles around. He was able to influence local psychiatrists in their judgments of Socrates’ sanity and keep hm out of the nearby state hospital.

When Socrates turned 16, his father decided it was time to start shaving. Socrates protested that he was a balloon and shaving would be dangerous, especially with the straight razor his father wanted to use. I held Socrates’ arms behind his back while he struggled. Dr. Rub put the razor to Socrates’ throat and a farting-squealing sound came out. Socrates was losing air!

He was slowly deflating. “I need duct tape!” Dr. Rub yelled as he dropped the razor and ran to the garage. He came back in seconds with a roll of duct and tore off a piece. Socrates was nearly flat, but he could still speak. He said “I feel cold. I feel empty. I am running out of air.” “Don’t worry son, we’ll get you inflated again,” said Dr. Rub as he stuck the duct tape over the slash on Socrates’ throat. “That’s a little better Dad.” Said Socrates.

Dr. Rub had brought a bicycle pump in from the garage along with the duct tape. He told me to pull down Socrates pants. There it was! A valve stem just like on a bicycle tire! It was sticking out of Socrates’ butt. I hooked up the bicycle pump and pumped like crazy. Socrates started to inflate—his legs and arms stiffened. He stood up and pulled up his pants. “Phew” was all he could say. Dr. Rub and I looked at each other in horror. This puncturing episode was bound to happen over and over until there was nobody there to patch and pump Socrates up. Besides, Socrates was not a human being—the rules did not apply to him. Accordingly, we decided to stick a pin in him—to euthanize him slowly and painlessly. We decided to stick him in the middle of his back so he couldn’t reach the wound and patch it. At the last minute, we decided to decapitate him and keep his living head in a bell jar. We fitted the bell jar with a Bluetooth microphone and ear buds so we could communicated with hm.

The day came. We took off his head with a hot knife, sealing it at the neck at the same time so its air wouldn’t leak out. We got a nice oak plant stand to display Socrates’ head. Its craftsman look fits nicely with the living room’s decor and induces meaningful conversations. Last night we discussed the question: Is it worse to be punished for wrongdoing, or to escape punishment?” As usual Socrates dominated the discussion. Not having a body is a real advantage in these kinds of discussions.

Anyway, it is like we’re living a dream and a nightmare. We have kept Socrates a secret. If we told anybody the truth, their world would be turned upside down: the world would turned upside down. We don’t need that with all the other crap going on. At some point Socrates will start to leak due to old age. We will not patch him. We will let him “go gently into the night.”

POSTSCRIPT

I’m burying this to leave a record that will eventually be found.

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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Synonymia

Posted on January 3, 2024 | Leave a comment

Synonymia (si-no-ni’-mi-a): In general, the use of several synonyms together to amplify or explain a given subject or term. A kind of repetition that adds emotional force or intellectual clarity. Synonymia often occurs in parallel fashion. The Latin synonym, interpretatio, suggests the expository and rational nature of this figure, while another Greek synonym, congeries, suggests the emotive possibilities of this figure.

Rough, hard, stiff, slippery, and shiny—that’s the floor. I spend a lot of time there. I am a sock skier. I’ve been sock skiing ever since I was a little boy. I started out on linoleum, but now it’s hardwood all the way. I am wealthy and I have a regulation sock ski run in my basement. The sport is easy. You run 25 feet and let your momentum carry you down the run. Whoever slides the farthest wins. As bowling wanes in popularity many bowling alleys have been converted to sock ski runs.

The key to winning is in the socks. 100s of companies make them—from Fire Skidders to Sliding Lighting. I have my own custom socks that I perfected after years of trial and error. They are made of silk yarn from a rare Chinese silkworm produced on a single estate outside Shanghai. They are called Shanghai Rockets. Before their silk’s slipperiness was valued for sock skiing, their silk was used solely for women’s stockings. Their slipperiness enabled them to slide off and on without having to roll them up. Now, with synthetics, their silk’s major market is sock skiing foot wear. However, given the rarity of their yarn, the socks are very expensive—$100.00 a pair. And they only last for three or four rounds of play. This doesn’t matter though, because I have cornered the market on Shanghai Rockets. This gives me a great advantage and I have won many championships.

This year is the 25th year of championship sock skiing. My dominance is threatened. Shanghai Rockets have proliferated and their price has plummeted to $5.00 a pair. I no longer own them all. I am fairly certain my chief rival, “Turtle” Panstead, is responsible for the silk yarn glut and the easy availability of Shanghai Lightnings. Even when we were matched up with Shanghai Lightings, he couldn’t beat me. He had huge feet and they slowed him down—they were like turtle’s feet—hence his nickname “Turtle.” But this tournament was different.

I was prepared to lose. Then, I got the idea of wearing trainers and kicking them off when I hit the sock ski run. My traction on the run up would give me speed and momentum that couldn’t be beat. Traction was a real problem in the run up with the slippery silk. I would conquer it. I took the laces out of my trainers so I could kick them off when I hit the run without skipping a beat.

Everything went well until I kicked off my trainers. One of them hit one of the judges in the head and knocked him out. I was booed and disqualified, even though I won the competition. However, shoe kicking has since become the norm in the sport. Judges wear catcher’s masks from American baseball. Turtle and I made amends. We are partners in the world’s largest sock skiing arena in Portland, Maine. It is called “Top Sock” and it has 300 runs. People travel from all over the world to see it and use it. Last week, two people from France got married on Run 7 and had their reception on the grand concourse. We danced to “Goin’ to Sock City,” “Slidin’ My Way Back to You,” “Sock Around the Clock’,” “Slide Run to Heaven” and a bunch of other sock skier favorites.

So Turtle and I are as happy as can be. We’re thinking about getting a cat with white paws and naming him “Socks.” We also had a special Sock Puppet competition—the puppets are just plain socks, so it’s a real challenge to bring them to life with no faces and just thumb movement inside the sock to simulate a mouth.

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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Synthesis

Posted on January 2, 2024 | Leave a comment

Synthesis (sin’-the-sis): An apt arrangement of a composition, especially regarding the sounds of adjoining syllables and words.

We went wherever we wanted, whenever we wanted. We were wild. We were young. We were idiots. We didn’t care how we got there. Sure, we walked most of the time—it was cool. But we also hitchiked. We didn’t consider the danger. We were idiots. “We” was me and Bobby Magee. We had nothin’ to lose. Our house had burned down and we had hit the road. I suspected Bobby had done it with his homemade bong—tin foil and a toilet paper roll. He said vapes were for wimps. Everything we owned was destroyed except for the clothes on our backs, Bobby’s harmonica, and his dirty old bandana. .

All Bobby could play on the harmonica was “Three Blind Mice” and “Row, Row, Row Your Boat.” He had had the harmonica for a year and aspired to be a virtuoso like the great Slim Harpo. He practiced his two songs relentlessly. I wanted to run his harmonica through the wood chipper. I dreamed about blind mice rowing a boat to a cheeses factory on the River Styx. I would wake up screaming in my bed like I was rowing a boat. I could smell cheese. It was horrifying.

Of course Bobby didn’t have a job. I worked at home making decorative cardboard gift boxes for a company located in Taiwan. When the house went up in smoke, so did my job. So, I was unemployed just like Bobby. We decided to move to California and start over again. We made a sign that said “Make America Great Again. CALIFORNIA” and started hitchiking. Our first ride was with a guy in camo-painted Ford Bronco. He was driving one-handed with a pistol in the other hand. He pointed it at us and motioned us into the truck. “God bless you” he said and fired a round out his window. Me and Bobby looked at each other terrified. The guy driving said “My name’s Edward, but my friends call me Jesus.” That did it, Bobby pulled his harmonica out of his dirty old bandana and started playing “Three Blind Mice” double time. He was on his sixth rendition when “Jesus” told us the get the hell out of his “all-wheel angel bus.” He pulled over and we jumped out.

We were lucky to be at a rest stop. There was an old school bus that had “Make America Great Again” pained on the side. Given our hitching sign, this was a sure ride. And it was! We were joining the immigrant hunt down on the Arizona-Mexico border. Chip, the hunt leader, assured us we would find “game” and probably knock off a few families. We were the only ones without axe handles, but no matter how much we wanted to “Make America Great Again,” we didn’t want to beat people with axe handles. I made a harmonica sign at Bobby. He got it and pulled his harmonica out of his dirty old bandana and started blowing “Three Blind Mice.” He got through four renditions before they threw us off the bus. It was 2:00 am out in the middle of nowhere.

We decided to use our thumbs instead of the sign. After an hour a Land Rover pulled over and picked us up. It was a married couple on their way to LA. They gave each a bottled water and an apple. Me and Bobby fell asleep. When we awoke we were at a homeless shelter where our benefactors were waiting for us to wake up. They gave us $50 and wished us well. We settled in the shelter. Bobby started playing “Three Blind Mice” and we came close to being thrown out.

Everything has worked out. I got a job picking avocados. Bobby tried giving harmonica lessons but was unsuccessful. Now, he’s writing stories an about a harmonica player named William Honer, and the tribulations he endures climbing the “slippery” staircase to success.

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

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Syntheton

Posted on January 1, 2024 | Leave a comment

Syntheton (sin’-the-ton): When by convention two words are joined by a conjunction for emphasis.

“Good and plenty. Plenty good.” “Big and tall.” It’s all the same. It’s always the same: more, more, more. More is good until you get more frostbite or crap clogging up your toilet. It is the same old thing. You have to ask more of what? more plague? More famine? More worms in your belly? When I was a kid I kept asking for more ice cream. My parents gave it to me to shut me up. By the time I was four, I weighed 300 pounds. I was too big for a stroller, so my parents took me to the mall in a wheelbarrow. It was uncomfortable, but I liked going out. If there was something I really wanted, I would rock my wheelbarrow back and forth. Sometimes my father would get angry and flip me out of the wheelbarrow. He didn’t do that very often because he would have to get three or four people to hoist me back in my wheelbarrow. After Dad flipped me out one time, I rolled to the escalator, bounced down and got my pants caught. They had to shut down the escalator while the 911 rescue team freed me. I peed my pants and was very embarrassed.

Eventually, my parents sent me to a fat camp outside Pueblo, Mexico: “Hungry Dawn.” I was 18 so they thought I could handle it. First of all, the camp staff spoke only Spanish—the name of the camp was the only thing in English. They didn’t care that I could not understand anything they said. For example, when they said “si” I would start looking around for what I was supposed to see. They would laugh and go “Si, si, si” and point all over. But, with diet and exercise, I lost 150 pounds. I subsisted on water and lizards I pulled off the walls. The people running the camp were deeply impressed with my lizard-catching skills and would roast them for me. In crafts time, I made key rings out of the lizard’s skin and sold them to tourists who came to see the Aztec pyramids. I sold them for $10.00 each and made enough money to bribe my way out of “Hungry Dawn.”

I took a bus to Mexico City, and then flew home to Scranton, PA. I got home around 2:00 am. The front door was locked, so I knocked on it. Some big guy in his underwear pointed a shotgun at me and asked what the hell I wanted. I checked the address—it was the right address. My parents had abandoned me. I apologized and took an Uber to the homeless shelter. The driver told me she had just broken up with her boyfriend and needed somebody to fill in. I told her I would be happy to substitute for him. She asked me if there was anything I needed from Cliff’s. “Yes,” I said, “3 or 4 gallons of ‘Carmel Curl’ ice cream.“

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

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Synzeugma

Posted on December 31, 2023 | Leave a comment

Synzeugma (sin-zoog’-ma): That kind of zeugma in which a verb joins (and governs) two phrases by coming between them. A synonym for mesozeugma.

I was going without a second thought. I’d been watching stupid streaming Australian doctor shows on Prime TV for too long. I had developed a slight Australian accent, including learning slang. I had a pretty good idea of maladies and accidents Australians suffered from—mostly infections, broken bones and cancer. The one thing that bothered me a lot was how promiscuous they are. In one episode this woman has sex in the supply room on her first day of work. Then, she feels guilty about it and tells her son!

So, I was on my way out—on a date with an Australian woman. We rode in my Subaru Outback to Outback Steak House. I had heard they served kangaroo meat there, had dancing Kuala Bears, techno didgeridoo music, and sang “Waltzing Matilda” every half-hour. None of this was true accept for the singing. But my date Baahbrah more than made up for it. We were drinking giant cans of Foster’s beer and having a great time. She had unbuttoned her blouse half-way down and pulled it open when we sang “Waltzing Matilda.” I unbuttoned my shirt too and put my arm around her. It was great getting out and being with a live human being! I told her “Crikey, this is the most fun I’ve had in a couple of years!”

She stiffened, she frowned, and she squinted. Her fingers went white-knuckle on her Foster’s can, and she crushed it. She flipped over our table and stomped out the door, calling an Uber on her cellphone.

I called her the next day and she hung up. Finally, after a week she took my call. I asked her what the hell had happened. “It was the Crikey,” she told me. “You misused it. And what is worse, it was the last thing my father said before he died.” They were riding to shear sheep and their Land Rover ran over a didgeridoo that had somehow ended up in the middle of the road. Her Dad swerved and the Land Rover flipped over. Her Dad wasn’t buckled in and he flew 10 feet. When she got to him he said “Crikey” and died of a fractured skull. She found out that the didgeridoo was put there so he would stop and be robbed. It was the work of the “Finks,” a notorious biker gang who specialized in “stop and steal” operations. For some reason they didn’t rob Baahbrah and her father.

Although I could understand her feeling, I thought her behavior was bizarre, and that she was probably a little crazy. But I let it slide. I was so desperately lonely I would’ve dated Freddy Kruger or the Wicked Witch of the West or Ma Barker.

Every once-in-while I say “Crikey” very softly so she doesn’t know whether she’s hearing things. I ask her what’s matter and she tells me she heard a voice say “Crikey.” I assure her that can’t be true, all the time laughing to myself. I know it’s cruel, but I can’t help it. I like living on the edge.

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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Systrophe

Posted on December 30, 2023 | Leave a comment

Systrophe (si’-stro-fee): The listing of many qualities or descriptions of someone or something, without providing an explicit definition.

Iron, tile, milkweed, nailgun: shacks, mowing candellabras, showers. All in a day’s work—a day’s hard work. Working with the hands sometimes slowly, sometimes fast. Toady, I’m making a cradle for the neighbor’s daughter’s newborn baby. Her name is Shane. She’s 11 and her dad’s 45. That’s quite a difference in their age, but here in Texas, the abortion ban wonderland, it happens too often. You see the middle school girls pushing baby carriages to school. The school has made no accommodations for the kiddie moms, making them bring their strollers to class and park them in the back of the classroom.

Put the unwanted pregnancies together with lax gun laws in Texas, and you haves a common sense way of dealing with things. There is a public interest group called “Bullets for Babies” that will loan out handguns for the “Never Again” movement’s mission called “Bye Bye Daddy.”

It has been successful slowing down the rate of unwanted pregnancies by eliminating repeat offenders and scaring the hell out of prospective offenders. But best of all, the US Supreme Court has declared open season on men who impregnate girls under 17. It is hoped this will balance out the strict abortion laws.

It is surprising how many men in our town have been put down. One of the first to go was Mr. Medwick the English teacher. He was young and smart, and single, and very handsome. Of course, this is a recipe for abuse. He was shot dead on the football field during half time. Susie Clen pulled the trigger, wounding him and finally getting a bullet into his head. It was gruesome, but the astroturf cleans right up and you’d never know anything happened.

Another benefit is free DNA tests. They are an infallible guide pointing directly at perpetrators. Many men have mysteriously left town after being summoned to appear at the local DNA testing center to have their saliva swabbed. Most noteworthy was Mayor Jackson. His secretary’s daughter was growing a bump and had pointed the finger the Mayor. As soon as he got notice he was seen speeding out of town in his Cadillac. His Secretary was chasing after him in her Subaru but couldn’t catch up, although she did manage to put a couple of .357 slugs into his trunk.

Anyway, as soon as I finish Shane’s cradle. I’ll hunt her father down and bring him in to the DNA testing center. I hear he’s doing the “sanctuary” thing in the local church. What a joke, after what he did. If he resists, I’ll shoot hm in the foot and then drag him to the center for testing. Chances are, he’ll take off before I can apprehend him. That’ll be a shame. He probably deserves to die. He’ll probably make a run to Oklahoma, but we have an extradition agreement. We’ll get him one way or the other. It’s ironic, but I think he’s a bastard.

Uh oh! I hear gunfire up the street. It must be another feckless father payin’ his dues.

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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Tapinosis

Posted on December 29, 2023 | Leave a comment

Tapinosis (ta-pi-no’-sis): Giving a name to something which diminishes it in importance.

“Hey dust-mote, get over here.” It was Feral Freddie again. He never called me by my real name. It felt good for him to belittle me with a fresh insulting moniker every day. In a way it’s my fault. I gave him the name “Feral” when we were in high school. It stuck, partially because it went well with Freddie—Feral Freddie, an insult made in heaven. He was a wild thing. He peed on fire hydrants and chased squirrels. He was terrible with girls. He would sniff them in the mall by the fountain and then take a drink from the tidy-bowl blue water like a bad version of a lion. He would roar—it sounded like somebody loudly saying “Roar”—the word roar, not the sound roar.

He was arrested for stealing candy from the candy jar at the barber shop in broad daylight, while the shop was open. His defense was “Its a free country.” He was 14 so he didn’t go to prison. Instead, he went to juvenile detention for one month. The first time he tried to pee on the fire hydrant in the exercise yard, he was put into counseling with Dr. Pretendo, who was notorious for his nearly 100% failure rate counseling inmates. Feral Freddie was no exception.

Dr. Pretendo read Nietzsche’s “Twilight of the Idols” with Freddie and watched “The Fly” starring Jeff Goldbloom with him over and over again—sometimes two or three times a day. Dr. Pretendo presented Frankie with an inflatable sex doll to help him develop healthy relationships, and maybe find his true love. By the time he completed his sentence and was released, Freddie was completely insane.

I was at his house when he came home. He rang the bell and his mother answered the door. There was Feral Freddie standing at the door with his inflatable sex doll under his arm, who he introduced as “Dolly Madison” his fiancee.

I’ve been hanging out with Freddie. I don’t know why. I guess in one sense I’d like to be like him—a free range nut case with no conscience or respect for human life. On the other hand, Freddie makes me sick. His “fiancée” is a case in point. I couldn’t handle a silent vinyl girlfriend. I need something that talks—maybe a parrot or an answering machine. But at least Freddie doesn’t want to kill anybody. He takes his aggression out on earthworms on the sidewalk after it rains—stomping on them.

Today, we’re going to the park to tip over baby strollers and kick sand at toddlers. It’s good to have a plan.

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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Tasis

Posted on December 28, 2023 | Leave a comment

Tasis (ta’-sis): Sustaining the pronunciation of a word or phrase because of its pleasant sound. A figure apparent in delivery.

B-I-I-I-G! The bump on my forehead had gotten the size of a small pumpkin. It was actually bigger than a bump & bigger than a lump too! It was more like a molehill without a hole. Or, half a cantaloupe. Maybe at some point it would look like a unicorn horn, and maybe explode and splatter my windshield or bathroom mirror or TV screen with whatever the hell was sloshing around inside it.

I have decided after one month of the bump, to go to the doctor and get it diagnosed and fixed. I’m sure it is some kind infection that is not fatal or I would’ve been dead already. Well, maybe not. The doctor will tell me. If I’m going to die, so be it.

I made an appointment with Dr. Dieter Stollen. He specializes in Pus-Swollen Skin Sacs. He took one look at my forehead at said “Das ist no tannenbaum!” He was trying to be humorous. He squeezed my bump and it made a squeaking sound. When it squeaked he pulled his hand away and wiped it on his pants. He reached in the drawer on his operating table and pulled out a shiny knife around ten inches long. I told him I thought it was a little big and he said “Vee vill see Mr. Know-it-all.” He told me to disrobe and lay on the table. Before I knew it, he and the nurse strapped me down. The nurse started administering me anesthesia. She laughed as she counted me down from 10 and said “Don’t worry my little puss machine.” That’s the last thing I remembered before I woke up.

The doctor was holding up a jar with what looked like a giant blue worm squirming around in it. It was at least six inches long. There was pus splattered all over the place—my gown was soaked and smelled like mayonnaise. The worm stopped wriggling and looked at me with its little black oval eyes. I couldn’t tell for sure, but it looked like it was crying.

The Doctor told me it was a Boogey Worm. it gets into your nose via picking it with an unclean pinky. Then, it climbs up your nose and makes a nest behind your forehead where it lays three little eggs that roll out your nose and into your food, where you eat them and they grow to maturity in your stomach. Once they have grown, they exit out your anus taking up residence in a sewer treatment facility or septc tank. The giant worm in my head was a breeder—very rare.

I asked him if I could keep the giant worm as a souvenir. He said: “Vi not? Just do not let him get out of da jar.” I didn’t listen. I named him Joe and got him a terrarium. I fed him Crisco and pork suet. He was flourishing. But then, I woke up one morning and Joe was gone. I searched high and low. I found him under the kitchen cabinets, but he was so fast I couldn’t catch him. Then one day, he shot out the front door and disappeared forever.

The only thing I’ve changed in my life is I use a sanitary wipe on my pinky when I pick my nose.

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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Thaumasmus

Posted on December 27, 2023 | Leave a comment

Thaumasmus (thau-mas’-mus): To marvel at something rather than to state it in a matter of fact way.

Dear Ma,

Oh wow! Wow! Wow! Wow! I am stupefied, flabbergasted, and flipped out. I am bonkers. Over the rainbow. Flying high. Beamed up. Rockin’ out. You finally answered one of my emails. It only took two years. But I am persistent. You’re my mother. I thought it would take only a couple of weeks to get through to you. Look, I’ll put my cards on the table: I ruined your life, to a certain extent. When you found Dad rollin’ between the sheets with one of Jessy’s community college friends, anger was appropriate. You saw them, but they didn’t see you. You watched through a crack in the door, as they groaned and twisted and squirmied around like a couple of earthworms in heat. You snapped, but you pretended nothing was wrong. Dad had made a fool out of himself, slobbering after somebody half his age, but beautiful, smart and artistically inclined. She made beautiful hand-cut doilies and paper mache planet mobiles that she sold at the town market on Thursdays. She was so much better than you, but that shouldn’t matter to an aging overweight woman who used to be average-looking before the big butt and saggy boobies took over—and the dye job on your hair. It’s not a real hair color—it looks like pumpkin pie, but it smells like hard-boiled eggs. But you’re a mature, smart woman with a PhD in European Angst Studies. I thought you would’ve borne your woes like a weight lifter bench pressing hell and anger, using them to build you up, not tear you down.

I thought you could take it after you told me what had happened. I thought your education and life experiences would get you by. When you asked to borrow my pistol to learn “another skill,” I thought nothing of it. Dad seemed a little worried, but I paid no attention. He worried about everything. I still remember how he worried when Japanese beetles started eating his garden. He just sat by the garden box shaking his head, and then, lit the garden on fire.

But anyway, we went to the shooting range a couple of times, and then you told me you were ready. “Ready for what?” I asked. You said, “You’ll see.” Then I realized you were going to shoot Dad. I called 911. There was a two-day stand-off with cops circling our house. You made Dad dance to the tune of the pistol, firing toward his feet. Then, you put the gun down on the kitchen table. You surrendered and the police took you away. You got five years. What a shame.

Dad and Lucinda are having a baby. They are so happy, and so am I. Please stay away from us when you get out of prison. It could only lead to trouble. By the way, you left behind some jewelry. Do you mind if I sell it?

Your son,

Joey

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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Topographia

Posted on December 25, 2023 | Leave a comment

Topographia (top-o-graf’-i-a): Description of a place. A kind of enargia [: {en-ar’-gi-a} generic name for a group of figures aiming at vivid, lively description].

Inside my brain I have pictures, swirling smoke, flashing lights, and broken dreams. The pictures are like Polaroids with blurry images poorly composed—parts cut off, my thumb in middle, blank—basically undecipherable, no memory triggers: just there, filling up a part of my consciousness with no meaning except the puzzle of absence with a presence.

The smoke is smoldering memories borne on brain cells clenching time—squeezing out the liquid drops of beginnings ill founded and tangled in cords of hope never realized. Flashing lights bear hypnotic seductions cascading in every shade to dress my soul with vibrancy and the illusion of beauty where there is only a surface ugly without color, dim and nearly invisible. My broken dreams are piled, almost cracking my skull and giving me headaches without end, remorseless, grinding, debilitating.

But alongside all of this is the medication, soaking my brain with a promise. If I take it, it will take me to a non-bipolar, non-PTSD paradise, where everything goes into neutral and I walk slowly and have mild tremors—my fork bounces up and down, my lips quiver. A small price to pay to still the crazy urges and extract me from peril. But, I can’t carry my feeling foward. I take the first step and then turn and run at the first sign of connecting. I can’t carry through. I won’t carry through. I can’t get close. I won’t get close. I won’t begin, so I won’t end.

For me, life is a series of beginnings. Continuity is an unachievable illusion. I just wait for “until death do us part.” Or, we just “part” out of boredom or anger. Living is losing, but it does not make it not worthwhile. In most cases, holding on is futile and painful too. Just fade out—letting go is the honorable thing to do. If you’re as lucky as I am, slopping around in a medicated stew, you’ll always be nowhere, nested in aporia like a big brainless bird.

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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Traductio

Posted on December 24, 2023 | Leave a comment

Traductio (tra-duk’-ti-o): Repeating the same word variously throughout a sentence or thought. Some authorities restrict traductio further to mean repeating the same word but with a different meaning (see ploce, antanaclasis, and diaphora), or in a different form (polyptoton). If the repeated word occurs in parallel fashion at the beginnings of phrases or clauses, it becomes anaphora; at the endings of phrases or clauses, epistrophe.

I went for a little walk for a little while. I walked from my back door to my little garden. My garden was a 4×4 box that I built out of scrap lumber from my picnic table when I built it myself. My pride and joy was the corn stalk in the middle of the garden. It was 8 feet tall. The corn cobs were as big as bakers’ rolling pins. In addition to that, I had tiny tomatoes, the size of blueberries, and “Holy Cow” carrots, genetically modified, three feet long and deep orange, almost red. I built a five-foot high fence around my little garden to secure it against marauding herbivores.

I hired a kid from the local college to stand guard over the garden at night. I pitched him a tent and ran an extension chord out to the tent. He had his own sleeping bag and mattress. I gave him a .20 gauge shotgun and told him to shoot “anything” posing a threat to the plants.

The first night a shot rang out. I ran outside and he ran up to me yelling he had shot a giant 5-foot rabbit. We ran over to where it was supposed to be. There was my neighbor Mrs. Shmed lying on the ground. She was unscathed but terrified. She had fainted. She had been sleepwalking.

I took the gun away from the kid. I gave him one of those stadium horns and told him to blow it if there was trouble. At around 2:00 am the horn went off. The kid was yelling for help. He sounded really scared. I looked out the kitchen window and was shocked to see a six-foot tall rabbit. It had the kid against a tree and was punching him and kicking him. I grabbed the shotgun and ran out the back door. When it saw me, it turned away from the kid and came toward me. I shot it 6 times. I killed it. I thought it might be good to eat, so I field dressed it and hung it from a tree limb in the back yard. I wasn’t going to tell anybody about the giant rabbit—I didn’t want a bunch of scientists snooping around my yard asking questions. It was bad enough that we almost killed my neighbor, but this was over the top.

Around noon the next day, a game warden showed up at my door. Somebody had reported gunshots coming from my property the previous night. He asked to have a look around. When he got to the back yard and saw the giant rabbit hanging there, he whistled and said “Holy shit.” Sir, that’s not a rabbit, it’s a kangaroo.” The kangaroo had escaped from Coalville Zoo. Its name was Tony. I was advised to leave town for five or six months, until things cooled off. Otherwise, my life was in jeopardy—Tony was a beloved fixture at the zoo and the real culprit was the person who let him out of his cage. The warden started crying and fiddling with his gun. I thought for sure he was going to shoot me.

I put up a plaque for Tony in the zoo. It says “Freedom’s just another word for nothing left to lose.” his name is inscribed along with his dates of birth and death. It had a collection box that says “Save the Kangaroos” on it. I met an Aussie there one day. He was laughing. He told me kangaroos are considered vermin where he comes from—they cause fatal accidents, they cover the ground with their poop, and they assault peole.

I took the collection box off of Tony’s plaque.

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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Tricolon

Posted on December 23, 2023 | Leave a comment

Tricolon (tri-co-lon): Three parallel elements of the same length occurring together in a series.

I ate. I drank. I farted. It was a wonderful night. All my friends had come to my birthday party. I was 77 and I could still walk and go to the bathroom without assistance. The nursing home day room was festively decorative. Balloons of every imaginable color hung from the ceiling. Some of them said “Happy Birthday” on them. The the guys in white coats who were also called “staff” made us wear pointy party hats so they could take pictures for the Trustees.

My urologist had recently prescribed me viagra to take every day for “prostrate health.” Consequently, I had screwed every willing woman in the nursing home. I didn’t care how old they were as long as they wanted viagarian experience. There was one women who was so unwilling that she threw things around me when she saw me coming. Her name was Galatians. Once, she threw her knitting at me. I got tangled up in it, fell down, and broke my wrist.

I had never been so adamantly rejected. I tried my best to honor her wishes. I stopped leering at her and pointing to my crotch. I stopped with the cat calls and making smootching sounds with my lips. Nevertheless, she complained about me and I was severely admonished by the Director, Dr. Ed, who was a cosmetologist who signed contracts with the nursing home’s clientele to do their faces when they die.

He had a giant red scar across his face with a story behind it—he had fallen off a motorcycle and his face had scraped along the curb for 100 feet, coming to rest when his head got stuck in an opening above a sewer grate in the gutter. He lost his girlfriend. He was bullied. He became a cosmotligist.

So, my punishment for my rude and totally inappropriate behavior, was to be taken off Viagra and returned to impotence. A lot of women complained, but the Trustees were adamant. So, in my limphood I was able to make friends with Galatians—the woman who had thrown things at me. I found out her deceased husband was a Baptist Preacher. That said a lot about her attitude toward me. As we were talking, suddenly, she moved her chair close to mine and put her hand on my leg. I got a tingle in my dingle. She told me that she and Dr. Ed were “getting it on.” I was schocked. Now that I was neutered, she felt safe talking to me about sexual things. She asked if I ever heard of a “threesome.” “Hell yeah!” I said. “Don’t worry about your condition. I have something that will help.” She invited me to Dr. Ed’s for what she called a “session.” I was confused, but I decided to go.

I met them a Dr. Ed’s the next day at 6:00. We were taking off our clothes when Dr. Ed’s wife burst in the front door. He said “Do you know what a foursome is?” She picked up a table lamp and started beating him over the head with it. She killed him and we were witnesses. Her trial was messy. She got 2 years.

Galatians and I became close after that. She made me a “health” drink called “Throbbing Goreng.” She had learned how to make it when she and her husband were on a mission in Amsterdam, Netherlands. I drank it down in one gulp and started to rise like a GIF of a sprouting sunflower on one of those nature shows.

Galatians is my only girlfriend. If we weren’t going to die in a few years of old age, or cancer, or something, we’d get married.

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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Abating

Posted on December 22, 2023 | Leave a comment

Abating: English term for anesis: adding a concluding sentence that diminishes the effect of what has been said previously. The opposite of epitasis (the addition of a concluding sentence that merely emphasizes what has already been stated. A kind of amplification).

“Put your hands up, or I’ll shoot!” Everybody put their hands up. Then I said, “I won’t actually shoot, but my buddy Pouncy here will beat the shit out of you and maybe stab you!” It worked like a charm. I called it the “old one two.” “One, the gun. Two, Pouncy.” Threatening to shoot people really gets their attention and that’s what I want when I’m robbing a convenience store at 3.00 a.m. I didn’t even own a gun. As a convicted felon with bipolar disorder I was not allowed to own a gun in New Jersey. I didn’t care. For backup, I had a toy Glock with the red plug pulled out of the barrel. It looked real. So real, it gave a guy a heart attack and killed him. That was something to be proud of—killing somebody with a fake gun. Pouncy didn’t have to beat anybody senseless that night. The dead guy on the floor did the trick.

Pouncy and I have successfully robbed 62 convenience stores in North Jersey—from “A&B Markets” to “Zelda’s Pantries.” We’re headed to “Groogles Bunk and Dunk” tonight. It’s a combination donut shop and motel—very high end. The cheapest donut is three dollars and it’s called the “Cheapy.” The most expensive donut is a whopping $125.00, and it’s called the “Circle of Love.” It is one-foot in diameter and garnished with carmel corn, chocolate kisses and edible pink and blue confetti. It is filled with ricotta cheese and raspberry jam. The donut’s dough is luminescent, glowing a light green color when you turn out the lights. For an extra five dollars you can get a candle. People give the donuts to each other to signify love on birthdays, anniversaries, and of course, Valentine’s Day. “The Circle of Love” was featured in a special edition of “National Geographic.” It was titled “Bizarre Things People Eat.” It included “Joe’s Roadkill Roundup” and “Muffet’s Battered Spiders.”

But anyway, this was a big night—our last heist in North Jersey. We were head through the Delaware Water Gap to Stroudsburg, PA, and then, down to Philadelphia.

We pulled up to Groogle’s. I took out my gun. We pulled down our Balaclavas and burst into the entrance. I waved my gun around and yelled, “Hands up or I’ll shoot!” Then I noticed everybody was wearing police uniforms. A big fat cop yelled “go fu*k yourself.” All the cops pulled their guns. One yelled “Welcome to my retirement party. assholes.”

That was it. Me and Pouncy were arrested and convicted of robbery armed with a fake gun. We’re serving our seven year sentences in Rahway State Prison. We’re up for parole next year. I can’t wait to start robbing convenience stores again.

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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Adage

Posted on December 18, 2023 | Leave a comment

Adage (ad’-age): One of several terms describing short, pithy sayings, or traditional expressions of conventional wisdom.

“The best things in life are free.” This was my motto. I’d be standing in a convenience store, gun drawn, balaclava pulled down and a car idling outside, legally parked and poised for my getaway. I’d wave my gun over my head and yell, “The best things in life are free!” Give me all your cash and Marlboro 27s, and Take 5 scratch offs. I’d hit three stores a day. I almost had enough cash to buy a racehorse and a Lincoln Navigator. In two months I bought the horse: a filly named “Pearly’s Promise.” I had violated my motto by actually paying for the horse. But then I realized I paid for her with stolen cash. So, technically, she was free.

I got a trainer and a jockey. The trainer was named “Crackers Punchoski.” The jockey’s name was “Salad Vogel.” I thought their names were pretty weird, but I was told weird names are a good sign. The name shows their dedication to the “sport of kings.” With names like Cracker and Salad, they can’t get a job anywhere else. They’ve taken the leap.

So I rented horse tack from a guy in the parking lot who said it was lucky. A horse running in the Traverse Stake at the SaratogaTtrack in New York had lost by only a nose. I bought a trailer, pulled by the Lincoln Navigator, and a small farm in Kentucky named “Butter Bill Glen.” Then, I bought a set of colors on e-Bay. I registered them under a phony name: Jefferson Starplow.

“Pearly’s Promise” was magical. She was on her way to the Kentucky Derby. That’s when the FBI showed up. They wanted to know who Jefferson Starplow is and how I got all the “stuff” with no records of loans or other sources of capital. I said “Wait a minute” and ran out the door, and jumped in the Navigator and took off. Their piece of crap government issue sedans were no match for the Navigator. I got away, but I knew it was just a matter of time before they caught up with me. I drove to Ruidoso, New Mexico where I took shelter among the racing aficionados who flocked there from Texas to race their quarter horses. I got some cowboy clothes and made plans for a dash across the Mexican border. There was a “hole” in the border maintained by a corrupt troop of Border Patrol officers. I paid the tariff and and walked across the border. I had four big suitcases with wheels. They were packed with $100 bills. I hired a kid to help me drag them into Mexico. There was an armored limo waiting for me. It took me to a clandestine airstrip. I boarded a plane that took me to Costa Rica—no extradition treaty with the US. I’m living in a vila overlooking the ocean. I married a local woman and we have two lovely children—4 & 6. I still believe the best things in life are free. But, I learned my lesson—escaping justice cost a shitload of money, and I’d count that as one of the best things in my life.

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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Adianoeta

Posted on December 17, 2023 | Leave a comment

Adianoeta: An expression that, in addition to an obvious meaning, carries a second, subtle meaning (often at variance with the ostensible meaning).

I had been sitting there for the past 2 minutes and I was dying to stroke her pussy. It was multicolored and silky. I had petted it once before but it swatted at me with claws out. Luckily, it didn’t get me or I’d probably have a scratch across my hand—it’s like my father told me: “Don’t try to play with pussies that don’t want to play with you.” But the problem is, you don’t know whether they want to play with you if you don’t try to play with them.

This pussy was named “Feckless” and she belonged to my friend Marie. The first time I asked if I could play with Marie’s pussy, she smacked me in the face and told me to get the hell out of her apartment—that we didn’t have that kind of relationship. When I explained the confusion, she apologized for giving me a bloody nose, and told me I could play with her pussy as much as I wanted. I tried to pick up Feckless to stroke her, and like today, and the time before, she let me have it full blast, but this time she got me. I had to go to the emergency room. They laughed when I told them I was scratched by a pussy. Then and there I decided I would call pussies “cats.”

I have no idea where the pussy thing came from and why it took me so long to get it straightened out. You would think that Marie’s slap in the face would’ve woken me up, and to some extent it did. Then my football coach started calling me a pussy. He called me a pussy because I wasn’t interested in killing people from the other team. My teammates wouldn’t hesitate to stomp on the opposition’s throats, stomachs or crotches with their spikes. The crotch stomps did little damage due to the protection worn down there—but throats and stomachs were wonderfully vulnerable. When Coach called me a “pussy” I would meow at him and he would throw me off the field. I’d hiss at him as I headed for the locker room. I decided I didn’t want to be a pussy and I quit the team.

I became a “cat”—a “cool cat.” I grew my hair long with sideburns and started wearing blue jeans. I said “man” and “cool” all the time. I got a switchblade knife and motorcycle boots. Not only was I a cat, I was a stud. I joined a gang named “The Rabid Cats.” I participated in some petty crime and inconsequential gang fights. We fought it out with “Satan’s Halos” with bean bags and nerf guns. That’s when I decided to go back to my normal life.

I went looking for Marie, hoping that something would blossom between us. I found her. She had a baby. She said, “I never should’ve let that bastard stroke my pussy.”

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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Adynaton

Posted on December 15, 2023 | Leave a comment

Adynaton (a-dyn’-a-ton): A declaration of impossibility, usually in terms of an exaggerated comparison. Sometimes, the expression of the impossibility of expression.

Dad: That’s like asking for your Uncle Bill to be normal or a roll of toilet paper to answer your questions about the meaning of life. I know you aspire to be in a circus sideshow, but you can’t grow a third leg out of your butt, like a tail. We might be able to get you an 11th finger, but that’s not much of an oddity. It probably wouldn’t get you a place in a side show. You could get your body covered with tattoos. It would be fun deciding what to put on you. My first choice would be my face on your forehead. It would symbolize the fact that I’m your mentor—tattooed over your frontal lobe. We could put Mom on your chest, life sized. Inking her head over your heart says it all—what a great Mother’s Day gift! Beyond me and mom’s images, it would be up to you to fill in your body with meaning.

Son: Dad, that would hurt like hell. Tattoos are not for me. Maybe I could swallow swords. Remember when I swallowed my cereal spoon when I was a toddler? You freaked out and I had to pull it out. I had strained beets all over my face. Maybe I could swallow barbecue skewers or hedge clippers to give my show some pizazz. I could do a yardstick and a mop-handle too. I could be “Johnny Swallow.” I could combine my act with fire eating—I could down a flaming yardstick or baseball bat!

Dad: That’s all fine and good, but it’s like walking backwards with your eyes closed against the light at a busy intersection during rush hour. Get my drift? Hopefully it’ll take you safely to shore. Let’s talk about something else, like Uncle Bill’s pending visit for Christmas.

Son: Oh, come on Dad. We both know that Uncle Bill’s the most bizarre person we know. Just because he’s Mom’s brother, we let him within ten miles of our front door. Getting dropped off by an ambulance from “State Home” is a sure sign he’s off. The guy that walks him to the door has him attached to a harness and you have to sign paperwork before he’ll hand over the leash. Uncle Bill jumps up and down and yells “Poo-Poo” and comes inside and rubs his butt on the TV screen. You had a ring installed on the living room wall so you could tether Uncle Bill to spend quality time with the family when we watch TV. Last year, he got loose and ate a fair amount of the Christmas tree when we were all sleeping. The trip to the Emergency Room was a nightmare. Let’s just say, hospital security caught and restrained Uncle Bill minutes before he was going to give a random patient a nose job with a bone saw. What’s our plan this year, Dad?

Dad: Shackles, handcuffs, and the tether too. I’m trying to get Uncle Bill’s doctor to increase his medication’s dosage, and give him handfuls of THC gummies. It’s a shame because Uncle Bill has a beautiful singing voice. He sounds like Bruce Springsteen. His cappella version of “Born in the USA” would make you cry. He was 20 years old when he snapped while he was singing it on a subway in New York on his way to classes at NYU. If you could only know him as we did, you might be a little more charitable.

Son: I know Dad. He’s our flesh and blood.

POSTSCRIPT

Uncle Bill stood up in the living room and sang “Born in the USA” backwards and was cured. He finished college and is an AI programmer for Google.

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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Affirmatio

Posted on December 13, 2023 | Leave a comment

Affirmatio (af’-fir-ma’-ti-o): A general figure of emphasis that describes when one states something as though it had been in dispute or in answer to a question, though it has not been.

I had developed this habit of telling people they were wrong when they were clearly right and I knew it. It started with my genius sister Edwina, who was never wrong about anything. She was my twin, so our lives overlapped. In school, our teachers got used to being corrected by her at least once or twice a day. Our poor history teacher resigned after throwing an eraser at Edwina and telling her to shut up. She retaliated by making a dart out of a piece of paper and throwing it at him, hitting him in the forehead where it stuck in. He had to go to the school nurse to have it removed. She told him, another quarter-inch and he would’ve lost his ability to speak. But, Edwina wasn’t punished. Our Principal said it was justified as self defense—Edwina was under attack. Besides, her “Folded Rocket” won the “Paper Projectile Prize” at the annual “Flying Stationary” convention at Ft. Barge, the local Army base. It was determined her “Folded Rocket” could penetrate flesh and be lethal if it was properly aimed. The US Army bought all the rights and designated the folding pattern secret. The plan was for soldiers to carry innocent-looking pieces of paper that they could make into “Folded Rockets” if they were captured. It was discovered also that the “Rockets” could double as daggers for close-in combat, making them even more valuable to the military. Edwina was paid $1,000.000 for her invention. She was only ten. When she turned 18, she started a factory making origami, paper snowflake, and paper airplane kits. The business “Fold, Cut, and Create” is a raging success. She has so much money she could afford to hire me, her I’ll-tempered twin brother.

No matter what she says to me, I contest it. She might say to me “We need to order more paper.” I might say “Why?” or “What do you mean?” or “We need more paper?” I like to slow her down, and frustrate her if I can. She can’t fire me or our mother would disown her. I know I’m mentally disturbed, but I revel in it and can see no reason to seek help. And also, my sister’s not the only one I harass. It’s everybody! I try to make life difficult for at least one person every day. Sometimes my target will hit me. I love it when I get a salesperson mad and they get violent or swear at me. Then, I insist they be fired on the spot. Every once in a while it works and I relish the moment for two or three days.

My wife left me after two weeks of marriage. I live alone. I spend my evenings “grinding axes” and looking forward to the next day’s alienations. Someday, maybe I’ll snap out of this bizarre way of being.

Until then, why the hell do you care, you pitiful pity leech?

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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