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Aganactesis

Posted on December 12, 2023 | Leave a comment

Aganactesis (ag’-an-ak-tee’-sis): An exclamation proceeding from deep indignation.

Mel: You no-good slime ball creep! You monster! You make me sick! Now, you make me sicker. Your last job butchering baby pigs was bad enough, helping perverts get their sucklings to their grills. Now, you’re working at the so-called animal “shelter” gassing puppies and grown up dogs whose time has run out and room needs to be made for new tenants. How do you live with yourself? How do you sleep at night? You are a professional killer—a puppy hit man. Why not just use a knife or a gun, or a hammer?

Josh: As usual, you’re ill-informed. You get all bent out of shape before you know the facts. I swear, half the multitude of people you hate don’t deserve it. Like the guy you accused of poisoning kids with ice cream from his truck. This was a classic urban legend stoked by some mentally ill stooge with a twisted fear of ice cream and ice cream trucks— who had nothing but his twisted imagination to start the myth rolling and people like you to keep it going. So, you should know my wife Beth is a veterinarian. You should know we’re running a clandestine rescue kennel. I have been taking the dogs and puppies from “Sunset Kennels” and secretly transporting them to my place, “Second Chance Kennels.” We give them their shots and worm the puppies and spay and neuter the older dogs. We give them collars too. The dogs are totally free to people who take them. We are funded by an anonymous donor. All we know is that a stray dog saved her life when she was a child, pulling her out of her burning house. Then like Romulus and Remus, she was raised by the dog until he was run over by a truck and she was found wandering the streets wearing a raccoon skin dress, the origins of which still remains a mystery. She could only whine, bark and growl. She learned how to speak properly under the tutelage of a professor elocution at the University of London, who had helped many young women to affect ways of speaking that allowed them to rise through the social ranks.

There you have it Mel. I’m ready for your apology. Come on! You can do it.

Mel: Ok. I’m sorry. Do you have a spare puppy? I would like one with short hair and floppy ears—one that looks roughly like my sister.

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

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Allegory

Posted on December 11, 2023 | Leave a comment

Allegory (al’-le-go-ry): A sustained metaphor continued through whole sentences or even through a whole discourse.

When I woke up I was a butterfly. When I went to sleep I was a butterfly. I’m always a butterfly. I flutter. I flit. I have intricate colorful patterns on my wings. I slurp nectar in the morning. I am chased by birds. Somebody always wants to catch me, chloroform me and pin me down, displayed as an example of my kind. Maybe I am beautiful. Maybe I’m not so beautiful—especially when I’m a young fat caterpillar: bird food recently born from a hanging cocoon.

But, I’m always a butterfly, whether I crawl or fly—inside I am a butterfly, no matter what you see. It all goes so fast from egg to winged, to migration to return, to breed, to become tattered and ragged, to fall to the ground to be eaten by ants. The cycles are inevitable. They can only be thwarted by predation, or some kind of terminal malady. Sometimes I wish I lived a more dangerous life—a life routinely cut short by violence. Not long, drawn-out waiting for night to close in, for sunset to expire, and night to close the door.

But time and its consequences are unstoppable, except maybe by the occasional replacement part—a joint, an antenna, even an eye. They are good. They are welcome—they return you to your past, thwarting time with welcome patches. However temporary, they make you whole again, almost resurrected like an angel on Judgement Day. You flutter again. You flit again. You may feel eternal.

I could never think these thoughts fifty years ago when I was a tiger. Lithe. Handsome. Strong. Fearless. Unconscious of my own mortality. Swatting at butterflies as they flitted by, taunting me with their zig-zag trajectories.

Now, of course, I think of time—how much time I’ve had and will have in my ragged fragile state. But, I am not ready to leave this incarnation. In a way, my tenacity slows down time. It prolongs my life. The only problem with this is memory. There is horror. It drifts into my consciousness unsummoned— like a telemarketer that you can’t hang up on, maybe lodged for days, maybe not shutting up, maybe needing medication to chase away. Then there’s love: if reciprocated, the strongest life-magnet of all. My wife. My daughter. Pure, undiluted love. The greatest blessing. A fountain of hope. The light at the end of the tunnel.

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

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Alliteration

Posted on December 9, 2023 | Leave a comment

Alliteration (al-lit’-er-a’-tion): Repetition of the same letter or sound within nearby words. Most often, repeated initial consonants. Taken to an extreme alliteration becomes the stylistic vice of paroemion where nearly every word in a sentence begins with the same consonant.

Big blue balloons bounced around the city square. It was the annual celebration of the balloon’s invention in the little town of Riva in eastern Peladys. It was a joyous week-long celebration of the balloon with a different shape being celebrated every two days. Today was day one: hot dog shaped oblong balloons. For hundreds of years they have been twisted into various animal forms and other thing we won’t mention here. The restricted twisting would take place in back rooms, away from the square, in adult-only performances, for men only. Otherwise there were dachshunds, seals, giraffes and even platypuses, twisted into existence by the performers around the city square.

Nobody knows how or why the balloon was invented, let alone, the material they are made of. The genesis myth says that in 1601 Jules Glower was boiling his shoes to remove cement residue from his work as a mason. He fell asleep. The mixture of beer and sacred spring water he was using almost boiled away. The smell awakened him. He reached in the kettle to retrieve his shoes. They were at the edge of destruction—soft and falling apart. He had a small penny whistle that his mother had given him for his 30th birthday. He jammed it into the shoe’s heel thinking he may invent a shoe whistle, with a shoe giving the whistle a unique sound, like putting a mute on a trumpet. He blew into the whistle and the shoe began to expand. It was not unlike a pig’s bladder, but it was thin and transparent. He pried the shoe off the sole. The sole had expanded to the point that it was paper thin. He pulled out the whistle and quickly filled the hole with chewing gum, which had only just been discovered. He held up the inflated sole and hit it with his fist. It almost floated out the window. He named what he had it the “ball-loony.” Because of its shape and erratic trajectory when it was batted around—it was “loony.” Ball-loony.

Quite a story! There is no way it can be true, but who cares. Like all genesis myths, they are concocted to underwrite an event that needs justifying or accounting for. The myth accounts for why we are how we are. My family subscribes to the myth that we are descended from Vikings. It helps to account for family patterns of bipolar disorder, its fighting spirit, and generally dysfunctional tendencies. We all take Lithium, attend anger management workshops, and have arrest records. The men own boats, have beards and tattoos, and carry compasses. The women are all beautiful, carry handguns, kick ass, run the family, and make great soup.

Every year at the celebration of the balloon’s invention, there is the Great Reenactment staged in accordance with the myth. Every year it fails to produce a balloon—or “ball-loony.” Nobody cares. Hooting and yelling, nearly buried in a sea of balloons, celebrants, at sundown of the celebration’s second day, begin the “popping.” It symbolizes the fragility of life and the suddenness with which it may take leave. This is why the “Poppers” affect a solemn demeanor after their initial elation as they “kill” the balloons with antique stickpins from the 1600s, most of which have been passed down in families.

Tradition. The celebration of the balloon’s invention will go on forever. It keeps the past alive in the present. It keeps us in suspense until it’s advent each year. Or with some traditions, they are enacted every day at a specific time. Suspense runs deep into the human condition. Anticipation seasons life with hope and fear.

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

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Allusion

Posted on December 8, 2023 | Leave a comment

Allusion (ə-ˈlü-zhən):[1] A reference/representation of/to a well-known person, place, event, literary work, or work of art . . . “a brief reference, explicit or indirect, to a person, place or event, or to another literary work or passage”. It is left to the reader or hearer to make the connection . . . ; an overt allusion is a misnomer for what is simply a reference.[2]

Don’t fear the reaper if you want to be a hero—on those days of infamy when unsuspecting people are laid to waste, you’ve got to get out there and meet the enemy face to face. Fear is not your friend in these circumstances. Fear is normal. Fear is natural. Fear may save your life, but it won’t win a firefight with a determined enemy. Ok, fear is not a crime. But, unmanaged it may push you to desert your post and fail to do your duty, and have your camp overrun, your comrades blown away while you cower in a bunker, holding your weapon, shaking with shame.

But you don’t have to worry about that. You work for Google. The only way you’d join the military is if you were drafted—more or less forced to serve. But, it does not matter—you’re almost 80–you’re barely hanging onto your job, unwilling to retire. But you remember back in the day. 1968. Your brother Billy joined the Army while you went to college on a deferment from the draft. Billy ended up in the 101st Airborne. He was killed in an ambush only 3 days after arriving in Vietnam. He received a Silver Star and was buried with military honors in your home town. When they played taps you almost cried. Billy was kind, He was a great brother. He was dead.

You became a pacifist for many reasons—in Billy’s memory, but really, because of your gnawing, unremitting fear of dying—of being killed in a hail of bullets from the enemy’s guns. Bleeding. Writhing in pain. Feeling the warmth of your blood as you drift off to death—everything gone into the darkness of the end. Like Billy.

You said goodbye to Billy at the bus station. The last time you saw him he was lying under a sheet of glass in a coffin in a funeral home, the day before he was buried. He looked healthy—trim, and peaceful.

It’s time to get back to work. To clear your morbid thoughts. To making Google proud. Buried in the years, there are memories that never go away. They intrude. They are there. They just float into consciousness unexpected, unsought, unwanted, hated. They are you. As you get old and stand in the shadow of death, they bring no comfort. Rather, they bring regret, but still, they don’t overshadow the desire to live induced by the people you love and the people who love you.

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

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Amphibologia

Posted on December 7, 2023 | Leave a comment

Amphibologia (am’-fi-bo-lo’-gi-a): Ambiguity of grammatical structure, often occasioned by mispunctuation. [A vice of ambiguity.]

He was up to his neck in wet cement. It was slowly hardening and he was slowly dying. As the cement hardened, it became harder to breathe. What a way to go—a head sticking out of the floor of a basement in a new housing development. He never should’ve listened to his friend Eddie. He told Eddie he had a traffic fine to pay—that he had ignored it and now he would go to jail if he didn’t pay it by next week. He was unemployed and nearly homeless—his widowed mother would let him eat dinner and take a bath once a week. She was living on Social Security, receiving a check for $75 one a month. It was barely enough to pay for the phone, and water, and electricity, and food. The mortgage was paid, so that wasn’t a problem. She had taken in a boarder, Miss O’Trapp. He was in love with Miss O’Trapp, but she would not let him show it. She pushed him away and told him she didn’t feel that way, but would be happy to dance for him up in her room. He settled for that—spirited Irish step dancing that drove him wild. And when Miss O’Trapp sang “Danny Boy” he would break down and cry—actually sob and then leave Miss O’Trapp’s room with his shirt wet from tears. But now, we was slowly suffocating in hardening cement.

He never should’ve listened to Eddie. When he met Duke the money lender, he had instant trepidations. Duke had a gun-bulge in his jacket and diamond rings on all his fingers. He was wearing lizard skin cowboy boots, a red suit and a black shirt. He looked familiar, like a wanted poster he’d seen in the post office. As Duke counted out the $50 he needed to pay his fine, Duke looked at him and asked him if he knew what “cementing” a deal means. He thought he knew what it meant, so he answered “Yes Mr. Duke.” Now, up to his neck in cement, he knew should’ve asked Duke to elaborate on “cementing a deal.”

He had missed one payment on his loan. “Cementing” is what loan sharks like Duke did for failure to pay.

He started yelling for help. Miss O’Trapp came down the basement stairs wearing rubber boots. “When they carried you away this morning, Mr. Johnny, I followed,” said Miss O’Trapp. She was carrying some boards and had a hose. She set the boards down in a path and walked to Mr. Johnny. She shoved the hose down into the cement and it started to liquify—turning into slurry. She went outside and came back with a rope attached to the rear bumper of her car. She tied the rope under his armpits, went outside and drove her car slowly away from the house. She felt the rope give and she knew Mr. Johnny was saved. As she dragged him out of the basement, Duke showed up with gun drawn. She pulled $75 out of her purse and handed it to Duke. He put away his gun and left.

Miss O’Trapp hosed down Mr. Johnny and they headed to his mother’s house, where he took a bath and put on dry clothes. They went upstairs to her room. She sat on the bed and took off her rubber boots. She unbuttoned the top three buttons of her cardigan. She put on her clogs. She turned up the record player and danced like she’d never danced before. Mr. Johnny could feel the heat. He stood up and raised his arms. She ran toward him and embraced him as the music blared. He proposed. She accepted. He got a decent job, and so did she: he, playing records on the radio, she, giving dance lessons to children. Their relationship was cemented by the bond of marriage and they had a nearly perfect life together, debt free and full of love.

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

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Ampliatio

Posted on December 6, 2023 | Leave a comment

Ampliatio (am’-pli-a’-ti-o): Using the name of something or someone before it has obtained that name or after the reason for that name has ceased. A form of epitheton.

Look! It’s Don Felon! If all goes well, that’s who he’ll be. Can he delay his trip to prison by playing every technicality in the book? You know like, “They didn’t give me time to shave before they arrested me.” Or, “I wasn’t even out of bed yet.” Or, “How can I understand my Miranda Rights before I’ve had a cup of coffee?” These questions don’t address the crimes alleged to have been committed. But, that’s what good lawyers are for. Trump’s lawyers almost got Jeffery Dahmer off the hook by claiming his victims wanted to be eaten—that he was being a Good Samaritan; that he never would’ve eaten them if they hadn’t asked. This line of argument worked until the judge had the jury hosed down with ice water, snapping them out of their rhetorically induced trance.

We hope Trump’s judge is prepared to hose down the jury as they’re led astray by procedural arguments ignoring questions of guilt and innocence.

Once there was a murderer who came to court with blood still on his hands—a sure sign he was guilty. At least that’s what the prosecution argued. The blood was a sign—plainly there for the jury to see. But, in the pre-DNA world of murder, there was no way of attributing blood to the victim. The defense attorneys took advantage of this. They claimed the blood on the defendant’s hands was from a chicken who had crossed the road in front of the defendant’s delivery truck. He had pulled over and picked up the squished chicken, removing it from the street, where a hungry homeless person picked it up off the sidewalk to feed his hungry family waiting in their cardboard shelter down by the river. The defense attorneys argued the blood on the defendant’s hands was left there out of respect for the chicken as a way of mourning its death and paying tribute to its memory.

As the defendant held up his bloddied hands, half the jurors wept out of pity for the chicken, and the man who had grabbed it off the sidewalk. As the prosecutor made his case, most of the jurors fell asleep. When he was done, he shook them awake and they deliberated for 3 minutes, finding the defendant not guilty and awarding him damages for unwarranted arrest and incarceration.

The prosecutor was censured for his “plodding, logical, boring sleeping potion of a case totally unsuited to the sensibilities of the jury.” He was furloughed for two months and cautioned not to spend time with academics, especially philosophy professors and social workers. He was encouraged to spend time with professional wrestlers and street gangs to develop a “fighting spirit” consistent with his position as a prosecutor. In addition, he was required to attend a Punch and Judy performance once a week. Last, he was required to practice speaking with pebbles in his mouth every day for one hour. After his furlough and training, he became a celebrated prosecutor, most famous for sending an elderly woman to the gallows who was clearly innocent, but who was found guilty due to the prosecutor’s ridicule of her limp and blue hair.

But anyway: all I know is that Trump’s attorneys’ emphasis on procedure deflects interest away from Trump’s guilt or innocence. At some point the appeals will be exhausted and TRUMP will actually be tried. Hello Don Felon!

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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Anacoenosis

Posted on December 5, 2023 | Leave a comment

Anacoenosis (an’-a-ko-en-os’-is): Asking the opinion or judgment of the judges or audience, usually implying their common interest with the speaker in the matter [and illustrating their communally-held ideals of truth, justice, goodness and beauty, for better and for worse].

Mayor: Who doesn’t think homelessness is criminal? I don’t mean that metaphorically. I mean crime, like illegal—yes! I didn’t expect a standing ovation for what I just said. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you! I am humbled by our shared lack of compassion for our fellow human beings. A man without a home is a crime scene just as disturbing as a bank robbery, or a murder, or a lighted bag of dog poop on your front porch.

A man without a home is desperate and desperation should be criminalized— it is crime’s front door, unlocked, and wide open. If you are hungry and living in a cardboard box, you’re going to do horrible things: you may panhandle for thousands of dollars, you may shoplift a can of beans or sardines, or both, from your local grocery store. You may have to steal a plastic spoon and a can opener too, putting a dent in the grocery store’s profits, without which, they will pack up and leave town. Maybe you grab an apple and eat it in a back corner of the grocery store, leaving the core on the floor as you slink away. Intolerable!

But then, there is an abundance of deposit cans littering our streets and highways. The homeless man can walk the roadsides, bag them, and redeem them, creating a dependency on litter to sustain his life, encouraging bleeding heart liberals to toss cans out their car windows to “feed the homeless.” These people are breaking the law. I will devote significant resources to catching them, convicting them, and fining them and to eliminating the illegal infrastructure that gives homeless people false hope.

Once we criminalize homelessness, the homeless will have a home: a jail cell, with five or six colleagues to “learn their lesson from.” It could be Bible study, learning how to play chess, or other edifying games like Candyland. It’s not our job to nanny our jails. Whatever happens, happens. We just clean up the mess and don’t pry. We respect our prisoners’ autonomy no matter how disgusting they are and deserving of incarceration in a urine-smelling roach-infested cement cell.

So, who wants to criminalize homelessness? Show me your hands. Wo! It’s unanimous. Let us have the Rev. Hal Alleujah bless our decision, making it good no matter how bad it may look to non-believing demonic sulphur-smelling whores of Satan and Judas lovers.

Rev. Hal: Oh dear lord almighty sitting on your throne in heaven looking down on this vail of corruption and sinfulness and Satan’s playground where we play with His toys when we are alone at . . .

Mayor: Ok, that’s enough Rev. Hal. We get the point, and thank you for gracing us with prayer. Our police force is standing by to round up the homeless who are now officially breaking the law. If you want to have some fun, you might want to join the roundup. You will be issued a net.

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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Anacoluthon

Posted on December 3, 2023 | Leave a comment

Anacoluthon (an-a-co-lu’-thon): A grammatical interruption or lack of implied sequence within a sentence. That is, beginning a sentence in a way that implies a certain logical resolution, but concluding it differently than the grammar leads one to expect. Anacoluthon can be either a grammatical fault or a stylistic virtue, depending on its use. In either case, it is an interruption or a verbal lack of symmetry. Anacoluthon is characteristic of spoken language or interior thought, and thus suggests those domains when it occurs in writing.

“My heart goes where the wild goose . . . my God! It’s my stuffed panda toy!” My parents had just died within two days of each other. My mother fell down a flight of stairs and my father fell on a carving knife while cutting up the Thanksgiving turkey. There was some question as to whether their deaths were accidental. My father’s eyesight was failing and he had been holding the knife with the tip pointing up. Somebody had spilled mashed potatoes on the floor and my father slipped on them accidentally stabbing himself in the heart. The possibility for murder on the stairs was a little more pronounced. But, mother had excellent balance for an 85-year-old drunk. Nevertheless, she had fallen down the stairs four or five times and never even got a bruise. Her fall had to be an accident, where her luck ran out. We did notice that there was talcum powder on the stairs. But we quickly determined it was from the bathroom adjacent to the stairs. My mother had probably powdered her feet after her shower and slipped coming out of the bathroom. Maybe that was it. Anyway, it didn’t matter: our parents were dead. We were looting their house, grabbing whatever we could before Uncle Dullroy took possession and had everything auctioned off—something I and my sister were totally opposed to.

I put down my panda bear and went looking for bigger game. My collection of bottle caps was pretty good. I dumped it in the canvas bag I had brought. My ball point pen collection was very cool. I dumped it in the bag. My parents had sold all my other treasures at a garage sale when I was in Vietnam. The baseball card collection hurt the most, my coin collection too. I got over it after a couple of years, but I still wanted to kill them.

My sister and I decided to explore the basement. We discovered a dungeon and a meth lab. There were explicit photos of my parents thumbtacked to the dungeon’s walls. My sister threw up and I tore down the photos and threw them into the furnace. There, there was a piece of my life shattered, but what was worse was the meth lab. There was a notebook on the lab’s bench. Evidently, it was a customer list. If the name had a check mark alongside it, I figured out that meant the person was buying meth and being blackmailed too. Reverend Goldhorn was being blackmailed. Mayor Beam was being blackmailed. Chief Scott was being blackmailed. After them, it was pretty much the whole town that was using meth, but not worth blackmailing. One name stood out: Molly Carlisle.

In high school, I loved Molly with all my heart. Her address was listed in the notebook. I had to pay her a visit. I parked in front of her house, walked up the walk and knocked on the door. She wasn’t expecting me. “Who the hell are you? I don’t take tricks until after 9.00.” Oh my God—she was a hooker. I said, “It’s me, Barker. Let me in.” The door opened and there she was. Her face looked 80 years old: deep wrinkles and saggy. She was missing a number of teeth. She was underweight. Her eyes were cloudy. She had a tic in her left hand. She smelled.

I told her I still loved her. She laughed and slammed the door in my face. I started crying right there on her front porch. The door opened a crack and she let me in. The place was a total disgusting mess—dog poop on the floor, dirty dishes and trash scattered all over the place. “How can you live like this.” I yelled. “I’m a junkie,” she responded. I dragged her out the door and took her to a rehab center. Molly spent six months there and became straight again.

We moved the meth lab to my basement and picked up where my mom and dad left off. Rev. Goldhorn was arrested, tried, and convicted of murdering my parents. Molly and I backed off the blackmail branch of the business out of respect for our customers, and also because we didn’t want to be murdered. My sister fronted for us as a stay-at-home day trader and a Zoom trouble shooter for South Jersey and Philadelphia.

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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Anamnesis

Posted on December 1, 2023 | Leave a comment

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

When I was a kid, I didn’t whine about walking 2 miles to school through 4 feet of snow, with drifts 8 feet high. I was too poor to afford mittens so I wore socks on my hands. Although he didn’t like it, I strapped cat to my head to keep my ears warm. My winter coat was a yellow raincoat lined with Sunday newspapers. I had normal pants, but they were too big. The cuffs dragged in the snow, coating them with heavy snow bergs. I wore my grandfather’s goulashes. He was dead, but his goulashes had done him well. They were lovingly patched. He was walking the mile to Cliff’s when he died. His foot got stuck in a crack in the sidewalk. Nobody helped him and he froze to death. He had gone to Cliff’s te get a package of Jolly Ranchers and a quart of holiday egg nog. But anyway, I inherited his goulashes and I am taking good care of them.

If you would read “Blizzard” by Bucky Bells, you’d have a vivid sense of what I’m talking about—I know what I said above is pretty scary, but yet, I quote from memory: “You could smell the Yeti the minute you went out the door. Yesterday, it had eaten Joey, my neighbor friend. There were blood and bones all over the sidewalk and Joey’s red knitted hat was hanging from a tree stained with blood. I had started carrying an axe to school to fight off the Yeti if I had to. The day he attacked me, I chopped off his arm and he ran away screaming.”

I never personally met the Yeti on my way to school, but I did smell him. He smelled like the homeless man who lived in the bushes outside the entrance to the middle school. His name was Ned and he was an ex-convict. He had been jailed for selling counterfeit Barbie dolls on the village square. It was a scandal. Ned came from a prominent family that had a tremendously successful greeting card business. Accordingly, when Ned was convicted, he received cards taunting him, like “Congratulations,” and “You worked Hard. You deserve it.”

So anyhow, with global warming, you won’t have to endure what I endured—maybe a dusting of snow or a sparkly frost is all you have to deal with. You could survive a week in Antarctica in your hooded goose down suits and heated boots. Walking to school in winter no longer builds character. You might as well take a cab for all the good it does you.

Don’t ask me for cab fare.

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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Anaphora

Posted on November 30, 2023 | Leave a comment

Anaphora (an-aph’-o-ra): Repetition of the same word or group of words at the beginning of successive clauses, sentences, or lines.

Time is a pain in the ass. Time is a cleaver that cuts up life. Time is anxiety’s husband and wife. I used to wear a watch. I used to look at it too often, worried about being on time—as if time is a surface under my feet like my lawn or my living room floor, or a cliff overlooking a rocky abyss with bones strewn at the bottom. So, I stopped wearing a watch. I put a piece of duct tape over the clock on my iPhone. I put away all the clocks in my house and taped over the microwave and oven clocks. When I was home, I didn’t know what time it was, until I noticed night and day induced by sunrise and sunset. Night and day are vague approximations of time, but they measure time nevertheless. So, I blacked out my windows. I would used lightbulbs to manage time as much as I was willing to manage it. But really, lights on was about being able to read and traverse my home without tripping and falling down—in other words, “light” was about seeing, dark, about not seeing.

After awhile, after completing my timeless regime, my boss called me and asked me where the hell I was. I quit, right there on the phone. I have my IRA and was eligible for Social Security. I stood to make more money by quitting!

I still had a time vestige or two that were almost impossible to shed—when I said “soon” or “sooner or later” I was doing time talk. I actually wanted to excise “soon” from my approach to life. But sadly, I bear “soon” in my body, along with other unavoidable aspects of time’s rootedness in consciousness. Given this realization, and the frustrating struggles it induced, I reconsidered my ay attempt to evade time. So, I want in the opposite direction—I timed everything. I wore a stopwatch around my neck and carried a pen and small notepad. I timed my toothbrushing. I timed putting on my shoes. I timed how long it took to go from my bedroom to the kitchen. I even timed how long it took to urinate! I changed my screen name to Father Time. I bought five cuckoo clocks that chorus every 30 minutes.

Now that I am immersed in time, I am pestered by the prospect of being early, on time, or late. Pestered. What does that mean? I am cowed. I am laid low. I am crushed. I am enslaved. Time is my master, I can’t master time.

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

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Anapodoton

Posted on November 29, 2023 | Leave a comment

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

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

But I loved her anyway. The clock was ticking and I was licking the back of my hand. I was was drowning in memories, floating kayaks of regret, bobbing on small waves of pain, pushing me away from shore onto the horizonless waste of gratuitous imagery, like a nostril hair twitching tentatively on the left nostril of life, coveting the right nostril’s position, nearer the ear, due to a nearly imperceptible birth defect connected to heredity—almost inevitable, but not certain, like most of what we inherit. I am fat, blond-haired, green-eyed, left-handed, pigeon-toed, covered with moles, loose-jointed, near-sighted, allergic to dust, cats, and after-shave lotion. My kids have all the same traits as me with the addition of their mother’s: excess body hair (including a unibrow), dyslexia, assorted food allergies, bi-polar disease, scrolling toenails, and paranoia.

As you can imagine, our lives together are very complex. It seems like every six months we discover another inherited malady among us. My neighbor Ed thinks we come from another planet—maybe one the Air Force knows about, but is keeping hush hush due to security reasons. He believes people from our planet are mating with each other to destroy the human race. I can see how he believes that when he looks at us, but I’ve shown him my birth certificate a number of times, I was born in Staten Island, New York, where I was put up for adoption. Both my parents were in the Air Force and were part of a project that didn’t allow children. I never knew my parents, but I was told they “took off” right after I was born. Ed says that they literally flew away—back to their planet after finishing their work for the Air Force.

I should’ve gotten mad at Ed for claiming my parents came to earth to destroy the human race, but he was a conspiracy buff and there was no turning him around. Some of his theories should’ve landed him in the looney bin. For example, he believes John Kennedy is still alive and is giving orders to Elon Musk that will eventually lead to Musk’s total global control of the world’s electric appliances, weaponizing (among others) blenders, toaster ovens, and flashlights. Of course, this is insane, but they have the backing of the MAGAS, so it has been “debated” and “proven” true in the United States House of Representatives and funding has been allocated for “further investigation.”

There have been lights flashing over our house every night for the past 3 weeks. If I was crazy like Ed, I would believe it was a spaceship coming to take our family home. Ha! Ha!

POSTSCRIPT

He woke up to a humming sound. He looked to the left and saw his wife and children in the dim light strapped into cot-like beds. They were going home! He had denied it all his life, but now it seemed that Ed was right, minus the destruction of humanity. Maybe he would meet his parents. When they arrived they were escorted by humanoids to a replica of their earth home and told this is where they would live. There was a red line around their house. It was electrified and crossing it from either direction could be fatal. They settled in. Their maladies dissipated. Friends were supplied. As the years went by, the red line’s current diminished and they were able to cross it. The kids met their grandparents. They looked like Dolly Parton and Lyle Waggoner. He and his wife were shocked. The second time they met his parents looked Seals and Crofts. Someday, he would figure out what was going on. But for now, he was just happy to be home.

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

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Anastrophe

Posted on November 28, 2023 | Leave a comment

Anastrophe (an-as’-tro-phee): Departure from normal word order for the sake of emphasis. Anastrophe is most often a synonym for hyperbaton, but is occasionally referred to as a more specific instance of hyperbaton: the changing of the position of only a single word.

At the beginning of the race, there are no winners. Try they must. There is hope. There is fear. But there are no winners. I don’t know why I did it to myself, year after year. My mother introduced me to it when I was a little boy. She told me if I kept it up, I would amount to something. So, I kept it up year after year for the past 22 years, and I hadn’t amounted to anything worthy of note. Sure, I had gone to college and majored in English. Sure, I have a job at Hannaford’s managing the fresh fruits and vegetables—spraying, trimming, rotating them. And of course, I was married. We have 3 kids—a boy and two girls—Dilbert, Dolly and Dorothy. Dilbert has just gotten out of jail for armed robbery and we’re looking forward to rehabilitating him. The first step is to keep him chained to the hot water heater in the basement. We got the idea from the book “Chained Straight” recommended by Dilbert’s parole officer “Time Bomb” Johnson. Oh, my wife has gotten really fat since we’ve been married. I don’t mind though. Since she has enlarged, I can fit in her clothes. We’ve invented our own kind of Cosplay. We pretend we’re mirrors and chase each other around the house, and then we stop for “reflection.” We send our kids to the mall whenever we play. We don’t want them to know how twisted we are. But, a couple of weeks ago, they snuck back from the mall in an Uber and peeked in the windows. They’re staying with their grandmother now until their therapy starts working.

Anyway—the race. I’m an “Egg-and-spoon racer.” I balance an egg on a spoon and dash to the finish line. The first person across the finish line with their egg still balanced on their spoon wins the race. I have a special racing spoon I got at Dick’s Sporting Goods. It cost $300.00. The spoon’s scoop is treated with an abrasive compound to minimize egg slippage. The spoon’s handle has a leather strap with a buckle to stabilize the spoon. I also have my own team colors like a jockey’s. The dominant color is hard-boiled chicken egg yolk yellow with duck egg pale blue/green pin stripes. I had my colors made in Hong Kong for $1,000.00. I’ve never won a race. I discovered last year that one of my legs is 1 cm. shorter than the other. It makes me rock back and forth, inevitably spilling the egg. This year I have a lift for my shoe that will level me up. I’m pretty sure that, at long last, I’ll win. My only obstacle is Buck Buck who moved here two weeks ago. It is rumored he runs the course with his eyes closed and wins every time, and has feathers in his public areas. I’m trying to figure out a way to cheat. In the meantime, I will just keep practicing.

Well, there you have it. The life of a competitive Egg-and-spoon racer. Let’s just say, I’m not going to crack.

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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Anesis

Posted on November 27, 2023 | Leave a comment

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

The most important thing in the history of the world was going to happen. Well, maybe not the most important, but pretty important. I was going to get my first tattoo. I had an appointment at “Etch-A-Flesh” tomorrow at 9:00 pm. I had one problem though: I hadn’t decided what I wanted to have “etched” on my flesh. Choosing your first tattoo is like choosing your wife. Chances are, you’ll be together for the rest of your life. I had already been married twice, so I knew the comparison was bogus, but I liked how it sounded.

I had spent the last month looking at tattoos on the internet and taking screen shots of tattoos I liked. I liked Loony Tunes cartoon characters. I liked Bugs Bunny, but Yosemite Sam was a winner. I liked his angry personality and gunplay. I stuck him up on my bedroom wall as a first pick. Then, there were the unnamed fiends. I like the one with blood dripping razor-sharp teeth. I picked one out that had red eyes too. There were tribal tattoos that I didn’t like. They reminded me of the pattern on my Mom’s bathrobe. Anyway, after a month of searching, I had found nothing that inspired me. Then, as I was searching through a pile of my old comic books, the second one in the pile was an “Inspector Gadget” comic book. It had promise. I set it aside and kept looking. I hit on something I had totally forgotten: “My Little Pony.” Twilight Sparkle was my favorite little pony. I had to have her on my skin, but I loved inspector Gadget too. I could’ve gotten two tattoos, but I had a better idea. I would get a tattoo of Inspector Gadget riding Twilight Sparkle. It would be a masterpiece. Plus, I would have the Ponys’ motto inscribed below: “Friendship is Magic.”

I got to the tattoo parlor early and showed the pictures to the tattoo artist and explained how I wanted it put together in the tattoo. She left the room and came back with a stack of legal documents for me to sign. I signed them, although I was a little worried.

I get a variety of responses when I show people my tattoo. The worst was “You should have your arm amputated.” The best so far is “Cute.” Most normally, I get “Ewww.” That’s ok with me, I’ve never been that popular or attractive. I’m used to rejection. So, I’m going to get another tattoo. It is going to be a basket of Brussels sprouts that says “Eat Me Raw” underneath it. I was pretty sure it would lure in the girls with the health food theme. It didn’t. “Disgusting” and “Get a life” were the two most frequent epithets hurled at my veggie basket. I have covered it with a strip of duct tape until I can begin the removal process.

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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Antanaclasis

Posted on November 26, 2023 | Leave a comment

Antanaclasis (an’-ta-na-cla’-sis): The repetition of a word or phrase whose meaning changes in the second instance.

Time was flying, but I wasn’t having a good time. When time flies, it sounds like flies buzzing over a carcass. Well, I guess I can’t actually hear it, but that doesn’t mean it doesn’t have a sound. Sometimes I wish I didn’t have a sound—that I didn’t sound off all the time. I have a problem with saying out loud what I’m thinking—mostly with strangers. Yesterday I crossed paths a woman walking her dog. I yelled “That’s the ugliest goddamn mutt I’ve ever seen. Where did you get it? The ugly puppy mill somewhere outside of hell.” That earned me a “mean pervert” in return. That’s better than I’ve done other times. One time, when I was 10, I told my mother she looked like a whore. Her “boyfriend” held me over the edge of the balcony five stories up until I told her I was sorry. When I got older, I found out my mom was actually a whore and took care of most of the men in our neighborhood. She made a ton of money, so we never talked about it after my outburst.

When I was 17 I was walking down the street and saw my neighbor’s wife Mrs. Peloni bent over working on the flower bed in front of her house. I said: “Hey babes. Nice cheeks. Want to get a room at the motel.” She yelled to her husband: “Herb, it’s that crazy little bastard from down the street again!” Herb came out the front door holding a newspaper which he rolled up and beat me over the head with after he pushed me to the ground. I was starting to see stars when he let up and kicked me and told me if he ever saw my “perverted ass” within 100 yards of his home again, he would call the police and have me arrested.

I figured I had some kind of diagnosable illness. I went to the doctor, and yes, I have a disease: Blurto’s Syndrome. It is named after the 18th century priest, Father Judas Blurto. He was banned from preaching after he told his congregation that they were “A boring herd of sinful cheap-ass flesh bags with no hope for salvation.” This is something 99% of clergy believe, but never say out loud because they are able to keep their mouths shut.

There are only two known cures for Blurto’s. The first is to have your tongue cut out. The procedure is not covered by insurance because Blurto’s is not recognized by the AMA or the FDA. So, people who want their tongue excised have to be incredibly rich, or willing to go Juarez, Mexico, where the amputations are performed in delicatessens and butcher shops for $1000.00. The operation takes months to heal and patients often die from complications due to unsterile meat cleavers and butchers knives.

The preferred method of managing Blurto’s is wearing a gag—a silicone ball gag. Normally used in adult bondage activities, the ball gag is a perfect remedy for Blurto’s. It is light weight and removeable and effectively garbles your speech without removing your tongue. Also, if you feel like letting your Blurto’s lose, you can do it, although it isn’t recommended that you do so.

I wear my bondage ball in public. I wear a t-shirt that says “I have Blurto’s.” I also carry pamphlets explaining what Blurto’s is.

I met a woman in the grocery store dressed in black leather. She said: “Well, you look like a worthless little wimp. How’d you like to come hang out in my dungeon?” I shook my head “No.” She slapped me in the face and said “Move it goat butt. You always answer ‘Yes’ to Madame Spanky.” I moved it. I can’t begin to describe what we did, but when I took off my ball gag and went full Blurto, things went insane.

I’m living in the dungeon now. I have my own leather suit, leather carpet, leather-covered coffee mug, and leather sheets on my bed. Madame Spanky keeps me in line, disciplining me when I’m bad, which is all the time.

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

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

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Antenantiosis

Posted on November 24, 2023 | Leave a comment

Antenantiosis (an’-ten-an’-ti-os’-is): See litotes. (Deliberate understatement, especially when expressing a thought by denying its opposite. The Ad Herennium author suggests litotes as a means of expressing modesty [downplaying one’s accomplishments] in order to gain the audience’s favor [establishing ethos]).

Me: I’m not a genius. I never have been. I never will be. I am undeserving of the designation. Rather, I’m a nut case. I’m not totally crazy yet. I’m not close, but I’m moving in that direction. The police are looking for me. I aimed my finger at a police officer. I didn’t even say “bang bang.” He chased me down the street and ran out in front of a delivery truck and was killed. That certainly wasn’t my fault—he was just terminally over-zealous. Nobody knew he was chasing me, but I’m guessing CCTV will do me in, like it does on all the British detective shows. So, here I am to hide out, Luther. You’re my best friend and you can help me hide out if you can forget the ‘incident’ with Shiela. Did I get her pregnant? Judging by the baby stuff scattered around, it looks like I might be right.

You: You’re right, you are crazy. Wait here so I can go to Dick’s and buy a handgun and blow your head off when I get back. I think a .357 magnum will do the job.

He ran out the door. Shiela came down the stairs carrying the baby.

Me: Oh my God! He looks just like me! The birthmark on his cheek that looks like Argentina looks just like mine! Does he make foghorn sounds when he sleeps?

She: Yes he does. He sleeps in the garage with a space heater. He’s 14 months old and somehow he managed to get a tattoo of a teething ring oh his shoulder. We named him “Chock” after “Chock Full O ’ Nuts” the heavenly coffee. Luther, his fake father and my husband too (as you know) wants to leave Chock at the mall in a picnic basket. He says I spend too much time fussing over Chock—bathing him, feeding him, dressing him, changing him, reading a bedtime story to him.

Me: I thought I was crazy. Luther’s clearly orbiting around cloud cuckoo land. I thought my hallucinations were bad, but Luther’s got some sort of murderous paranoia going.

The door flew open and there was Luther holding a .357 in each hand. He aimed at me and pulled the triggers! The guns weren’t loaded. While Luther struggled to shove some bullets into the empty cylinders, I ran at him with an unopened pack of Pampers. I put it over his face and held it over his face until he stopped struggling. He was dead. I was relieved. Shiela and I looked at each other like a jail cell had opened.

POSTSCRIPT

It was determined I acted in self-defense, although there was some question about the guns being unloaded. Shiela and I got married and we are raising Chock to be a wise and gentle person. I’m on Lithium, so my madness is a thing of the past. Every once-in-awhile I flip and Shiela and Chock lock me in the basement, but that’s rare. When I lose it, I imagine I’ve become an ironing board and there’s a hot iron gliding up and down my back that stops and scorches me, and then, moves on. I do a lot of crying out in pain.

We visit Luther’s grave every few months and brush the pebbles off that have accumulated.

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

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

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Anthimeria

Posted on November 23, 2023 | Leave a comment

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

I’m a trucker. I truck my way along the highways and byways in the plush cab of my Peter-Built mobile. I just drive. I don’t ask what I’m carrying. I pick it up and drop it off. Sure, I have a bill of lading, but I ignore it. The company I drive for likes that, and I don’t care why. I’ve got six months before my resignation kicks in. I’ll miss the sights I’ve seen ridin’ the roads of America. Once I pulled over to take a whizz and stumbled across a group of people in a field. There was about 50 of them and they were tickling each other—rolling around, standing up, crawling through the dirt. They were dressed like panda bears, with different-colored pastel costumes. There was a lime-line circle drawn around them that they couldn’t overstep or they were out. A sweaty pink panda came up to me and asked if I wanted tickle. As far as I could see, that wasn’t permitted—we were outside the circle and I didn’t have a panda suit. She said “Good answer” and started tickling me. Her hands were like magic. They flowed over my body lie hot oatmeal. I laughed until I peed my pants. It took me an hour to find my truck. Luckily I carried a couple of changes of clothes. I was pulling on my clean pants when she popped up at the passenger-side window. She had removed her panda suit and she was beautiful. She said her name was Lolly and she needed a ride. She had a small carry-on bag and a black purse—that was it.

I let her in the truck and she slid over close to me. It felt good. We sang a few rounds of “Old MacDonald’s Farm” and she jumped out the truck window at 70 MPH. I threw her stuff out the window and kept driving. I have learned a long time ago not to get involved—especially in something like this. I needed coffee.

I pulled into the truck stop and there she was standing outside with her bags. I was shocked. I didn’t know what to do. I tried to walk past and ignore her. She pulled her panda suit out of her bag. She yelled: “You had your chance. We could’ve done the panda dance, you wimp! You chickened out!” Then, I noticed people were walking past like there was nothing there. There was nothing there! Then, I realized I had taken an extra dose of benzedrine to get through the night’s drive to Bakersfield. I never should’ve done it, but I did. The last time I did this, I started driving across the Pacific Ocean to Japan. When I snapped out of it, I was driving on Rte. 80 through the Delaware Water Gap. I shook it in a couple of hours, as the sun was coming up.

POSTSCRIPT

It’s lonely out there on the road. All you have is the asphalt ribbon stretching out in front of you and the hallucinations you induce when you snort a pile of speed every 2 or 3 truck stops. My heart longs for Panda Girl, but I know I can’t choose my hallucinations. Two days ago, I drove to Tacoma with a sloth hanging from my sun visor.

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

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

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Anthypophora

Posted on November 22, 2023 | Leave a comment

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

There is only so much you can do, but you must do something—save money? Spend money! Give it away? No way! Maybe. I don’t know. Stuck again in the tangle of imagined consequences for whatever I do, I don’t have any money or prospects of earning any. I believe money is the fruit of all evil. Accordingly, I am a barter-man. No money, just goods. It’s about trading stuff that is not valued in terms of a price, but valued in terms of another thing—where two separate things are desired by two people. and to some extent have a perceived equal value. Disparities can be filled in by items of lesser value. Like, you might be trading a bicycle for a lawnmower. To bring the bicycle “up to value” you may have to “throw” in a garden tool or a charcoal grill. It’s complicated, but it runs on gut instincts that existed before money scaled value numerically with metallic substitutes—much more portable than things—showing up with a bag of silver instead of a used catapult made things go more easily. But, I don’t give a damn.

I am looking to trade my burial urn. It is unused—ha ha. I am looking for 20 1qt. glass canning jars. I think I have about 10 years to live and would like to make strawberry preserves before I die. After I make 2 or 3 batches, I’ll trade back for another burial urn, and I’ll be good to go. Or, I might keep the jars and use them for my ashes.

Bartering is a real challenge. There’s a newsletter called “Swap It” that lists goods for trade. A few weeks ago it included an ad for “slightly damaged cardboard boxes of government documents for trade in exchange for safe and permanent exile.” They were for trade by John Barron at a post office box in Florida. There was also John Kennedy’s brain. I asked, and they sent me a picture of the brain in a freezer. It looked real, even down to the hole in it. I told them I could trade it for one of the boots John Glen wore when he orbited the earth. I had gotten it in a trade for Jim Morrison’s leather pants that he had been wearing before he fell in the tub with a space heater in Paris. My offer was angrily rejected, because it wasn’t “in kind.” That was a pretty vague dodge, so I did some research. I discovered that the”brain” people had been busted for selling falsely attributed body parts. They were sketchy, but, that’s the risk you deal with when you barter.

My worst experience was trading for Gene Vincent’s leg brace. He was a 50s Rock ‘n Roll singer. I had to have the brace and had a coin operated motorcycle ride—like the ones they used to have in front of grocery stores.—that I wanted to trade. I drove my pick-up with the ride loaded in the back to the Dick’ parking lot where I was supposed to meet the guy with the leg brace to trade. A blue ‘54 Chevy pick-up pulled up. A guy with a balaclava on jumped out swinging the leg brace and yelling “Be-bop I love ya’ Baby!” He smashed my truck’s windshield. He made me get out of my truck and made me help carry the motorcycle ride and load it on his truck.

I sat on my running board an cried. That was all I could do. At that point I decided to scale back on my bartering. Now I make wind chimes and trade them for food, clothing and a little money. I make my wind chimes out of lids from pots and pans, and also, used license plates I get for free at the DMV. I’ve also started rifling through recycling bins for items to trade or making things from. Currently, I’m working on a giant tin aluminum ball and soup can pencil and pen caddies.

AARP is writing an article about me. It’s called “Dismal Days and Nights.” It is about a man who failed to plan for his retirement and has been rejected by his family. Then, he invents a pencil and pen caddy and becomes a millionaire.

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

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

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Antimetabole

Posted on November 21, 2023 | Leave a comment

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

It likes you. You like it. “Lovey Lax” works every time. As a chronically constipated bus driver, it is my saving grace. It ensures that I go before I go to work—I can’t poop on the bus, or pull over to use a public restroom. Before I was graced with “Lovey Lax,” I had a number of accidents that nearly lost me my job. One day I “went” in my bus driver pants. I didn’t know what to do. Passengers were coughing and yelling “What stinks?” I sat there with hot poop squishing from my bus driver pants, trying to act nonchalant, until I couldn’t stand it any more. I stood up and tore off my pants and threw them out the window, hitting a passing cyclist in the face. As he lost control of his bike, he ran into a mailbox and hit the pavement. I called 911 and they thought my call was a prank. I gave up and took off for my next stop. I got five feet, and all the passengers rushed the door and demanded to be let off. I told them I’d let them off at the next stop, but one of them grabbed the bus’s key, turned off the ignition, and took off out the door.

I had to be towed back to the bus depot. My boss gave me a clean pair of pants and told me he wouldn’t fire me if I did a good job of “cleaning up the shit.” I had to buy the cleaning materials out of my paycheck. When I was done, the bus was immaculate. I kept my job. I started wearing adult diapers. With my poo-poo roulette, I never knew when the time would come, so the diapers were a real help. The only problem was if I had an “event” early in my shift—I’d have to sit on it all day. You can imagine how that felt!

Then, I subscribed to AARP magazine. I was reading an article about the top ten bowel movers. The one with the highest ratings for “ease of movement” and “predicability” was “Lovey Lax.” It was endorsed by David Hasselhoff, Eric Estrada, and Keith Richards, three idols from my youth. Estrada said: “I can ride my motorcycle from Pacific Grove to Carmel without worrying about making a mess.” This was just what I needed to hear! I went on line and bought a fifty-gallon drum of “Lovey Lax.” It was delivered the next day and I became regular for the first time in 10 years. I cried when the doorbell rang and the delivery person wheeled my hopes and dreams in a drum through the front door. I take one minty spoonful at night when I go to bed. When I wake up, I hear my stomach gurgling. Then, after breakfast and 2 cups of coffee, I make my morning dash to the toilet. That’s it. The quality of my life has improved more than you can imagine. And there’s a side benefit: I haven’t farted for a year. I miss farting a little bit, but not enough to really care.

I’m shopping for a bidet now. With the heated seat, flood of warm water, and blow dryer, my “movements” will be well-orchestrated from beginning to end. Just call me “the maestro”!

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

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Antiprosopopoeia

Posted on November 19, 2023 | Leave a comment

Antiprosopopoeia (an-ti-pro-so-po-pe’-i-a): The representation of persons [or other animate beings] as inanimate objects. This inversion of prosopopoeia or personification can simply be the use of a metaphor to depict or describe a person [or other animate being].

He is jello bright and shiny on the outside, but jiggly when you pick him up. No, this isn’t a riddle, it’s my brother. He was born with no bones. He is like a giant talking dessert. My mother takes the blame for his condition. When she was pregnant she ate jello day and night. She would average 25 servings of jello per day. My father would put it on a plate and give her a straw to suck it up with. Her favorite was lime, and that’s why my brother Reggie is a sort of greenish color. He does not need diapers. Mom just lets him drip on the floor. She’s a wreck. The night Reggie was born, she’s started drinking cheap wine and throwing the empty bottles against the wall—she’s like an alcoholic tennis ball canon, only she shoots glass bottles. There are broken bottles on the floor abutting her target wall. The broken glass is dangerous, but my father won’t clean it up. He says, “She’s not my wife. I don’t clean up after strangers!” My mother would get up to get a broom from the kitchen, but she would pass out and lay there for hours. I sided with my dad and wouldn’t touch the mess—there was a swarm of fruit flies over it and as time went by, it smelled a little like vinegar.

Then one day my brother started flopping vigorously in his crib. He started making noises like he was going to speak. After grunting a few times, and squealing, he said “Side Show.” I thought I understood him: “Freak show?” I asked. He flopped up and down and smiled through the little slash below his nose. Freak shows are pretty rare these days, but we found one that wintered in North Caroline and travelled around the US in spring, summer, and fall. It was called “Freaky.”His stage name would be “Jellyfish Boy.” He would lay on a slab making gurgling sounds and charge punters $5.00 to touch him with one finger. For $10.00 they could pet him with one slow stroke.

As time went on, even though he looked like a jellyfish with eyes, a nose and a mouth, he could think and speak. So much went on in his head. Then, one day he started to sing. His voice was a mix of Elvis and Roy Orbison, but favored Roy Orbison. He would lay on his slab and sing “Crying.” Crowds would gather. The pathos was so thick you could cut it with a knife. Young women would sob. Older men would wipe their eyes and try to hide their emotions. When he was done singing, I would scoop Reggie up with his pizza paddle and walk him off the stage. He would shimmer in the stage lights—a beautiful multi-colored display of life.

As he became more and more popular, Reggie fell in with a bad crowd. I carried him on his pizza paddle to some of worst dives in New York. It was heartbreaking to watch Reggie killing himself.

Then he died. He was only 26.

We had a pink granite pizza paddle made for his headstone. His epitaph was from Roy Orbison’s “Crying”: “I was all right for awhile.”

Reggie was my brother and I loved him.

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

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Antitheton

Posted on November 17, 2023 | Leave a comment

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

Good and bad. That’s all there is, except for time. Today you can be good. Tomorrow you can be evil. Yesterday’s character, might not be today’s. You can’t be good and bad at the same time. Most of us flip flop. Good today, bad tomorrow. Even though you might’ve been bad last week, you may remember it and relive it, as if the contents of your memory are real. They’re like a photograph—vivid, striking, representative, but not the thing itself—the image is not the thing itself, but it is what it is in its own right as an image.

I am driving myself crazy. I’m chopping myself into pieces with an either/or cleaver. There is no place to hide from decision, and decisions are either good or bad. But as I forge ahead through life, always all the time enmeshed in deciding, when decisions are made, they are immediately enmeshed in deciding or judging their worth. It goes on forever: my inability to settle on an answer. There are no stop signs in my head—I just keep going.

Forgetting is the only way to settle conscience. But inevitably, we remember and we are stricken with guilt, or some kind of benign pleasure. We get upset. We become the fool we were, no matter how many years have passed.

I stole your cat. I wanted that cat so badly that I couldn’t resist. He was furry and black with white feet. He had beautiful yellow eyes. He was perfect. Now that he’s coming down the home stretch, and you’re on your death bed, I’ll tell you the story: I waited outside your house that night. You were a creature of habit—you let the cat out every night at 8.00pm. I was there waiting with a kitty carrier. I had seen you calling him in by shaking a treat bag. So, that’s what I did, and he came running to me. I popped him into the kitty carrier and walked home. I had some new cat toys waiting for him and he settled right in. I put his food dish and water bowl in the basement. When you and I sat together on the couch and lamented his disappearance, he was down in the basement enjoying a handful of treats. Whenever you came over, I stashed him in the basement. Thank God he was a quiet cat, or my cover would’ve been blown. We’ve lived like this for a little over 14 years. I named him Phantom and never let him out of the house for fear you’d spot him.

You look quite angry. I wish you could talk, or even just open your eyes. Oh well. It was important for me to unburden myself of my guilt. I feel much better now and will probably get the good night’s sleep that’s evaded me as the years have gone by. I know you probably feel bad, but not as bad as me. I was bad, and I guess I’ll never forget it. All you had to do was cope with a short stretch of grief, not a lifetime of guilt and regret. In fact, now I’ve talked my self into feeling pretty bad again. I think, to some extent you’re to blame—your smug silence, the beeping monitor and all the tubes display you disregard for my feelings! You know, I didn’t come here to be ignored. I came here to be forgiven. But, that’s not possible, is it Mr. Mute-Lips?

How’d you like to give one of your pillows a big long goodbye kiss? Was that a “Yes?” I think it was. Here you go!

POSTSCRIPT

He smothered his “friend.” When he got home, Phantom had pooped on the wooden floor adjacent to the front door. He slipped on the poop and slammed the back of his head on the radiator by the door. He died almost instantly. He was found two days later after failing to show up for work. His eyes were scratched out. The EMTs were surprised to see a cat run out the front door when they opened it.

An aged Phantom was spotted at his first owner’s funeral. His sister picked him up and brought him home. Although he takes medicine for his joints, otherwise he’s a happy, napping cat.

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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Apagoresis

Posted on November 16, 2023 | Leave a comment

Apagoresis (a-pa-gor’-e-sis): A statement designed to inhibit someone from doing something. Often uses exaggeration [or hyperbole] to persuade. It may combine an exaggeration with a cause/effect or antecedent/consequence relationship. The consequences or effects of such a phrase are usually exaggerated to be more convincing.

“If you don’t stop drinking that crap it will turn your kidneys green.” Uncle Phil was sure he would get me to put down my favorite beverage and never pick it up again. He was wrong. So what if my kidneys turned green? Nobody would see them, and their colorization did me no harm. I was a running, jumping, climbing, healthy kid.

My beverage of choice, “Lime Lip,” came in 2” high wax bottles in a handy little six-pack. You bit off the top of the little wax bottle, and downed the contents—lime-flavored green sugar syrup. It was the heaviest hit of “sweet” that could be had from any candy. My uncle should’ve pointed out that it turned your lips and tongue an other-worldly green—like a diseased putting green. It became a sort of membership display. You’d see another kid on the street with green lips and you’d give each other a little wave of acknowledgement, without saying a word. It was so cool.

I scraped up all my money and went to the candy store: The Sugar Bowl. Mr. Metcalf, the store’s owner, had the usual dazed expression on his face, accented by his green lips and hardly visible green drool. I told him I wanted a case of “Lime Lip.” He went into the back room and came back to the counter holding a case of “Lime Lip.” He said, “Watch out for this stuff kid, if you drink more than three bottles a day, your kidneys will turn green.” I said, “So what. Who cares what color my kidneys are?” He said: “You should care. Eventually your blood will turn green. If you bleed in public, you will create panic among people unfamiliar with ‘Lime Lip’ and there will be stampedes and people will be crushed. Many of them will believe you are a space alien and try to kill you.”

Holy crap! How can that be true? If it was true “Lime Lip” would be banned by the FDA. All I could see was Mr. Metcalf’s demented face and the “Lime Lip” dripping from his chin. Why was he telling me this? I didn’t want to be killed by a mob, but now I knew there was some kind of conspiracy afoot. I concluded that Mr. Metcalf is from outer space, but I couldn’t tell anybody or they would think I’m crazy. But, one way or the other, I determined never to drink another drop of “Lime Lip.” I also wondered briefly, how my Uncle knew it would turn my kidneys green. I was hesitant to confront him. I don’t want to die.

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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Aphaeresis

Posted on November 15, 2023 | Leave a comment

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

I am nothing. I am low. I have no self-confidence, My pants are too tight, my feet smell, I own a cat named Buffalo Bill, my left hand is bigger than my right hand, I can’t thread a needle, I eat only canned food, I’ve never had an intimate relationship with another human. I am chronically constipated. I snore. I have many personal problems. I don’t get along with other people. I steal things. I am annoying. I keep pointing out people’s faults. I get punched in the face at least once per week—I bleed all over my shirt and whine. My life is a disaster, but, I’m gifted. Round and round I go. I am the world-record holding pirouetter.

When I am spinning I go into a trance, like a dervish. The world blends into one blur and my woes dissipate in the mist of dizziness. On one toe, spinning, spinning, spinning, my toe begins to smoke—my big toe is on fire metaphorically. For my record, I twirled non-stop for a week. I was hungry and sleep-deprived, but I kept going. Round and round like a merry go-round.

I have founded “The Whirlies,” a refuge for compulsive spinners that provides a no-questions-asked sanctuary. Any time, day or night, the sanctuary is open to people who need to safely whirl with arms outstretched, looking up at the ceiling, watching it blur into oneness. When the client is whirled out, they are provided transportation back to where they live—no matter where.

I discovered my whirling “gift” in college where I became a dizzy addict, needing to get dizzy at least once a day. I got hooked on dizziness after reading “Yearning, Spinning, Burning: Being Dizzy, Being Cool.” I got into being dizzy and my life improved. I would spin on one toe on the quad and crowds would gather and cheer me on. The adulation was addictive. At first it was the primary reason I spun. But now, as you’ve gathered, I seek spiritual sustenance from the spin. While in deep dizziness, I have had numerous visions. Last week I found myself pounding on the door of a chicken coop. I was down on my knees and crying. I was holding a cracked egg in one hand and a hatchet in the other. I was yelling “I will crush your baby,” Different-colored feathers were coming out of my mouth. Suddenly, one of the chickens turned into my mother and pecked me in the eye. I stood up and ran after her with my hatchet. When I caught up with her I chopped off her head. I felt no emotion. I was grateful that I had become a sociopath and just walked away with no remorse.

So, there are so many complexities to being human. Our maladies are a blessing and a curse. I know, I’m spinning my life away. But, it is my gift—up on one toe, torso spinning free, like a cosmic top, or an axle supporting the stars, or a washing machine spewing washwater down the drain.

I will put a spin on 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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Aphorismus

Posted on November 14, 2023 | Leave a comment

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

I couldn’t take it any more. My boss had sad it again: “I am reticent to promote you. I don’t know how we would utilize you as an Assistant Vice President.” I don’t know what he’s going to do when I correct him on his use of “reticent.” He uses it instead of hesitant. and yes, there’s also using “utilize” instead of plain “use,” but I”ll let that pass for now.

I began by leaving a dictionary on his desk open to “reticent” circled in red. He called me into his office, held up the dictionary and asked “What the hell is this?” I have spellcheck on my computer, I don’t need this. Even though somebody marked it up, go ahead and donate it to the Salvation Army. Now, get out of my office!”

Clearly, Plan A didn’t work. Plan B probably wouldn’t work either. I copied the definition of reticent from the dictionary. I blew it up to poster size and printed it on the office’s double-wide printer. I taped one inside the elevator, on the wall over the men’s room urinal, and on the wall over the office coffee cart. This, I was sure, would get the boss’s attention without putting me at risk.

The boss called me into his office. I knocked and he called me in. He was holding one of my posters: “I’m sure you’re behind this, sneaking around like the coward you are.” I told him it was embarrassing to work for somebody who used “reticent” like he did. Sometimes it made me feel like I wanted to stick my head in my briefcase like an ostrich. Language is the pillar of civilization. Misusing it can lead to civilization’s downfall. Even if it’s a single word, it is a slippery slope, steeply headed toward anarchy and social chaos.

My boss looked at me like he wanted vomit. But instead, he picked up his stapler and threw it at me. It hit me on the head and I fell to the floor bleeding from a cut on my forehead. He was waving the poster over me like a blanket. I sat up a dug my attorney’s card out of my wallet and gave it to the boss as I stood up. He looked at it and said, “What about that promotion? Still interested?”

I told him “Yes,” but I was reticent to make decisions on such short notice. He rolled up my poster and hit me over the head with it and we both laughed.

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

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Apocarteresis

Posted on November 13, 2023 | Leave a comment

Apocarteresis (a-po-car-ter’-e-sis): Casting of all hope away from one thing and placing it on another source altogether.

“Time will tell.” I was waiting patiently for the unfolding of my success as a human being. Part of the problem was that I didn’t know what it meant to be a “success” as a human being, but yet I knew it was the goal of all people. My Uncle Arnold taught me this, but also told me there are an untold number of routes to success. Whatever your answer to the question “What is a human being?” is, will affect your striving. His idea was “nasty, brutish and short.” He was lucky to be short; he was only 5 feet tall. He could rejoice in that! One out of three without even trying!

He worked hard on nasty and brutish. He learned how to insult people and hurt their feelings and never apologize. He wrote a book of insults that made it to number 10 on the New York Times Bestseller List. It was titled “Kiss My Ass Yo-Yo.” It established nastiness as a valued character attribute. “Kiss my ass!” became the rallying cry of acolytes. Fights broke out on subways, in parking lots and even at places of worship, where clergy began insulting their flocks, and making it clear that they were unworthy of a heavenly afterlife. At one evangelical church, the Preacher looked up toward God and yelled “Kiss my ass” and the congregation did likewise, yelling at each other, and eventually wrestling and punching each other. It devolved into a riot and police were dispatched. Teargas was fired and things calmed down.

Then, there was “brutish.” It related mainly to hygiene and deform—it was considered brutish to burp, fart, poop and pee outside; copulate in public in plain view, and eat boogers while standing on street corners or waiting for public transportation. Table manners were also altered—people ate with their hands right off the table’s surface, wiped their mouths on their sleeves, and fought over food like raccoons and bears. They would also pick on weaker people, and make them carry them around in sedan chairs, or on their backs.

I could see why this construction of “human being” would appeal to my little uncle, and vast numbers of other people. But, it did not appeal to me. I tossed it off like a hot potato. Frankly, it took too much effort to achieve. So, I went with “people are the leisured beings.” This quotation is from “Lay Down and Wake Up.” It is one of those ancient works that seems more insightful as the centuries pass. It was written by an ancient Egyptian mattress salesman, who would give the book away free with every purchase. Just to give you an idea of its content, Chapter One is titled “Do Nothing, Be Happy!” “Doing nothing” is extremely difficult to define. One must grapple with the meaning-laden question: Is nothing something? Written in a dialogue form, the text is a series of questions and answers between a nasty and brutish young man named Ank-Trumphet, and a wise philosopher named Omari. They are laying down on separate couches under the shade of a tent.

Anyway, I am a follower of leisure. It is good. Like the ancient author of “Lay Down and Wake Up” I sell mattresses for a living. I lay on a mattress in the store’s window. I wear silk pajamas, and sometimes, sip a Mimosa.

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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Apocope

Posted on November 12, 2023 | Leave a comment

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

I’m in trouble. It’s my babe. It’s my hair. I can’t sleep. My brain goin’ jangle— like a radiator heating up in the morning. Maybe “clank” is a better approximation of my brain’s sound. It’s not my head, but I swear other people can hear it. They look at me and cock their heads, like dogs do when they think they hear something. Of course, my brain’s clanking is there to make a single irrevocable point: My girlfriend left me. I’m going bald. I think that’s why she left me.

Toward the end she’d pick up my fallen hairs from the floor. She would roll a hair between her fingers and say “Hair today, gone tomorrow.” Or, “Ridin’ that train, high on Rogaine.” “Hair is not the play for you.” Then there’s the jokes: “I first noticed I was going bald when it took longer and longer to wash my face.”

I should’ve see it coming. She was beyond cruel. I don’t know why I stuck around as long as I did. I think I was in this thing called denial. I’m not an expert on denial, but I think it means you deny things. I denied everything about her. For two lost years, I denied that she was too beautiful to have a relationship with a balding boring accountant. I denied she was too smart for me. She is an aeronautical engineer and designed ballistic missiles for the government. Her largest feat is a missile that can hit a person in the eye from 20,000 miles away. I couldn’t even make a wastepaper basket basket with a crumpled up piece of paper from 2 feet away.

I’ve thought about committing Harry Carry— I’m trying to put a cheerful face on leaving this incarnation by punning. But my puns stink.

My x-girlfriend just called! She wants to get together and brainstorm because things are getting “pretty hairy” at work. She showed up around nine.

I answered the door and there she was. She pulled a rag out of her jacket and started polishing my head. At that point I came to the conclusion that she was a sadist. She started crying, and she pulled a toupee out of her pocket. She very carefully positioned it on my head and gave me big romantic kiss and told me she loved me. She told me when we first met she was neither “hair nor there.” But, since we’ve been separated she has “trimmed” her ambivalence down to nothing. She is sure it’s love.

I’m not so sure. I don’t understand her, and that isn’t necessarily a bad thing. I’ll see where it goes. In the meantime, we’ll “curl” up on the couch and watch another episode of “The Brady Bunch.”

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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