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Medela

Posted on June 24, 2025 | Leave a comment

Medela (me-de’-la): When you can’t deny or defend friends’ faults and seek to heal them with good words.

Bill was the worst. He smelled like marinated onions topping a piece of boiled cabbage. Every other word was fu*k or fu*kin’. He borrowed money from me and never paid it back. He tried to talk me into doing crazy shit, like planting opium poppies in my back yard, or robbing a convenience store: “Steal those scratch-offs. You’re bound to hit it big. Do it!” I almost did, but my wife talked me out of it.

Everybody tried to talk me into dumping Bill as a friend, but I couldn’t bring myself to do it. He had saved my life several times and I owed him. Somehow we ended up together in the 173rd Airborne in Vietnam. We were pulling an all-nighter on a listening post. We had been given doses of speed to keep us awake. It had a powerful effect on me. I couldn’t sit still and I kept laughing maniacally. Bill thought it was funny to tell me his “best of” knock-knock jokes and see me roll around on the ground laughing hysterically. Given my state, he was going to radio back to camp to have me extracted. That’s when we heard the unmistakable sound of AK 47s locking and loading. 4 VC popped out of the underbrush with weapons aimed straight at us.

I still couldn’t stop laughing. One of them asked in broken English “What the hell you do? I hear way over there.” Bill said “I tell jokes, make him laugh.” Then he unloaded a knock-knock joke. The VC who could speak English translated and the four started laughing hysterically, until one started choking. The other three dropped their weapons and went to help him. How stupid. Bill picked up his weapon and shot each of them once, making sure to give them non-fatal wounds. Under the circumstances. He couldn’t bring himself to kill them—they were obvious raw recruits who had been turned loose with no training.

Bill radioed and we were extracted and didn’t say anything about the VC. We probably would’ve been Court Martialed if we did. So, Bill’s jokes saved my life. I’ll never be able to repay him.

Another time, we were getting drunk in a biker bar in Salinas, CA. Foolishly, I told this biker his girlfriend looked like well-plowed field. I don’t think he understood what I meant, but he got really mad. He said “I’m gonna kill ya, ya little piece of shit.” He pulled out a 10-inch stiletto. Bill grabbed the basket our nachos had come in and held it up like a shield between me and the biker. The knife got stuck in the basket and I was saved. Bill was carrying a .45 auto and it helped us get out of the bar alive. We sped off in Bill’s red Corvair. I looked out the back window and we were being followed by at least twenty bikers. I fired a couple of shots at them and they peeled off. Saved again! There are a lot more examples, but these two should suffice make my point.

Despite Bill’s ghastly smell and hellish demeanor, and all the rest, I owe him my life, and I’ll be his friend forever. So, leave him alone.

Just ask him to tell you a knock knock joke.

Definitions 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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Meiosis

Posted on June 23, 2025 | Leave a comment

Meiosis (mei-o’-sis): Reference to something with a name disproportionately lesser than its nature (a kind of litotes). This term is equivalent to tapinosis.

“God is mud.” Most people would believe I’m belittling God. But what I’m doing is reminding them that God is ubiquitous—that God’s infused in the sum of His creation. It is blasphemous to think otherwise. This is hard for most people grasp, but I am an “Evertrhinganarian.” We are a sect that was established in Rhode Island in 1699. The founding fathers were disgusted with the prevailing religion’s separation of Being into Godly and Ungodly, as if anything in the created universe could not be God’s doing. How foolish they were. How biased they were.

Things earned the title “Ungodly” pretty much randomly so they could be boycotted and fall into disuse. For example, prostitution was designated as ungodly as if whoring wasn’t invented by God.

You can see how the “Everythinganarian” stand may put some people on edge. But, there’s no way around it—God is everywhere. Our task is to find a way of understanding prostitution that aligns it with God’s will. “Impossible!” you say, especially as it may abet adultery. Well, adultery is God’s creation too! Adultery is usually one of the first steps toward getting out of a failed relationship, here, the failed relationship and turning to a whore is a godsend, prompting you to find a new life—perhaps a husband or a wife, by the grace of God, by divorce’s blessing.

Morality is like a hinge on a swinging door. No matter which way you’re going, it’s aways opening. In, or out, it doesn’t matter—“in” can be out and “out” can be in—it’s a portal of interpretation that allows it to open or close on anything you choose it to be, not in itself, but as it intersects your hopes and dreams. It can appear to be an exit or an entrance, but it is actually both—an “extrance.” Once we see its multiple likelihoods, we are ready to choose what it is by focusing on its end as its end intersects our desires. So, what is”good” is always a matter of interpretation. As Stanley Fish tells us, “One person’s hope is another person’s fear.” This goes for material objects as well: One person’s cherished artifact is another person’s pain in the ass.

So, as long as we’re going to be free range individuals, we must honor morality’s swinging door. I am not obliged find my place in your life along the path of your preferences. If I do, it’s solely my choice. So, shut up and accept me as one of God’s children.

Definitions 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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Mempsis

Posted on June 22, 2025 | Leave a comment

Mempsis (memp’-sis): Expressing complaint and seeking help.

“I stuck my goddamn cane in dogshit again. I need your help cleaning it off. Here’s a napkin from Wendy’s.” I was laughing inside. I was 87 and my brother was 85. I loved sticking my cane in dogshit and watching him clean it off. It happened every time we went for a walk and the stupid jerk hadn’t caught on yet.

I hated my brother. He was a draft-dodging, wife -stealing dog. He stole my first wife, Sonia, when I was 22 and she was 20, He bought her a red Cadillac Eldorado for her birthday. All I could afford was a “Kiss” t-shirt and a macrame bracelet. Sonia was impressed and rode off in the Cadillac with my brother and never came back,

At the time I was working as a busboy “Pyro Gyros Greek Cuisine.” All I earned was tips I split with the waitresses and waiters. My brother, on the other hand, owned three successful businesses: “Modeling Clay Sensations,” “Lolita’s Lotions,” and “Thick Strip Pork Products.” He was a millionaire and scoffed at me every chance he got, or made.

He called me “Busboy” instead of John—my real name. He and Sonia would eat at Pyro Gyros at least three times a a week. He would give me a “secret tip” that I didn’t have share. No matter how much he spent, he’d dangle a five-dollar bill in front of my face and make me bark like a seal, clap my hands like flippers, and make me take the money in my mouth. It was humiliating, but I desperately needed the money. My second wife had shingles and I could barely afford the medicine. Her upper torso and face were covered with the rash. She laid in bed cursing me out and whining with pan. She admitted having an affair with my bachelor neighbor Hugo. She assured me she will be leaving me as soon as she’s cured. I thought about murdering her, but kept blocking her out of my head with liberal doses of vodka. As soon as she was cured, she jumped out of bed, packed her bags, and moved in with Hugo. Good riddance!

So, Sonia died two years ago and in the wake of her death, my brother has become more charitable toward me. Hence, the dogshit wiping. That’s one of the many ruses I use to get back at him. For example, I don’t need adult diapers but I wear them anyway so my brother can change me when I soil them. I love asking him to “please wipe my ass” when we’re out in public somewhere. He’ll bring me into a restroom and and I climb up on the changing table.

“Turn about is fair play.” I learned that from watching the “Apprentice” on TV. Ha ha!

Definitions 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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Merismus

Posted on June 21, 2025 | Leave a comment

Merismus (mer-is’-mus): The dividing of a whole into its parts.

I was going to divide a hole into its parts. It had a top,, sides and bottom and a vacant center. But is a vacant center actually a part? Maybe if we call it an empty space it would be clearer. In reality it is a void—a column of nothingness. If it’s connected to whole/hole and is integral to its being, it’s a parted. Take it away, or fill it n, there’s no hole any more—maybe just a dent in the dirt on the ground. So, what’s all this speculation about holes worth? I don’t know, and I don’t have to know.

Take a shoe for example. Knowing its parts makes you a more canny shopper. You ask questions and impress the salespersons with your shoe knowledge. He or she will realize they’re not dealing with an uninformed Custumer and be less likely t try and hit you with a she scam, like selling you Odor Eaters or shoe balm.

So, what are the parts of a shoe? I’m not sure, but I’ll give it a try.

1: The big part you put your foot in (the upper).

2. The laces.

3. The tongue.

4. The sole.

5. The heel.

6. The midsole.

Now you are equipped to look like you “know” shoes. You ask “What is the midsole made of. This question will embarrass the salesperson and make you feel superior.

The more parts you know. The more you know. Think about love. Does it have parts! What about the descent into mental illness. Say, you are normal one day and then you’re standing in your living room pointing a loaded hand gun at your TV set. What are the steps to losing your job? What were the parts of the argument with you wife that ended in divorce.

See? Knowing the parts of everything will make you wise like an owl. Only, of course, you won’t actually be an owl. That’s not possible. in fact, nobody knows what makes owls wise, or even if they are actually wise. I don’t think an owl can take an IQ test. There—we have advanced our knowledge with facts—by questioning an old worn-out saying. Clearly, owls’ natural wisdom has declined to the point of no return.

My girlfriend has a pet owl. She feeds it dead mice she buys frozen at the pet store. The owl never goes “hoo” and just sits on its perch eating mice and crapping on cage bottom. Its name is Vick. He pays no attention when my girlfriend calls him. We think he fell out of his nest and hit his head when he was a baby. It is a shame. My girlfriend is considering putting him up for adoption.

Anyway, every whole has its parts.

Definitions 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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Mesarchia

Posted on June 20, 2025 | Leave a comment

Mesarchia (mes-ar’-chi-a): The repetition of the same word or words at the beginning and middle of successive sentences.

“Joy will pleasure make. Joy will pleasure take. Joy is fleeting and takes pleasure with it when it goes.” Parnell Pack.

Pack was a 19th century poet/philosopher. His works uniformly stink, but they are still read by young writers as a rite of passage toward earning an MFA. They want to learn to say bad things about other’s writing and Pack is a great model of bad writing that they can easily cast aspersions on. It is sort of disgraceful, but that’s how you easily learn critical analysis, which is solely about fault finding. The easier the target, the better the critique. This goes for people too. Get in a relationship with an idiot and the door to endless belittlement opens wide. You bask in the inferiority of your partner, achieving a level of superiority for yourself that only a relationship with a total dolt can achieve. Congratulations.

Then there was Bartholomew Canon. He wrote romance novels situated in insane asylums. He wrote the famous line “A crawfish cannot smell worse.” This was uttered by Bertrand Feckless as he crawled across the concrete floor of the asylum’s recreation room. He thought he was a dog trained to hunt crustaceans. His lover, Pony Rutledge, was sitting in a rocking chair across the room unimpressed. She was feverishly crocheting a butter dish for the Matron’s dining room table. This was not therapy. It was an attempt to win the Matron’s favor. She had tried once already and failed. She had failed when had made a floor mat for the Matron’s pickup truck. Foolishly, she had woven it out of strips of newspaper and it disintegrated the instant the Matron’s wet boot touched it.

Bartholomew and Pony were due to be married soon. People said it was illegal, but they went ahead and planned. They had already gotten in trouble for throwing rice at each other and making a mess of the recreation room. Then, the state of Louisiana told them they could get married as long as Pony was sterilized and Bartholomew was castrated.

So, you can imagine how this ham-fisted piece of garbage writing turns out. Oh? You can’t?

They get married and adopt a duck. They named the duck Quacky and taught it to smoke cigarettes. The duck became a chain smoker, rapidly contracting emphysema, and coughing, drowns in the duck pond.

Very sad. Very trite. Almost funny.

Definitions 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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Mesodiplosis

Posted on June 19, 2025 | Leave a comment

Mesodiplosis (mes-o-dip-lo’-sis): Repetition of the same word or words in the middle of successive sentences.

I have been big and tall all my life. I was big and tall when I was six. Obviously, I’m big and and tall now—6’ 8” and 347 pounds. I’ve been shopping at the big and tall clothing store since I was fifteen. The proprietor, Mr. Crease, gave me a goldfish the first time I went for “shutting up and standing still.”

I named the fish “Taylor” and kept him in a bowl in my room. One night I heard a little voice say “Wake up numb nuts.” I suffered from insomnia, so I was already awake. Now, I was wide awake—Taylor could talk! In bits and pieces, he told me came from a goldfish farm in Muncie, Indiana. The farm sold goldfish in bulk to pet stores. Mr. Crease had purchased him at “Get-A-Pet” down the street from his big and tall clothing store. Taylor couldn’t stay out of water long. Before he dove down under the water, he said, “See this guy. He can help me: Micro Jim, 315-229-4818.” I called Micro the next day and asked him how he could help my goldfish. He said, “Oh, you must have a ‘Golden Talker.’ Very rare. I can help you out.” He told me his address and took the bus there.

I rang his doorbell around 25 times until he finally answered. He said he was working on a top secret project and became distracted. Then he held up some kind of device a little bigger than a peppercorn. “This is an underwater micro Bluetooth microphone that will transmit voice signals to your iPhone. You charge it by laying it in direct sunlight. Now, your goldfish won’t have to surface to talk to you. Golden Talkers like to tell stories, so get ready to be entertained.” He gave me instructions on how to operate the micro-microphone.

I got home and Taylor swam to the surface to greet me. I put the microphone over his mouth and turned on my phone’s Bluetooth. They instantly paired.

Taylor said, “I’m going to tell you a story.”

“Once there was a big and tall brown bear named Brutus who roamed free on a 600 acre estate owned by Lord Gilligan who was big but not tall. He was 5’ 7” and weighed 23 stone. He had Trifle for breakfast and lunch 7 days a week. He was so fat he had personal he also had Court Hoisters who would pull him out of bed and chairs. He also had a Paige that pulled him around in a gilded wagon,”

“Brutus was in really good shape and was dismayed by Lord Giligan’s horrible condition. Brutus decided to break into the manor house one morning, and growling viciously, knocked over Lord Giligan’s trifles, spilling them all over the floor. As a consequence of his behavior, Brutus became a fugitive and was hunted by Lord Giligan’s gamekeeper for the £200 bounty put on his head.”

“Still, Brutus did not regret what he had done. His attack had instilled fear in Lord Gilligan and he no longer ate trifle twice a day. He rapidly lost weight and his wife Lady Sizzlecrepe was attracted to him once again. The Lord called off the hunt for Brutus out of gratitude for providing him an incentive to abstain from trifle. The newly svelte Lord was able to get out of chairs and his bed on his own. And he could walk around the manor again. Trifle was outlawed and Brutus was made a Knight—as Sir Brutus, he lived a long and noble life with a string of weight loss spas throughout the kingdom.”

Taylor said “Good night” and I went be and fell asleep immediately. My insomnia was cured!

Definitions 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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Mesozeugma

Posted on June 18, 2025 | Leave a comment

Mesozeugma (me’-so-zyoog’-ma): A zeugma in which one places a common verb for many subjects in the middle of a construction.

Trucks, wagons, and wheelbarrows carried the loads, some small, some large, some medium-sized. I wielded a wheelbarrow made of iron and oak with a wooden wheel. My cousin Eddy used his Tonka truck, pushing it along, crawling through the dirt. My next door neighbor, Caroline, had conscripted her brothers red Radio Flyer wagon, pulling it with grace and dignity. She was beautiful. I loved her, but she didn’t love me. She loved Ritchie the rich bastard who lived on the hill and didn’t even know she existed. It was pitiful, but someday she would be mine.

We were building the biggest pile of dirt in history. While we hauled the dirt, my little brother Klause and two of his friends dug it up and dumped it in our conveyances. Klause thought he was named after Santa Claus. He was fat and wore a fake beard and red lumberjack shirts and black patent leather boots year round. My mother nurtured his delusion by encouraging him to go “Ho, Ho, Ho” every few minutes. It got so bad that neighborhood kids would tell him what they wanted for Christmas!

Suddenly Klause’s shovel hit something with a hollow sound. He said “Ho, Ho, Ho” and hauled it out of the ground. It was an old ice chest—also called a “cooler.” It said “July 1951 Time Capsule” across the top in black paint. We opened it to see what was inside.

We found a big tube of “Off!” insect repellent, a replica of General MacArthur’s corn cob pipe, a picture of the “Thing from Another World,” a tube of “Super Glue,” a non-stick frying pan, “Backseat Bingo” instructions (rated R), a Tupperware hot dog container, an autographed picture of Marlon Brando, Pink capri pants, madras shorts, and more!

We gave up on the dirt pile. It was 1999, so our trove was pretty valuable. We assembled the collection in my falling-down detached garage. We put up flyers that said “Come see the return of 1951 in Johnny’s garage 50 cents.” It was a hit. Mainly grown ups came to see the exhibition. Then one day this big fat man with gold rings on his fingers, and smoking a cigar, walked into the garage and said “I’ll buy the whole lot.” So far, we had made $200 and weren’t about to sell until he said “I’ll give you $80,000.” We all yelled “Sold!”

That’s it. I used my share to pay for college. Now, I own an ice skating rink and a used car lot. My wife and I are quite happy and are expecting our 5th child. She’s the girl next door from the old days. By the way, I kept the box of Maypo from our trove. I don’t know why, but I have “I WANT MY MAYPO” tattooed across my chest backwards so I can read it in the mirror. I repeat it and it makes me feel assertive as I get ready to go to work at the car lot. My brother Klaus moved to Alaska.

Definitions 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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Metabasis

Posted on June 17, 2025 | Leave a comment

Metabasis (me-ta’-ba-sis): A transitional statement in which one explains what has been and what will be said.

Now, by “insult you” I mean to say something rude to you that will hurt your feelings or make you mad, or both.

“You’re a stupid loser and so is your mother.”

There, that was an insult, not my best I admit, but good enough to insult you. Next, I’m going to elaborate on the insult’s two key terms: stupid and loser and how they apply to your mother and you, which is the crux of this particular insult.

Ok, let’s take a look at “stupid,” from the Lathn stupidus. All cognitive deficiencies came down to stupid. That’s it, plain and simple. Dull-witted and lacking in intelligence say it best. You know, like you reading at a fourth grade level when you’re 25, or learning to tie your shoes when you’re 15, or getting lost on the way home from school when we were kids, or jaywalking and getting hit by a car, or eating poison ivy leaves as “salad,” or, like your mother, marrying your father and bringing stupid you into the world, to its great detriment.

Now, let’s shed some light on “loser.” A loser is not a winner. They are always bested in some way. Not only that, they may continuously come in last. As a person, a loser is a failure. They never succeed at what they strive for no matter how big or small—from failure to get a promotion, to failure to pick up your kids at school like you were supposed to, while they wait in a blizzard.

As far as we live in a social order founded on competition, “losing” is the worst thing that can happen. What’s worse, like I said, no matter how well you do, if you don’t come in first, you lose. If you come second you lose. Number 1 is all that counts.

Often, being stupid and being a loser overlap, or are in an antecedent/consequence relationship—where stupidity may make you a loser. Like it clearly has with both you and your mother. If she had put you up for adoption when you were born, she wouldn’t be such a loser today, stuck with you as a son, like a malignant tumor.

In sum, you’re a stupid loser abetted by a mother who is also a stupid loser. Together, you have no foresight and waste your lives by living them. As stupid losers, you should take shelter in a monastery, making sandals and, as much as possible, stay out of other people’s lives, including each other’s.

What stupid losers!

Definitions 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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Matalepsis

Posted on June 16, 2025 | Leave a comment

Metalepsis (me-ta-lep’-sis): Reference to something by means of another thing that is remotely related to it, either through a farfetched causal relationship, or through an implied intermediate substitution of terms. Often used for comic effect through its preposterous exaggeration. A metonymical substitution of one word for another which is itself figurative.

“You’re like a roller coaster: you go up and down and give me a thrill.” My wife told me this on our 30th wedding anniversary in front of our children and grandchildren. Our 16 year-old grandson applauded and said “Way to go Grandpop—you’re a legend. Keep it up. Ha ha!” My sister blushed and said “I don’t believe you! He always looks like he’s going to collapse any minute, or just have a heart attack and die.” My wife said “If you only knew Betsy.” Our son Ed said “We all know mother’s fading into dementia. Let’s just leave alone.” Then, with a sarcastic tone he said “It’s OK Mom. We believe you. Dad’s always been a bit rambunctious.”

That did it. I had taken a selfie video clip of us doing it the the night before. I pulled out my cellphone and yelled “You want proof? I got proof—right here in my phone!” I held up my phone and aimed its screen at my family. My daughter screamed and in a panic driven voice, told her children to “shelter in the kitchen.” All the kids scrambled into the kitchen except my 16 year-old grandson who yelled “I’m ready for some proof” and stood his ground.

I yelled “Do you really want see this, or are you going to take her word for it? I’m still good for a jounce, and I hope I will be until the day I die.” They capitulated. The kids came out of the kitchen and we resumed our celebration.

However, I couldn’t help noticing how my son’s third wife Tember was eyeing me. She was blushing and staring at my crotch. I asked her if she wanted something in particular. She looked away and ran out the front door. I was going to chase her, but I decided not to. My son didn’t need a fourth wife.

Definitions 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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Metallage

Posted on June 15, 2025 | Leave a comment

Metallage (me-tal’-la-gee): When a word or phrase is treated as an object within another expression.

You chicken livered twit. The saying “Chicken-livered” insults chickens. The same goes for the catchphrase, “dumb cluck.” “Chicken” too, to mark a coward. We mustn’t forget “chicken shit” for trivial or “chicken scratch” for poor handwriting. Then there’s “chicken feed” for a small payout. One more: “chicken hearted” for coward.

Chickens are up there with rats and snakes on the “Grand List”of insulting catch phrases. Why is this?

Well, first they are birds with wings that can’t fly. What could be more absurd? They run, and may use their wings to add a little speed to their running. They look absurd rushing across the barn yard for some feed or for nothing at all. Most likely, they are running away from something anyway.

Second: if popcorn made a whining sound, instead of popping, it would sound like a chicken. “Buck-Buck-bah-dawkit” comes close. Or they may sound like a group of jabbering grandmothers trying to boss each other around in a kitchen. It is shameful and irritating.

Third: the chicken has three purposes as their existence intersects human interests: drumsticks, eggs, pillow stuffing. The myriad ways that chickens and their eggs can be prepared for eating bears witness to their centrality to human flourishing. Southern fried chicken—mmm. Baked chicken—mmm. Grilled chicken—mmm. Fried eggs—mmm. Poached eggs—mmm. Hard-boiled eggs—mmm. Need I say more?

I will say more.

Growing up in New Jersey, I had a chicken for a pet. Yes, a pet. Despite what I’ve written above, PET for me was the foremost trait and purpose for my chicken. I wrote what I wrote in my lifelong quest to manage my grief at Cluck’s sudden violent demise. My mistaken assumption is that by denigrating chickens, I can be finished with Cluck and make her loss inconsequential, like losing a paperclip or a postage stamp. I hope my grief will disappear.

Cluck and I were very close. We spent a lot of quality time together. She followed me around like a dog. When she was happy, she would flap one wing and spin around in circles. Then, one day when I was at the country fair, I saw a chicken in a glass box that played the piano. There was a dispenser that dropped corn kernels on the piano’s keys in a sequence according with the tune “Farmer in the Dell.”

My sister had a toy piano! I would sprinkle corn on the keys in the right sequence and Cluck would tap out the corresponding song. I would gather my friends in our old broken-down garage and Cluck and I would perform Fats Domino’s “Blueberry Hill” and Elvis’ “Heartbreak Hotel.” We were minor celebrities in the neighborhood.

One of Cluck’s favorite things to do was to perch on my bicycle’s handlebars and go for rides with me. One day, we were riding down my street when we came to the low-hanging branch of a maple tree. A big gray cat jumped off the limb and knocked Cluck to the ground. Before I could do anything, the cat ran off holding the unconscious Cluck’s neck in his mouth. The cat ran into the bushes. I threw down my bike and followed. I searched and searched and to my horror found a small pile of Cluck’s feathers, and then, his mutilated carcass.

I sat there and cried and cried. Then, I picked up one of Cluck’s feathers as a momento and went home. I wanted to wreak revenge on the cat, but was unsuccessful. I never saw him again. So, I had to stuff my grief. I’ve borne it all these years. Saying mean things about chickens hasn’t helped. Whenever I think about Cluck I take a couple of drinks of vodka. I think I am an alcoholic.

Definitions 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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Metaphor

Posted on June 14, 2025 | Leave a comment

Metaphor (met’-a-phor): A comparison made by referring to one thing as another.

His ass was a desert. Nothing was there. It was flat. It was an embarrassment.

He was the Duke of Ruddyville, and basically, he was assless. It was 16th century England and an ass was imperative, especially for a Royal who made many public appearances where his ass, although covered by trousers, was put on display. The Duke suffered from ass absentia.

It was a malady acquired from eating pickled butterflies in excess. Once acquired, the malady became permanent. The ass cheeks atrophied creating a flat plane stretching from the lower back to the upper legs. The flatness presented trousers with no protrusion to rest upon. Hence, the Duke’s trousers continuously fell down—on every occasion, even occasions expected to be conducted with the utmost gravity, such as his daughter’s wedding.

He was escorting the Lady of Ruddyville down the aisle at the most ostentatious wedding ever conducted in the history of the realm. The aisle had been trimmed in gold brocade. The flowers bedecking the altar had been imported from Nederduytsch (Holland) at a cost greater than the lifetime earnings of a typical peasant. They were called “toylips” and came in every color.

As the Duke slowly walked down the aisle, his trousers fell down. It happened so quickly he tripped over them and fell down upon his face breaking his nose and dislocating his left shoulder. His daughter helped him up. Clutching the waistband of his trousers with his right hand, and with a rivulet of blood dripping off his chin, he buried the pain of his dislocated shoulder and continued his march down the aisle. The wedding was completed. He drank an ounce of laudanum and continued on to the reception where the court surgeon relocated his arm and set his nose.

The Duke was humiliated, but his subjects acted as if nothing untoward had transpired. They knew there would be a price to pay for showing anything other than blank-faced stares at the Duke’s plight.

The Duke decided to seek a remedy for his asslessness. He had his woodcutter fashion a 10-foot pole, not unlike the one the he used for punting. He had his blacksmith fashion a hook and affix it to the end of the 10-foot pole. Then, his seamstress sewed a buttonhole in the back of the waistband of each of his trousers. Finally, he assigned a page to insert the pole’s hook in his trousers and walk or stand behind him holding up his trousers with the pole. It worked! It was acclaimed far and wide as “Duke Ruddyville’s Pants Pole” and was adopted by ass absentia sufferers throughout the land.

One month later, a farrier from Norlyfield tied a piece of rope around his waist to hang his tongs from. To his great delight, the rope held up his trousers! The Duke heard of the new pants-holding remedy. He was delighted and obtained a length of rope for himself. The device was called “belt” after the Latin word for girdle. The farrier was knighted. He sold his “belts” as “Sir Prichard’s Trouser Lifters.”

Definitions 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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Metaplasm

Posted on June 13, 2025 | Leave a comment

Metaplasm (met’-a-plazm): A general term for orthographical figures (changes to the spelling of words). This includes alteration of the letters or syllables in single words, including additions, omissions, inversions, and substitutions. Such changes are considered conscious choices made by the artist or orator for the sake of eloquence or meter, in contrast to the same kinds of changes done accidentally and discussed by grammarians as vices (see barbarism). See: antisthecon, aphaeresis, apocope, epenthesis, paragoge, synaloepha.

I was a “Blipper.” I blew tiny farts that no one could detect. I coulda’ farted in an elevator and nobody could tell. Blippers did not smell like ordinary farts—that’s why people couldn’t detect them as farts. They would think they were part of the olfactory ambience of wherever they were. For example, if I ate a Mounds Bar, my Blipper would smell like coconut. People would say “Mmmm, what’s that smell? Mmmm.” I would never eat cabbage, beans, broccoli or things like that.

I enjoyed bringing pleasure and monitored my food intake accordingly. My farts were delicious smelling. If I could’ve drank cologne or perfume, I would’ve done so. But there were Blippers who took their “gift” to the dark side and specialized in “silent but deadly” farting. They took sadistic pleasure in stinking things up undetected. They drank tea from a rare plant grown in the Amazon jungle. Its scientific name was stenchus leaficus. It made farts that smelled like rotting flesh. They could actually make people vomit and writhe around on the floor or ground.

Once it was determined that the sadistic Blippers took pleasure in blowing death-smelling farts, they were required to register their intestinal tracts and their farts were made illegal with a $1000 fine and six months in jail. The ingredients in rotting flesh tea were outlawed, but they were easily smuggled, so the tea was still readily available. People were willing to risk jail to stink up small venues.

This is where I came in. I invented the anus filter, a small lubricated charcoal filter the size of a wine bottle cork. Convicted and registered stench makers were required to insert a fresh one every day. They were randomly screened to assure compliance. Failure to comply would earn them another six months in jail and $1000 fine. Of course, I started my business “Anal Filtration” one week after the FDA approved them. I am on my way to becoming a millionaire.

I receive death threats daily. The scariest one is “See you in the elevator, traitor.”

Definitions 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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Metastasis

Posted on June 12, 2025 | Leave a comment

Metastasis (me-tas’-ta-sis): Denying and turning back on your adversaries arguments used against you.

There’s no way I kicked that dog! Where were you when it happened? I heard you yell “Bad dog!” In the alleyway, and I heard a yipping sound that sounded to me like a dog in pain. My girlfriend was standing next to me when it happened. She saw what I saw and heard what I heard. So, go fu*k yourself. I’m rescuing that poor little puppy from you. If you complain, I’ll turn you in to animal control.—you’ll be arrested and pay a hefty fine for animal cruelty. The abuser told me to take the goddamn dog and “shove up my ass” if I wanted to.

I took the dog.

His markings were weird. He was black with a white 666 on his left side. I had heard that 666 was the mark of the devil, but I wasn’t concerned: I was an atheist and didn’t believe in the devil. The markings were just some kind of coincidence. I named him Clutch and had him neutered. As he grew, he became more attentive, like he could understand every word I said. One day as an experiment I told him to go downstairs and fetch my I-Phone. He promptly complied. Not only that, somehow he managed to send me a text telling me he was on his way back upstairs with the phone. I probably should’ve been frightened, but I wasn’t. I thought it was cool.

Then, one night he jumped up on my bed and said in a raspy voice “Kick me asshole.” I couldn’t help myself. I stood up on my bed and kicked him. He went flying and hit the wall pretty hard. He whined and jumped in his doggie bed and went back to sleep.

Knowing he could make me do his bidding for god knows what, I had to get rid of him quickly. I bribed the Vet to euthanize Clutch even though he had nothing wrong with him. It was Monday and the appointment was Wednesday. When I made the appointment, Clutch looked like he knew something was up.

That night, he woke me up and said in his raspy voice “Joy ride.” There was a bottle of vodka and the keys to my father’s car on the bed. I cracked open the vodka and took a big swig, put on some clothes, picked up the keys, and headed out the door. Clutch followed me. We got in the car. I drank two more big gulps of vodka and started feeling pretty good—in fact, I was getting drunk. I backed out the driveway and knocked over the neighbor’s mailbox. Clutch laughed diabolically. His eyes gleamed red. I mowed down all the mailboxes on my street. I headed downtown. I was riding on the sidewalk when I heard sirens. A police car pulled in front of me. Clutch said “vanish” and the police car disappeared in a puff of smoke. I took another swig of vodka. Clutch got behind the wheel and drove us home.

Wednesday came,

I wanted Clutch gone more than ever. I had to drag him out the door and drag him to the Vet’s. Dr. Bedfloor was ready when we got there. He gave Clutch a shot to knock him out. Then, he and assistant hoisted Clutch onto the table. Needles were inserted and the lethal mixture started to flow. Suddenly Dr. Bedfloor and his assistant clutched their hearts and fell to the floor. I sat there horrified as Clutch stood up, shook out the needles and started to grow. He grew to the size of a Shetland pony, turned bright red and said “You were fun. I’ll let you live.” Then, he turned back into regular Clutch and ran out the front door when a customer came in.

Dr. Bedfloor and his assistant regained consciousness and remembered nothing. The police questioned me for two days before they finally released me, satisfied I had nothing to do with the Vet’s and his assistant’s “weird” experiences.

Yesterday, I got a cat. He looks at me like he’s hungry for human flesh. I named him Chewy.

Definitions 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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Metonymy

Posted on June 11, 2025 | Leave a comment

Metonymy (me-ton’-y-my): Reference to something or someone by naming one of its attributes. [This may include effects or any of the four Aristotelian causes {efficient/maker/inventor, material, formal/shape, final/purpose}.]

I was watching my watch. It was almost time to scoop my hard-boiled egg from the boiling water. My watch didn’t have a functioning second hand so I had to wait for the big hand to move. The suspense drove me crazy. Not only that, my watch would randomly stop. I’d have take it off and hit it to get it going again, and then, I didn’t know what time it was. I needed a new time piece so I could get back in sync with the world.

I Googled “men’s watches” in my zip code. I found a vender that looked promising. The store was called “ Big Ben’s.” It specialized in “multifunctional” watches. I hopped on my cycle, flipped it to electric. and buzzed off to Big Ben’s.

I got there in about five minutes. When I opened the door it made a cuckoo clock sound. There was the proprietor standing behind the counter wearing a white lab coat. He said “Hello. I am Adolph Pecker. You want a watch?” I said “yes” and he hoisted a tray full of watches onto the counter. He held up a watch that had buttons all around the edges. “This one’s named the Safari“ he said as he pushed one of its buttons. A small OTF switchblade popped out. He pressed another button and a BB-sized gun barrel popped out. He said “It’s velocity is the same as a .22.” Then he pointed to a red button. “Press it and it makes a smoke screen. See here, the watch crystal is a Morse code key!” I told him it was impressive, but the Safari wasn’t what I was looking for.

He sad, “Hmmm. Then have a look at this. It is called the ‘Streamer’ and it will keep you connected to your media. It has Face Time and Amazon Prime. There’s a projector built in so you can watch your favorite movies on the nearest wall. Not only that, it is Siri enabled.” Then se said, “Siri, where the hell are we?” Siri replied “Big Ben’s, Adolph.” I told him I wasn’t interested. He said, “Well then. You’re a young man out there on the dating scene. What about this one, the ‘Making Time?’ It emits pheromones and comes in models that attract females or males. They can’t resist. Just press this button here when you’re within 5 feet of your target. You will be smothered with affection.”

I bought it. $1200 was a small price to pay. I’m trying it out tonight at the “Hen & Rooster” a notorious pickup joint.

I sat down at the bar next to a very attractive woman. I pressed the button and she moved her stool closer to me. She put her arm over my shoulder and asked me in a whisper what I wanted to do next. I told her I wanted to take her to my apartment. Then she said “Ok. That’s a very handsome watch. Can I have a look at it before we go?” I took it off to show to her and it slipped out of my hand and fell on the floor. Right then, her boyfriend came back from the Men’s Room. He saw what was going on and stomped on my watch and punched me in the nose, pushed me down, and kicked me.

I’m saving my money for another “Making Time” wristwatch. I should’ve read the owner’s manual before I pressed the button. it warns about targets’ boyfriends and girlfriends

Definitions 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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Ominatio

Posted on June 10, 2025 | Leave a comment

Ominatio (o-mi-na’-ti-o): A prophecy of evil.

Nothing was right. Nothing was good. Nothing was the way it was supposed to be. I could smell it in the wind. Something bad was going to happen. It would be bad, we would moan and whine, seeking solace in the midst of unforgiving pain and karmic remorse.

At that point, my father told me to shut the hell up and light candles on his birthday cake—nothing was going to ruin his birthday again this year.

There were three of us at Dad’s birthday: Dad, me and a homeless man I had brought along to liven things up. Dad had alienated my mother and four sisters in various ways, for example, although he was wealthy, he wouldn’t pay college tuition for my sisters because they were “girls.” He did so many bad things to my mother, I can’t recount them all, but one of the worst was making her eat until she was a bloated blimp and then relentlessly making fun of her. There was no way my mother and sisters would come to his birthday celebration, or to anything that had anything to do with him. I stuck it out because I hoped to inherit his wealth.

I lit the candles on the cake. We sang a bad rendition of Happy Birthday. Then, we ate slices of cake.

The homeless man cried a shook his cup. Dad told him to go get hit by a car. He cried harder and ran out the front door. We heard car brakes screech but we didn’t care. That’s when I gave dad the joke gift. It was a loaded Glock with a hair trigger and an instruction manual listing where best to shoot yourself if you wanted to commit suicide. He thought it was great! Dad took the gun and pointed it at his forehead and said he didn’t need any “goddamn” instruction manual. Then, the gun went off and he blew his brains out.

I called Mom and told her “The old bird has landed.”

Definitions 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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Onedismus

Posted on June 9, 2025 | Leave a comment

Onedismus (on-e-dis’-mus): Reproaching someone for being impious or ungrateful.

I rode his staff. I gave him a bath. I dried him off. I dressed him. I tied his shoes. I combed his hair. I shaved him. I splashed on his aftershave. I made him breakfast. I drove him to work at Fungu’s Corporate Law. He could’ve done it all himself, but he expected me to.

After I drove him to work, I went home and cleaned the house, and then, went grocery shopping for his favorite foods: Porterhouse Steak, Cod, lamb chops, potatoes, smoked oysters, hot dogs, salmon, and Chips Ahoy.

The more I thought about it, the angrier I got. Our marriage was a one way street headed in his direction. He was a selfish, ungrateful bastard. In four years of marriage there had been no thank-you for all I do. I decided then and there to have an affair with a man who cared and wanted to treat me right. So, I signed up for a dating site called “Ding Dong Dell.”

I logged in. I couldn’t believe it. There was my husband holding his sizable rod. The picture was captioned “Let’s do the Pokey Pokey.” It had his demographic information plus his status. It was Platinum ++++, a far cry from my experience which was more like Lead+. It said he liked sailing and there was a photo of a sailboat I didn’t know we had.

Now, I was more determined than ever to strike up a meaningless relationship with a good-looking humping machine. I would show that bastard husband! I found my humper after a whole day of searching. His name was Buck Fever, obviously a fake name, but I didn’t care. he had a perfect body, long black hair, blue eyes, and a promising bulge.

Our first date was at “Roadside Rendezvous” where all the local cheaters went to do the mattress tango. I wore a mask so nobody would recognize me. It was a perfect likeness of Taylor Swift. Buck texted me when he was checked in and I headed for our room: Room 9. I knocked on the door. It was unlocked, so I went in. He was lying on the bed naked. He was wearing a sock puppet on his hefty hard-on. He said “Come and play with Mr. Clowns” in a high-pitched puppet voice. I sat down by him and started pulling the puppet off. In the same high-pitched voice he said “Oooh!” Then, in the same high-pitched voice he sad “I’m so glad we could meet here today.” That’s when I found out he had a vocal cord injury as a child which made him into a permanent falsetto.

He and he mother were shopping at a Christmas door-buster at Kohl’s. The PA system announced there were blenders for sale in Appliances for 90% off. His mom took off running, knocked him down and rode over his throat with her loaded shopping cart. She kept on going and left him sitting on the floor, crying, with a crushed larynx. A security guard found hm and took him to customer service where his mother found hm two hours later.

He told me he was sorry as I ran out the door. I sat there in my car trying to decide what to do next. I drove home and logged onto Ding Dong Dell. I spent the rest of the day looking for something promising. But, after Sock Puppet Man, I had lost interest in the whole cheating thing. Instead, I decided to confront my husband. Maybe he would take me for a sailboat ride.

Definitions 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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Onomatopoeia

Posted on June 8, 2025 | Leave a comment

Onomatopoeia (on-o-mat-o-pee’-a): Using or inventing a word whose sound imitates that which it names (the union of phonetics and semantics).

Boom, boom, boom. My heart went boom, boom, boom when I snorted the cocaine. Then I fell to the floor and started to twitch. Even though I was probably dying, and was worried about where I was going next, I felt great. The party kept going on around me. My buddies Nick and Jim dragged me out into the back yard and dumped me in a lounge chair by the pool. I couldn’t talk so I couldn’t ask them if they’d called 911. As I lay there twitching, I imaged I was making disco moves to the Bee Gee’s “Stayin’ Alive.” I wanted to be stayin’ alive, but I wasn’t optimistic. I had had rheumatic fever when I a kid, and my heart going boom, boom, boom was a bad sign. My pediatrician had told my mom if my heard went boom, boom, boom to start shopping for a headstone. My mother was not good at handling bad news, so she just ignored it. It wasn’t until my 21st birthday that she told me I had a bad heart because I was “old enough” to know.

So now, here I was in a lounge chair by a pool dying. All of a sudden Nick’s wife popped into the picture, standing with her legs apart at the end of the lounger. She said, “I always wanted to lie on a dying man, but you can’t always get what you want. I’ve never given up, and here I am.” She climbed on top of me. Her perfume smelled sweet. She kissed me and my heart went boom, boom, boom.

I woke up in a hospital bed. I had stayed alive. I gave up my “disco ways” and went to divinity school. Now, I’m a Minister at Boonton First Presbyterian Church. I still snort a tiny spoon load of cocaine as a prelude to my sermons. It makes me look more engaged and doesn’t hurt anything—I’m riding the glory train high on cocaine, taking my congregation higher, up that stairway to heaven.

POSTSCRIPT

Dr. Pendergast died of a heart attack mid-sermon one Sunday morning. His last words were “Boom, boom, boom” as he talked about Paul’s stroke on the road to Damascus.

Definitions 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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Optatio

Posted on June 7, 2025 | Leave a comment

Optatio (op-ta’-ti-o): Expressing a wish, often ardently.

“When I wish upon a star, I want a Cadillac car.” Then, I wished upon a star. It was outside my bedroom window waiting to honor my wish. I was specific—color red and four-door sedan.

I had been making this wish ever since I gave up on small time crap a couple of months ago. I was 15 and I was going to hit the jackpot.

My wish manual, “Keep Wishing” said in its first prnciple: “Keep Wishing” followed by “Always Use the Same Words.” My Wish Coach, Mago Flaptwiller (the author), had had 17,000 wishes fulfilled when he wrote the book. He probably has 50,000 by now!

I had had a few wishes come true. Once, I wished for pancakes for breakfast and Mom delivered! Another time I wished the smog would blow away so I could go outside and play—it went away and I played tether ball for about twenty minutes and then it came back again. Then there was the time I wished for a letter in the mail, just so I could say that I got a letter. The very next day I got a letter. It was addressed to “Occupant.” Mom told me I was an occupant, so it was addressed to me. I opened it and it offered me an acre of land in the “healthful desert” with many recreational opportunities. They wanted $50.00 for it, but I couldn’t afford it. Mom called it a scam.

So, I got tired of the penny ante wishes and decided to go big time with the red, four-door Cadillac, Something every 15 year-old boy wanted. It was risky. I still hadn’t figured out where I would park it or how I would pay for gas and insurance. To soften the blow when it arrived, I told my father what I was up to. He laughed and asked me if I had been smoking “whacky tabacky.” He never took me seriously. I told Mom and she asked me where I was going to park it. I told her I had thought about it, maybe the mall parking lot.

Two days later, I was walking along a back country road, on my way to go fishing at Peterson’s Pond. A red Cadillac came roaring around a bend in the road up ahead. It was my wish car! It came straight at me and slammed on its brakes stopping about a foot in front of me. A man dressed as a movie theatre usher jumped out and yelled “Sometimes you get what you want, but most of time you don’t!”

I was gleeful and puzzled. I jumped into the Cadillac and made the electric windows go up and down a few times. Then, the car slowly became transparent and disappeared, leaving me sitting on the pavement.

The man who had been driving it said, “You didn’t tell us how long you wanted it for,” He disappeared in a puff of red smoke. I started crying and then noticed a toy red Cadillac by the side of the road. It had a note attached that said “This is better than nothing.”

Definitions 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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Orcos

Posted on June 6, 2025 | Leave a comment

Orcos (or’-kos): Swearing that a statement is true.

I swear on my grandmother’s grave, and swear to God I’m telling the truth! What do I have to gain by lying? I don’t even like money. Who would? Selfish, greedy, losers that’s who. I may be a loser, but I’m not selfish or greedy. I know you believe me and this is some kind of joke. Ha ha, come on, let me go. these bungee chords hurt.

Ok. I told you fifty times the money bag disappeared. I left my seat at Subway to order my tuna with onions and cheese on Italian bread. I looked back and it was there. I made my order and turned around and it was gone. I could see where it was dragged out the door. $2,000,000 is pretty heavy, so it left a trail. The trail was red, the color of the bag.

When I got outside, I saw a little man tressed like a garden gnome drag it around the corner, I ran around the corner just in time to see him load it in a small yellow helicopter with a picture of Mr. Haney from “Green Acres” on the door. As the gnome flew over my head, he swooped down and knocked me to the pavement. I got a concussion and spent a week in the hospital recovering from my head injury.

POSTSCRIPT

The McCracken gang was having none of it. Mouse had always been iffy on the trustworthy scale. He stole donuts from his fellow employees at the morning coffee break. He had made numerous passes at the boss’s wife and kept dropping a pencil in front of her desk and getting down on his hands and knees and looking for it for too long.

The McCracken’s planned Mouse’s demise carefully. They got him drunk and pushed him off a cliff.

Definitions 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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Oxymoron

Posted on June 5, 2025 | Leave a comment

Oxymoron (ox-y-mo’-ron): Placing two ordinarily opposing terms adjacent to one another. A compressed paradox.

My “Cold Hots” were a total failure. I envisioned them when I was little, growing up in Foster’s Creek, New Jersey which had a Foster Freeze factory that employed the whole town, including my dad. He’d come home smelling like ice cream with a bucket of vanilla ice cream on his arm. It was his daily ration—a token of goodwill from Foster’s. After 20 years of faithful service employees were granted one bucket per day. Dad had just achieved the twenty year mark and we were reveling in the ice cream. Some days we’d have ice cream for dinner. Mom would make it into soup—boiling in carrots, potatoes, and on special occasions, raccoon or rabbit Dad picked up off the side of the road on his weekly “hunting trips” on Rte. 10. They were always fresh and delicious. Dad would say “The nose knows” and laugh so hard snot would come out his nose. Then, we’d all laugh, for like ten minutes, until we couldn’t breathe! Sometimes we had to give Dad CPR to get hm up and running again. Mom always took charge of that. She had taken first aid at Farley Gibbins Middle School as part of her adult improvement regime. Her wood-shop skills came in handy when the front porch collapsed due to a carpenter ant infestation. She exterminated the ants with a bunch of spray cans of ant killer—it gave my little brother Jolly a rash that comes and goes, and a crooked leg, As mom said “It goes with the turf.” She rebuilt the parch out of used pallet boards—sturdy oak that will last forever. There were some stray gaps between the boards. You just had to watch out, or you’d fall through. Our mailman got his foot stuck. Now we are required to put a mail box at the end of the sidewalk. Mom says, “No big deal, he’s a wimp.” I agree—a disgrace to the uniform.

I am working on a new candy called “Chewy Rocks.” It is gooey chrunchtastic—like broken glass mixed with honey. I drool every time I think of it. The “rock” will be candy rocks. They will look like granite pebbles. They will be injected with fruit flavored chewing gum. The box will have a picture of my brother Jolly with his crutch on the cover wearing a toga and sunglasses with his fist raised, signifying how “Chewy Rocks” make him optimistic about his “hopeless future.” He is endlessly bitter about the “accident” and threatens to kill Mom at least twice a week. Mom says he’s been threatening since he was eight “and it’s not going to happen now. He’s a wimp.”

So, some little candy sho up in Maine is suing me for infringing on their patent for “Stone Candy.” So, I backed off of ”Chewy Rocks.” But don’t worry. I’ve got another idea: “Weightless Gravity: The Flying Beer.” It comes in an airplane–shaped can with the pilot waving out the window. When you empty it, you can throw it and it glides.

Definitions 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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Paenismus

Posted on June 3, 2025 | Leave a comment

Paenismus (pai-nis’-mus): Expressing joy for blessings obtained or an evil avoided.

My car rolled over four times and caught on fire at the bottom of a ravine on Rte. 80 outside of Elko on my way to Salt Late City. I was going 109 mph—sunny day, dry pavement, unlimited visibility. I was haulin’ ass.

I worked for Morton Salt as a good-will ambassador, mainly at shopping malls in Nevada where I hand out salt shaker key rings and packets of salt. I also give away T-shirts imprinted with the Morton Salt logo. I had a company car, It was a two seater modeled like a salt shaker. It is built on a Corvette frame, with a Corvette engine.

I’d made the Salt Lake City run a hundred times without incident. Now my company car was a smoking twisted wreck and I was in the hospital. The Doctor laughed when he told me my whole body was broken. Although he was kidding, he was close.

I was lucky and grateful to be alive. I should’ve been dead and mangled like my car—looking like just another piece of roadkill stretched out on the road shoulder. But I wasn’t. I was in a hospital bed wearing a plaster sheath. My mouth and eyes and one hand showed and there were tubes inserted up my ass and penis. If I needed a nurse I was supposed to yell “Help!”

Some high school girl read to me. She was a volunteer and she told me all about how she was going to make the world “a better place for you and me.” She read Nancy Drew mysteries to me. They made me sick so I had her removed. She was replaced my a recovering alcoholic named Bitsy who told me stories about her fall from grace and lewd behavior when she was drunk. I loved it. Her stories lifted my spirits. My appetite improved and I wanted to go back to my former life. Bitsy understood and invited me to live with her. Then, unsuprisingly, I was told I was fired from Morton Salt.

I was devastated. I cried and cried. Then Bitsy recommended that I start my own salt company. I got a loan from my father and did it as soon as I was well. We named it “A Salt Gourmet Salt Company.” We leased a half-mile of the Great Salt Lake shore line and went into production.

I married Bitsy. She drowned in the tub one night when she was drunk. I inherited her considerable fortune and stopped making salt.

Definitions 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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Palilogia

Posted on June 2, 2025 | Leave a comment

Palilogia: Repetition of the same word, with none between, for vehemence. Synonym for epizeuxis.

Proof, proof, proof! I thought I had finally found the proof I needed to have my father arrested. I was 11 years old and hell bent on seeing him put away. Ever since first grade, I’ve been looking for something to pin on him. He had done so many bad things, but up until now I didn’t have the proof I needed to have him arrested, tried, convicted, and imprisoned for a good long time.

Ironically, I had gotten a Junior detective kit for Christmas. It consisted of a hat like Sherlock Holmes’ hat, a big magnifying glass, and a plaid cape. It also included a plastic pipe that was “suitable for children.” I had been using the kit relentlessly since Christmas to nail my father. I knew he was guilty of something. He had a sinister laugh and a furtive look that was clearly the gaze of a secret wrongdoer. One thing he would do was take our dog Carmen for late night walks. He would be gone for an hour and would look tired like he’d been up to something when he got back. I wasn’t allowed out late at night or I would’ve shadowed him and taken pictures of his criminal activities with my cellphone and messaged them to the police.

One time he came home with a book he said he found by somebody’s garbage can. It was titled “The Munsters Go To Mexico.” I clearly saw the international twist and expected that he would be leaving home, and traveling with the Munsters to Mexico City. But he didn’t leave. He stayed at home, which was probably part of his cover—I was beginning to think he was a Mexican spy. He had a real fondness for burritos and tacos—demonstrating a strong link to Mexican culture, and consequently, working for the Mexican government. He would be an agent for Centro Nacional de Inteligencia (CNI)—the Mexican CIA. Wikipedia told me all I needed to know about the possibility.

I decided to climb out my bedroom window and follow my father on his nightly walk where he would gather information to share with his minder, most likely, at the bus station or Buck’s Bar and Grill—a notoriously unpatriotic establishment that served beer and wine from other countries, and hard liquor from foreign countries too. Also, their most popular drinks were from other countries, like martinis. My Uncle Flip shared this information with me, helping me out.

I stayed well behind my father so he wouldn’t see me. But he did. He ran back, grabbed me by the throat and pinned me to the wall with one hand. In his other hand he was clutching a burrito. He yelled: “See this bean burrito? It is soaked with cyanide and I’m going to stuff it down your ungrateful throat! You have blown my cover all to hell! I have no choice but to eliminate you. Your mother will throw a fit. She thinks I’m an asshole already anyway.”

I peed my pants and started begging. I reminded Dad what a good team we made at Cornhole and how I helped him around the yard. He lowered the burrito. “Why didn’t I think of that? We can both become traitors and work for the aMexican government. You’ll have the learn Spanish and where to fatally stab people on the first thrust. As soon as I know what our first mission is, I’ll let you know. I think it’s going to be sabotage—putting jalapeño peppers in the Portland, ME water supply.

As soon as I got home, I called the FBI.

Definitions 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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Parabola

Posted on June 1, 2025 | Leave a comment

Parabola (par-ab’-o-la): The explicit drawing of a parallel between two essentially dissimilar things, especially with a moral or didactic purpose. A parable.

Life and death. The distance of the bridge between the two is unknowable. We don’t think about it, not because we choose not to, but because we just don’t. For no reason. It’s just an absence in our approach to life and death. We don’t think about not thinking about it either. But, as we go through life, inexorably moving toward death, we are confronted with other peoples’ deaths.

I was in a war. My brother-in-law was killed in that war. The family requested that I escort his body home. Seeing the way his death affected his family and friends put a darkness on my soul that comes to life randomly, at night, for no reason. I can’t make it go away. I usually have to wait until dawn when it dissipates in the early morning light. It gets off my mind and I return to “normal,” looking out my window across my lawn and across the street. I am whole again and the night’s memory is absorbed by the chirping birds, lawnmowers starting, and a motorcycle roaring past my house.

The anxiety, the sorrow, and the confusion are gone, without being resolved or understood. My mind is free. My thoughts wander. The 60 or so years that have passed since the military funeral have seemingly passed without being in time, without being at all. There’s nothing there, but I don’t experience it that way crossing the bridge between life and death. I am 20 and I am 78 all-at-once like a broken abacus or the wrong number of candles on a birthday cake—wrong for a reason that I am aware of but I can’t comprehend.

Night is falling again. I feel the darkness penetrating my soul like a knife made out of coal—digging, twisting, hurting, vexing. It prompts the nightly narrative in side my head—step-by-step from Viet Nam to Dover, Delaware; to Washington, D.C.; to Arlington Cemetery, and back to Viet Nam. Making mistakes. Ill-equipped. In shock. Feeling like a coward.

I will never escape the hold of these memories. I just have accepted that they come and go. When they’re gone, life is sweet. I have a wonderful wife and daughter and stay busy. But, when the darkness sets in for the night, all the love disappears. I feel lost and lonely and unloved. Hell overtakes me and there’s nothing I can do but wait. It breaks my heart, but not my resolve to wait.

Definitions 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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Paragoge

Posted on May 31, 2025 | Leave a comment

Paragoge (par-a-go’-ge): The addition of a letter or syllable to the end of a word. A kind of metaplasm.

“Sardinarenos“ had just come on the market. They were chocolate-dipped and smoked and came in a clear plastic wrapper. Their mascot was “Captain Goof.” Even though sardines were netted, Captain Goof had a fishing pole sticking out of each ear like antennae with mackerel jigs dangling from them. He wore an old fashioned kapok life preserver, yellow rubber bib overhauls and rubber motorcycle boots. He wore a hat that said “Make Sardines Great Again.”

Captain Goof was an icon. With the exception of the ear-mounted fishing poles. Instead, his fans wear chopsticks in theirs ears. It’s amazing to see them out in public. When they cross paths they say “blub blub” believing that’s how fish greet each other.

Captain Goof’s fan base prides itself as being the most misinformed group of people on earth. They actually believe that sardines have gold in their fins and eating them will lead to the absorption of the gold into their bodies and make them into a windfall to be inherited by their families or friends when they die. This provides an incentive for eating more sardines than so-called “normal” people do. The average Captain Goof fan eats 950 packs of sardinarenos per year.

Cats follow them around. They are like walking, talking cans of “Fancy Feast.” Some of them make money on the side from catching cats from their entourage and selling them to medical labs. This is despicable and is roundly condemned by Captain Goof. He ends all his ads with “Don’t sell the cats!” Even though he has a powerful hold over his fans, he can’t deter the naughty ones from catching and selling their cat followers. The latest gambit is to offer a cash reward for information leading to the apprehension of cat sellers. The reward is $10.00, so most people think it is just some kind of PR gesture. After many complaints they raised it to $15.00, which caused international protests. There were candlelight vigils in the world’s national capitols. In Tokyo, they held a cat petting marathon where 400,000 cats participated. In Germany, they held a national cat parade with martial music and fireworks. It was almost impossible to parade the cats, but with Bavarian cat herders from the Max Mouser Institute it was mostly a success. Then, there were 100s of cats who swam across the Seine at its widest point. A strong show of solidarity from a group of animals with an aversion to water.

It all came to a head when the world’s cat models went on strike, refusing to advertise seafood in any form. Ironically, Captain Goof didn’t have an image of a cat on his sardines. That made him even more liable for censure, even though his sardines were for human consumption.

Finally, the walls came tumbling down and Captain Goof raised the reward to $1,000.00. This put an end to all the trouble. Captain Goof was a hero and life went back to “normal.” Millions of sardines were netted and prepared in accordance with the sardinereno recipe.

Definitions 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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Paralipsis

Posted on May 30, 2025 | Leave a comment

Paralipsis (par-a-lip’-sis): Stating and drawing attention to something in the very act of pretending to pass it over (see also cataphasis). A kind of irony.

“I didn’t see you give Dad the finger.” I was talking to my sister Genevieve. She was the rudest low budget person I knew. She stole. She lied. She bullied. She treated our poor old dad like crap and thought it was funny. She got sent home from school nearly every day under threat of being expelled. Her latest gambit was to replace Ms. Tompkins’ lunch with a dirty socks and cheese sandwich on white bread with mustard. Ms. Tompkins nearly choked to death on one of the socks. Given the ethos of our school, Genevieve was lauded by her fellow students and treated like a celebrity for at least a week. The adulation inspired her next misdeed. She slathered the instructor’s steering wheel in the driver’s education car with Super Glue. Mr. Komisky’s hands were glued to steering wheel. The steering wheel had to be removed from the car with Mr. Komisky glued to it. The whole school turned out to see him led to the ambulance. They stood there and chanted “big wheel” as he was driven away to the hospital.

After the steering wheel incident, Genevieve ran for class president. Given her celebrity status, she won by a landslide. Her slogan was “Fu*k the other candidates.” The administration disapproved, but what could they do when Genevieve cited her First Amendment Rights?

Recently, she turned 18 and ran for Mayor. Her slogan was “Shove it up your ass!” It was addressed to the opposition—a family that had been controlling Corn City since colonial times. The Corns wanted her dead. They couldn’t imagine giving up Corn City to a teen age prankster who was famous for screwing people over with dirty tricks. They were jealous—her dirty tricks were far superior to hers.

I was her campaign manager. The first thing I did was burn the Corn’s mansion down. It was an exceedingly popular move that probably won us the election. The Corns tried to do Genevieve in, but nothing worked. She wore a Kevlar vest and an Army helmet throughout the campaign. She “survived” six shootings, two hit and runs, and twelve poisoning attempts. It was a miracle she survived. But, the voters didn’t know that the attempted murders were staged. The Corns’ single actual attempt failed when the bomb blew up when it was being assembled in what was left of their burned out basement after the fire. It blew off Cosmo Corn’s hand and blinded him in one eye.

Genevieve won the election by a wide margin. She made me Chief of Police. So, when I see her giving Dad the finger I tell her she’s under arrest and we both laugh. I’m getting a new police car next week. It’s a black Maserati with a picture of a blown-off fist on either door. It is a reminder to the Corns that I stand for law and order.

Definitions 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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