Tag Archives: elocutio

Paromoiosis

Posted on May 23, 2025 | Leave a comment

Paromoiosis (par-o-moy-o’-sis): Parallelism of sound between the words of adjacent clauses whose lengths are equal or approximate to one another. The combination of isocolon and assonance.

I was hungry. Life was crappy. This was too much to bear. I was torn like a paper towel. Some gears had come loose. They were rattling in my head—off their pins and shafts, scratching inside my skull like hamsters stuck behind a wall.

Suddenly the mayhem stopped. Everything quieted down. There was a little blood dripping from my nose, but that was normal. I got dressed and went out in public. I went to the park. It was filled with people eating sandwiches and throwing different-colored frisbees. One man had a rifle and he was shooting swans. Nobody paid any attention. They just wanted to eat their sandwiches and throw their frisbees. After the man shot all the swans he shoved his rifle in his scabbard and rode away on his very nice red electric bike. It was picturesque. It probably didn’t happen.

I didn’t have a sandwich or a frisbee, so I left the park and went to the restaurant named “Exotica” across the street where I could buy my lunch. “Exotica” specialized in meat dishes made from exotic animals, mostly in the form of meatball sandwiches with cheese on top. The other way they prepare the “exotica” is chicken-fried—batter dipped and crispy. I ordered a wolverine meatball special and a glass of tap water. I also got a basket of fried woods voles on the side. It was a lot of food, but I was hungry. I ate my lunch quickly and hurried back home to watch “Mint Man” on TV.

It was a great show. Mint Man was a serial killer who made friends with his victims and would date them. Eventually, he would kill them. When he was ready to kill them he would eat a Tic-Tac breath mint—chewing it until it was gone. Then, he’d put a plastic bag over his victim’s head and suffocate her. When he was done, he’d eat another Tic-Tac and go home to his unsuspecting wife and two children. The next day he would go back to work at the sawmill like nothing happened, working his peavey hook on the logs and looking forward to his next murder of some innocent woman who he had developed a relationship with—cheating on his wonderful loving wife, feeling no guilt.

My head was starting to hurt again and my gears were coming loose again. My poor wife and kids. I leaned my peavey in a corner and ate a Tic-Tac. I was coming apart. Worlds were starting to collide. I grabbed three plastic bags from my jacket pocket and headed for the kitchen.

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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Paromologia

Posted on May 22, 2025 | Leave a comment

Paromologia (par-o-mo-lo’-gi-a): Conceding an argument, either jestingly and contemptuously, or to prove a more important point. A synonym for concessio.

Her: Oh. the hell with it. You’re right. I’m wrong. Same old song. “Oh, say can you see by the dawn’s early light—you’re always right.” What’s it like being right all the time? I guess I’ll never know. After two years of this crap, I’m heading out. I don’t know what else to do. Maybe if I was allowed to be right just once when have a disagreement, I might stay

He: You’re not always wrong, that’s wrong! What about last week when I capitulated?

Her: You didn’t tell me I was right. You just said “I give up” and left. I don’t call “giving up” like that capitulating. It’s more like writing off a point of view as if it wasn’t worth advocating.

I’m going to Maine to live with my brother. I’ve always liked it there . I spent my summers up there until I graduated from college. I love collecting beach glass.

He: What a waste time, breaking your back collecting broken pieces of glass and keeping them hidden away in a sandwhich bag somewhere. Why not just collect sheets of toilet paper off a public restroom floor? You have no sense of class—you were born to money but you live like a bag lady. What the hell is wrong with you?

She: You’re what’s wrong with me. I never should’ve gotten tangled up with you. You did a pretty good job of being nice when we first met—you even helped me with my coat. At first, I thought you were being patronizing, treating me like a “woman.” Then, I bought it, and it stopped, and that was around when you quit with the coat and stopped with the dinners out. Sadly, this signified that you ”had me” and you could drop the facade, and treat me like I was yours—I cooked, I did the laundry. I cleaned the house. Washed the car. Mowed the lawn. Did the grocery shopping. Drove your mother to her endless doctor’s appointment. What a bunch of bullshit—you lived the good life while I became a college-educated charwoman. So, fu*k you, you self-absorbed little prick.

He: I’m not going to argue with you. I just have to say, my mother will miss you. Goodbye.

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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Paronomasia

Posted on May 21, 2025 | Leave a comment

Paronomasia (pa-ro-no-ma’-si-a): Using words that sound alike but that differ in meaning (punning).

“I took a shot, but I missed and it ran down my chin.” This is one of those once in a life time puns that come to you like a lightning strike—BLAM! Everybody laughs so hard they cry, they pee their pants, they faint, they tear their hair out. The women regret being married because you’re single and you’re probably the funniest person on planet earth

Ever since you made your first pun there’s been a small herd of women who chase you from place to place like you’re a wild buffalo or some kind of feral cat.

You’re in. You’re on top. You’re “A” number one and the celebrity parking spot at “Boinky’s Restaurant” is all yours. You go where the wild goose goes. You know the way to Jose. Your life is littered with hope. You can do no wrong. It’s all good!

This is how it seems— to the outside world—the world outside my head—the laughter, the giggles, the hardy-har-hars, the guffaws. the snickers, the hoo-hahs. But I’m lost in a sinkhole the size of Nebraska, spread out around me as far as I can see. My big confession: some 12 year old kid from Queens writes my puns.

The kid’s a genius. He speaks in puns, he sings in puns, and someday I’m gonna get caught and smeared all over the place, like a bribe-prone politician or a fat bug on the floor. I’m just waiting for the day when my fans push me into a landfill and say “Goodbye fu*ker.” But, until then, I’ll keep faking it. Like this: “She had a hump on her back, and then her husband went to work.”

I should have known better when I became a punster. I stole my first ten puns and enjoyed the adulation so much that I hired the boy. I’ve made him rich. All he has to do is rattle off puns with his god-given gift. I have started to look for a replacement for him though—a woman my age or younger that will marry me—preferably an idiot savant punster. I started looking around the state’s mental institutions for my match.

I found my match at “St. Norbert’s Rest.” Her name is Zinnia and she is a lightening punster—80 per minute, 24/7. There are technicalities in my state that allow sane people to marry insane people. It takes a burden off the state and gives insane people a chance. Zinnia and I went through a relationship seminar called “Apples and Oranges.” Then, we got married at St. Norbert’s with all the trimmings, even rice-throwing.

We now live in a one-bedroom ranch house by the railroad tracks. We painted it baby-blue. I have set Zinnia up in a big cushy BarcaLounger. She wears a headset and records her puns 24/7 on her laptop, except when she’s eating, sleeping, or bathing. It is paradise. The little weasel who used to write my puns was taken out by a hit and run driver when he was walking to school. Now, nobody will ever know he wrote for me. It happened right after I got married.

“She put a bow on her head and shot a bullseye.”

This is where Zinnia is taking me. I’m king. There’s no turning back.

“The man had a mole on his face. It dug a hole through his forehead.”

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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Parrhesia

Posted on May 20, 2025 | Leave a comment

Parrhesia (par-rez’-i-a): Either to speak candidly or to ask forgiveness for so speaking. Sometimes considered a vice.

I’m sorry, but you smell like a circus animal. Maybe a monkey who needs a bath. Can’t you do something about it like take a shower or a bath? Tricia told me, due to an embarrassing family incident, she is half monkey and her smell is natural. She was a little hairy, had huge brown eyes and wore a dress and sneakers all time. She loved banana smoothies and made a cute little chirping sound whenever I kissed her or patted her butt.

Her father had accidentally had sex with his pet spider monkey when they lived in Africa—in Botswana. He came home from a wild night at the playing darts and drinking warm lager. He was drunk and called for mom for a tumble on the mattress with him. She was down in the basement labeling preserves for Christmas gifts. However, Lola (the monkey) heard him and made the very seductive sound that female monkeys make when they want to mate. In his drunken state he thought it was his wife. It was dark in the room and he jumped on Lola. His wife came in the room and climbed in bed after they were asleep. Lola was between them like usual and nobody was the wiser. However, Lola got pregnant and everybody thought we were going to have a cute little baby monkey around the house.

She didn’t have a monkey.

Tricia was born, the child of Tricia’s father and Lola the monkey. When she was a baby Lola took good care of care of Tricia. But, as Tricia grew to human size, Lola rejected her and got violent and had to be caged and eventually put in a zoo.

Tricia is the only monkey cross-breed in the world and I love her. Sometimes I will peel a banana for her and she’ll give me a hug and a kiss and squeeze my crotch and lick her lips and make her little chirping sound. Sometimes, she’ll stick her tongue in my ear. When she’s really excited she goes “Uh-huh, Uh-huh, Uh-huh” over and over again. That makes me wild!

Since Lola got put in the zoo, Tricia is lonely. Her father comes by once a week, but Tricia just yells at him. Someday things will settle down. When Tricia and I settle down and get married and have a child, everything’s going to be alright.

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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Pathopoeia

Posted on May 19, 2025 | Leave a comment

Pathopoeia ( path-o-poy’-a): A general term for speech that moves hearers emotionally, especially as the speaker attempts to elicit an emotional response by way of demonstrating his/her own feelings (exuscitatio). Melanchthon explains that this effect is achieved by making reference to any of a variety of pathetic circumstances: the time, one’s gender, age, location, etc.

My dog was dead. My wife was dead. They were run over by a train while they were walking on the tracks. My sadness was gigantic like a monument to my grief. They were my two best friends, in addition to my spaced-out friend Mack who was still alive.

No more decent meals. No more making the bed squeak. No more roll over and fetch. No more swimming in the pond. No more watching TV. No more wearing her bathrobe on Sundays and playing corn hole in the driveway.

It was over. It was all over, like the end of a game of checkers, or the end of a rope. I was crying. I was blowing my nose. I was punching the wall. I was heartbroken, bereft, lonely, and lost.

What would I do now? I had to have a woman in my life. I couldn’t live without female companionship. I was 35 and I still had a long way to go. There was a widow, Mrs. Angle, who lived down the street. She was 72, but she was convenient. Three houses down! She had beautiful blue hair that matched her eyes. She had a small hump on her back that was hardly noticeable. She had all of her teeth and had a beautiful smile. I was going to give it a shot.

I put on my black muscle man t-shirt showing off the tattoo of a coiled snake on my left arm that said “Don’t Thread on Me.” It was supposed to say “Don’t Tread on Me,” but the tattoo guy had screwed up. I put on my khaki cargo shorts. Finally, I put on my Birkenstocks. I trimmed my beard and sprayed on two squirts of my “Time Passages Cologne” that my dead wife had given to me for Christmas.

I headed down the street to Mrs. Angle’s. It took me five minutes to get there. I rang the doorbell. The door opened and there was a beautiful young woman standing there! Mrs. Angle introduced me to her granddaughter. She was 25 and had come to live with her. Her parents had recently died in a car crash—going over a cliff and burning to death. She still hadn’t recovered from the tragedy. In a way we were in the same boat.

Mrs. Angle asked me what I wanted. I asked if I could borrow a mixing spoon. I told her I was making pancakes and freezing them. She looked at me funny, but she loaned me the spoon. I asked her granddaughter if she wanted to help me. Her name was Tammy, and she said she’d help me.

When we got to my house, I told her I changed my mind about the pancakes. We watched an old film noir classic “Double Indemnity” about murdering a person for an insurance payout. Tammy snuggled up by me and put her head on my shoulder. My grief melted away. The movie gave us a great idea.

Mrs. Angle had a $100,000 accidental death insurance policy. Tammy was the sole beneficiary. We decided to push Mrs. Angle out of the upstairs bathroom window. Mrs. Angle was bending over looking at her bird feeder out the open bathroom window. Tammy walked up behind and lifted up her legs and shoved her out window. She went straight down and landed on her head, breaking her neck and dying.

We were rich!

Tammy moved in and we got married. Tammy’s pregnant. We never made the pancakes.

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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Perclusio

Posted on May 18, 2025 | Leave a comment

Perclusio (per-clu’-si-o): A threat against someone, or something.

“Cut across my lawn again and I’ll incinerate you with my laser ray gun. All that will be left of you is your belt buckle, unless it’s made of brass. Otherwise, you’ll be a pile of smoking ash.” I was yelling at my neighbor’s teenage son who led a gang called the “Whacko Bananas.” There were five of them and they terrorized the neighborhood. For example, recently they had started spitting their chewed bubblegum on my sidewalk. It would stick to the soles of peoples’ shoes as they walked by. They would become enraged, yelling at me and even throwing things at me when I was mowing my lawn.

I had purchased my laser ray gun on the dark web. It had supposedly been retrieved from an alien spacecraft that had crash-landed in Battle Mountain, New Mexico. It was made of what looked like space-crafted cardboard with a long extension chord hanging out the back and what looked like a light bulb mounted in the front. It had a light switch mounted on the bottom. The instructions were not complicated: plug in, aim, switch on, incinerate. One of the instructions really stood out: Use only for killing people within five feet. Any other use will result in the death and dismemberment of the laser ray gun’s operator.

I wasn’t sure if I was ready to kill my neighbor’s kid for cutting across my lawn. But, I could threaten him with the laser ray gun. It was a formidable prop, better even than waving my shotgun, which had failed numerous times. Finally, after threatening the little bastard 50 times, I decided to incinerate him. There would be no corpse. I would rake the ashes around in my yard and retrieve his belt buckle if there was one.

The day came. I plugged in the laser ray gun and sat on my front porch. There he was! He was cutting across my lawn for the hundredth time. I jumped down off the porch and yelled at him: “Come here you little prick.” I needed to get him within five feet. He lunged at me and grabbed the laser ray gun. He looked at it and found the off/on switch, flipped it on, and aimed it in the air. He was instantly dismembered and died screaming on my lawn. His legs had landed in the street. His arms were on my front sidewalk. His head had landed in the gutter. His trunk hadn’t gone anywhere—it just lay there oozing blood. I was sick to my stomach, but was relieved that the little pest was gone. Now, I could live in peace, except for the police interrogations. I told them I was mystified as to how this could happen in my front yard. The laser ray gun had conveniently disintegrated. Without it, nobody had a clue to what had happened. Anyway, I was innocent of murder. The boy’s death was self-inflicted. He failed to follow the instructions.

Now the “Whacko Bananas” stay away from my yard. There is a rumor that I dismembered the boy with my bare hands.

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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Periergia

Posted on May 17, 2025 | Leave a comment

Periergia (pe-ri-er’-gi-a): Overuse of words or figures of speech. As such, it may simply be considered synonymous with macrologia. However, as Puttenham’s term suggests, periergia may differ from simple superfluity in that the language appears over-labored.

I bought another nik-nak. Nik-naks everywhere. A paradise of nik-naks. Nik-nak heaven. I was floating on a cloud of nik-naks, high above the world of everyday people—unwashed, unblessed, the sweat smelling masses blind to the sweet light of nik-naks

I had over 1,000 nik-naks. The walls of my apartment are lined with shelves. The nik-naks were arraigned alphabetically: from “A” for an alligator-head plant stand, to “Z” for a zebra-hoof ashtray. I probably had $60,000 sunk into my collection. I had it appraised and I was told t was worth $700.00. I was devastated. According to the appraiser, some of the items were worth nothing at all, like the partridge in a pear tree made of goldenrod run through a blender. You wouldn’t know it was a partridge in a pear tree unless I told you. The partridge looked like a rabbit poop and the pear tree was a roll of toilet paper with toothpicks sticking out of it. I thought it would be worth a least fifty cents, but the appraiser laughed and said, “If we had half-pennies, you might get something for it.”

That’s when I decided to burn the lot and start out collecting something else. I went from loving my nik-naks to hating them. Their worthlessness turned me against them. I loaded them in the back of my pickup truck and drove them around behind my house. I threw them in a pile on the ground, doused them with gasoline, and made them into a bonfire. They made a beautiful blaze. But then, the guy from the Museum of Folk Art, came yelling into the back yard. I had met him on my frequent trips to the museum to marvel at the artifacts collected in the special Nik-Nak room.

He yelled, “Put out the fire you fool! He was an imposter—he was no appraiser— he is a janitor at the flea market who wanted to humiliate nik-nak collectors who had the sense to assemble cheap oddities into valuable collections. He was jealous and angry and fairly crazy. Your collection was actually worth $1,500,000. Too bad you burned it.”

Hearing that, I jumped into the flames and was severely burned. I’ve recovered and now I do the talk show circuit sharing my experience and how I got burned.

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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Period

Posted on May 16, 2025 | Leave a comment

Period: The periodic sentence, characterized by the suspension of the completion of sense until its end. This has been more possible and favored in Greek and Latin, languages already favoring the end position for the verb, but has been approximated in uninflected languages such as English. [This figure may also engender surprise or suspense–consequences of what Kenneth Burke views as ‘appeals’ of information.

There was time without any sort of link to the vast horizon and the rising moon’s peach-colored glow. I faced the moon—it was in the west, that’s all I knew. It didn’t matter which direction I faced, but at least I knew where the four directions were.

Big fu*king deal.

I was lost. I had been minding my own business driving across the desert when a sand storm kicked up. Like an idiot, with zero visibility, I kep driving. I drove for about an hour. Then, I drove over a cliff. It wasn’t a sheer drop, but it was close enough. It was about 60 feet. My Range Rover hit a boulder and flipped onto its side. I was able to get out of it before it went up in flames and exploded. I was lucky to be alive, but not that lucky. I was lost as hell.

I had been in Vernon, AZ at the trading post looking for a specific ancient Zuni artifact—a small stone carving. It supposedly had properties that would induce healing. My three-year-old daughter had been diagnosed with brain cancer. The stone was a possible help with its curative powers.

A Native American found me in the middle nowhere and we walked to his camp. I told him my story and he told me not to worry. He held up a piece of carved stone. He said: “This is is what you’re looking for” and gave me the piece of carved stone. “Press it to her forehead every day for one hour.”

My daughter was cured. It was miraculous. I went back to Arizona to thank the man who had given me the carved stone. His camp was gone. He was gone. My daughter was alive.

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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Periphrasis

Posted on May 15, 2025 | Leave a comment

Periphrasis (per-if’-ra-sis): The substitution of a descriptive word or phrase for a proper name (a species of circumlocution); or, conversely, the use of a proper name as a shorthand to stand for qualities associated with it. (Circumlocutions are rhetorically useful as euphemisms, as a method of amplification, or to hint at something without stating it.)

How did I become known as “Stampy?” Was it because I liked licking stamps? Stamps didn’t need licking any more. You just pull them off a sheet and stick them on an envelope. How about stamping my foot to display impatience? That’s a good guess, but it’s wrong. The only time I stamped my foot was to kill a bug or to stop a blowing piece of paper. What about clog dancing? Never. No way. I like music, and I might tap my foot, but I would never clog dance, let alone, even dance!

Ok, so why am I called “Stampy”?

I wear a bandoleer of rubber stamps and carry an ink pad in my back pocket. The stamps are preloaded with opinionated statements. When I feel compelled, I rubber stamp the nearest flat surface with a phrase. For example, after finishing a meal I didn’t like at an expensive restaurant, I stamped the table underneath my plate with my “Your food tasted like shit.” I leave no tip and revel in the thought of the busboy picking up the plate and seeing the message.

All my opinionated statements are negative. I believe the negative has a stronger, longer lasting effect than cute little trivialities—quickly forgotten, like a car passing by. However, stamping does have its risks.

I was in a bar. The drinks sucked and they were way too expensive. The two pole dancers moved like they were sleep walking and the volume of the music was way too loud. I pulled out my “This place sucks” stamp and stamped it on the bar. The bartender grabbed me by the wrist and told me menacingly to sit on the bar and cover up the stamp. He told his assistant to go to the supply room and get the “Ink Out” cleaner and bring it back with a rag. They made me clean off the bar. The “Ink Out” worked really well. It took the stamp right off the bar.

It gave me an idea.

I could stamp people’s parked cars and front doors. Then, I’d “notice” them and offer to clean off the stamp’s message. For cars, I used “I’m an asshole” on the driver’s side front fender. For front doors, it would say “Child abuse practiced here.” I would charge $50 to clean the surface. People were very grateful and gladly forked over the $50.

But then, the shit hit the fan. It was a doorbell cam that caught me stamping. When I offered to clean the door, I was recognized as the person who put the stamp there. The police could only prove the one instance, so I was let off with a small fine and one month of community service. I’m still stamping car fenders though—I just don’t offer to clean them any more. The thrill of leaving my mark hasn’t gone away. I’m still “Stampy.” By the way, I’ve gotten a job in City Hall as a bureaucrat. Guess what? I rubber stamp documents all day long. I love the sound of the stamp hitting paper! I am blessed.

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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Personification.

Posted on May 14, 2025 | Leave a comment

Personification: Reference to abstractions or inanimate objects as though they had human qualities or abilities. The English term for prosopopeia (pro-so-po-pe’-i-a) or ethopoeia (e-tho-po’-ia): the description and portrayal of a character (natural propensities, manners and affections, etc.).

The tree was smiling at me. I couldn’t figure out why a tree would smile at me. It was a maple tree in my sugar bush. Every yer I drilled a hole in it and drove in a spline. Its sap would drip into a bucket and I would collect it and boil it into maple syrup—delicious sweet maple syrup.

It was bad enough what I put it through every year, but a smiling tree wasn’t normal under any circumstances. It looked like a cartoon character. By the way, it had a woman’s voice. I asked the tree what her name was. She told me it was Ms. Maple. I thought she was kidding around, punning on Miss Marple, the TV detective. She didn’t like what I said about Ms. Marple. She didn’t think it was funny.

About half way down to the ground she had a woodpecker hole with moss growing out of it. I asked what it was. She said “None of your business human loser. Why don’t you ask me something interesting like how old I am, the changes in the woods over the years, the men and women who’ve loved me over the years. I know you’ll never love me, you just want to suck my sap in February and March, drilling a hole in me and taking my sap. So I asked her how old she is. She told me she is 125, one of the oldest maple trees in New York. She told me that when she was a sapling, the chainsaw was invented and struck horror in all the maples—“We are rooted, we cannot flee. If we get cut down, we get cut down, made into furniture, cutting boards, toys, and more. When we are sawn each piece retains its consciousness of the other parts. It is funny to to see a salad bowl run across a wooden spoon that is him or her and vice versa.”

“The men who have loved me are all poets. Francis Joyce Kilmer was the most passionate. He wrote a poem about me titled “Trees” that won my heart forever. As a healthy maple tree, I outlived him. He died in 1918. I am haunted by my feelings for him. The power of love’s echoes sometimes soothe me, sometimes they plunge me into sorrow, where I almost hope some lumberjack will take me down and make me into veneer for the interior of a luxury sedan.”

Then, she went quiet and didn’t talk any more. I picked up my backpack and ran to the roadside adjacent to the head of the trail at the border of my sugarbush. I didn’t know what to do. I started crying. I sat in my car and cried—cried for Ms. Maple and her life’s trajectory. I vowed I would never drill a hole in her again. Under the circumstances, that was the best I could do. I read Joyce’s “Trees” on the internet that night. Poor Ms. Maple.

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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Polyptoton

Posted on May 13, 2025 | Leave a comment

Polyptoton (po-lyp-to’-ton): Repeating a word, but in a different form. Using a cognate of a given word in close proximity.

My head was filled with unhealthy thoughts. It was time to head to the shrink’s and try to develop a strategy for making the thoughts go away. Doctor Pabst was amazing. She was beautiful. Also, she always gave me “medication” that brought me around. Two weeks ago I was totally nutso. I wanted to shoot my dog. I had become convinced he was making fun of me by sitting up and begging all the time, parodying my taking care of him. It was ghastly the way he wagged his creepy tail in a figure 6-6-6 and made whining sounds like my last girlfriend, Georgia, who had disappeared without a trace 6 months ago. I was briefly a suspect.

Well, Dr. Pabst saw that I was going over the edge and she gave me a pill that put me in a coma for a week. She kept me “stored” on her living room couch. Through the fog I could hear her talking softly in my ear. When I awoke my t-shirt was on inside out and it smelled like Dr, Pabst’s perfume, “Copay.” But, I was healed! The one-week coma had worked miracle—I loved my dog again and loved it when he begged and whined.

So, I told Dr. Pabst that that I was having unhealthy thoughts. She asked me what they were. I felt very uncomfortable telling her that I didn’t want to wipe after pooping any more. I had never been good at wiping, so I thought I should just give up entirely. Part of this came from my growing fear of toilet paper. I was afraid it would get stuck in my anus, dry, and harden into something like a cork that could only be removed with a corkscrew. I was terrified that my bowels would explode from the pressure of not pooping, probably at work, and kill me while making a horrific smelly mess, a mess so bad, that I would be transported to the morgue in a garbage truck.

Dr. Pabst nodded emphatically while I talked. When I got to the exploding bowels part, she said “Holy fu*k! You are as crazy as a bag of squirrels! I’m going to drill a teeny hole in your forehead. I will drill to your sanity center, and you’ll be fine. Don’t worry, I learned this technique in medical school in Belarus where we had plenty of “patients” to practice on, and the and the Belarusian version of the Hippocratic Oath permitted doing harm as long as your team leader told you to do so. So, take this pill and lay on the floor.

I took the pill and went into a coma for a month. When I awoke I had small hole in my forehead. It was plugged by a post erring with a peace sign mounted on it. Dr. Pabst told me not to pull it out or push on it or I would have a potentially fatal seizure. She kissed me on the forehead (on the peace sign) and asked how I was doing “baby.” That got my attention.

I told her I was fine—no more toilet paper horrors. She said that was good, and now we could finish what we had started. I asked what that was. She laughed and asked, as she pushed on the peace sign, which was some kind of off on switch, “Are you turned on?” I didn’t know what I was! I stood up and tried to talk but all I could do was emit steam and reach for the sky with both arms. When I raised my arms my pants fell down revealing skid marks on my underpants that could’ve been made by a tractor trailer truck, or race car tires.

She handed me a pill and told me to lay on the floor and take it. I followed her instructions. I must’ve been in a coma for a year. When I awoke Dr. Pabst had a baby. We had gotten married while I was in a coma—she told me we had to take an ambulance to Alabama where it’s legal to marry a person in a coma even if they are brother and sister. Who said Alabama is a conservative state?

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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Polysyndeton

Posted on May 12, 2025 | Leave a comment

Polysyndeton (pol-y-syn’-de-ton): Employing many conjunctions between clauses, often slowing the tempo or rhythm. (Asyndeton is the opposite of polysyndeton: an absence of conjunctions.)

There was a house, and a yard, and a swimming pool, and a shooting range, and a garage, and a greenhouse, and a grill. It was home. It had always been home. When I first came through the front door, I was an infant. I learned to ride my bike in the driveway. I learned to shoot with unerring accuracy in the backyard shooting range. I could hit the head of a pin from 25 yards with a pistol.

I was 29–a little old to be living at home. Dad was selling the place. Soon, I’d be out on my own. He was asking $500,000 for the place. That’s a lot of money, but I was resolved to raise it and keep the property for myself. I tried “Go Fund Me” but nobody was interested. I got comments like “Idiot,” “This is the stupidest fundraising gambit I ever heard of,” “Give it up Bozo.”

I knew I needed another plan. So, I got my parents to make a will leaving the house to me. I convinced them they could die at any minute, even before they found a buyer for the house. I was planning on killing them both and blaming my notoriously psycho sister, who was living in a half-way house down the street from the state mental institution. Then, I decided it would be even better to get my sister to actually kill our parents.

I told my sister that I couldn’t hold it in any more: our parents were serial killers from the third dimension of the future’s origin on a secret Tik Tok channel run by apes. I told her that they specialized in killing children, but lately, they had developed a thirst for her blood. They would come to her apartment with empty coffee mugs they would fill with her blood after they slit her throat and drained her.

My sister was visibly shaken. I gave her a loaded .45 to protect herself. I called my parents and invited them over. I told them that all my sister’s coffee mugs had been broken by her cat, so they had to bring their own mugs. Then, I left.

Everything went fine! My sister killed our parents. I told the police that my sister had stolen the handgun from me. I inherited the house and am enjoying life!

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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Prolepsis

Posted on May 11, 2025 | Leave a comment

Prolepsis (pro-lep’-sis): (1) A synonym for procatalepsis [refuting anticipated objections]; (2) speaking of something future as though already done or existing. A figure of anticipation.

What about it? Rev. Bilk told us last week that the end is near, and if we can’t dance a jig while speaking in tongues, we will be the first to go to Hell. In my mind the Raptures are here—I’m going down though, not up. I’m taking an elevator ride to Hell where I will spend eternity on a barbecue spit roasting over the fires of hell, screaming in agony and being slathered by an cackling imp with “Cardinal Newman’s Own Satanic Sauce.”

I can’t jig and I can’t speak in tongues, but Rev. Bilk has a home study course that he guarantees will provide eternal salvation by teaching me these two essential skills. It is titled “Dancing With Your Tongue.” Rev. Bilk says the $2,000 book is based on a holy manuscript he “discovered” in the Holy Land when he was there with his ministerial assistant Glenda, who he had a saintly relationship with which permitted them to lie down together in green pastures fearing no evil. They found the manuscript in “Shlomo’s Joke Shop” in Bethlehem. It was damaged, but he bought it anyway. Shlomo thought it was a joke, but the Rev. Bilk knew it was a stairway to heaven.

It had many exercises. For example, to facilitate learning how to speak in tongues, you were encouraged to go to the dentist and receive multiple injections of novocaine. As your tongue went numb and you lost control of it, you simulated speaking in tongues. It was fantastic. I sounded like a saint! After I had been to the dentist for my weekly injection, “Oogalogoo mormajog” was what I said to a police officer when I got pulled over for a broken taillight. He was about to arrest me when I wrote on a piece of paper “I am a saint speaking in tongues.”I showed it to him. He read it and smiled and made the sign of the cross and let me go as he said “Peace be with you brother.”

Well, after two years of study and practice, I’m ready for the Raptures. This time, I’ll go up instead of down. Now that I’m a Certified Saint, I can berate the sinners I’m surrounded by. I’m working on legislation to have them all put in prison where they belong.

May peace be with you. Amen.

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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Protherapeia

Posted on May 10, 2025 | Leave a comment

Protherapeia (pro-ther-a-pei’-a): Preparing one’s audience for what one is about to say through conciliating words. If what is to come will be shocking, the figure is called prodiorthosis.

A lots of things happen. So many. Too many. They sneak up on us. Then, it’s too late. Pastor Anglow has disappeared. For most of us this will be our saddest day. Chief Powers called me early this morning to give me the news. The Pastor has been missing for a month. If we went to church, we would’ve known something was wrong sooner. Chief Powers had some choice words to say about that. But I told him: “Chief, just because I’m a Christian doesn’t mean I have to go to church, goddamnit. I love my neighbors and all that crap, so why do I have to go to church? Back off copper!”

I had seen a lot of detective shows on Amazon Prime, so I knew what I was doing—establishing my innocence with Chief Powers by acting like a tough guy. In the shows I watch, tough guys turn out to be kind and caring nice guys. Anyway, what could I possibly have to do with the Pastor’s disappearance? I hardly knew him.

My cellphone rang.

It was Jasmine—I mean Mrs. Anglow, the Pastor’s wife. She probably lost her cat again. She’d come looking for her cat every week. I’d let her into my house and we’d look around. She’d crawl around on her hands and knees looking for her cat. She would get dirty and sweaty and I’d let her use my shower to wash off. She had a chronic tennis injury and couldn’t wash her back. So, I got into the shower and helped her. I’d put my arms around her waist and use two washcloths to slowly and gently wash her back.

She had called me to tell me her husband was missing and she had lost her cat. I told her she was welcome to come over and look for it. She sighed and thanked me.

While we were looking for her cat, Jasmine told me her husband had won the $10,000,000 Sonic Boom Lotto and had taken off with Chief Powers’s daughter, a Junior at Pot Crank High School. Jasmine was too embarrassed to tell anybody, but her husband had given her $2,000,000 to keep her mouth shut while she was undergoing a divorce from him.

Pastor Anglow was going to marry the Chief’s daughter!

When the Chief found out about the whole thing, he vowed to pull the Pastor over for a traffic stop and shoot him in the face. That never happened. In an epic car chase after the Pastor, the Chief drove over Dead Man’s cliff. The car went up in flames, and the Chief was killed when the car exploded.

Jasmine and I got married. We have four children—three girls and a boy. We still enjoy looking for her cat.

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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Protrope

Posted on May 9, 2025 | Leave a comment

Protrope (pro-tro’-pe): A call to action, often by using threats or promises.

“If you don’t have another baby pretty soon, I’m going to leave you on somebody’s porch.” Whoops. I should’ve said “litter.” I was talking to Dinah, the poodle and queen of my puppy mill. Jaques had been after her all week, but she would run away from him or bite him, or both. This was the first time something like this had happened. Dog reproduction had always been fail safe, with nature following its course naturally and reliably.

If Dinah was done reproducing, I could give her away to somebody as a pet. My niece Joanie had been pestering me for a dog since Christmas. I checked with my brother and he said it was ok. So, I got a food dish, a bag of food, a collar, and a leash at the pet store where I sold most of my puppies, and then, headed for my brother’s with Dinah. My brother was waiting at the door. Dinah barked and wagged her tail as she went through the front door. She sniffed around the house and jumped up onto the couch with Joanie. Joanie was elated and gave Dinah a big hug.

Joanie would take Dinah for walks, bathe her, brush her, feed her and generally care of her like a doting mother.

Then it happened.

Dinah got off her leash and was “accosted” by a coyote. Joanie told me Dinah and the Coyote were “dancing together.” My God! Dinah was bred by a coyote. This was a total complete shock.

Dinah became pregnant and gave birth to a litter of four “Pooyotees.” One of the puppies had two heads! One head was Poodle, the other was Coyote. He was healthy and grew right along with the other pups. We named him Flambeau after one of the characters on “Father Brown Mysteries,” a lovable thief who made repeated appearances on the show.

Flambeau’s heads would bark at each other, and sometimes he seemed to have a hard time deciding which way to go. The heads would growl at each other and eventually make a decision. Sometimes, the heads would fight over whether to chase a ball, or sit, or shake hands. Clearly, the two heads had minds of their own that were fraught with conflict.

Flambeau was living with me, so I had to struggle with his problems. I bought him a shock collar and would give him a jolt whenever he would start fighting with himself. He would yelp and stop the fighting. One night while I was sleeping, Flambeau pulled out the bedside lamp’s plug from its outlet. He chewed the chord to bare wire about a foot up from the plug, wrapped it around my neck, and plugged it back in.

I was nearly electrocuted. To this day, I do’t know how he got the chord wrapped around my neck. I’ll ever forget the smell of my neck burning. I knew why he did it. It was retribution for the shock collar I used on him.

I discovered he was the highest dog I.Q. In the world, and that’s how I advertised him in my traveling show: “Pooyote Pacesetter: The Genius Two-Headed Dog.”

Flambeau could paint beautiful symmetrical designs with his two noses dipped in acrylic paint. He could bark-sing in harmony with himself. His favorite was “Are You Lonesome Tonight?” He could compete with himself in pulling on a chew toy. Audience members loved it when they paid $5.00 to be licked on the face by both of his heads.

We had a successful 8 year run when Flambeau dropped dead after licking an audience member’s face. Flambeau was murdered. The person was an animal rights activist who had smeared cyanide paste on his face “to liberate the dog from slavery.” I thought murder was a weird kind of liberation. The murderer, a Columbia University graduate student, was given six months in jail for animal cruelty.

I was heartbroken. Flambeau was irreplaceable. I retired and started collecting Social Security. In order to afford an apartment and eat, I have four roommates. They treat me like a dog and I like it. I have a basket by the front door.

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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Proverb

Posted on May 8, 2025 | Leave a comment

Proverb: One of several terms describing short, pithy sayings. Others include adage, apothegm, gnome, maxim, paroemia, and sententia.

I needed to go somewhere in life. All my friends from high school were raging successes—they all invented things.. Ann Banks had invented a wearable vibrator. Busy women used it for convenience sake. Driving to work, sitting in a bar on a barstool, waiting in the checkout line at the super market, at the dentist, etc. You can imagine what a success it was. Then, there was Egbert Flange who had invented the inflatable walking stick. You could deflate it, roll it up, and stick it in your pocket. It had a Co2 cartridge integrated into its design. You pressed a small button the the top and it would re-inflate as you left a theatre or the movies, or other venues where it was better not to have a walking stick in the way. Giles Goatsbreath invented a self-heating Pop Tart, no oven or microwave needed. You just pounded on it with your fist and it would heat up in 3 seconds.

So far, I had not had a successful invention. Everything I came up with was too far-fetched to be made. Like, for example, the flying swimming pool. I couldn’t get it off the ground—literally. I used a helicopter concept, but the helicopter’s prop wash blew the water out of the pool. Then, I tried a blimp attached with cables to the pool. But, the pool was so heavy, I couldn’t find a blimp big enough to lift it. So, I had a giant hot air balloon made. The balloon’s flame severely burned two of the pool’s passengers, so I gave up on the flying swimming pool.

One day, I ran across the proverb “No pain, no gain.” I started hitting myself on the thumb with a hammer, hoping the pain would grant me some gain. The thumb hammering wasn’t working so I hired my podiatrist to pinch me up and down my legs once a week. I got no gain out of that pain either. I was desperate.

I found a woman named Madam Chains on the internet. Here motto was “No Pain, No Gain!” This had to work. Clearly, she was a professional. Her avatar was a rubber SCUBA suit with a belt sander coming out the neck. If I didn’t get some gain out of Madam Chains’ ministrations, I was doomed.

She told me to stand by the side of the road and step out in front of car that looked like it was weaving, being driven by a drunk. She taught me techniques for getting hit by car and being seriously, but not fatally injured. The “drunk” behind the wheel would be held liable and I would garner a huge insurance payout.

I endured a lot of pain, but got a HUGE amount of gain: $2,000,000. I gave Madam Chains 10%. I’ve given up on inventing things. I just travel around with my girlfriend Chrissie and my pet eagle named Flamingo.

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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Prozeugma

Posted on May 7, 2025 | Leave a comment

Prozeugma (pro-zoog’-ma): A series of clauses in which the verb employed in the first is elided (and thus implied) in the others.

I’m goin’ to Kansas City. Kansas City, what a place. On a train. On a plane. On a skateboard. On my feet. On a chopper. On an electric bicycle. It’s all the same to me. I’m goin’ to Kansas City. They got some grease- drippin’ barbecue there and I’m gonna’ get me some. I might have the beef. I might have the pork. I hope my boss lets me take two days off work, so I can go to Kansas City and have my tastebuds transmit the holy flavor to my head. I’ll eat ten sandwiches and then go home—home from Kansas City, back to my boring meaningless life; no house, no car, no wife. Maybe I’ll stay in Kansas City permanently. I’ll work in a barbecue van and make my mark.

Now, I work at a marble factory in a former Dodge motor car assembly plant in Detroit. The marbles are made in China. We just put them in cardboard boxes with our brand on them. The brand is “Dynamite Dubs.” It signifies our marbles’ ability to knock out two or more opponents’ marbles with a single shot. My job is to tuck in the box’s flap in to keep the marbles from falling out. It is a boring job, but the pay is good. I eat out at MacDonald’s every night. Sometimes, I splurge on a Value Meal. I weigh 320 lbs., just like the President. At least I can be proud of something!

The boss told me I couldn’t take two days off. In fact, he told me he needed me 24/7 to help guard the plant when the tariffs kicked in. He was certain there would be violence when the price of marbles went up 145%. Already, there was talk on the street. He was issuing everybody an M-16. He had gotten permission from “Bullet” Bassey (Detroit’s Police Chief) to shoot anybody standing outside the marble plant. He said they were a “national security threat” and we were authorized to “kill ‘em all.” We were supplied ammunition by ICE, and, as a bonus, five boxes of hand grenades to be used at the “slightest provocation.” Bob, the center fielder for the plant’s softball team, was elated. He could reach home plate every time with his “canon arm.” He said, “My arm has a whole new meaning! I can’t wait.” ICE also told us it was Ok to shoot children, as long as we didn’t aim for the head. ICE was concerned that the “mess” a head shot makes might arouse the ire of the commie libtards and cause them to post unflattering things on social media.

I was freaking out. Now I knew first-hand what the Twilight Zone was all about. I quit my job. I charged up my bicycle and headed for Kansas City. I arrived one week later. I had gotten two flat tires along the way, and had to charge up five times. The first thing I did when I got to Kansas City, was have four pork barbecue sandwiches. Then, I went looking for a job. I got a job in a barbecue van. It was perfect. My biggest hope fulfilled!

I was eating up to 9 barbecue sandwiches per day. I know it sounds insane, but I couldn’t help myself. I shot up to 400lbs and started to waddle like a giant duck. Then, one day I had a King-Kong sized heart attack. I died and came back to life three times in the ambulance. They say my heart looks like a big lump of Crisco, and if I don’t stop pigging out on barbecue sandwichs, I’ll die. I’ve cut back to 4 barbecue sandwiches a day. In one month, I’ve lost 3 pounds. I feel fit.

At night, I dream I am a giant barbecue sandwich being eaten by Taylor Swift. Her teeth caress my bun and she bites and chews me up slowly and seductively in little loving nibbles. I am having my name legally changed to Barbecue Sandwich. But most important, I have developed a men’s barbecue sandwich scented cologne called “Face Sauce.” Our slogan is “Lick my face. Zero calories.” It’s selling like crazy.

So, I just read the newspaper. Detroit is in flames. No children killed yet.

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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Pysma

Posted on May 6, 2025 | Leave a comment

Pysma (pys’-ma): The asking of multiple questions successively (which would together require a complex reply). A rhetorical use of the question.

If there was only one direction to go, which way would you go? Would you go right? Left? Straight? Up? Down? Or, would you just stand there, frustrated? Maybe you’d sit down and start crying. Maybe you’d just turn around and go back to where you came from—back to your little tent where you left your girlfriend sleeping, hoping to escape from her once and for all.

Your relationship has been a four-season camping trip. You have enough camping gear to open your own North Face. You have enough fleece hoodies to dress a herd of sheep. You try and wear five at a time to get your money’s worth, but you end up shedding them, leaving a trail for scavengers to follow, fighting over your discarded hoodies. It was sickening to watch—the pushing, the shoving, the cursing: these people were deeply disturbed. What was worse, they were my family. My big brother Gil always won the fight. He was 6’4” and wouldn’t hesitate to punch my mother, kick my father in the testicles, and hit my little sister in the face with a Pondorosa Pinecone—big as a shoebox with little pointy things all over it. Ouch! Gil tried to light my sister on fire one time, but she wouldn’t burn. Her clothing was fireproof—a Girl Scout uniform, and Gil didn’t have any petroleum products to get it going. That’s when he grabbed a pine cone and let her have it in the face.

My girlfriend woke up and was screaming “There’s a scorpion on my boob,” Trying to make light of it, I asked her which boob. She became furious and came running out of the tent. The scorpion fell off her boob and she calmed down. The scorpion jumped on my leg and skittered into my shorts. It tickled, but I was doomed. There was no way I could get the scorpion out of my shorts without it stinging me.

Then, Gil showed up. He grabbed the can of camp stove fuel and doused my shorts. He flicked his BIC and was about to set me on fire when the scorpion ran down my leg, apparently repelled by the camp stove fuel. I tore of my shorts and threw them on the ground. Gil yelled “Fire in the hole!” and torched them.

I had brought 22 pairs of shorts for camping. Now, I had to decide which pair to wear. I settled on the “Trail God” shorts. The seat of the shorts was made of Kevlar, in case some yahoos dragged you around in the woods before tying you to a tree and dangling a coral snake in front of your face.

The shorts have 19 numbered pockets and an APP for inventorying what’s in the pockets, by the numbers. It is unbelievably convenient, The APP displays a map of your pants on your cellphone. It’s amazing. But best of all is the “Hiker’s Safe.” It’s a keypad-operated safe on the inside of the shorts. You can safely store your valuables on the trail. It is made out of aircraft grade titanium—light weight and indestructible. I carry my credit cards and my passport in my “Hiker’s Safe” and I’ve only been robbed twice. Most hikers have been robbed 10-12 times. So, my “Hiker’s Safe” has put me ahead of the curve.

So, my family had shown up at the campsite and they were waiting for me to sprinkle the ground with unused and unwanted items to fight over. I had not thought about what to chuck, and they were looking impatient. I had to grab something fast. I grabbed a spatula from inside the tent and threw it on the ground. They looked at each other nonchalantly, and then, dove on the spatula. Gil came out of the melee holding the spatula and waving it around his head. I told them all to go home and they left mumbling.

My girlfriend and I resumed our campout. I was going to make bacon, but realized in my haste, I had given my only spatula to Gil. How stupid of me. I needed to replenish my spatula supply as soon we got home. Hello Amazon!

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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Ratiocinatio

Posted on May 5, 2025 | Leave a comment

Ratiocinatio (ra’-ti-o-cin-a’-ti-o): Reasoning (typically with oneself) by asking questions. Sometimes equivalent to anthypophora. More specifically, ratiocinatio can mean making statements, then asking the reason (ratio) for such an affirmation, then answering oneself. In this latter sense ratiocinatiois closely related to aetiologia. [As a questioning strategy, it is also related to erotima {the general term for a rhetorical question}.]

There is a reason for everything. Think about it. What does it mean to say “This had to have happened for a reason”? This is often said when everybody is mystified about why something happened, as if saying “it must have happened for a reason” absolves people from looking for the reason. But, when they realize it did actually happen for a reason, they want to know what the reason is. They know they can’t do it alone. That’s when they turn to me “Cam” (short for “Camshaft”) Vontell, Private Detective: “The Truth Hunter.”

I make it clear to my clients that I have magical powers, and no matter how far-fetched it may seem to be, the results of my detecting are unerring. I suffered from acute paranoia for five years, living among a group of paranoid men at “Beaver Tail State Sanatorium” in Beavertail, Montana. We spent our days searching for truth behind everything, concealed in the invisible reasons behind everything—reasons that our Overlords cleverly and secretly had for everything that made reality tick without our awareness. When we came to the powerful insight that our awareness was unaware, we started speculating further, to retrieve our freedom and put us back in control of the secret forces propelling us through life.

The most paranoid member of our group was Bunny Manson. He invented the “Motive Game.” We would do something, and then avow a motive for doing it. I might say “I tied my shoelaces so my shoes wouldn’t fall off.” The other players would call me a liar and then think of the “real” motive, never believing the avowed motive. A player might say: “Liar! You are a narcissist!” The game prepared us to play the game of life, thinking outside the so-called box, using counter-intuition and irrational speculation to discover the “truth” in the powerful hidden causes and motives that form the foundation for the natural and social orders.

So, there’s a hidden reason for everything: Your mother died of natural causes? Ha! You dupe. She was run over and mangled by a truck. Her body was reconstructed by robot surgeons in a clandestine mortuary located in a cave somewhere in Nevada. She was transported home on a government-owned train, “The Federal Necro-Express.” Clearly, she arrived this morning, dressed for her funeral with that cute little smile on her face. Case closed. When Cam Vontell says “Case closed,” the case is closed, no questions asked. The end.

By the way, I love to say “Case closed.” It works every time to make a client think we’ve discovered the truth. I target clients that are wrapped up in conspiracy theories. They’ll believe anything. I think most of them suffer from non-clinical paranoia, but somehow, they get along, living under the dead fist of the deep state.

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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Repotia

Posted on May 4, 2025 | Leave a comment

Repotia (re-po’-ti-a): 1. The repetition of a phrase with slight differences in style, diction, tone, etc. 2. A discourse celebrating a wedding feast.

I don’t know why the bride and groom asked me—Hoo Doo Miller—to give this speech today. However, I do sort of remember being friends in high school. When we graduated, Thaddeus got drafted and had to leave Charlene behind when he went off to fight in the Vietnam War. When he came back home he had PTSD. We used to sneak up behind him and light off packs of firecrackers. He’d yell “You fu*kin’ gooks” and try to find a place to hide.

I avoided the draft with bone spurs, so I had no idea what he was going through. I just thought it was funny as hell. I still do. See this pack of “Black Cats”? Be ready during the reception Thad—you better find a bunker to hide under because I’m going to blow these babies off when you least expect it! So, fair warning! Ha! Ha!

So, I “took care” of Charlene when you were off fighting in the war. I promised you I would. But, I took care of her too well and she got pregnant about a month after you left. Charlene got an abortion and we went back to normal, living together and partying hard. When I lost my job at the jelly factory, Charlene came through for us. She stood outside Denny’s and would go on blind dates with men who pulled up and asked her out. She went on enough dates to earn the $325 we needed for rent. I got a job the next day selling cars and would be able to cover the rent with my salary.

Nevertheless, Charlene kept going on dates unit she got a rash “down there.” She went to the doctor and got some ointment. The rash cleared up and she never “dated” again.

When it came time for your tour of duty to end, Charlene moved back with her parents to wait for your return. She would stay over with me a couple of times a week—she always told me I made her feel like a rocket blasting off. I appreciated that. I always fancied myself as a lady’s man!

Then, there’s the tattoo, but I’m not going to talk about it in mixed company. Thad: you’ll just have to find it yourself—it’s on her body somewhere! “Seek and ye shall find.” I think it’ll be a fun thing to do on your wedding night!

Well, I’d like to propose a toast now, to the bride and the groom! Hold your glasses high!

May all your hills be downhill, your days filled with cloudless skies, and your showers steaming hot, Thaddeus, to wash away your anger and, Charlene, to wash away your shame. God bless the newlyweds.

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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Restrictio

Posted on May 3, 2025 | Leave a comment

Restrictio (re-strik’-ti-o): Making an exception to a previously made statement. Restricting or limiting what has already been said.

“I’m going to kill you. Well, that’s not quite true. I intend to seriously injure you. It won’t be fatal, but you’re going to be going to the ICU at Don Knots Memorial Hospital—they’ll do a great job on your lacerations, broken bones, and what’s left of your tongue after I cut it out. I want you to get out of that fetal position right now. Roll over on your back and get ready to be seriously injured.”

I was a hit man—I didn’t shoot them, actually, I literally “hit” them with fists and blunt objects—sledge hammers, barbells, baseball bats, crowbars, etc. Actually, I did some kicking too. Nothing sends a rib to hell like a good hard series of well-placed kicks.

My next hit was at the public library one town over. This guy who worked at the local shoe factory lacing shoes wanted his library fines forgiven. $16.55 didn’t seem like much to contract a hit over. I didn’t argue with him, but I thought he was crazy. I went home, put on my steel-toed boots, grabbed my Yogi Berra Louisville Slugger (I had actually hit a home run with it back in the day), my trusty balaclava, and a couple of zip ties.

I got to the library just as it was closing. I slipped in the door and hid under a table. The librarian looked like a sweet elderly woman.

I was beginning to question what I was about to do. It just didn’t seem right assaulting a granny. Then the phone rang. She said “Look, you loser bastard—you can shove your library fines up your ass. What the fu*k do you think I am, your fu*kin’ fairy godmother?”

I was shocked. After what she said, I decided to give her a light beating—maybe just a couple whacks with the baseball bat and couple of harmless, but well-placed, kicks.

I jumped out from under the table with my baseball bat raised. “Give me $16.50 or I’m going to beat the shit out of you!” She sad “Fu*k you weasel.” And threw a copy of “Infinite Jest” at me—one of the heaviest books currently in print. The book hit me in the temple and knocked me out. I awoke to the sound of sirens. The librarian was standing over me holding my baseball bat. She had used my zip ties to secure my hands behind my back. That was it. I was going to jail. I heard the police banging on the doors.

Then, she gave me a hard whack on the head.

I’ve been in a sort of coma for 22 days. I can hear what people say to me, but I can’t speak. I can only nod my head. The librarian came to visit me. She told me I got what I deserved and she hopes I’ll spend 20 years in prison. She told me library fines cannot be ignored, or especially, forgiven: they must be pad.

Library fines teach morality and personal responsibility, two pillars of Western Civilization.

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

Sarcasmus

Posted on May 2, 2025 | Leave a comment

Sarcasmus (sar’kaz’-mus): Use of mockery, verbal taunts, or bitter irony.

“What’s that on top or your head? A bird’s nest? Why don’t you just give it up and accept your hairless crainium? At least you could wear fake hair that matches your eyebrows!”

I was mean. They called me “The Slasher” because I could cut anybody down to size with my buzz-saw insults. Or you could say I was a insult surgeon removing peoples’ self-esteem with my cutting remarks.

I insulted everybody I met within 3 minutes. I had an uncanny ability to see their foibles. I would hurl the insults, making them stick with my sarcastic tone of voice. Often, my attributions were wrong, but I didn’t care. Once I said them, they became a “worry” for my targets.

I told a man his nose looked like a tumor with two holes in it. He covered it with his hand and ran away. I once asked a woman if that was a pair of dice under her sweater. She sat down on the sidewalk and started speaking in tongues. I was so pleased that I asked her out to dinner. She accepted my invitation. I didn’t have much money, so we went to Burger King. Speaking in tongues, she pointed at the menu—clearly, she wanted a cheese whopper, jumbo fries and a large Coke. We sat by the window. She pointed at her sweater and said something in Aramaic, one of the languages I studied in Bible college—Holy Rose College in San Jose, California. She told me her name was Mary and she woke up here in New Jersey two days after her son came back to life and teleported into the sky.

As much as I would’ve liked to believe her, I didn’t. Although she was speaking Aramaic, her story was too far-fetched to be true. I told her so and she lifted up her dress and showed me her stretch marks from her pregnancy. I still didn’t believe her. In fact, she was starting to bother me. I left her at Burger King and headed off to the Middle School. The kids there were easy marks—easily humiliated and ridiculed. I hung out at the entrance to the school bus and hurled insults and rude comments as the kids boarded their bus.

One day, the bus driver got off the bus and beat the crap out of me. He called me a “perv” and called the police. I was charged with “damaging children’s’ self-esteem.”

I am locked up in a psychiatric facility awaiting trial. I am undergoing “nicification“ therapy. It involves singing “The Wheels on the Bus” twice a day and studying and memorizing the “Golden Book of Compliments,” I don’t think I have a chance of reform. I told my cellmate he smelled like a skunk’s ass, and he beat me with his shoe. I spent two days in the infirmary. When I got back to our cell, he asked me to teach him how to be an insulting asshole. I made up a syllabus and classes will start tomorrow with “body shaming.”

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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Scesis Onomaton

Posted on May 1, 2025 | Leave a comment

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

Big bluebird! I couldn’t believe my eyes. I dropped my binoculars and got out my bird identification guide: “Bill Birdwood’s Guide to Every Bird on Earth.”

This was no normal bluebird. The only thing it had in common with normal bluebirds was its blue body and an orange patch on its chest. I couldn’t find him in my “Guide,” so I Googled with a description: “Huge bird with bluebird plumage. He looks like a feathered basketball and makes a growling sounds like an angry dog. I haven’t see him fly, and given his girth, I’m not sure he can. He is eating discarded cigarette butts off the ground. This is an especially good place to do so—we’re at the designated smoking area for employees of the adjacent life insurance company.”

I hit return on my keyboard and got an almost instant response. It was Bill Birdwood himself! He told me the name of the bird “Blue Ball Giganticus.” He didn’t list him in his guide because the Blue Ball is considered a mythological bird—like the Phoenix. He wrote, “But, if you’ve got a live one in your sights, you better run away faster than you’ve ever run before!”

So I ran. To my horror, with much wing flapping the Blue Ball slowly took off straight up like a helicopter with a frightening growl. I tripped and fell and the Blue Ball swooped down over me, dropping a cigarette butt on my outstretched body. It landed on my chest. I sat up, grabbed it off my pant leg and threw it as far as I could—about five feet. Then, the big fat Blue Ball landed on my shoulder—which was just wide enough for him to fit on. I was terrified.

Then, he leaned toward my ear and asked: “What’s the capital of Montana?” I told him I didn’t know, and that I’m really bad at state capitals. He said “Ok ok. What is an isosceles triangle?” I didn’t know. I told him I pretty much didn’t know anything. He kept asking me similar questions for about a half-hour. I couldn’t answer any of them. He gave up and called me a “bird brain” which I thought was really weird. After all that, he asked me if my refrigerator was running.

I knew that one! I said “Yes.” Then he told me I better go catch it. He asked if I wanted a cigarette butt. I told him I didn’t and he flew away grunting and straining. Now, I could add to my list of Blue Ball characteristics: can talk, eats cigarette butts, takes off like helicopter, and is boring to spend time with. I wondered why Bill Birdwood told me to run.

I found out when I started developing a taste for cigarette butts and began picking them up off the ground and storing them in my briefcase “for later.”

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

Sententia

Posted on April 30, 2025 | Leave a comment

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

“Stop Trying”

Yes, that’s the ticket. “If you’re tryin’ you’re dyin’” is a variation on the words of wisdon uttered by the ancient Roman philosopher Claudius Defectum. His book of sayings “Cedere” (“Give Up”) led to the fall of the Roman Empire. It will never have that regime-changing influence today, but it still inspires countless people to accept their mediocrity, or worse.

You can find Defectum’s collection of sayings in the back pockets of men and women settled, carefree, on cardboard pads, holding and waving empty styrofoam cups. They have shifted the rationale of their “trying” from greed and acquisition to the godly glow of begging. They have reduced their striving to the bare minimum— giving up and going on. A wonderful yoking of opposites that may motivate them to ask “Spare change?” as they pursue the limitless possibilities of living carefree in an alley or abandoned car. They’ve given up!

I gave up ten years ago. Fresh out of college, I went to work for a company making pearl snaps for cowboy shirts. I wasn’t a cowboy, but I could appreciate their need for shirts with or pearl snaps. Say, your shirt got caught on a cactus, you would just unsnap it and set yourself free. Or say, you’re riding the trail and you want to cool off. With your free hand, you can just unsnap your shirt, letting the cooling breeze blow across your chest.

I was put in charge of our Laotian snap factory. We churned out 5,000 snaps per day. My goal was 12,000. I had arrived at that number randomly by saying number out loud. “12,000” had a melodious tone to it—it almost had a poetic ring. I was drawn to it like a cow to grass or a fork-load of steak to my mouth.

I figured all I needed to do was make our machines go faster. The faster they went, the more snaps they’d make. “Faster! Faster,” I yelled. Everybody just looked at me and laughed. My translator told me they were calling me “silly man” behind my back. I took away their daily ration of Lao-Lao. They brought their own. I neglected to realize that home-brewing is extremely popular in Laos. My sanctions went on and on, ending with Tasering slow workers. Anyway, nothing worked, so after reading “Cedere” one more time and punching the walls in my room, I gave up. I stopped trying.

I felt a deep sense of relief and freedom. I slept like a baby. When I announced the next day that our new goal was 3,000 snaps per day, I became a hero. Sadly, I was fired for bringing the snap quota down, but I didn’t care. I went back to the States and got a job working at a Salvation Army Thrift Store. I was in charge of glassware. I did what I was told to do and had renounced all pretenses to promotion.

I had given up, and it felt damn good.

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

Simile

Posted on April 29, 2025 | Leave a comment

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

I was going to fly like an eagle. I was off to my freshman year of college at Tony Pecker University. Pecker had made a fortune cleaning up brownfields throughout America, and then, reselling them to unwitting people. He was famous for the elementary school that was built on one of his so-called “remediated” sites. All the students came down with tumors covering 80% of their bodies. None of then got past the age of 12. Pecker was sued but he got off by claiming it wasn’t his fault. He never explained exactly why it wasn’t his fault, but that didn’t matter, it was a jury trial. The jurors showed up the second day of Pecker’s trial wearing big gold chains with big gold crosses hanging from them.

Anyway, Tony Pecker University is built on one of Pecker’s brownfield sites. Many of the students suffer from hair loss and discoloration of their teeth, neither is fatal and after graduation their hair returns and their teeth return to their normal color. So, it’s no big deal. I had had my head shaved in anticipation of losing it. My head looked like a shiny pink muskmelon.

You may wonder why I’m going to Tony Pecker University. I’m not very smart and none of my high school teachers would write me a letter of recommendation. They would tell me that “I would have to accept my limited reach,” or “College isn’t for you,” or “You’ve made me feel like a failure as a teacher.” Then, I found out that my great uncle “Ponzi” had gone to Pecker. He was extremely wealthy and bribed the Dean of Admissions to let me in. He had a horrible rash on his right hand that he had contracted when he was a student at Pecker. He credited the rash with enabling him to weasel out of bad business deals. Due to his rash, people wouldn’t shake hands with him when it came time to seal a deal. So, technically, the deal wasn’t made. He was grateful to Pecker University for the rash. He told me if I wanted a rash like his, I should wash my hands daily in the toilet bowl in the second stall from the right in the second floor men’s room in Polly Hall.

Anyway, I can read and write. I can’t do math, but who cares. As a legacy, I’m allowed to make up my own degree program. My personal program is titled “Dogs.” i will be learning all about dogs—why they have four legs, the aesthetics of tail wagging and tail chasing, barking in different languages, faithfulness, playing catch, sniffing, and much, much more. It will be rewarding for me and for the dogs I will be keeping in my room: it’s like a doggie mansion, with a “man” in the mansion. Ha ha!

I think I want to be a dog walker when I graduate. I am going to move the New York City. It’s like a gold mine for dog walkers. I am planning in competing in “Broadway On A Leash,” the annual competition to see who can walk the most dogs at once down a quarter mile stretch of Broadway’s sidewalk.

I’m arriving at Pecker now and driving through the gates. I will be greeted by a bald RA who will show me where to park, and lead me to my room. I see her! Her head looks like a muskmelon, just like mine! She has beautiful eyes. Already, I’m falling in love.

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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