Tag Archives: elocutio

Paronomasia

Posted on September 14, 2024 | Leave a comment

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

I was going toward the best time of my life. I had won the lotto—$22,000,000,000. That’s a lot of money. Small countries were lining up asking for help paying off their national debts. I told them all no. Why not ask to be annexed by a wealthy first-world country, like China or Germany?

I was headed to “Peter Punster’s Prudent Puns.” It was a school in Newton, New Jersey offering a one-year course of studies in punning, opening doors to the future as comics or pains in the ass. I didn’t know whether I wanted to be a pain in ass the or a comic. I was already a pain in the ass, so I guess I’d become a comic.

Our first day of class we were regaled by Mr. Punster’s nearly non-stop punning: “I’m addicted to brake fluid, but it’s OK because I can stop at any time; What do you call an alligator in a vest? An investigator; What did one eye say to the other? Just between you and me, something smells; I can’t stand Russian dolls. They’re so full of themselves; Why couldn’t the pony sing in the choir? He was a little horse.”

This is just a sample. I felt like yelling fraud. Every one of Mr. Punster’s puns were taken from the internet, from Will Styler’s “A Collection of Terrible Puns.” I went directly to Mr. Punster and told him what I knew. He pulled a pistol out of his desk—it was a flintlock! He told me to go stand in the corner. He asked: “What’s black and white and stands in the corner?” I said I didn’t know. He said “A naughty Panda.” Then, he pointed at his desk and asked: “Why did Arthur have a round table? So nobody could corner him!”

What the hell was going on here? He told me to shut up and not tell anybody what I had discovered, and he would let me live. I agreed to keep my mouth shut: “No word of mouth, just mouth.” Mr. Punster slapped my face and said “That sucked more than a Hoover.”

On our second day of class we made lists of potential pun words: similar words and similar-sounding words with different meanings. The first one I thought of was gun: gun an engine and a gun you shoot people with, and then court: basketball court, legal court, and courting your girlfriend. I thought of about 50 and couldn’t make a pun out of any of them. That’s when I knew I wasn’t cut out to be a punster. So, I dropped out.

At lunch assembly, I got up on stage and announced that Mr, Punster was a fraud—that he couldn’t pun his way out of a wet noodle. That did it. He pulled out his gun and took aim at me. He pulled the trigger and the flintlock made a popping sound and a lead ball rolled out of the barrel. As he tried to quiet the panicked students, I ran out of the lunchroom door, hopped on my motorcycle and went back to being a normal person.

Have you ever wanted to be something, but didn’t have the skill or ability to be it? I pulled up my pants and said to myself: “If you can’t make it, criticize it.” I decided how being a critic may be just the thing for me. I could channel my anger through other peoples’ literary efforts—offering completely unbalanced readings of their works. No positive side. I’m calling myself “Blackie Spite.” I have a blog called “Ripping You A New One.” I have 500,000 followers who revel in my tasteless bashing of everything I read.

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

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

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

Parrhesia

Posted on September 13, 2024 | Leave a comment

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

Somebody said “Honesty is the best policy.” If you’re going to follow this advice, there’s another policy you need to be aware of: a life insurance policy. In my business being honest is the quick way to a comfy coffin. There’s no place for honesty unless you’re making threats—“I’ll tear your throat out” is so honest it could be enshrined in the “Book of Truth.” It’s the epitome of honesty to threaten people and their pets. In my business everybody knows there’s no such thing as an empty threat. We’re not playing “just you wait until your father gets home,” the classic empty threat.

You guessed it. I’m a mobster. In addition to making threats: I steal. I cheat. I sell drugs. I shoot people. I kidnap. I blackmail. I con. you name it, If it’s bad, it’s dishonest, and if it’s dishonest I’ll do it for revenge and money. In fact, I spend half my time seeking revenge for myself and my associates. The aim of revenge is to inflict pain and mental anguish, and then, shoot the bastard in the head with your trusty Beretta.

Aside from finding the target, the big challenge is arranging the hit with minimal exposure to yourself. You see these stupid movies where hitters wearing balaclavas burst into a restaurant and shoot some guy in a suit eating veal saltimbocca. What a joke. What you want to do is use your Google AP to determine whether your victim has CCTV up and running. If he does, use your “CCTV Bye” AP to shut it off when you get to his home. Put on clothes you wear only to do hits. Put on your dark sunglasses. Check your weapon. Don’t forget the duct tape! When you arrive, park up the street and hack the CCTV to make sure he’s home alone. If he is, kill it and ring the doorbell. When he answers, stick the gun in his face and bully your way inside. Have him duct tape his feet together. Tell him to hold his hands together with wrists facing. Use your lightning-fast one-handed taping technique to tape them together, Then, using the same technique tape him to a chair. Now, it’s time to torture him—we’ll skip the details. When you feel like you’ve hurt him enough, shoot him in the head. Be prepared for almost constant begging, and crying, and swearing, and denial, and offers of huge amounts of money not to pull the trigger. Just ignore it and remind him why you’re there.

Revenge brings closure to my associates and tons of money to me. I have no conscience. I am a sociopath among sociopaths.

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

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

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

Pathopoeia

Posted on September 12, 2024 | 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.

I worked hard on my garden from the first hint of spring, I raked, and hoed and pitchforked. I hauled in sacks of manure. I prepared the ground. Our lives were dreary. As a cashier at Mr. Preshet’s Kamra-Mart, I hardly made enough money to support my family. Every once-n-awhile I would buy a fresh carrot for Little Ralph. Although he had a mustache, he was only two years old. I loved sitting and watching him gnaw on his carrot like he was a little bunny rabbit. My wife Nutsy can’t get a job because of chronic body odor—CBO. She contacted it when she started jogging. The exercise triggered her sweat glands to overreact. She can’t use deodorants because of the overreactive glands’ intolerance to the deodorant’s chemical ingredients. So, without her working, we can’t afford to put fresh vegetables (or frozen!) into our shopping cart. It’s down to the garden.

I went to Lowe’s and bought some seed packets—acorn and yellow squash, watermelon, radishes, carrots, peppers, okra, and corn, and some tomato plants. Tomatoes were one of Little Ralph’s favorites; right up there with carrots. He would twirl the ends of his mustache, and then plunge his little fingers into the tomato’s thin red skin.

The next day we raked again, and then planted everything. It didn’t take long for everything to start sprouting. It was beautiful. Soon there were ripening tomatoes, squash blossoms, and lots of little leaves from the other vegetables. We were going to have fresh vegetables! Little Ralph twirled his mustache and clapped his hands. This was his ultimate expression of happiness. We were fans of Salvatore Dali and would watch newsreels of him. Little Ralph would watch too. Sometimes Dali would twirl his mustache, and that’s where we think Little Ralph got his mustache-twirling from, but maybe not. So, anyway, we couldn’t wait, se we picked a green tomato and sliced it, breaded it, and fried it. It so good, it even made Nutsy happy and smell a little better too. We all went to bed.

The next morning he was on his fourth cup of coffee and third jelly donut when he heard a weird sound in the back yard—a combination of grunting and scratching. He looked out the kitchen window and there was line of about 30 groundhogs mowing down the garden. They’d already eaten half of it. He grabbed the kitchen mop and ran outside to beat them to death. They weren’t having it. Before he could land a blow, they swarmed him.

He called for Nutsy, but by the time she got there, they were gone, and her husband lay bleeding on the ground. Little Ralph was crying in the kitchen window. Nutsy called 911, next she set up a “Go Fund Me” site! She’d been waiting for an opportunity like this—she was going to go for $1,000,000.

Everything went well. No fatalities, and $1,000,000 raised. But, in the hustle bustle of it all, Little Ralph didn’t get his revered carrot. He ventured out the front door and was run over and killed by a Good Humor ice cream truck driving through the neighborhood ringing its bells.

Little Ralphie’s little headstone has a carrot engraved on it with a quote from Bugs Bunny: “What’s up doc?” Poor Little Ralph.

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

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

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

Perclusio

Posted on September 11, 2024 | Leave a comment

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

“Can’t you read? The sign in front of to my house says ‘No Parking,’ not ‘Free Parkihg.’ It was put up by the city.” Actually, that wasn’t true. My son had made the sign in art class, as the final piece for his art project “Who says we’re free?” The other signs in the project were “Use Crosswalks,” and “Press Button to Cross.”

My son’s no parking sign was a masterpiece. It looked lke the real deal. So, I mounted it on a 4×4, dug a hole with my post hole digger, and put it up in font my my house. So, you might ask: Why did yo go to so much trouble? Well, I’ll tell you, and it isn’t pretty. It’s the marauding gangs of dog-eating Venezuelan refugees. I’ve never seen any, and nobody else has either, but, if we can’t believe presidential candidates, who can believe? What this enables is a clear line of fire that is not blocked by somebody’s parked car. I am serving my community and the United States of America—the good old red, white, and blue. So, the guy moved his car.

He heard bugles and drums. they got closer and closer. He ran side, loaded his assault weapon, and grabbed his binoculars. He crept up the street, and reconnoitered the marching group. It was a group of elderly women, some with walkers and canes, but almost all of them had small dogs under their arms. They were flaunting their intention to eat the dogs. They had a big banner that said “Seniors Love Their Little Dogs.” Their banner was a ruse—it says “Loves their little dogs—YES, LOVE TO EAT. They will be picnicking on those little dogs in the park at the end of my street.

Some of the marchers would raise their canes in a threatening manner. My hands were shaking as I set my AR-15 on a sandbag. I was risking a lot, so I called 911, gave a phony name and told them I was ready to kill some dog-eating Venezuelans, rampaging down my street. The police officer gasped. I ran outside to my no parking sign and pulled it up and hid it in my garage

The police arrived in minutes. They confiscated my weapon and arrested me. I’m awaiting trial for installing a fake road sign, and menacing.

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

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

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Periergia

Posted on September 10, 2024 | Leave a comment

But what about my mother? She was made of slid personal hygiene flooring. We never talked about anything else, we would talk about different brands of soap at dinner. We’d talk about the relative merits of their smell—a very important topic to my who wore the soap sachets dangling n her armpits from a specially designed harness. Mom really smelled good. It gave me a feeling of optimism, that the world was becoming a better place—a place where cared how they smelled. we would have hygiene themed meals. The names of the didn’t reflect their actual ingredients. Hit and miss use them as topics for dinner conversations. There was Clorox chicken, Windex, Tidy Bowl Tuna casserole, Lysol lamb, Peroxide glazed pork shoulder, Comer sprinkled cod. Dinner time was always great. As we became better acquainted with disinfectants, we learned what it took to survive this filthy germ- and virus-laden hell hole. We knew we hand to be vigilant, armed sponges, paper towels, brushes, rags, and mops. Once a month we would eat off the floor. It would affirm Mom’s vigilance in protecting from the world’s filth. And this where the floor took on deep metaphoric significance eating from the floor symbolizes our desire to be close to the boards under our feet, that keep us from slipping into the basement’s abyss—the tangled mess below.

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.

It was obvious to all who beheld Bo Jangles’ tap shoe that it’s well- considered whacking of wooden floors gave us pause and opened our minds to the realization that the floors were instrumental to his success. No floor, no above Jangles, the floor is a sweet metaphor for everything that keeps from falling into a hole or a basement? Your floor could be your car or your mother. Just think how your car is your floor. You come home from work angry and sad because Gorge Ridgly got promoted ahead of you. He escaped the hell of assembling Big Macs,and now, he’s a table wiper. You tell your cat Buffles what happened. Buffles sits there staring you as if you had a sardine in your pocket. This all you need to regain your footing: your cat has shown an interest in you. You Ross hm the sardine and go on to you next adventure—maybe having a beer at the pub around the corner where they’ celebrating Ridgly’s promotion. Damn. I’m staying home.

But Mom threw Dad out for cheating. Her name wasBabs and she had giant breasts—that’s all we about her, and that was enough. We made her favorite Method meatloaf. She was sad, but thar didn’t affect her appetite. At dinner, we talking about the best way to kill Dad, we determined that cleaning products were the way to go. We’re still working on the plan. We invited for next week to “make amends.” I don’t care if anybody gets their hands on this manuscript.

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

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

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Period

Posted on September 9, 2024 | 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.

I was looking hi and low, far and wide, above and below for my toothbrush. After I tore the bathroom apart, I looked in my bedroom. There was my cat sitting under my bed with my toothbrush between his paws purring loudly. When I reached for it he put it in his mouth—like a dog with a bone. I yelled at him to give me my toothbrush and he just sat there. I got a mop out of the utility closet and tried to push him out from under my bed with it. He wasn’t going anywhere—he kept hopping over the mop when I swept it past him. I went and got his treat bag and dropped a couple of treats in front of him. He would go for treats, open his mouth, and drop the toothbrush. I would grab it.

Backing further under the bed, using the toothbrush like a rake, he dragged the treats and himself out of my reach. I gave up. I would put toothpaste on my finger and use it as a toothbrush. When I stood up, my cat popped out from under the bed and dropped my toothbrush on the floor. I picked it up and went and brushed my teeth.

When I got home, my cat had torn a hole in one of the couch’s cushions and was curled up sleeping in it. He looked so serene, black fur with one white foot. Looking at him, I almost forgot that he had destroyed a couch cushion. But I was getting used to this kind of stuff. He’s started using the kitchen door’s jamb as a scratching post. I’m not sure what’s next, but when he curls up on my lap, he looks at me with his green eyes, and purrs, I feel like I have the perfect cat.

Some friends told me if I get a second cat the two of them will be too busy to make mischief. I had no idea what “keeping busy” would have do with anything., or if “busy” would even factor in to having a second cat. I did what my friends advised.

When the to cats tipped over my plant stand, I realized the new cat would help with mischief involving heavy lifting. For example, as a team they could open my bottom dresser drawer and run wild with my socks and underpants.

I’ve given up. I’ve started trying to beat them to the punch. Yesterday, I pushed everything off my dresser. Tonight I knocked a couple of books out of my bookcase onto the floor. I wonder what they are planning next. Light the house on fire? Invite hundreds of other cats to live here? Find a way to trip me up on the stairs? Maybe I should try to load them up with catnip.

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

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

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Periphrasis

Posted on September 8, 2024 | 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.)

“Sneezy.” I was allergic to air. They called me “Sneezy” because of my nearly non-stop sneezing, disturbing the quiet, waking up my family at night, startling old ladies on the bus. I had tried every available remedy from over the counter, to prescription pills and nasal sprays. I carried a handkerchief everywhere I went to block the spay and wipe my nose and blow out the remaining snot. The sneezes were unpredictable, day and night. I lived in New York City, so there were plenty of quacks offering a variety of treatments that probably didn’t work, but seemed to be worth giving a try. The first one I tried was kitchen matchsticks. I stuck the matchsticks up my nose and carried a Bic lighter. When I felt a sneeze coming on, I was supposed to light the matches. The first time I tried it the lit matches shot out of my nostrils when I sneezed and started a small fire on my comforter, and also, I slightly burned my left nostril and had a terrible time picking my nose for about three days. I had my comforter repaired and quit the matchstick remedy.

Next were filter tip cigarettes. I learned to smoke through my nose. It was awkward, but if it worked it would be a blessing. The idea was that the smoke would “terminate” the nasal pathogens causing my sneezing. I lit up and laid back on the couch to watch “Saturday Night Live” and fell asleep. I sneezed and the lit cigarettes blew out of my nose and caught my shirt on fire. The fire burned into my beard before I could stand up, rip off my shirt with the cigarettes wrapped in it, and run water on it in the kitchen sink. My hands were slightly burned and I had to smear them with Neosporin daily and wear plastic bags over them in the shower for a week.

Then, I tried a nasal vacuum. It was an attachment for my Hoover. I stuck the two prongs in my nose and flipped the switch. It cleared my nasal cavities, but the prongs got stuck in my nostrils. I had to go to the hospital Emergency Room to have it removed. People looked at me like I was a space alien. Some laughed out load, and one guy asked me “What the fu*k” had happened to me. They were going to perform emergency surgery on me when I had a super-sneeze and the prongs blew out and hit the surgeon in the face.

I could tell you ten more stories, but I think three is enough to give you a sense of what I have endured, willingly, for the sake of killing the sneeze. Finally, I went to Botswana. There was a shaman there named Doc. Rhino who reputedly could cure the sneezes. When I arrived he was waiting for me at the airport. He looked like a normal person. We took a cab to his home. Along the way to his home the front driver’s side door fell off the cab and we were delayed ten minutes while the driver put it back on. Doc. Rhino said “Welcome to taking a cab in Botswana.” The house was beautiful with two hyenas chained outside front door. He said: “There is one price you must pay to remedy your sneezing. You must have a permanent booger tattooed in your right nostril where it can be seen.” At that point, I would’ve agreed to having my nose amputated if it would’ve helped. So, I agreed. We went into a back room where there was a chair like a dentist’s chair and I was tattooed.

The next day at breakfast he pulled out a ziplock bag with a disgusting-looking rag in it. “Here is your remedy. Put the rag over your nose when you feel a sneeze coming, and the sneeze will vanish. To keep it working, you have to return once a year to have it reinfused with the potion.” I agreed, and it has worked ever since. It disgusts most onlookers when I use it, but I can’t live without it. The booger tatoo has been a bit of a problem though. Dating has been a real problem. I put makeup on it, but it doesn’t quite look right. My dates spot it right away. Some will tell me I have booger, and when I tell them it’s a Tatoo, they excuse themselves and don’t come back. Less sensitive people just leave. My only hope is find a man who has been to Botswana too. We’ll share matching boogers and, with luck, live happily ever after.

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

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

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Polyptoton

Posted on September 6, 2024 | 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.

The steak was tough. I had a tough time cutting it and even tougher time swallowing. But, I was going to eat it anyway. I had to eat it. I had subscribed to “Straight Willy’s Honest Meats.” I got a “surprise” cut of meat in the mail each week and the subscription fee was non-refundable so I had to suck it up, or I should say “chew it up.” $450 down the tubes—well—not totally. The emu was delicious—red, juicy, and bloody. It came sliced and I cooked on the grill and ate it on hamburger buns topped with cheddar cheese with crinkly fries on the side.

The meat became increasingly exotic: raccoon loin, wildebeest tongue, pickled python, woodpecker neck, and whole porcupine. The porcupine alerted me that something was wrong. There were no instructions on how to prepare it—how to get past the quills and how to dress it for eating. Also, it looked like there was a tire mark cross flattened head. I wrote an email to “Straight Willy’s” complaining and I didn’t hear from them for a week. Then, they apologized profusely and were sending me five “braces” of prepared ruffed grouse chicks, a smoked armadillo, and a nutria. All exotic, and of interest to me as a connoisseur of weird food.

The baby grouse came packed in a box with dry ice. They were laying their backs with their little feet sticking up. Each one had a neatly printed name tag tied to its left leg. There was Ben and Jerry, Willy Nelson, Buck Rogers, Rembrandt, Ulysses Grant, Clint Eastwood, Blondie, Madonna, and Cher. This was too bizarre even for me! I sent “Straight Willys” another email, telling them I didn’t appreciate their sense of humor. They wrote back and told me that they didn’t intend to offend anybody. The naming was supposed to enhance my eating pleasure. That’s when they sent me the steak as a “peace offering.” They told me it was “aged beef” and it was—cut from a 20-year old cow. Inedible!

So, I cancelled my subscription. But, they’ve continued to send me bizarre meats. Earlier this week, smoked goat udders. Last week, breaded pig anuses. it is horrifying. If I could find where they’re located, I’d burn the place down. I just received a box today. It feels very light compared to the others. There’s probably no dry ice in it. I opened the and it was empty. There was a note in the bottom of the box. It said: “I hope you starve, Straight Willy.”

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

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

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Polysyndeton

Posted on September 5, 2024 | 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 dog, and a cat, and a chicken and a truck. Dad called it a “farm” for income tax purposes. We grew an acre of milkweed and sold the seed pods as milkweed fritters by the side of the road. I had a card table with a propane deep frier and a little picnic table. Ma made me a pointy hat that looked like a milkweed pod. My name is Rodney, so my sister embroidered “Rod’s Pods” on my apron along with a rainbow. I also had a sign that said “Fresh Egg for Sale.” Our chicken Charlie laid one egg per day—so the egg sign was sort of a joke. Oh, talk about jokes, I had a battery-powered cassette player. I would play “Old MacDonald Had a Farm,” and “Farmer in the Del,l” and “Baa, Baa Black Sheep,” and “Five Little Ducks.” whenever a car would pull up. “Farmer in the Dell” was a favorite and sometimes I would sing along while they ate their fritters.

The milkweed pod season was long and we had many repeat customers. We made pretty good money. So good, that mom could cut back to half-time at “Joysters,” the “good-time oyster bar.” Mom said she “shucked” when she was asked to, but most of the time she just served drinks. Now, she got home at 1.00 a.m. instead of 4:00! All because of the milkweeds.

Dad had recently become what he called an “entrymanure” quitting his job cleaning septic tanks. He thought he was being funny when he said the job was a crock of shit, a shit storm, for shit, shitty, or a “poopalooza.” We laughed politely and congratulated him on what was ahead.

He was making counterfeit one dollar bills in the garage. They were packed in boxes and strewn ankle deep on the garage floor. The guys who promised to buy all he could print for five cents on the dollar hadn’t shown up yet, so Dad had an overflow problem. Dad asked me to help him cart some of the boxes up by the road and set them there for people who thought they needed a few dollars. Dad’s generosity was admirable. The money buyers came the next day and Dad made a tidy sum. He yelled “Start the presses!” Sheets and sheets of dollar bills flew off the presses. It was amazing. Like magic.

I had made pickled milkweed pods to get me thorough fall. They were surprisingly popular, but I needed something to pull us through winter. We get a lot of snow up here in the hills, so I wracked my brain about snow’s possibilities for making a Buck. Then I got the idea! Pre-fab snowmen! Most people are too lazy to build a snowman, but nevertheless they love them. So, I made generic snowmen with coal buttons, teeth, and eyes; with carrot noses; and with arms made of tree branches. I also used pizza boxes to fill with small premade snowballs. The snowmen sold like crazy—I had a high school kid deliver them. The snow balls were a bust. I’m going to keep working on the concept. Maybe making the pizza box’s lid into some kind of variation on “Corn Hole.”

“People” published an article about my snowmen. 100s of people flocked to our farm. A kid wandered off and his parents found him in our garage, along with Dad’s “money maker.” Federal Agents showed up the next day and took Dad away. I still feel like I’m partially to blame. Anyway, Dad got off when his lawyer argued that the fake one dollar bills were play money that hadn’t been labeled yet. Now, Dad’s setting up some kind of laboratory in the garage.

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

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

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Procatalepsis

Posted on September 4, 2024 | Leave a comment

Procatalepsis (pro-cat-a-lep’-sis): Refuting anticipated objections.

Dad: I know you’re going to say “I’d rather spend a week in the basement,” or, “I’d rather sit on a Porta-Pottie for a week,” or, “I’d rather be dead.” We go through this every year. It’s my vacation, and I choose where to go. End of story, so shut up and quit whining.

You’re going to like our home state—what I’ve got planned—who wants to go to Disneyland or Epcot when we can travel around our home state soaking up its culture and developing a deeper appreciation for our forebears’ experiences. I have our itinerary set out in a circle that will take us one week to travel, exploring a new wonder every day.

Lucinda: Dad?

Dad: Yes, Lucinda?

Lucinda: Where’s Mom?

Dad: She went on her own vacation.

Lucinda: Where did she go?

Dad: Never Mind. Shut up.

Day 1: Our first stop will be the “Grand Can-Bin.” They are the world’s largest processor of empty cans—over 10 million cans per year. The cans are crushed into metal cubes and sold to countries around the world to be used in the manufacture of cars, guided missiles, and drones. Their two biggest customers are China and Iran. We are proud of the contribution they make to our state’s economy.

Day 2: “The international Refrigerator Museum.” The museum tracks the evolution, and cultural foundations of the refrigerator. As far as we know the refrigerator was invented by Eskimos who actually lived in their refrigerators! The first modern day refrigerator was called the “ice box.” It was a box filled with ice and insulated by cats tied to the outside to keep out the heat. It was cruel and it was quickly banned by the lobbying efforts what were called “cat ladies.” Currently, the state of the art refrigerator is called”The Nordic King.” It will preserve a slice of baloney for a year and offers a beautiful display of the “Northern Lights” when you open the door.

Well, there’s a preview of what’s in store. We’re staying at a different motel every night! Our first night out we’re staying at “Coroner’s Rest.” Google says it’s “a cut above” the other local motels.

Little Bill: Dad, can I stay with Grandma instead of going on the trip?

Dad: What? After all the planning I’ve done? No way you ungrateful little pest! Shut up, or you’ll go where Mom went.

Little Bill: I want Mom!

Dad: Ok, you little twerp.

They went outside and Dad popped open the trunk of the car. There was Mom, She was gagged and bound with duct tape and writhing around, trying to get loose.

Little Bill: Gee Dad, Mom didn’t get far.

Lucinda was looking out the window and saw the whole thing. She called the police while Did was wrapping duct tape around struggling Little Bill’s head. The police arrived in minutes, freed Mom, and arrested Dad.

Dad (holding up his handcuffed wrists): We’re never going on vacation again you ungrateful bastards!

POSTSCRIPT

Mom and the kids went to Disneyland. Dad went to prison. He got four years for false imprisonment.

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

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

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Prodiorthosis

Posted on September 3, 2024 | Leave a comment

Prodiorthosis (pro-di-or-tho’-sis): A statement intended to prepare one’s audience for something shocking or offensive. An extreme example of protherapeia.

Did I ever tell you the joke about what caused the Great Depression? Here goes! “What caused the Great Depression? A lack of comedians.” Ha ha!

We don’t have that problem here, but you’re all going to be standing in the unemployment line by the end of the month. My great-grandfather founded “No Phew Shoe” shoe deodorizing inserts and I “losted” it. We always competed with Dr. Scholl, but I became complacent—we stuck with rose petals when he started injecting charcoal into his inserts. He had his picture taken in a white lab coat to label his shoe deodorizers, while we stuck with “Stinky Pinkie the little toe with an attitude,” as a logo, never testing it with our customers as time went by. But, I should’ve known when we had T-shirts made with Stinky Pinkie on them, and we only sold two, that Stinky Pinkie was a bust. I just didn’t “toe” the line. But, what was worse was my embezzling. For that, I’ll probably go to prison.

The women! The beautiful women! I kept them happy with fake pearls and used cars, microwave ovens, and Tupperware. I took them on lavish vacations to places like Seaside Heights, New Jersey; Liberty Bell, Philadelphia; and the General Motors Plant, Linden, New Jersey. I took my favorites to High Point State Park in New Jersey. We would have romantic sunset picnics with clam dip with Ruffles potato chips washed down warm “Yoo-Hoo.” Memorable!

Slowly, but surely, I chipped away at No Phew’s profits and capital. When the casinos opened in Atlantic City, that was the end. I’d fill a plastic grocery bag with hundred-dollar bills, jump in my Cadillac, and head south singing “Viva Las Vegas” and “Beautiful Loser.” I never won anything, but wow, did they take care of me: free drinks and food, valet parking, VIP Lounge, 100s of complimentary key rings to give to my friends. I played the wheel of fortune for $500 per spin. I’d lose an average of $5,000 per night. I loved the attention. I even had free caviar one time!

But now, my shenanigans have landed you all in the unemployment line. With your experience making deodorizing shoe inserts, you should have no trouble finding a new job. As a token of appreciation for all you’ve done, everybody gets a free key ring! Line up to get your key rings!

His employees surged forward, pushing him out the open window behind him. The fall broke his neck. No charges were filed and the factory burned to the ground two days later.

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

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

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Proecthesis

Posted on September 2, 2024 | Leave a comment

Proecthesis (pro-ek’-the-sis): When, in conclusion, a justifying reason is provided.

I had a perfectly normal childhood growing up in suburban New Jersey, about twenty miles from New York City. My father was a muskrat trapper. He trapped muskrats in the swamp around the small regional airport near where we lived. He got up every morning around five to check his traps. When he caught a muskrat he would beat it to death with piece of lead pipe. Then, he would drop it in the gym bag that he carried specifically for that purpose. He had gotten the gym bag at the local thrift store and it had the name of our local high school stenciled on each side.

He would throw the gym bag in his car’s trunk and head home to skin and butcher the muskrats. He sold the meat as dog food, mostly to owners of hunting dogs, and to a couple of butcher shops The furs were sold to “Doggy” Norton. He’d gotten his nickname because he had a big black nose like a dog’s and he panted, often with his tongue hanging out. But he was a good guy. He always gave us a touch above market price for our pelts.

To prepare the furs for sale, Dad would make cuts around the muskrat’s tail, and up and down its hind legs.Then I’d peel the skin from around the legs and tail and pull the skin off like a glove, turning the muskrat inside out. Sometimes, when a skin was hard to remove, I’d have to use pliers to get a grip. Anyway, then, Dad would finish up by pulling the skin off over the muskrat’s head and scraping the hide on a board. He would gut and clean the carcass later.

We were a great father son team. Muskrat pelts were with a lot back then, and we made a good living trapping them. There’s nothing in my upbringing as the son of a muskrat trapper and a nearly silent mother (who I have nearly forgotten), that would lead me to believe I would become inflicted with sticky note mania.

Things started getting strange with the invention of sticky notes. I started with simple reminders for myself and others. If I had to make a phone call, I’d put a note on the phone. Ir I had to go grocery shopping, I’d put a note on the refrigerator. Then, it got weird: I learned to write backwards so I could read sticky notes in the mirror, stuck my forehead, maybe reminding me to brush my teeth. Then, I started writing gibberish on them and sticking them everywhere. So, my apartment’s walls were soon covered with sticky notes. Then, my bedspread. Next, the dashboard of my car. I met other people like me. We would get together and plaster each other with sticky notes. After doing that, I decided I wanted to wear sticky notes. I covered my denim jacket with sticky notes. I admit, I glued them on. I looked like a big canary when I wore my jacket. I got numerous compliments. A Hong Kong garment factory named “Spring Luck Tailor, called me. They wanted to mass-produce my “sticky note coat” and would pay me $1,000,000 for my permission to exclusively do so! I love sticky notes. So what? Maybe I can help other people use their neuroses, and even psychoses, to make a lot of money, like Elon Musk or Norman the Lunatic

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

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

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Prolepsis

Posted on September 1, 2024 | 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.

Fluffy was my cat . I had adopted him from the cat lady down the road. She had about 45 cats with kittens coming all the time. She had a 12×25 foot kitty litter box in her yard. It was heated with an ice-melting ramp that connected to it off the back porch. So, the cats were good to “go” all four seasons of the year. The cats’ water bowl was a kiddie pool, as was their food dish. She fed them “Fancy Feast” canned whitefish pate. The smell of fish was overwhelming. You could pick up the scent a quarter-mile away.

The Cat Lady told me that Fluffy was a little bit “off?” He had been stepped on by the mailman, and now, he staggered a little when he walked. He was black with one white foot—his right-rear foot. He had huge paws and the cat lady said he probably was some kind of Siberian Forest Cat. The big paws make it easy to walk on snow, like snowshoes.

Fluffy was the world’s best cat! We were partners. Friends for life. Fluffy had the sweetest disposition. On the drive home he climbed on my lap and purred. When we got home, I fed him. He gobbled up his food. I had gotten him a kitty bed, but he jumped out each time I put him in. I found a cardboard box. No go. He climbed into my grandmother’s soup tureen that was decorating the center of my dining room table. That was Fluffy’s bed from then on. As a special treat, every once in a while, I would warm the tureen in the microwave. Fluffy loved that.

So, it seemed everything would be fine. When I went downstairs the next morning, all the pictures of my family had been knocked off mantle. The glass was smashed on the floor. But that was the end of it. He never damaged anything again. But, he did develop one bad habit: drinking out of the toilet bowl. As a male living alone, I was really bad about putting down the toilet seat, so it made the toilet bowl fair game for Fluffy. I tried to develop a “seat down” habit, but I wasn’t succeeding.

Then one morning I didn’t see Fluffy around—he usually slept with me and came downstairs with me for breakfast. I had to pee. I went into the bathroom, l lifted up the toilet seat lid. There was Fluffy. His head was stuck under the bidet nozzle and he was drowned. In a panic I flushed the toilet. His limp body just fluttered in the water currents as he was sucked toward the drain, but couldn’t fit down it. He was going nowhere. I had a couple shots of straight vodka and went to the laundry room and got a mesh sock-drying bag. I went back to the bathroom and pulled fluffy out of the toilet by his tail and stuffed him in the mesh bag and zipped it up.

He was soaking wet. I wanted to dry him in the dryer before I turned him to ashes in the incinerator in the back yard. I set him on “Longer Dry,” pressed the button, and waited.

I heard Fluffy yowling inside the dryer. I opened the door and was going crazy trying to claw his way out of the mesh bag. I was shocked and ecstatic at the same time. I just don’t know what to say. I think this falls into the category of the paranormal.

I have purchased a motorized toilet seat cover. It automatically lowers the toilet seat one minute after flushing, or when it detects movement adjacent to the toilet.

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

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Protherapeia

Posted on August 31, 2024 | 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.

Dad: A little rain falls in everybody’s lives. I counted my chickens before they hatched. I am crying over spilled milk. The shit has hit the fan.

“Find Your Asshole Dad” has found me. The new technology has found me. You have 11 new brothers and sisters. Yes, 11. Thank God your mother’s dead! Her ashes are probably swirling in her urn right now.

Patty: Dad, you are beyond pig shit. All these years. You cheated on Mom at least 11 times. While we were happily growing up you were banging your way across Pennsylvania., or wherever.

Dad: Patty, your language is shocking. How many times have I told you to clean it up?

Ed: Look who’s talking! King Scumbag himself! We all knew mother hated you and now we know why. I always thought it was because you ignored everything she said except “time for dinner.”

Dad: Back off or you’ll get the stick! I’ve invited your new siblings over next Saturday for a family reunion. They’re all driving their own cars, so we don’t have to arrange for transportation. Two of them are classmates of yours! Susie Fletcher and Christine Jarvis.

Ed: Oh my God. I’m gonna puke! Of course you didn’t notice, but I’ve been going steady with Susie for a year. Now I know why she suddenly broke up with me! You monster!

Dad: I’m sorry son, but that’s the way the cookie crumbles. What am I, a genetic engineer? I don’t know how this stuff works. I just just played around, and bingo, babies—babies I’m just finding out about.

Patty and Ed helped their Dad plan the barbecue. As the guests arrived, Dad gave each one a big hug and introduced them to Patty and Ed. When all the guests had arrived, Ed stood up on a lawn chair and yelled “Now!” Susie and Patty ran at Dad who was sitting in an Adirondack chair. They each had a roll of duct tape and rapidly duct-taped Dad to the chair. He was yelling for help, so they stuck a paper towel in his mouth to shut him up. Then, as planned, the guests lined up. Each one took turns hitting each of his cheeks with a stainless steel spatula that Ed had purchased on Amazon for the event. After hitting Dad, as planned, each guest gave a brief speech about their feelings for him, which were universally negative.

Dad: How can you all be so cruel? All these years I didn’t even know you existed.

Patty: That’s the point.

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

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

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Protrope

Posted on August 30, 2024 | Leave a comment

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

”Get the hell out of bed or I‘ll blow your lazy ass away!” It was my father standing in my bedroom door pointing a ,45 at me. He walked across the room and stuck the .45 into my back. I was on my side in a fetal position. Suddenly, I woke up! I was ‘only’ dreaming. My father was poking me in the back with a broom handle. “Goddamnit, Larry, get up! The bus will be here in 10 minutes and I’m not driving you if you miss it!” My father was pissed. It was Wednesday and I hadn’t been to school yet that week. I had a problem.

I told my father I’d get up when he left my room. He left and I threw off the covers and carefully got out of bed. I had a boil on my butt that was getting bigger every day. It started out as small as a mosquito bite and now it was as big as a strawberry and it was painful to sit on it.

I was too embarrassed to show it to my parents—especially my Mom. I couldn’t imagine pulling down my pants in front of my Mom and having her touch my boil—it gave me the willies just to think about it. Yech! And my father—God only knows what he would do—-probably get his electric drill and drill a drain hole in my butt. I just couldn’t do it.

Because of the boil, riding the school bus I had to stand so it wouldn’t make my butt hurt. Everybody would look at me and the teen-aged driver “Brakes” Bentley would yell at me to sit the “heck” down or he would pull over and throw me off the bus. He kept his promise, and I was late to school. I had to stand in school too. I told my teacher I was standing for leg cramps, raising money for “Crush the Cramps,” I told them .25 cents was donated in my name for every hour I stood in the back of the room. My teachers believed me! Then, my boil had a big growth spurt.

It had become the size of a half-grapefruit riding on my left butt cheek. I turned to the internet and Google to see if I could find a remedy: “How to sit painlessly on a boil.” I got several hits but the most promising was “Boil Bumpers.” They were cushions that “Naturally mold to your boil and cushion it like a down-filled nest.” The Bumper used your body’s heat to make the pillow fit to your boil’s own unique shape. I cleaned out my bank account and bought a boil bumper. It arrived 2 days later. The instructions were simple: shove it down the back of your underpants, or pull your underpants up around it and get dressed.

The Butt Bumper was wonderful. I was sitting again! I knew I could beat this thing by riding it out. But then, all hell broke loose! My boil blew up to the size of a half basketball. My pillow wouldn’t fit any more, not to mention my pants. I talked my sister into buying me a pair of pants three sizes too big at the Salvation Army Thrift Store. The pants fit over my boil, but I needed a belt. My father asked me what the hell was going on with my pants. I told him I was experimenting with using big pants as a backpack substitute. He was impressed.

Then, it happened: my boil blew. My sister thought it would be funny to put a thumbtack in my bed. She didn’t know about my boil and the possible consequences of what she was doing—she thought it was a harmless prank. I rolled onto the tack in my sleep. I was awakened by a hissing sound. It was air being expelled from my boil where the tack had penetrated it. It smelled like Kentucky Fried Chicken and took about twenty minutes to deflate.

I discovered later that I had had a “false boil.” It filled with air, rather than pus. I couldn’t understand the technicalities, but I was grateful that it ended the way it did. In a way, I have my sister to thank. Being punctured when it was, kept the boil from growing up my back, and eventually, turning me into a balloon.

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

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

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Proverb

Posted on August 29, 2024 | Leave a comment

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

“Good things come to those who wait.” I thought it was true. I first ran across this proverb when I was fifteen. It seemed authoritative. It seemed true. It seemed like the easiest way possible to get what I wanted. I tried it with the school bus. All I had to do was wait and it would come. It was a good thing to get a ride to school. It confirmed for me that waiting had a sort of magical power, and the longer I waited, the bigger the prize. Before I had a chance to think of something worth waiting a really long time for, I had numerous lesser experience. For example, waiting for my mother to make me breakfast every day—scrambled eggs and toast show up at my place at the table shortly after I sat down—two scrambled eggs and two pieces of toast, topped by orange juice—4 good things! I was always glad I waited. Then, one time I was standing in line to get into a Kraftwerk concert. It was a huge line and I was around the middle. I had been waiting around two hours, when suddenly, the line surged forward and I was pushed from behind. I stumbled over crack in the sidewalk and grabbed the person in front of me to keep from falling on my face. She spun around and yelled “What the fu*k d you think you’re doing pervert!” I explained what happened and she understood. We sat together at the concert. In this case, I got two good things from waiting—a great concert and my future wife Melanie—Yes! My future wife! I was on a roll!

As I got older, waiting started to lose its reliability as a passage to good things. I first realized this when I started to get a receding hairline. I knew when the waiting was over, it wasn’t going to be such a good thing. In fact, I never went totally bald. Instead I have a pathway of naked flesh going down the middle of my head with a clump of hair on either side.—sort of like Bozo the Clown.

Then there’s my father. He had several heart attacks and I was waiting for him to die. He was very wealthy and I wanted to get a piece of his wealth when he died. I waited for that good thing for five years. I took him shopping, I cooked his meals, paid his bills, all the time waiting for him to die. Finally, he died. At the reading of the will I was referred to as a “smarmy con.” He left me his ride mower. He left my sister $4,00,000. I’m contesting the will, but my attorney says I don’t have a chance. At best, I may be able to get my sister to give me $1,000,000.

I’ve been waiting one year to hear from my sister, re. my proposal. I’m currently looking for a new proverb to guide my life. I’m tending toward “Fortune favors the bold.” I’m thinking of kidnapping my sister’s cat Ramses. He never goes outside, though. I’m thinking of visiting my sister and bringing a gym bag. I’ll coax Ramses up on my lap and when my sister goes to the kitchen, I’ll stuff Ramses in the bag, yell “goodbye,” and run out the front door, leaving the door open. My sister, seeing front door open, will think that Ramses escaped through the door, never suspecting me.

I did it the next day.

When I got home (I took a bus) after kidnapping the cat, my sister was waiting for me. She grabbed the gym bag and pulled out Ramses. she gave me $500 and told me to leave her alone or she would have me arrested. I yelled “Fortune favors the bold!” I jumped in her Mercedes and took off, leaving my home and family behind. I got as far as Delaware Water Gap and was nailed by the NJ State Police. The first thing they asked me was “Ok, Buddy, where’s the cat?” Now I knew I was screwed.

I had played with fire, now I was getting burned.

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

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Prozeugma

Posted on August 28, 2024 | 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.

Before I got ‘corrected’ I bought things impulsively that I didn’t need or couldn’t afford, or both. The internet was like a Satanic voice calling me to buy. Crazy disparate objects and intangibles. Big things, little things, cheap things, expensive things, and in between, in my shopping cart, in the mail.

FEDEX and UPS drivers could find their way to my house with their eyes closed. Some days there was a cue in the driveway. While the the drivers waited, they would get out of their trucks and smoke, and talk, and play frisbee on my lawn. I would tell them to “keep a box” as a tip. I bought so much stuff, I did not know what was in the boxes, and I didn’t care. Whenever I opened a box, it was like Christmas—the contents were always a surprise. One time I “got” a drone. I had trouble figuring out how to set it up and use it, but with patience and practice, I figured it out. I used it to spy on my neighbors. I would hover about 100 feet above their hot tub. They would just sit there with the water bubbling around them and then it looked like they were almost always arguing. Then, there was only the husband sitting there all alone. Then, my neighbor shot down my drone and that was that. Once I opened a box with holes poked in the sides, and there was a baby raccoon in it. I named him Norbert and put him outside with some table scraps in a bowl. The next morning I looked outside and saw Norbert curled up asleep on the porch next to the empty bowl. He woke up and I let him in for awhile. I got him a double dish—one side water, the other side food. I put him outside at night. Once I saw his picture on a wanted poster for rummaging in garbage cans. I don’t care what he does on his own time. When we’re together he is a perfect gentleman. There are thousands more box-opening stories, but these two should give you an idea of how whacked-out I am.

Eventually, I had so far exceeded my credit limits on my 15 charge cards, a collection agency was put on my tail. I got phone calls. I got letters. I got weird-looking men knocking on my door. They all threatened to destroy my credit rating if I didn’t pay up. I didn’t pay up, but I made a deal. I taken by the credit agency to Silicon Valley to a tech company called “Thwart.” There, I had a micro-chip implanted in the back of my right hand (I’m right-handed). If I say or write the words “borrow,” “loan,” “credit,” or any of their derivatives or synonyms, my hand twitches uncontrollably and I receive mild pulsing shocks for two minutes. I tried it out right after I got it. Let me tell you, my borrowing days are over. I tried to hire a surrogate, but it didn’t work. The hand-chip caught me.

Next week, I am going to go to Argentina to have the implant removed. My guess is “Thwart” will detect the removal and the chase will be on again. After Argentina, I’m headed for Switzerland where I’ll have a total body alteration done—my height, my weight—everything. There, I can have my US passport altered as well, including a change of name, guaranteed to be valid and pass through passport control no questions asked. All my expenses are being paid by “Credit Crashers,” an NGO located in North Korea.

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

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

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Pysma

Posted on August 27, 2024 | 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.

“Why is my hair brown? Why do boats float? Why do knives cut? Why is sugar sweet? Why do things explode? Where do trees come from?” These are just a few of the questions my daughter asked while we had breakfast. It happened every day. Non-stop questions. She was a girl. What the hell was she doing asking all those questions? It drove me so crazy, I even inquired with Dr. Formbee whether I could have her larynx removed so she couldn’t talk any more. He told me I WAS crazy and I better shut up with talk like that—that my daughter Scarlet was a bright, inquisitive girl that deserved my love and respect.

I wracked my brain. I had to find a way. I considered duct tape, but that didn’t show love and respect. I invented a “jaw jammer.” It was a bungee chord that went under the chin and clamped her mouth shut. But, that didn’t show love and respect. Last, I had heard people say “Put a sock in it” when they wanted a person to be quiet. But, like my remedies, it didn’t show love and respect.

Then, I got an idea that DID show love and respect. I bought Scarlet an Encyclopedia Brittanica. Now, when she asked me a question, almost before the words were out of her mouth, I would tell her “Look it up in your encyclopedia.” She would go look it up and then come back and recite the answer from memory. This wasn’t an improvement over what we had, but at least she got an answer. This all happened before desktop computers were invented, or I just would’ve told Scarlet to “Google ir.” But, I didn’t have that luxury.

Eventually, she came up with a question-answer game. It was a deck of cards with the cards having a question on one side and its answer on the other. It was a two-person n game. The “Dealer” would hold up a card with the question facing the “Player.” The Player had to answer the question correctly to continue playing. When the Player couldn’t answer, or answered wrong, the Dealer would pass the deck and become the Player. The game was called “Smarty Pants.” The game took off and the rights were purchased by Milton-Bradly for $500,000 plus royalties. Eventually, Smarty Pants became a popular Tv game show with the cards turned around—with answers showing and the questions were guessed.

Scarlet became too busy with the business to constantly ask questions. I, on the other hand, have written a book titled “Shinola!” It shows how to make money from things that would otherwise be a pain in the ass. Of course, Scarlet is my key success story that undergirds the book and makes it credible. There are a number of easy steps you can take to find a niche you can profit from with “your pain in the ass.” The book is self-published on Amazon. Sale are slow, but I’m sure I’ll sell a book sooner or later.

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

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

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Ratiocinatio

Posted on August 26, 2024 | 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}.]

Why did I let him do it? Why did I stand by and let it happen? I guess it was because I loved him. I thought it was the right thing to do.

We grew up together. We went through school together. In our senior year we fell in love—deeply in love. We spent all our free time together and we missed each other when we had to be apart. We decided to go to college together. We went to UC Santa Barbara where he majored in electrical engineering and I majored in English Literature. These were divergent interests, but it didn’t matter. We knew he’d make a lot of money and I would do a great job of reading bed time stories to our children. We got married when we graduated and stayed on so he could complete a Master’s Degree. I worked in the library cataloguing books and he had a teaching assistantship. Between us we did ok.

The years passed quickly. He got a job designing electric implements—everything from lawnmowers to cars. I was a devoted housewife and had two babies—Rhonda and Yolonda. They’re in college now. But, when they were five and six, respectively, Cliff came home said he had a surprise—to come outside and see. There was a tattered black velvet recliner with different-sized full moons printed all over it. We had no room for it in the living room. So, with much effort we carried it down into the basement.

Cliff sat in the chair and leaned back. A little foot rest popped up. Cliff said it was incredibly comfortable and closed his eyes. As soon as he closed his eyes he started convulsing and his head flashed red and blue—almost like a strobe. I was terrified. I thought Cliff would die. I didn’t know what to do. Suddenly, Cliff opened his eyes and he was back to normal. “I just witnessed the Battle of Gettysburg! I was there. It was horrendous, but exciting. I’m lucky to be alive!” I believed him. He never lied. “What’s next?” I asked. him. “I don’t know,” he said. Well, Cliff figured it out and decided to keep riding the chair. Cliff’s chair riding went on for years. The chair wouldn’t work for me and we kept our kids away from it.

Unfortunately, the chair chose where Cliff would go, and it wasn’t nice. It was to battle fields throut history. Cliff seemed immortal when he travelled into harm’s way—from the Battle of Marathon to Waterloo. He witnessed hundreds. He developed a taste for war, started wearing camo and bought several firearms. He built a shooting range in the basement and joined the NRA. He bought a set of walkie-talkies and we used them to communicate between us, using military protocols. He called me “Baby 1” and I called him “Big Guy.”

Then, I called hm to dinner one night and he didn’t respond. I went down in the basement and found him laid out in the chair, dead.he had on weird looking boots covered with reddish orange mud. His camo fatigues were torn on one leg and covered with dirt too. His face was covered with camo cream paint.

The Coroner couldn’t determine his cause of death. Analysis of the mud on his boots found that it was likely from Vietnam. I went to the Vietnam war Memorial. I found his name in the directory dated 1968. We got married in1980. I couldn’t stop crying. How did this happen? Why did this happen? I will never know, and if it wasn’t for our two children, I might believe it never happened.

I burned the chair and will remain in mourning for Cliff for the rest of my life.

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

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

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Repotia

Posted on August 25, 2024 | 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.

Ed, here, is in the Guinness Book of World Record for greatest number of marriages in the shortest period of time. He takes pride in the fact he’s called the “Annulment King” and that there’s a country Western song about him titled “Time to Get Married.” The song’s chorus is “I’ve had 22, now it’s time for you. Don’t take a second look, we’re headed for the record book.”

And here he is today, with Joyce, headed for the record book. More than likely, they won’t be married more than a week, won’t consummate the marriage, and will head directly to Billy’s lawyer for the usual turn of events. I asked Joyce why she was doing this and she told me Billy paid her $500 in cash; she was behind on her student loan payments and really needed the cash. She had met Billy in the bus station when she was leaving town for a fresh start. Billy laid out the $500 deal and she took it. They went straight to town hall, bought a license, and made the arrangements for the wedding. And what arrangements they made!

The coolers of beer up and down the aisles, the artificial flowers from the Dollar Store, and Joyce’s wedding dress—the last one in her size on the rack at the Salvation Army Thrift Store. The dress has a story to tell—turn around Joyce. Can you see the small hole with an almost purple stain around it? That’s why they gave the dress to Joyce for free. The previous owner was shot in the back on her wedding day by the guy she had jilted 2 days before. It was a mess, but she survived. Her jilted lover had used a pellet gun and the projectile had barely broken the skin. Take a bow Joyce!

And Billy, you’re about to take another spin in the revolving door of your marriages. I asked Billy; “Why? Why do you do this? It makes you look crazy.” He told me he is ab addict. That he can’t help himself. That he is addicted to weddings. The gravity of the promises made pull him back every time, and the prospect of making them again, pushes him to divorce.” I can understand that Billy—but why don’t you try to stick with Joyce for a week and a half.” That would be a record for you. Ha! Ha!

Well, you two are married now. Let’s toast these two and then grab a hot dog off the grill before they burn. Here’s to you Billy and Joyce—May the hours you spend as Mr. And Mrs. Pracket go by quickly, and may you go your separate ways in peace.

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

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

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

Restrictio

Posted on August 24, 2024 | 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 was swimming across the Atlantic Ocean. I was surrounded by foam. I was on my back. Well actually, I was taking a bath. Almost everything in my life got translated into something else. I don’t know why or how it happens. Even before I could speak it would happen. My car seat was one of the half-million dandelions decorating our yard. I did not know what rhey were, but I was riding in a giant one to the grocery store—I didn’t know that’s what is was at the time. All I knew was that it was filled with smells—different smells as we moved through it.

When I got older and went to school, my desk became an operating table. I would get my fellow students to lay on it and I would “cut” them open. I would use my blunt-tipped scissors, and I thought I would never got n trouble: I would do my surgeries after class let out, so there was no disruption. I had a problem on bring your pet to class day, though. I fatally injured Janice Well’s parakeet. The blunt scissors were too much for it, a delicate bird. My father bought Janice a new bird and all was forgotten. I was suspended from school for three days.

One day, right after I’d gotten my driver’s license, I was driving down Main Street in the family car. Suddenly, it became an Army tank with a steering wheel. There was a brick wall around the playground that we had to climb over if we wanted to use it after hours to play softball. I would knock it down with my tank! I would be a hero. I made a sharp left and floored it. When I hit the wall my head hit the windshield, steam came billowing out from under the hood, which was all crumpled up. The tank had turned back into a car. What bad luck! My father showed up and ripped the antenna off the car and started whacking my butt with it. He was cautioned by the police who had showed up. He stopped whipping me and we got into a cab and rode home.

He took me to a psychiatrist. The psychiatrist said I had an occidental psyche that required medication to “round” it out. I was prescribed little yellow pills called “Reformitol” that were supposed to round out my psyche—to balance me out. The medication made me want to perform tricks. I learned how to balance a beach ball on my nose, clap my hands, and say “Oowak, Oowak.” I would wear feathers and peck out my name with my nose on an alphabet panel while saying “Buk, Buk.” I would sleep on a chair all day, but wake up when my mother shook a bag of treats—potato chips.

This was all well and good, but I felt like I was losing touch with my true self. So, I started dropping my Reformitol in the toilet instead of my mouth. In a few days, things were transforming again. The cardboard wardrobe in the basement became a shower stall. I would take off my clothes, get in, and sing the only bathing song I knew: “Rub-a-Dub-Dub-Dub Three Men in a Tub.” One time, in English class, I thought my pants were on fire. I jumped out of my seat and yelled at Miss Montgomery “I’m burnin’ for you baby!” She said “I’m flattered, but I’m going to have to call campus security.”

Well, that was it. I was institutionalized. Hell Brook Manor was good for me. My therapist, Mr. Corny, taught Mr how to become a recluse to avoid having episodes in public, In fact, he convinced me that I should never leave my home. If I volunteered to be a guinea pig for a major drug manufacturer, I would be paid a hefty stipend and could fulfill my duties on Zoom.

I haven’t been outside my home for three blissful years. Not only that, I’ve been alone! I have returned to my original self. First they are, then they’re not. My days and nights are filled with transformations. I believe what I see is really there. Who’s to say? It depends on what you mean by “really” and “there.”

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

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

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

Sarcasmus

Posted on August 23, 2024 | Leave a comment

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

Your brain isn’t the size of a pea, because you don’t have a bran. Where’d you get those shorts? A dumpster or off a crack den floor? Your mother looks dead. Is that a nose or a mountain? Who taught you how to write? A blender? What’s that smell? Oh, I’m sorry, I didn’t see you standing there. Your dog looks like a rag with legs. Your hair is abandoning your head. What’s it scared of? Are those your shoes or x-country skis? If you get any fatter you’ll turn into a hippo.

I have no friends. I live alone. Nobody has ever loved me, not even my mother—she just gave me the basics: food, shelter, and clothing. I’ve never loved anybody either. I came close with a deaf girl until she learned to read lips. I can’t stop insulting people. My first word as a child was “asshole.” I said it to my Sunday School teacher. She screamed and I was driven home with a strip of masking tape over my mouth. I tore it off as soon as I got out of the car, and calmly said “asshole.” The driver said: “Have fun dancing in Hell with Satan you little imp!” I said “asshole” again over my shoulder as I walked up the sidewalk to my front door. My mother was waiting. She dragged me in the door by my ear. I was wearing short pants and she went into the kitchen, grabbed a meat tenderizing hammer and whacked my naked legs. It hurt, but all I could think of was developing a longer list of insults. I was nine years old.

By the time I was a teenager I had 100s of insults. I dreamt in insults. I learned how to target my insults toward people who were literally weak and wouldn’t fight back: 98-pound weaklings, elderly people, chronically ill people, fat tubs of lard, amputees, and people wearing casts. It was an insult playground. A non-stop source of delight and causing undeserved pain. I said to a guy in a cast:” It looks like you’ve been cast as bumbling idiot”; to a guy with asthma: “Why don’t you take a breather numb nuts?”

Then, one day I realized I was sick—mentally sick.. It happened when I told a little girl wearing leg braces that she looked like she had robot legs. Her mother angrily asked: “What the hell is wrong with you?” I sad: “People like you, you bleach blond bozo.” Meanwhile, the little girl was sobbing so she could hardly breathe. I ran away.

I hid out in my house for two days, resolving to do something about my insult fixation. I saw Don Rickles on TV. He made mountains of money insulting people. So, I toned down my insults and started appearing in pubs and in small clubs. I insulted my audience members—all in “good fun.” My manager got me a permanent gig in Las Vegas, and I’ve been there ever since. Now I’m wealthy enough to let my hair down and insult the hell out of a cadre of “absorbers”; a group of people who I insult and pay quite well for “taking it.” Sometimes, I put on a disguise and hit the streets for a day of insulting people. Last week I insulted Cher and she tasered me. I had said to her “What, are those boobs or tennis balls in a bag?”

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

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

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Scesis Onomaton

Posted on August 22, 2024 | Leave a comment

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

Green camo, brown cam, grey camo, yellow camo. Blah, blah, blah. What is everybody hiding from? I see people posing as bushes, in bushes and under bushes. Great way to spend a Saturday afternoon—underneath a bush wearing clothes printed with photos of bushes. I can see these people because they don’t know what they’re doing and have never really needed camouflage except for turkey hunting, and maybe, deer hunting with a bow and arrow. Beyond that, it might as well be a fashion trend enabled by people who like to “blend in,” but that’s hard to do when you’re leaning against your truck or in the produce section of the grocery store. Standing by a bin of avocados, or in the bakery, you still don’t blend in. It is so funny to see a person squatting by a picnic table trying to blend in. But it’s not funny.

“Blending” is the result of a spineless desire to go with flow and conform, and especially, not stand out. As the Blending movement has grown, it has taken root in social reality as the norm—if you don’t blend in, you run the risk of being ostracized and put in the “Federal Camp for Hippies, Poets, and Anarchists.” Outside the camp, things go smoothly, everybody gets along, but there’s no creativity—nothing new, bold, or revolutionary. When I was a kid, something new and revolutionary came to market almost every week.

How did this happen? It was the 3-D movie “Camouflaged!” it was about these three kids who were skinny dipping and had their clothes stolen by the class bully. To get home without getting in trouble, they had to camouflage their private parts with sticks, and vines, and mud, and grass, and moss, and leaves. Naked and camouflaged, nobody noticed. The kids just walked down the street barefoot. Then Dexter, the smart one, noticed something: “You are all naked and camouflaged, acting differently from what you feel, using euphemisms, even lying, to hide yourselves.” Instead of seeing that as a bad thing, the people saw it was a good thing: no risk, no blame, a tranquil trajectory to the grave.

So, “blending in” has become the highest aspiration. If you can’t or won’t, bye bye. As the movement has gained momentum, the scope of camouflage has been been expanded, and the sphere of blending in has widened—you can be the real quarter panel of a pickup truck, a light pole, a door, a shopping cart, a refrigerator, and a million other things. Life has become complicated. For example, yesterday I sat on the couch and injured my sister’s wrist. She was so well-blended I mistook her for the couch! This quality of blending in is admirable, but, you have watch out what you blend into. Two weeks ago an 80-year-old man camouflaged as a white pine tree was sawed in half by a logger. The logger was wearing mandatory ear protection, so he didn’t hear the man’s screams.

Someday, this madness will come to an end. Until then, I have adopted a clever ruse: I am camouflaged as a person who isn’t camouflaged. I am camouflaged as myself.

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

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

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

Sententia

Posted on August 21, 2024 | Leave a comment

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

“Don’t count your eggs,” Wisdom of Chickens 2:96

There are countless complications in life. Just when you think you know what’s going on you crash your car into a light pole, or the zipper on your pants pops open during a job interview for school crossing guard, or you slip on a patch of ice and hit your head and loose your memory for a week. I’m sure one or more of these things have happened to you.

Not counting your eggs is a helpful remedy. You just know you have eggs, but you resist counting them.This act of resistance will liberate you from knowing how many you have. It eliminates the shamefulness of desire. If you don’t know how many eggs you have, you can’t plot out a week of egg consumption, for example: boiled on Monday, fried on Tuesday, scrambled on Wednesday, poached on Thursday, soft-boiled on Friday, eggs Benedict on Saturday, Shirred eggs on Sunday. Clear. To the point. In line, 1, 2, 3. No fuss. No muss. Seven eggs. Seven days. Expectations set and fulfilled. But then, your brother Nick shows up for breakfast. You try to push dry cereal on him, but he refuses it, asking for an egg instead. You start to shake. You almost can’t hold the spatula as you make him a fried egg to order: sunny-side up.

As I pushed the spatula under the egg and let it slide off onto my brother’s dish, for a brief flicker, I was going to kill him. A slam on the head with my skillet would’ve sent him off to the coroner while I was sent off to jail. A voice in my head said “No.” I listened to it and put the skillet down, back on the stove. But in my rage, at any rate, I had already retaliated: I had put a tiny shell fragment in my brother’s egg. When I saw him bite down on it, make face, and spit it out, I felt vindicated, but also, sad. My 7-egg fixation had blinded me to the potential for chance events in each and every moment. If we “count” our eggs we will fall victim to painful random intercessions, some inducing rage and desire to murder a fellow human being. Not all of us have “little” voices in our heads that divert us from evil. My little voices help me all the time. My little voices follow on my sayings—they sort of wake them up my and give them something to say, usually “yes” or “no.” But lately, the little voices don’t need a saying to reflect on and they just blurt out observations and commands. Today when I was taking my daily shower a voice said: “Your.mother wants to see you naked.” It was crystal clear and spoken with resolve. I thought for a minute how the voice knew this. After all, he was in my head! So, in this case I failed to comply with the voice. I felt guilty, but I’ve forged on with a more robust sense of agency, but I’m not going to count my eggs. I will not be confused or frustrated by life’s randomness. Unattached, I will just eat one egg at a time. But I will not desire it until it’s in the frying pan. Is that possible?

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

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

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

Simile

Posted on August 20, 2024 | Leave a comment

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

It was a lie like the one my mother told me about who my father was. She told me my father was Richard Nixon. They had met at a bar in a Washington, DC hotel when she was there at a meeting of “Mothers in Favor of War.” He seduced her by saying “I’m not a crook” over and over again, dinking gin. My mother was drinking beer and got drunk. They went to her room where I was conceived without her husband’s (aka my dad’s) consent or knowledge. 1 was sworn to secrecy on my patrimony by my mother. If anybody found out I was Richard Nixon’s son, it would mean the end of his career, and possibly, my life.

Then, I found out some things about the story of my conception were only more or less true. She had gotten drunk at the bar, but the rest of the story is a lie. There was no Richard Nixon, there was no sex with Richard Nixon. There was just her wandering through the lobby looking for the ladies’ room and stumbling into the men’s room by mistake. There was a man mopping the floor and he “sweet talked” her. They went into one of the toilet stalls and had a “nice time” together, and then, he went back to mopping the floor and she went to her room and watched TV until she passed out. The last thing she remembers from that night was Johnny Carson wearing a turban.

I was totally weirded out and vowed to find my mop-swinging father. My mother didn’t want me to find him and wouldn’t help me. So, I hired a private detective. His name was Magnuts DI. I paid him the flat missing persons rate: $2,000. Two days later I got a call. He had found my father. He was in prison, sentenced to 200 years for running the most successful Ponzi Scheme in history. He he had defrauded the equivalent of the population of Pennsylvania. He went from mopster to mobster. I did not want to know how. I was through with him. He called me and told me he would double my money if I visited him. I was tempted, but said “No.”

So, here we are. You make my mother’s lies look like passages from the Bible. You make them look like self-evident truths. Your lies are like a ball of poisonous snakes, showing their fangs and loudly hissing. Your lies are like 1,000 farts blown in a car with the windows up. I could go on and on, but the point is, you told me you are a princess and showed me a fake certificate of authenticity on our second date. I found out the certificate was faked when we went to get our marriage license. It was like I was shot in the heart by a large caliber handgun. You lied to me. You deceived me. You won my love by false pretenses. You’re not a princess and you never will be! You’re a window girl at Mac Donald’s. I should’ve known from the smell of cooking oil rising from your skin, like some fast food mist, like you were an x-large order of fries.

Good bye demon woman. If I ever see you again, I will call you names and point at you. You are like a pretty package with a bomb inside. Good bye. Good riddance.

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

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

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

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