Tag Archives: elocutio

Euche

Posted on March 30, 2024 | Leave a comment

Euche (yoo’-kay): A vow to keep a promise.

“I swear to God I didn’t do it—I might’ve made a promise, but I never intended to follow through on that one. I never promised a family trip to Italy. I was crazy! But now, I’m going to make a promise I intend to keep. I promise to take us on a hike in the Great Swamp National Wildlife Refuge in Green Village—one of the cutest little towns in New Jersey. When I was a kid it was just a swamp. My anscestors hunted raccoons there—at night with hound dogs. When Uncle Howard finally invited me to go along, it was some of the best fun I aver had in my life. Howard sold the carcasses and fur, which at that time was worth $35. That was a lot of money back then.”

We got up early and headed to the swamp. The dirt road was still there, but it ended abruptly at a foot bridge. There was a little trail at the end of the bridge that ended at a shore. The swamp had been flooded! There was a big sign that said “Do Not Enter.” We were going swimming later on in the afternoon at Lake Hoptacong so we had our bathing suits. I was determined to have our hike. The mosquitoes were starting to get wind of us, so we sprayed up knowing that it would wash off in the water. We suited up and crossed the footbridge and stepped into the water. We walked about five feet and the bottom dropped off about four feet deep. Our daughter was up to her neck and screaming. I put her on my shoulders and we forged ahead. We came to a hillock. It rose above the water and had trees growing on it. I got out the insect repellent and spayed us all up again. The mosquitoes formed a thick cloud around us. Their whining sounded like little race cars racing around a track. It was starting to drive me crazy.

I saw a black ball in the crotch of a tree. I was curious. I got really close and touched it before I realized it was a tick nest! The second I touched the nest, all the ticks disappeared. Then, I felt a crawly sensation inside my shirt. I tore open my shirt and my chest was covered with ticks. They had latched onto me and were sucking my blood. There was so many of them, I could hear a slurping sound. I thought if I stood up to my chest in the swamp water that they would drown. They didn’t. The only option was Morristown Memorial Hospital emergency room.

As we rode to the hospital, the slurping got louder and I started to feel weak. When we got to the hospital, the ER nurse told me to open my shirt. She yelled “Holy shit” and people crowded into the examination room taking pictures with their cellphones and asking politely if they could pose with me. Ten Candy Stripers were assigned to work on me with Tick Tordaes, pulling out the ticks without leaving the heads behind.

I wrote a book about the incident titled “Tick Tick: Deadly Encounter.” I take some poetic license in the book, like the tick nest is overseen by an evil spirit—a Tick God. Another example of poetic license is the hospital duty nurse falling in love we me, drugging me, and trying to abduct me.

If you’re thinking of taking a family outing to the Great Swamp, bring a lot of bug spray and don’t touch anything that you’re clueless about.

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, trope

Eulogia

Posted on March 29, 2024 | Leave a comment

Eulogia (eu-lo’-gi-a): Pronouncing a blessing for the goodness in a person.

I had spent a week at Presbyterian Bible camp. We read the New Testament, said prayers, and sang hymns. It was all very boring, especially the Bible. It was like Shakespeare without the wild turns of phrase and poetic nuances. The story of Christ’s cruxifixction had some drama to it, but nothing coming close to Romeo and Juliet or Richard the Third—“my Kingdom for a horse.” That’s something worth listening to. Think about it. It’s like saying “my back yard for a skateboard.”: the drama of desperation drips from King Richard’s lips. Whereas Christ’s cruxifixction is a sad tale of this guy who got screwed who was forced to drag the implement of his own execution uphill. He was already a bloody mess when he got up the hill and was nailed up on the cross he dragged. The he asked God to forgive everybody who played a role in his demise. This story, for example, does not hold a candle to “Romeo and Juliet.” It runs a straight line from betrayal to execution. “Romeo and Juliet’s” plot is, on the other hand, convoluted, layered and anti-papist.

Even though Presbyterian Bible camp made me into a non-believer, I wasn’t hostile to its tenets, like joining a country club, hiring a reliable stockbroker, going to a reputable private school and insincerely giving God credit for everything.

After Bible camp, I figured I should make it look like I got something out of it. So, when anybody I knew did something I considered good, I would say “God bless you” or “All glory to God.” Most of the time I would yell it so people would pay attention to God’s benevolence. I was very liberal in my bestowal of praise—for example: my sister’s chocolate chip cookies: “God bless you.” Or, my father got out of his chair to change the TV channel: “God bless you.”

Dr. Willap, the head of the local Presbyterian church heard about what I was doing. He came to our house to “counsel” me. I would hear none of it. He started yelling and threw a punch at me and missed. I knocked him out with my football trophy. When he regained consciousness, he apologized as he went out the door. I said “All glory to God.” He turned and lunged toward the door. I slammed the door in his face. He pounded on it for a few minutes and left.

I felt like a martyr. I didn’t like it. Maybe if I switched to the Episcopalian church, I’d have better luck with my spiritual stylings.

God bless you for reading this. May your walk in faith be filled with drama, suspense, and pathos, like a Shakespeare play.

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, trope

Eustathia

Posted on March 28, 2024 | Leave a comment

Eustathia (yoos-tay’-thi-a): Promising constancy in purpose and affection.

I can’t tell you how many times I’ve fallen n love. It is the easiest thing in the world to do. If you have this flaming desire in your gut, you’re in love. When you were little it was for your hamster (creepy but true), next, your third grade teacher, then, your best friend’s sister, next the hooker from Philadelphia, and finally, your wife. I guess this isn’t actually about you. Rather, it’s about me and there are way more “loves” than I can possibly list here.

Let’s focus on my wife. When we got married we did the promising thing. As I took the vows I felt like I was forging chains. When I said “I do” I started thinking about divorce. it was like a switch flipped deep in my soul and my love turned off. It wasn’t her, it was me.

We’ve been married ten years. I pretend I love her. I’d hate to see her upset over such a thing. It would tear her apart. We have two beautiful children—Linda and Pete—they would be devastated if Mommy and Daddy broke up. So, I am a pretender. My life is an act.

Without realizing what I was doing, I fell in love with with the checker at the grocery store. My wife was attractive, but Carmella was beautiful. I started doing all the grocery shopping, to my wife’s great delight. I was exploding with desire. I spoke to her when she finished ringing me up. I asked her if she wanted to go for a drink. She sad sho couldn’t because she wasn’t old enough—she was 20. 10 years younger than me! She said she’d like to go to Baskin Robbins if I wanted to. We made a date. My head was spinning. What had I done?

Date night came. I picked her up at the grocery store. I told a lie to my wife—that I had to go to the library. We had some ice cream and she asked me if I wanted to go to a motel and have some “real fun.” When we pulled into parking lot of the “Sand Trap Motel,” I felt sick. I couldn’t go through with it. Carmella didn’t care and I took her back to her car at the grocery store.

When I got home, my wife was crying. She had fallen in love with one of the check-out men at the grocery store. She told me that she stopped loving me on the day we were married. She and Carl were going to get married and he was going to move into our house and I was going to move out. I was so disappointed that I hadn’t followed through with Carmella. Damn! What a missed opportunity.

I said, “Ok, I’ll leave.” I went outside and called Carmella and asked her if she wanted to live together. She said “Yes.” So now, I’m looking for an apartment in a complex with a swimming and jacuzzi. I am so lucky.

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, trope

Eutrepismus

Posted on March 27, 2024 | Leave a comment

Eutrepismus (eu-tre-pis’-mus): Numbering and ordering the parts under consideration. A figure of division, and of ordering.

I had reached the bottom. I had gone crazy for dividing things—wholes and parts. I was sitting in bed trying to no avail to tear pieces of paper into tree equal parts. I couldn’t do it. My parts were not equal. Then, I realized that parts didn’t need to be equal! You just need three of them. Further, I discovered that making wholes into parts could have utility—it wasn’t just a game. For example, I could use them to “narrow down” options. That is, I have a stack of three slices of baloney. Which slice should I eat? First, not the one on the bottom. It is probably dirty from being on the bottom. Second, not the one in the middle because it made direct contact with the one on the bottom—the dirty one. So, what’s left? Third, the top slice. Now, you made a choice by numbering the slices. You have “sliced” through the thicket of uncertainty. Get the bread and mustard! You’ve got a sandwich on the way—with three parts—want to add a slice of American cheese? Woo hoo! Now you have four parts. Lettuce? Five parts! You’re on a roll. Now, take a bite!

I first became acquainted with parts and wholes when I tore the arms, legs, and head off my sister’s Shirley Temple doll, leaving the trunk as just this flesh colored thing with a belly button. My sister was upset and angry, beating me over the head with one of Shirley’s arms. When I put Shirley’s arms and legs back on, I put them on backwards. My sister went berserk and beat me over the head with Shirley and then put her back together correctly. By the way, my sister become a chiropractor. I think the Shirley incident was her inspiration. Shirley is displayed in a glass showcase in her office.

I know it influenced my career path. I started cutting things in half. Like peaches, or calves liver. There was something about the feel of the blade as it moved through victims—what I called the meat and fruit and vegetables I sliced apart. My high school guidance counselor advised me to get a job in a slaughter house. It was a perfect job for me. Every time a made a whole into parts, I heard my destiny calling me. I loved dismembering cows. They reminded me of Shirley—and I did not have put them back together again. I transformed cow carcasses into cuts of meat that people would enjoy eating for dinner, or a family gathering.

Soon, I started seeing people as cuts of meat. I couldn’t help it. They were everywhere—in the streets, on the subway, at the grocery store, everywhere. They needed to be made into parts if they were to achieve their end. If they stayed whole they would thwart the “Divine Plan: to go gently at the joints—find your natural divisions.”

I made this up to justify becoming a serial killer specializing in dismemberment. I would dress up in my butcher coat and prowl the back streets for victims. I was called the “Midnight Butcher.” I killed my victims at midnight because it was halfway through the night. I used a captive bolt stunning gun—the kind we used to kill cows—to kill my victims. I would wheel them to my home in the shopping cart I stole from Hannaford’s. I would pose them in the cart so they looked like they were having fun as I wheeled them along the sidewalk.

When I got home, I dragged them down the basement stairs to help them reach their destiny. I got caught when my sister came for a surprise visit. We were having baloney sandwiches and orange juice for lunch in the kitchen. She notice a blood trail across the kitchen floor leading to the basement door. She jumped out of her chair and ran down into the basement where she screamed and called the police on her cellphone.

After that, everything happened really fast—I was arrested, tried and convicted of 11 murders. I am incarcerated in the “Nelson Rockefeller Home for the Criminally Insane.” I continue to work on my part-whole theory and hope, at some point, to be vindicated. I have been provided with a Shirley Temple Doll. My psychologist believes that dismembering it every day is therapeutic. I would rather dismember her.

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, figures of speech, rhetoric, trope

Exergasia

Posted on March 26, 2024 | Leave a comment

Exergasia (ex-er-ga’-si-a): Repetition of the same idea, changing either its words, its delivery, or the general treatment it is given. A method for amplification, variation, and explanation. As such, exergasia compares to the progymnasmata exercises (rudimentary exercises intended to prepare students of rhetoric for the creation and performance of complete practice orations).

“Tomorrow, tomorrow, tomorrow.” This was Little Orphan Annie’s mantra. So much for “Carpe Diem.” I guess Annie was posing as optimistic. But “loving tomorrow” may be the road to failure and even death. Anticipating a bed of roses may blind you to signs of the times predicting what’s next—like the weather forecast. A blizzard with five feet of snow is coming tonight. Do you still love tomorrow? If you do, you’re mentally ill.

I used to love tomorrow until my girlfriend broke up with me, I rolled my truck over, and got a hernia. All those things happened “tomorrow” and eventually today and yesterday. So then, I started thinking. Tomorrow never comes! This doubles Annie’s delusion. Maybe loving tomorrow involves a spiritual leap—maybe a leap toward the afterlife. That’s the “Big Tomorrow.”

Depending on your religion, you’ve got two places you can go: Heaven or Hell. You land in one or the other depending on what you do today. If you’re good, you go yo heaven. If you’re bad you go to hell. These destinations are eternal—you can’t leave. Hell is a world of eternal pain. Heaven is a world of eternal bliss.

The heaven/hell destinations may provide an incentive to be good. So, even though tomorrow does not exist, I’m going to bet on being good.

So, I’ve started a charity called “Bootstraps.” It helps losers become winners—to be self sufficient, functioning members of the community. We get significant donations from the community’s businesses. Lately, I’ve been embezzling from “Bootstraps.” I have doubled my income and there’s no risk of getting caught. I also collect 10% of my clients’ income from their bootstrapping—doing odd jobs. I make pretty good money there too. I am pretty sure I’m going to hell, but I don’t know for sure. That gives me an opening for my illegal activities. That, and temptation, the king of evil impulses. But like everything, it isn’t totally bad. For example, you may be temped to help an elderly person across the street.

But, there’s always tomorrow. Most things can be put off until tomorrow. So relax.

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, figures of speech, rhetoric, trope

Exouthenismos

Posted on March 25, 2024 | Leave a comment

Exouthenismos (ex-ou-then-is’-mos): An expression of contempt.

“I hate you! You are a disgrace! You stink! You are lazy! You are terrible! You disgust me! You are like a dog butt worm. I’m leaving!”

This altercation changed my life forever. I was 16. My mother made me French toast and scrambled eggs every Saturday morning. Then, out of nowhere, one Saturday she told me she wasn’t going to make the French toast and eggs any more—not on Saturday, not on any day. She told me I was old enough to cook my own breakfast. She told me she was getting arthritis in her spatula wrist, and it was painful to make the eggs and French toast. I called her a dirty liar and went upstairs to pack my bags. I was leaving home.

I emptied my piggy bank: $5.28. I tromped down the stairs to the living room where my parents were hanging out. Dad was reading the newspaper and mom was staring at the wall. I told them I was leaving. Dad said, “Good. You’re nothing but a pain in the ass.” Mom was staring at the wall, sobbing and saying “My son,” over and over. I told her she didn’t have a son any more, and walked out the door. I could hear my father yelling at my mother to shut up, as I walked down the sidewalk.

I worked for a year selling candy at Yankee Stadium. I got good at throwing the candy, but I had to walk to the customer to get their money. One day, I was working the punters along the third base line. Casey Stengel popped up and ordered a candy bar. I threw hm one. He said “Wow, that was a hell of a pitch. You’re just in time—I’m out of pitchers—they’re all injured, and my last one just sprained his shoulder.” I agreed to do it. I suited up and headed out to the mound. With me pitching, the Yankees suffered the biggest loss in their history, and in the history of baseball. Boston: 106. New York: 7. Casey paid me $200.00 and took me to Port Authority. Luckily nobody recognized me as I boarded the bus, or I would’ve been killed.

I had just turned 17 and I wanted to join the Army so I could take advantage of the veterans benefit of a college education after I served my three years. So, I served three years as a jeep driver for the commanding officer of Ft. Dix, New Jersey. He was a maniac. We spent most of our time running wild in Philadelphia. He had two wives there and a used/stolen car business. Eventually I had to testify at his courrmartial where I buried him. Two days later I was discharged. I had already applied to colleges, so I knew where I was going: Stanford. I had taken out a loan for $2,000 to pay the bribe to the the Office of Admissions.

I loved my classes. I had a book “Cheaters Prosper” that helped me immensely. There was never any question whether I would graduate. I majored in Business. The only reason I know it is that it’s printed on my diploma in big letters. My brother told me neither of my parents could come to my graduation because they had both died of heart attacks. I didn’t care. Then, I found out my brother had lied. I still didn’t care. My heart was hardened. It felt good to harbor a grudge, especially toward my mother. That Saturday breakfast had grown into a dagger that stabbed me in the heart at the sight of scrambled eggs and French toast.

So, I moved to San Francisco. Surprisngly, I became a successful songwriter. My two biggest hits were written for Donovan: “Electrical Banana” and “Hurdy Gurdy Man.” There are 100s more, ranging from Melanie’s “Roller Skate Song” to Sam the Sham and the Pharaohs, “Wooly Bully.”

Now, I am rich. I live in the redwoods. I have a girlfriend who makes me scrambled eggs and French toast every Saturday morning.

Mom, I still hate you. Make me happy. Die.

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

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

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Tagged elocutio, figures of speech, rhetoric

Expeditio

Posted on March 24, 2024 | Leave a comment

Expeditio (ex-pe-di’-ti-o): After enumerating all possibilities by which something could have occurred, the speaker eliminates all but one (=apophasis). Although the Ad Herennium author lists expeditio as a figure, it is more properly considered a method of argument [and pattern of organization] (sometimes known as the “Method of Residues” when employed in refutation), and “Elimination Order” when employed to organize a speech. [The reference to ‘method’ hearkens back to the Ramist connection between organizational patterns of discourses and organizational pattern of arguments]).

Either it was greed, or avarice, or covetousness, or desire or cheese that could’ve caused Sir Reginald Corntwist to steal the wheels from Master Blinker’s taxi coach. Corntwist is neither greedy, avaricious, nor covetous. He waits his turn to fill his lunch pail with leftovers to take to work at his his sweatshop to eat in front of his desperate malnourished employees. Moreover—he is not avaricious. He is deserving of everything he has, even if he’s taken it from its owner, like Ned Bredlow’s horse. It was standing there outside the tavern. Corntwist needed a ride, so naturally, as royalty, he took it. “Sir” has got to be freighted with emoluments and privileges, or the foundations of our nation would collapse into a pile of anarchy and social chaos. The same goes for covetous. Corntwist holds onto his dream of stealing his neighbor’s wife—to save her from a life of boring drudgery and to ride off in his neighbor’s gilded carriage—to save the carriage from falling into a state of disrepair under his careless hand. This is noble, wise, and commendable!

Ah. Now we come to desire. Sir Corntwist has one desire: magnanimity. Especially toward the peasants whose hovels he burned down. He says: “I had no choice if I was to clear my land. I have set aside a 5×5 foot parcel for each family to build a multi-story hovel with a small footprint with land remaining for a chicken t roam and a small vegetable garden. The head of each family will be given a pair of rubber boots.” Clearly, Corntwist desires what’s good.

Now we come to the culprit: cheese. There was cheese crumbled on the ground where the wagon wheels were stolen. If we can connect the cheese to the criminal, we’ve got our theif. Corntwist is lactose intolerant. Just looking at cheese turns his stomach and gives hm a horrendous rash. So, who took the wagon wheels?

It was me!

My wagon wheel shop “Fine Wheels,” expects prompt payment of bills. Blinker was two months behind. It was within my rights to repossess the wheels. Ah—but the cheese. I don’t know what cheese had to do with any of this. The cheese was cut into cubes with toothpicks inserted. Maybe it was Eduardo the caterer who dropped them on his way to the Sumfit wedding—maybe he was in a hurry and didn’t have time to pick them up.

At any rate. My job here is done. Justice has been meted out in the bright light of truth and exemplary argumentation. If you need wagon wheels, large or small, come see me.

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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Exuscitatio

Posted on March 23, 2024 | Leave a comment

Exuscitatio (ex-us-ci-ta’-ti-o): Stirring others by one’s own vehement feeling (sometimes by means of a rhetorical question, and often for the sake of exciting anger).

How many of you have had your identity stolen? One day you’re Joe Jones. The next day you’re nobody— your identity has been stolen—you’re not a man any more, you’re weak, you have bad posture and you are the ceaseless target of teen-age bullies—calling you names like mommy’s boy and stealing your car no matter where you park it.

What can you do? What can we do to get your identity back—that tough no-nonsense you that once roamed the streets of Utica. But you say, “I don’t know who stole my identity, I don’t where it is or how to get it back.” The first thing to do is buy a big fat handgun, load it and carry it. Make sure you load armor piercing magnums. That way, if you see somebody with your identity you can put him six feet under, go home and watch TV with your wife and be done with it—throw the pistol in the Mohawk River, unloaded.

Now, how do you know when you’ve found the scum that’s stolen your identity? How do you know when you’ve got him dead to rights? First, realize, if he’s stolen your identity, he can make minor improvements to it and be a slightly better version of you.

He will have tattoos identical to yours—a dead giveaway. He will be wearing a recently knitted duplicate of your favorite sweater.

If you follow him into Cliff’s you’ll see he uses your credit card and driver’s license to buy beer and cigarettes just like you.

Now that you know he stole your identity, go ahead and shoot him. Take him down by the river late at night. Put the gun to his head and put an end to his humiliating rampage. Shoot him two three times in case you have to plead self defense.

One more thing: it is easy to confuse an identical twin with an identity thief. So, if you have a long-lost identical twin, make him take a DNA test before you kill him. Also, talk to your mother. She might be of help.

If you find out he’s your twin brother, don’t let that deter you. You still have the option of shooting him, but it is more complicated than blowing away a stranger, like you’ll probably have to go to the funeral.

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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Gnome

Posted on March 22, 2024 | Leave a comment

Gnome (nome or no’-mee): One of several terms describing short, pithy sayings. Others include adage, apothegm, maxim, paroemia, proverb, and sententia.

“If you can’t find your whey, try cream cheese.” My hobby is making pithy sayings. They had to be “brief and forceful” to qualify: “If you can’t stand the heat, stick your head in the freezer,” Another home run! “Drink the whole bottle of gin if you want to die,” I lust saved another life. I’m on a roll. “If you can’t read a map, stay home.” You won’t get lost now! “It only takes one match to burn your house down,” You won’t hear sirens now!

I’m writing a book. It’s called “A Garden of Gnomes.” It contains 14,000 pithy sayings I’ve written over the past 2 months. I’m so good at writing sayings I call myself “The Saying King” on the dating site I frequent, “Muskrat Love” named with permission after the song of the same title. It makes the little muskrat sounds when you log in.

So far, in six months, I have dated one woman. She stole my computer and TV and disappeared. I have video monitors all over my house, so I got her image leaving in the middle of the night with my computer and TV. She slept fully clothed on my couch, so she was able to leave without arousing suspicion. The images I gathered did not match her headshot on “Muskrat Love.” I had a couple of good images from my cameras and ran them through my facial recognition software. I entered my zip code and started the program. An alert signal went off! The program had found her.

She was the “Egg Lady” who sold eggs by the side of my road. Freda Chernobyl. She had moved here from Russia last summer. She was unmarried. I called her on the phone and told I knew everything. She gasped and asked me not to tell the police. I told her I had taken pity on her and she could keep my computer and TV on one condition: that we go on a date again & that she bring a dozen eggs. Actually, that’s two conditions.

She showed up at my door wearing a balaklava. She told me she didn’t want anybody to know she was dating me. I let it pass. We went to a Polish restaurant and had a good time, and maybe, a little too much Polish beer and vodka. We had to take an Uber home.

It was about a 15 minute drive. Her house was just down the road from mine—a five-minute walk. I turned to go and she told me to stay for awhile. Inside, the house was filled with appliances stacked along the walls. I pointed it out, and she said “Oh that. I rent out storage space to make extra money. Eggs aren’t all that lucrative.” That sounded plausible to me. (“Plausibility is 9/10 of the truth.”)

When I woke up on her kitchen floor, the house was empty and Freda was nowhere to be found. I got to my house just in time to see a Ryder truck driving away. (“When your truck is loaded, drive it.”)

Freda and her boyfriend Alexi were apprehended before they got out of town. Freda was not a real egg lady. It was a front for her criminal activities—it was a big yolk. Ha ha. Freda and Alexi are in jail for 6 months each. Freda was put in charge of the chicken coop where she supplies the mess hall with eggs. She also supplies black market eggs to inmates to throw at their enemies. (“An egg in the nest is worth two in the chicken.”)

I signed my book contract today. I will get $1.00 per book for the next ten years, thereafter, I’ll get $1.75. There was a $5,000 set up fee. I think I got ripped off. (“All that glitters is not glitter.”)

I’ll end with a few more choice gnomes:

“Itch where it scratches.”

“Fire and water make hot beverages.”

“When it’s dark, turn on the light.”

“If life gives you lemons, throw them away.”

“Truth is a slave-master. Lies will set you free.”

“If you don’t like the way you look, stop looking.”

“If you’re going like a house afire, get a hose,”

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, figures of speech, rhetoric, trope

Graecismus

Posted on March 21, 2024 | Leave a comment

Graecismus (gree-kis’-mus): Using Greek words, examples, or grammatical structures. Sometimes considered an affectation of erudition.

Homer was blind. He was a famous Greek poet. He is a great tribute to the saying “It’s all in your head.” His famous “oínopa pónton” (wine dark sea) is a case in point. I guess he was a little off. The Mediterranean Sea is actually deep blue and clear. Why wasn’t Homer corrected? One must assume he had a lot of friends, and also, they didn’t clue the poor blind man in to his error. Maybe,

But there are accounts of Homer’s “sκακή διάθεση” (bad temper). When he wrote that Odysseus would “shoot an arrow through 12 axe handles,” one of Homer’s friends, Ludicrous, pointed out that it was γελοίος (ridiculous). Homer stood up and yelled “Lead me to the traitor.” Ludicrous knew what was going to happen. He ran out the door and headed to the docks, where he bought a ticket in steerage to Crete, where he would aspire to be a liar like the rest of the Cretans.

As time went by, Homer’s contemporaries “The Cyclic Poets” found a way to remedy Homer’s “all in your head” errors, like “wine dark sea.” They came up with the idea of figurative language— language that does not “literally” mean what it says—i.e. metaphors. This liguistic discovery was a boon to poets who could claim their errors were τρόπος του λέγειν (figures of speech). This license was given solely to poets because it did not matter what they said or why they said it. For example, William Carlos Williams’ wet wheelbarrow, or Sylvia Plath’s ramblings about her “Daddy.”

In the 20th century the barrier between literal and figurative language broke down. “Everyday people” started “living by” metaphors. this movement of thought was initiated by two mischievous trolls from the netherworld of anthropology, encroaching on the field of creative writing, creating havoc, and starting to make creative writing into an oxymoron like jumbo shrimp. Perhaps this trend will be an ameliorated by a rebalancing of the literal and the figurative, giving them an equal shot at your attention and belief. One would hope so.

But there are new developments. This discourse has been generated by AI. It’s like riding in a car without a driver. Your destination is a brief essay. You say a few words, and off you go.

Artificial intelligence is better than no intelligence at all.

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

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Heniadys

Posted on March 20, 2024 | Leave a comment

Hendiadys (hen-di’-a-dis): Expressing a single idea by two nouns [joined by a conjunction] instead of a noun and its qualifier. A method of amplification that adds force.

I am resting comfortably at Leghorn Institute. My days are mapped out with therapeutic activities, like shredding Lance Armstrong bracelets to be recycled into Taylor Swift zipper pulls. Today, I shined my shoes, sat on pick-up sticks and made a clay dart that I threw at the wall and was punished for doing so. My punishment was to play solitaire quietly for three days and let Butty the Institute.s goat butt me twice. Last, I had to stay blindfolded for a day. Nobody helped me around and I fractured my nose on the wall.

Dr. Vorgall, the Institute’s Director makes all the punishments up. He is what is called a “sadist.” He is proud of it. He starts every day on the PA system with “Who wants to feel some pain today? Do something bad!” So, how did I end up in this place?

I was a member of a subversive group opposed to distance learning. Any college or university with an online presence was a target. We called ourselves “Bricks Mortar” after real centers of learning—with walls and floors, roofs and windows, parking lots and quads. we felt that sitting alone in one’s bathrobe (or worse) would not provide the optimal educational experience. Can you imagine studying Plato via email? Or painting via your computer screen? You might as well just watch Bob Ross’s “Joy of Painting” and not be able to ask him any questions, like “What color is that?”.

Bricks and Mortar’s new president, Sally Wingle, wanted to notch things up. She was tired of listening to us sit around and whine. We needed to “Take it to the streets.” We needed to be destructive, like anarchists. So, we made balls, like snowballs, out of brick chips and mortar. We would make slings like Samson made, and hurl our “Samson’s Balls” at buildings housing on-line learning facilities, mostly, we broke windows and ran away. But one day, the Administration at Vapor U. were told we were coming. The police were waiting clothed in riot gear. I was slinging Samson’s Balls when I was hit over the head with a truncheon and knocked unconscious. When I woke up I was crazy. Leghorn Institute had admitted me because I had a crack in the top of my skull and I clucked like a chicken and my head bobbed up and down when I walked. Dr. Vorgall was interested in pain’s place in the transmigration of souls. Clearly I had become a chicken after having my skull cracked. Dr. Vorgall had a pottery chicken beak made, and super glued to my face. As my head healed, it kept me from talking—I could only go “Buck, buck” because of the beak’s tightness. Then one day I was scratching around in the playground and I sneezed and my beak blew off. I could speak! I was mad and went to Dr. Vorgall s office and yelled “I’m not a chicken. I am a man.” “Oh yes, I see,” he said. He told me if I kept my mouth shut, I would be moved into a 500 square foot suite with a sauna and jacuzzi and a70” plasma TV and more. I took his offer and strutted down the hall to my new room, clucking loudly. If I was a rooster, I would’ve crowed.

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

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Heterogenium

Posted on March 19, 2024 | Leave a comment

Heterogenium (he’-ter-o-gen-i-um): Avoiding an issue by changing the subject to something different. Sometimes considered a vice.

Honey, you say I lied, but my dog Chrono is wagging his tail rapidly. If we could teach him to measure increments of time he would make an excellent metronome ticking and tocking musical beats. His tail is like a whip. When I’m wearing shorts and he gives me a wag on the leg, ouch, it hurts! So, we must harness his wag power; put it to use for the good of humanity and the well-being of my household.

I pondered the wag. Chrono’s tail pointed in the wrong direction for stirring. But then, I realized I could make him a sling and turn him upside down over pots and pans and say “Good boy” and he would start wagging/stirring. After the sling was ready, we mounted him up over a pot of green pea soup, which was rather thick and needed vigorous stirring. I said “Good boy” and Chrono went at it. His tail hit the sides of the pan and made a ringing sound. Quickly, the soup was so well-stirred it became frothy.

I removed Chronos from his sling and poured a bowlful of pea soup for each of us. My wife was first to sample it, and she spit it out. “This tastes awful!” I tasted it and spit it out too. I had never tasted a dog’s tail, but the soup was suggestive of wet dog—of bath water left in the basin after a dog’s bath. Disgusting!

Why wife’s brother was “Inflato the Clown.” He was fairly famous around Toronto birthday circles. He could make a balloon into any shape—from pirate ships to tigers, or, apples to zebras. From certain activities I engage in with my wife, I got the idea of putting one Inflato’s balloons over Chrono’s tail, shielding whatever he was stirring from the taste of dog’s tail. Inflato had the perfect ballon. He used it to make wiener dogs, blimps, and torpedos

The balloon was easy to install: stick the tip of Chrono’s tail in the opening at the end, roll the balloon up Chrono’s tail, secure it with a wire twisty. Voila! The soup is protected from the tail’s foul flavor. It was time to try it out. We put Chrono in his sling, affixed his balloon, and lowered his tail into the soup. I said “Good boy.” Nothing happened. I said it again. Nothing happened. I suspected why he would not wag, but I did not say anything. Instead, we put Chrono to work stirring non-edibles without his balloon, mostly washable paint and lithium grease. We’ve also taught Chrono to be a metronome which is a much more effective use of his wag than stirring.

We rigged him up with a ticktock generator and he works for a piano teacher right in our town. He sits on the piano, marking time, a skill he has learned through extensive operant conditioning: with dog biscuits, petting, and endless good boys.

Two days ago, I was listening to music and working on my lawnmower in my garage. Blue Oyster Cult’s “Burnin’ for You” came on the Bluetooth player. Chrono stood up, looked around, and started dancing. He circled, and dipped, and jumped and dragged his butt across the floor. I was stunned. I’ve hired a dance coach with the intention of putting Chrono on tik-Tok. He is a remarkable dog. I hope you’ve found Chrono’s “tail” entertaining.

After I told “Chrono’s Tail,” my wife forgot she had accused me of lying, and we went on with our happy life. Chrono wagged his tail.

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

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Homoeopropophoron

Posted on March 18, 2024 | Leave a comment

Homoeopropophoron: Alliteration taken to an extreme where nearly every word in a sentence begins with the same consonant. Sometimes, simply a synonym for alliteration or paroemion [a stylistic vice].

“Demons drove Dodges deliriously, dreaming dramas denting dump-trucks.”

It was the time of year for the “Homoeopropophoron Festival.” A “homoeopropophoron” is a phrase where nearly every first letter of evevery word is the same consonant—it is alliteration on steroids. People compete to make the longest Homoeopropophorons. They also strive to talk in homoeopropophorons during the festival. Since making sense is not required, our little village descends into incoherence during the festival. It is like the Biblical Babylon has descended.

The festival was founded sometime in the 1600s in New Amesterdam, later New York. Erasmus who studied and wrote about rhetoric, and was revered by the Dutch, favored homoeopropophoron over all the schemes and tropes passed down by the Greeks. He believed it taught people that not making sense could de a greater challenge than making sense, and that consonants build “a ladder to heaven.” Vowels, he believed, “paved the way to hell with their sweetness.”

I passed my wife on the street. She smiled and said: “Cradled crayfish caught colds, coughing, choking. Drinking coffee.” “Good try” I said as I continued on my way, “drinking” had killed an othwise excellent homoeopropophoron. During the festival there was no conflict, because people didn’t understand each other—which is different from misunderstanding.

Each year, we try to build Erasmus’ “Ladder to Heaven” made of a ladder truruck from the fire department with the ladder plastered with sticky notes inscribed with homoeopropophorons that are religiously themed, like: “Lustrous Lord, loading lampshades lovingly lifting light—look!” Of course, everybody knew the fire engine’s ladder didn’t actually reach to heaven.

So, like most things founded in past practice, the festival is crazy and just gives people an excuse to take off work and act silly. It’s like the annual Popeye festival with the spinach eating-contest, and the Olive Oyl look-alike contest. all good fun, but no meaningful import.

Check this out: “Echoes etch emblems everywhere, ennobling everyday endings.” It is made of vowels, not consonants. Will its sweet smoothness conduct you to hell? Is it giving you an elevator ride into the inferno?

Remember, rhetoric properly wielded,w has the power to transform you into a better version of yourself.

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

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Horismus

Posted on March 16, 2024 | Leave a comment

Horismus (hor-is’-mus): Providing a clear, brief definition, especially by explaining differences between associated terms.

“Time is conscious of waiting.” It does not go “tick tock” or hum. It is not about day or night. Time is used as a measure called “per” or before or after, late or early or on time.

I was thinking about time because I had gotten a wristwatch for my 12th birthday. It was a Timex Boy Scout watch. It had glow-in-the-dark numbers, a sweep second hand, and a little square with the date in it. It was Boy Scout green and waterproof to 200 feet. It was also shock proof and anti-magnetic. It ran on batteries and was made in Japan.

I wasn’t a Boy Scout, but I still loved the watch. I wore it to school the day after I got it. I wore my sleeves rolled up so I could show it off. I was even ready to join the Boy Scouts—the BSA—the Boy Scouts of America. Then, Louie Pezzo showed up wearing a solid gold Rolex. His father was into crime and could get anything for Louie. That included alligator shoes, fireworks, a color TV, an electric popcorn maker, and more. Louie always had to one-up somebody. He had 100-plus-upped my Boy Scout watch with his Rolex. I was hurt, but I didn’t show it. Instead, I asked him if he wanted to join the Boy Scouts with me. Since he had no friends, and everybody hated him, he jumped at the chance.

Mr. Bangholtz was our Scoutmaster. Louie and I were the newest members of the troop. Already members were: Floyd Leash who lived at the edge of the swamp, Rollo Bing who lived in a mansion on a hill, Pardor Scanson who just sat in a corner sharpening his knife, and Bulgy Branford who was morbidly obese. It was very unusual, but I was the most normal person there.

Mr. Bangholz told us he was going to show us how to light a fire so we’d be ready for next week’s camporee. He picked up a red Jerry can and a boom box and told us to follow him to the parking lot out behind the YMCA. We got out there and there was a pile of wood about five feet high. Mr. Bangholz doused it with gasoline from the Jerry can and lit it. Then, he pressed the play button on the boom box and “Fire,” the weird 60s song, started to play. Mr. Bangholz started skipping around the flaming wood pile waving a lit road flare over his head. Floyd Leash yelled “I’m going to home.” Louie said “You’re a dead man.” Bulgy yelled that he wanted a snack “immediately.”

We heard sirens. It was fire trucks coming to put out the fire! “Who’s in charge here?” asked the firefighter. I am,” Mr Bangholz sobbed as he stood in front of the fireman’s hose and begged “cleanse me, I am filth, I have sinned.” The firefighter yelled “Get out of the way you friggin’ lunatic!” Mr. Bangholz made a sound like a train whistle and jumped into the fire. He had doused himself with gasoline and quickly went up in flames. Luckily, the firefighters were there and were able to quickly douse the flames. He lived.

In court, Mr. Bangholz testified that he had planned to give us a surprise tutorial on dealing with burn victims, but it got out of control. He was found not guilty of lighting a bonfire in a private parking lot. We found out later that he was divorced four times and refurbished used bicycles in his basement for a living. He suffered from bi-polar disease and took medication for it, but that he hadn’t taken his medication for three weeks and had been talking angrily to himself.

We sued the Boys Scouts for not properly vetting Mr. Bangholz. We won. Now the Boy Scouts ask prospective Scoutmasters three key questions: 1. What year is it?; 2. Can you tie a square knot?; 3. Do you eat your spinach?

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

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Kategoria

Posted on March 6, 2024 | Leave a comment

Kategoria (ka-te-go’-ri-a): Opening the secret wickedness of one’s adversary before his [or her] face.

I guess there’s a legitimate place for secrets. Like in the CIA where everything’s secret, even secrets. Or, maybe when you’re working on an invention., like a better mouse trap. But there are mostly bad things kept secret, to enable getting away with bad deeds, like you. All it took was one squealer to bring your house of lies tumbling down.

Do you know who squealed? It was Rev. Bawkward. He told me that after five, you refused to play his organ any more. Since you have no musical talent, we know what organ he was talking about. He said your organ playing had kept him going when he was getting a divorce. I asked him why he was telling me this because he hoped I would kill you or beat you up. Clearly, I’ve done neither. I really don’t care if you play his organ as long as you take some music lessons. If it brings Rev. Bawkward comfort and joy, it’s a good thing. Just don’t keep it secret.

Rev. Bawkward told me about Big Ed Rose at the grocery store. He’s seen Big Ed carrying your groceries to your car which is parked in the bushes at the farthest end of the parking lot. I guess it’s not a secret that he helps, but what was a secret was what you were doing to make the car rock back and forth. I’m not going to accuse you to your face, but you shouldn’t let Big Ed carry your groceries. Maybe you should drive up in front of the grocery store and pick up your groceries.

Last, the stuff you’re buying on Amazon isn’t a secret, although you think it is. I see that you’re buying stuff on Amazon and reselling it on E-Bay. It was the chainsaw that initially got my attention. Today, I saw the set of cold chisels. You say you’re making money for our vacation. That’s a lie. We’ve never gone on vacation, except on our honeymoon.

So, this is no secret: I’m filing for a divorce. You’ve never heard of her, but Candy and I will be getting married as soon as our divorce is finalized. If you’re going to have secrets you should be able to keep them. Rev. Gawker called this morning and he wants you to play his organ. I hope Big Ed doesn’t find out.

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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Litotes

Posted on March 5, 2024 | Leave a comment

Litotes (li-to’-tees): Deliberate understatement, especially when expressing a thought by denying its opposite. The Ad Herennium author suggests litotes as a means of expressing modesty (downplaying one’s accomplishments) in order to gain the audience’s favor (establishing ethos).

Jumping 300 feet into the ocean to save a drowning hamster was not that great an accomplishment. The weather was warm, the water was calm, and the hamster swam to me and perched on my head as I swam to shore and climbed back up the 300 foot cliff. I scolded the little boy who had thrown her off the cliff. I told him “Hamsters can’t fly son. You learned a lesson today.” The kid grabbed the hamster and ran away. To my dismay, two days later I found the hamster gasping for breath on the beach in front of my home. I shook her up and down like a bottle of ketchup. She squirted a small amount of seawater and regained consciousness. So, I have saved the little girl twice and I’m glad I could do it. I have adopted her and named her Hammy.

So, thank-you for the Appleton Person of the Year Award. I’m not sure I qualify, but I trust your judgment. I am going to use the prize money to hire a private investigator (PI). I will give him the task of finding the boy who threw Hammy off the cliff, failed to kill her, and then almost succeed at drowning her at a second try.

“Mel Windwood is my name and I’m here to find that rascal” the PI said with a grim look on his face. He was the owner of “Snoops.” He was recommended by Eloise Pompo who had just completed a successful divorce with Mr. Windwood as PI. So, we got started. We started with the pet shop. The proprietor told us there was a very creepy boy who had purchased 25 hamsters over the past two weeks. He had paid with his father’s credit card. His father was Rev. Skepter. We looked at each other and nodded. We were both atheists so we had no problem playing rough.

We found the boy in the rectory. Windwood tied his hands, blindfolded him, and threw him in the trunk of his Chevy Impala. We met at Ocean Cliff where the boy had tried to throw the hamster—little Hammy—to her death. I held Hammy up to his face. Hammy was growling. I said, “Hear that? That’s the hamster you tried to murder! She’s not a happy hamster.” The boy was visibly upset. Then, out of nowhere, he got his hands free, pulled off the blindfold, and pulled a switchblade knife out of his pocket. Windwood knocked the knife out of his hand and pushed him off the cliff. Windwood said “Well that’s that. Let’s get the hell out of here.” I was shocked. I yelled “Asshole!” over my shoulder as I jumped off the cliff to save the boy. I got to him just as he was about to drown. He started laughing uncontrollably and saying “You’re screwed Mr. Good Guy.”

And indeed I was. Attempted murder. Kidnapping. Tarnishing the Appleton person of the year award. But that’s not the worst of it. Rev. Skepter’s son, aka “the boy” became Ohio’s most notorious serial killer. He would place a drowned hamster on each victim’s face. He was caught drowning a batch of hamsters in the fountain in Appleton’s city park. He was arrested and the rest is history. He’s scheduled for a lethal injection in a couple of weeks.

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

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Martyria

Posted on March 4, 2024 | Leave a comment

Martyria (mar-tir’-i-a): Confirming something by referring to one’s own experience.

What gave me my ideas? My experience! Where else could they come from? We can’t be born with them or we’d all think alike. We’d all like Elvis. We’d all like ice cream. But, we don’t, and we may be considered crazy as a consequence. What is experience? It is anything you’re conscious of, and then, think about, which is a kind of experience too. So, you can’t be wrong just because your experience isn’t the same as somebody else’s: I look at the sunset and have a fit and start running around in circles. You look at the so-called same sunset and you take a picture and write a bullshit poem. Same sunset, different experiences. This is a problem with eyewitnesses, but it is too complicated to discuss here.

I used to spend a lot of time crushing insects with my hammer. I carried my hammer in my backpack. When I saw an insect, say an ant, I would stop and pull out my hammer and slam slam the ant. It’s crushed and gooey carcass made me happy, like a hug from my mother or a piece of chocolate cake. I would carefully clean off my hammer, preparing it for its next slam. It didn’t take much courage to kill insects, just viciousness and a lack of remorse.

But, it did take courage to kill the black widow in the wood pile. The surface was uneven and the Black Widow was suspended in a web with about 2” between it and woodpile. If my blow landed unevenly, there was a chance that the spider would fall on my naked leg (I was wearing shorts) and get me. As I swung my hammer, the spider jumped and landed on my wrist. I brushed it off before it could bite me. I stomped it under my Birkenstock, put my hammer away and ran home.

I still felt the Black Widow on my wrist. I opened my bedroom door and my bedroom was filled with spiders. They formed into a phalanx and came toward me. I ran outside screaming and locked myself in the family car. My mother unlocked it. I was slapping myself and yelling gibberish. An ambulance was summoned to take me to “Crystal Ribbon Sanatorium” for one week’s “observation.” After a week of being hosed down, taking hot baths, electric shocks, and wearing pajamas 24/7, I was released. I couldn’t remember anything and I drooled a lot and drew pictures of crushed insects. I asked for my hammer and my mother gave me a rubber one from a child’s toy tool set.

It’s been ten years since the black widow incident. I still hardly remember it, but I got a big black widow tattooed on the back of my neck. I still enjoy crushing insects and discover that the rubber hammer my mother gave me works quite well. It doesn’t mar surfaces. When I smash an insect and hear its exoskeleton crunch, I feel free. Sometimes I say the “Pledge of Allegiance” after a kill, with my hand over my heart.

This is but one example of how “experiences” have structured my life. Some other time we can discuss my performance art—shooting myself in the arm with a .22 caliber pistol, or windshield diving—colliding with trees not wearing a seatbelt. I also might talk about cockroach ranching. My apartment is my lone prarie.

Currently, I’m full time at “Crystal Ribbon.” I’m in the criminally insane wing. I became known as “Hammer Man” before I turned myself in. I didn’t kill anybody, but I tried. The rubber jammer didn’t do the job. It just left lumps and bruises.

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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Maxim

Posted on March 3, 2024 | Leave a comment

Maxim (max’-im): One of several terms describing short, pithy sayings. Others einclude adage, apothegm, gnome, paroemia, proverb, and sententia.

“A wise man is not a wise guy.” I live by this basic ancient truth. It is noted, that Neanderthals lived by the maxim too. There is a Neanderthal painting on a cave wall in France of a man in a playful pose being beaten over the head with a jawbone. It would seem that wisdom was not valued—that wise guys ran the caves and routinely murdered smart people by beating them on the head with jawbones. Some people claim the Biblical story of Samson is derived from Neanderthal cave paintings. But this can’t be true. The Bible is a much more reliable source of holy stories with powerful symbolism that is true because holy people say so to give you a chance to exercise your faith, which enables belief in otherwise unbelievable things, like Samson slewing 1,000 Philistines with a donkey’s jawbone. I don’t believe it, So it must be true. At least, that’s what I think.

As a boy, I lived on a quiet street in New Jersey. Beautiful maple trees, and flower gardens and close cropped lawns. There was a Philistine family that lived up the street from us. I delivered the newspaper to them and collected on Mondays. I had little envelopes to put the collection in and put under the doormat. Mr. Mitini would put troubling notes in my collection envelopes along with the money, like, “There’s blood on your hands.” I told my Dad and he told me not to worry, as long as I got paid. Then, one Monday, Mr. Mitini came to the door when I was dropping off the collection envelope. He had on a striped bathrobe and had a jawbone in his hand. He asked, “What did we do wrong?” I ran away and stopped delivering the paper to the Mitinis for two weeks. When I resumed delivery, Mr. Mitini apologized and looked normal. Everything was fine after that.

This experience motivated me to become an archeologist, studying the Philistines. Theirs is a tangled history, just like all the other cultures I study in the period I study. For a pretty exhaustive introductory account of the Philistines, see: https://library.biblicalarchaeology.org/article/what-we-know-about-the-philistines/

I haven’t read all of it yet. As a scholar, I’m pretty lazy, but I managed to get tenure here at Roy Orbison University. Our school song is “Crying.” It fits because we’re chronically short of funding. Talking about funding, I ‘m trying to get funding for a research project in Las Vegas. Most people would agree that visitors to Las Vegas are Philistines. I am interested in determining the accuracy of the appellation in light of the overarching truth of my other studies. I need $500,000. I am certain I will double it and pay every penny back to Roy Orbison U. I’m meeting with the grants committee tomorrow. I think if I offer each member $1,000 if they finance me, I’ll get the grant.

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, trope

Mempsis

Posted on March 1, 2024 | Leave a comment

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

“What’s the matter with you?” My wife asked.

I yelled, “I’m stuck under the bed. Pick up the bed and pull me out! I found my slipper, but my butt’s wedged under the box spring. Come on, where are you?” My wife came back in the bedroom. She said, “I’m putting you on an under bed diet, honey. My slippers trap worked perfectly. Your fat ass is captured.” I squirmed around, I tried to lift the bed, I sucked in my stomach, nothing worked. She said, “It’s going to get a little smelly under there, but I’ll clean you up as best I can. I have this rubber tube for you to eat your special diet through. According to the web, you’ll lose 20 lbs in a week.”

If I had my cellphone, I would’ve called the police. My wife had clearly gone around the bend. On the other hand, I was fat and she had been pestering me for at least five years to lose weight. The worst consequence of my obesity was our daughter. She was only 6 and she weighed 165 lbs. She was on the Elementary School wrestling team. Our mantle was loaded with her trophies. This was great in one sense, but her weight was clearly an unhealthy price to pay. She would tell me she wanted to be fat like me and beat everybody up.

I’d been under the bed for a week when my wife left the door open. I saw my daughter’s feet go by and called out to her. She came in the room and said: “God it stinks in here! Why are you under the bed?” “Never mind that, just get me out of here!” I yelled. “Lift the bed!” She lifted the bed and I skittered out from under it.

I was on the warpath. I asked my daughter where her mother was. She told me was at “Hair-Snips” her friend Barbara’s hair salon, getting a makeover. I took a shower and put on clean clothes.

The only weapon I could find was my claw hammer. I was going to do a citizen’s arrest for false imprisionment, and I thought I would need a weapon to render her compliant. I walked into “Hair-Snips” and all the women turned a looked at me and started making cat calls: “Woo baby, what’s your number?, What’re you doing tonight?, Nice buns, I want a piece of what you’re packin’ honey,” and more. I had lost 20lbs under the bed. I was a stud again! I looked with an air of detachment at the fawning women and strutted to my wife’s chair, and gave her a long hug, and stuck my tongue in her ear. I felt like a rock star. “Let’s go out to dinner tonight baby.” So, the three of us went out to dinner. Our daughter ate a donut in the car on the way to the restaurant. My wife looked knowingly at me.

We discussed it and decided the under bed diet was too cruel for our dear daughter. So, we decided instead to handcuff her hands behind her back between meals.

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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Posted in mempsis

Tagged elocutio, figures of speech, rhetoric

Merismus

Posted on February 29, 2024 | Leave a comment

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

Mrs. Rogers, my fourth grade teacher, told us to think of a whole and then divide it into its parts. She called on me. “Johnny?” I was a wise guy, a class clown, and a pain in the ass all rolled into one. I said, “You can’t divide a hole into parts because there’s nothing there.” I gave Mrs. Rogers my wise guy smile and looked around the classroom. My joke hadn’t registered. Ms. Rogers said “Give me a straight answer or you’re going to visit Principal Lamron’s office. I was pals with the principal, so going to his office was no big deal. He was my mother’s brother—aka my uncle. I’d have my favorite grape soda, and he’d show me his latest magic tricks. Then we’d play a couple of hands of draw poker and I’d go back to class acting like I’d been admonished. I would rub my eyes making them red so it looked like I might’ve been crying.

I went back to class and dutifully made up a part-whole narrative: The car was black. It had 100s of parts. I will enumerate a few major parts, giving only their names. Here we go: hood, trunk, tires, doors, muffler, seats, speedometer, windshield, gas tank, radio, air conditioner, heater, seat warmers, tail lights, blinkers, and more.” Mrs. Rogers complimented me. I said “Cool. Maybe you can take me for a ride some night out to Lasagna Lake to look at the stars.” I did it again. I was remanded to my uncle’s office, but I kept going out the door. It was a perfect warm spring afternoon.

I headed for the playground. The sliding board was my favorite, climbing up the ladder and whooshing down the slide. I solid down and blew a slice of wind that sounded like a musical instrument—maybe a trumpet. Somebody yelled, “That was disgusting. What an oaf!” The voice sounded familiar. I turned around, and looked, and it was me! I was older, but it was me. I said to me, “What are you doing here?” I answered: “I am here to tell you to stop the bullshit. You weren’t born to be funny. It will only get you in trouble. Your destiny is to be a landscape gardener.” I said, “Now, that’s actually funny, asshole.” I/he got an angry look on his face and evaporated with a humorous squeaking sound.

I went back to class. I kept cracking jokes and hanging out with my uncle. I kept on through middle school. high school and college where I started a comedy club: “Bonkers.” In all those years I had become consistently hilarious. Eventually, I hit Las Vegas. Then, I was performing in Tahoe. I looked out at the audience, and there I was with a sign that said “Landscape Gardener.” It rattled me, but it didn’t affect my performance.

In my next show, I dressed like a landscape gardener, pushing a lawnmower out on stage. I told a few grass cutting and trimming jokes and groundhog, Japanese beetle, and rabbit jokes. Then, I did my usual routine. I got a standing ovation. Now I understood my destiny.

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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Posted in merismus

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

Mesarchia

Posted on February 28, 2024 | Leave a comment

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

“Love is to love without question. Affection gives endless affection without expectation.” These qualities of experience wreaked of silliness. In the cruel battle of life I thought they made weak. They made me a loser, a jerk, a stain on the carpet of life. I tried living in accord with the golden rule—but I thought I would become a golden fool.

I had a girlfriend. Her name was Nelly. She wanted to “do it” every night. I would say “Whoah Nelly.” She would get up and leave. On average, she’d be gone for 2 days. I wanted to be understanding, an endless source of caring and a peaceful man. I was certain she was seeing other men, so I never asked her what she was doing when she left home in the middle of the night. I tried and tried not to get angry, but I was cracking. So, against my will, I followed Nellie one night. I had a bad idea of what I was going to see: Nelly picked up on a street corner by a rich guy in a limousine. I followed her to a non-descript dimly lit building: “Clarksville Home for the Maimed.” I looked in the window and Nelly was reading a book to a man with no hands. One look at his eyes and you could tell he was blind—probably the victim of some kind of explosion. Nelly saw me and smiled and motioned me over. She said, “This is Mike. He was blown up in a July 4th accident. His wife threw him out after the accident and he’s been living here ever since.” “Wow.” My pity meter went through the roof. I almost started crying.

So this is what Nelly did when she disappeared. Then I noticed Mike’s fly was unzipped. I asked him how he could do that with no hands. He told me that when Nelly was there she unzipped and aimed him at the urinal, otherwise a nurse would do it. I was starting to crack again.

I threw Nelly out when she came home the next morning. Eight months later, I ran into her in line at the Post Office,

She was massively pregnant. She pointed at her stomach and said “Yours.” In the light of her smile, my paranoia faded. We went to my house, and we talked. She told me her sexual needs are normal, and I agreed. I had Googled it months ago and determined it was me who had the problem. As far as maimed Mike went, she told me her father was an amputee and blinded from the Vietnam War and she would go to the VA hospital and read to him. When he died of cancer, she started going to the Clarksville Home for the Maimed when I refused to offer her the warmth and comfort she desperately needed.

“But what about Mike’s penis?” I asked. She stood up, grabbed the clock from the mantle, and threw it at me with both hands. It hit me in the head and drove the demons out. It’s ten been years since that day when I learned how to trust. Our daughter Ella looks just like me. That’s good.

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, trope

Mesodiplosis

Posted on February 27, 2024 | Leave a comment

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

This is a new chapter in my life. I’ve had my fill of St. Louis. Panera Bread had gotten inside my head. I smelled like yeast and was dusted with flour, like a poltergeist pizza. I had grown up in St. Louis, graduated from high school in St. Louis, and was arrested in St. Lewis for stealing a garden gnome when I was 19. I was sentenced to 3 months community service. That’s where I met my dog, a stray Coyote-Poo. I named him Jocka after the dog in the French song about oversleeping. But now I was moving out. At 27 it was time to go. I will be unfettered, foot-loose, a free bird. Drivin’ and arrivan’.

So, where am I going?

I’m goin’ to Kansas City. I think it’s in Kansas somewhere. I think Kansas City is my destination. Maybe I’ll pack some meat when I get there. I flicked on the GPS and found out Kansas City is in Missouri. I was delighted that the drive would be shorter.

I was singing “I’m goin’ to Kansas City, Kansas City Here I Come” when my Hyundai was hit by a toilet iceberg discharged by a jet flying overhead. I lost control of my car. I hit a guard rail and bounced off. The car blew up and started burning. I was able to drive it to the Kansas City line before the smoke got to me and I pulled over choking. I rolled down my window and Jocka made his escape. My seatbelt wouldn’t come unlatched. I pulled out my knife specially designed for seatbelt cutting—and breaking glass too! I got it online at “Jay’s Blades.” My eyes were burning as I flipped open the knife and started cutting. Suddenly the car door flew open and there was a firefighter standing there. He reached in the car and pulled on my seatbelt. This caused me to stab myself in the stomach. The knife was protruding from my stomach—I was afraid to pull it out. I had seem countless doctor shows on TV where pulling a knife out was fatal. Next, an EMT person showed up at the car door. She said, “We’ve got to get you out of here.” She grabbed me by the shoulders and started pulling me out of my car. The knife got stuck in the steering wheel and popped out. “This is an emergency” she said. I felt my life leaking away. I hadn’t made it to Kansas City. I was about five feet from the city limits. I could smell the barbecue over the smoke coming out from under my hood. Despite the fact that I was dying, I had hunger pangs. The EMT said, if you don’t get to a hospital in a half-hour, you’re dead. That was disheartening.

We were speeding along in a Kansas City ambulance when we passed a big red sign titled “Piggy’s” with a flashing neon pig in a bun. I took off the oxygen mask and yelled “Turn around, I want a barbecue sandwich!” The driver turned and smiled, his silver front tooth gleaming in the streetlights. He pulled the emergency brake and did a full 360. The EMT ran into Piggy’s and came out with a steaming barbecue sandwich. She threw it to me as we continued on to the hospital. It hit me in the face and splattered on my stretcher. I scooped up what I could and stuffed it in my mouth.

I passed out just as we pulled in to “KC General.” I woke up when I fell off the gurney because one of the wheels fell off. I passed out again. I woke up in my hospital bed feeling pretty good. I looked at my stomach wound and it was stitched up with florescent orange fishing line, with a hookless fishing lure dangling from it. I asked my nurse what the hell it was about. She said, “It celebrates the centrality of urban fishing to KC’s cultural heritage—before there were cows, there were bass. We decorate nearly everything with fishing lures. Christmas is a very special time here.” I felt like I was hallucinating or dreaming. All of a sudden, I felt like I’d been hooked up to a car battery. Somebody yelled “Clear” and I felt myself starting up again. I looked at my stomach and it was held together with normal stitches. I stayed in the hospital for two weeks, and then, I walked to Kansas City.

I didn’t take a train. I didn’t take a plane. My car blew up, but I got there just the same. I got to Kansas City, Kansas City here I am. I sued the fire department and EMTs for worsening my knife wound and almost killing me. I was awarded $12,000,000. I bought Piggy’s, a luxury condo, and a new car—not a Hyundai. I hired a PI to find Jocka. He had gotten a job modeling flea shampoo and acting as a watchdog at a dog salon named “Royal Woofers.” When he saw me, he went crazy dancing around in circles and howling. Now, we’re living happily ever after, but we’re think of moving. We’re looking at New York, El Paso, Surf City, San Jose, Las Vegas, Chicago, or Galveston.

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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Posted in mesodiplosis

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

Mesozeugma

Posted on February 26, 2024 | Leave a comment

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

“Life is too boring to reclaim from the pits, my downward plunge, or life’s tragic rodeo.” I actually had these thoughts at one point in my life before I turned into the North Star and guided everybody home. I made a giant blue wing and sent it forth throughout the land. Soaring along, picking up passengers one by one, setting the tone for the future—wolves and lambs hanging out, the wolves turning into vegetarians by the magical power of B. Good. He played the guitar like the spirit in the sky blessing Heartbreak Hotel on Tuesday afternoon, giving everybody a little red Corvette for their special day.

Somebody said “It’s raining crabs in Disneyland.” This must be true at some level or it never would’ve been said, even if it’s a lie. If it is a poetic configuration we can retrieve its significance from the swamp of literalism. We must ask ourselves if there in fact any such thing as literalism—isn’t it just a deep rut in poetry’s road, so we’ll-travelled that it has become a road in its own right distinguishable from the poetic road, but as we know, not different, only observable, like a stain on a sweater or a floor. Nothing new here. Time to fire up the grill.

We’re having big fat wieners imported from Germany via jet. We have big fat buns. We have big fat mustard. We have thin sauerkraut to challenge our sense of continuity, to teach the first lesson of fracture’s ubiquity—how the world goes 1, 2, 4, thwarting our expectations, dashing our hopes and dreams. But, tomorrow is never today unless you have severe jet lag, like you flew nonstop lower class from Sydney, Australia to Newark, USA with diarrhea and shingles. That’s bad. Think about it. If you can’t think about it, you haven’t read it: to read is to think. Of course you can think without reading. You can listen. But the most important things can’t be read or listened to. Thinking entails taking what’s there and thinking about it. As soon as that happens, it’s like you’re pole dancing with what is. But that’s the best we can do if we want to “share” with others, to socialize and overcome our isolation. We are willing to sacrifice the unsharable for the shareable, by communicating.

Well, that took us nowhere—not like a bus or a subway conveying us to a well-imagined destination—even if we’ve never been there we can go map in hand, GPS in front of the face—pulled into time by a well charged Apple device—playing music, leaving messages, staying in touch, but not actually touching.

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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Posted in mesozeugma

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

Metalepsis

Posted on February 24, 2024 | Leave a comment

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

Now there was a canyon in my garage. It wasn’t grand, but it was bigger than my foot. The block and tackle had snapped. The ‘57 T-Bird motor had crashed-landed on the concrete floor. The oil pan was destroyed, but there was a dim light shining out of the crank case. It was eerie, spooky, and scary, and more. I yelled into the motor, but there was no answer. The light just kept on shining.

I was all alone in the garage. My wife had gone to visit her mother and my daughter was away at college in her junior year at Reed College. She was studying anthropology—but that was beside the point right now! Then I thought—Anthropology—hmmm—maybe we could excavate the T-Bird’s engine and treat the light as a natural phenomenon to be scientifically studied instead of a supernatural phenomenon—a ghost in the motor. I called my daughter. It was 2.00 am in New York, but only 11.00 pm in Oregon. She picked up the phone. Quicksilver Messenger Service was playing in the background—“Take Another Hit.” Typical.

I explained what had happened. My daughter told me the only way to “really find out” what’s going on in there is to go inside and find it. She told me she had a professor who was an ethnoherbalist. He had just returned from an expedition to an undisclosed location in Iceland, where he had unearthed a trove of Viking “Altitude” potions—medicines that could make them shrink for concealment, or grow for battle. We could use a “shrinker” to get inside the engine and look around. My daughter said she would talk to him. I was skeptical. It sounded like a nutty professor story from the “Twilight Zone.” She called in the morning and told me it was ok, but on one condition: he would accompany me into the engine. I agreed. He was flying out to New York that afternoon and would meet me at the airport. I was still skeptical.

I picked him up and we drove to my house. He was at least seven feet tall and had huge feet. He had only one eye. I asked him how he lost it and he said “None of your fu*kin’ business.” So, I left it alone. We went out into the garage and took the “get little” pills. We had one hour to get in and out of the engine. If we failed, we’d be crushed as we grew back to our normal sizes. We shrunk to about 1” tall. We climbed in through the oil pan and over the crank shaft. We could see the light shining from one of the pistons. He climbed up the piston rod to check out the light. He yelled down to me that it was some kind of phosphorescent material and he would scrape it off and put it in his specimen bag, and we could examinine it when we got back out of the engine.

He had a tool like a small putty knife. He started to scrape and there was an explosion that blew me back out onto the garage floor. I climbed back into the engine to look for him, but he had disappeared without a trace. I called, no answer. Time was running out, so I had to get out of the motor. Right on schedule, I got big again. After nearly endless inquiries, it was determined that the professor was missing. I never told anybody about out trip into the engine. My daughter knew what we had done, and she kept it quiet for our sake.

I restored the T-Bird to its original condition. The strangest thing though: when it idles in neutral the engine sounds like it is saying “None of your fu*kin’ business. None of your fu*kin’ business.”

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

Metallage

Posted on February 23, 2024 | Leave a comment

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

“That’s it. Say ‘I can’t do it’ once more, and I’ll make sure it’s true. You’ll never do anything again. Nothing. Got it? I learned how to drive a car. So can you. Anybody can, unless you’re disabled somehow, and you’re not.”

This is how it went. I would say “No” and Dad would threaten to kill me if I didn’t do what he wanted me to do. He was bossy to the max. It was like living with an angry dictator. The “learning” thing wasn’t something I wanted to do outside school—that’s where you learned—where you were supposed to learn. Not with your crazy father yelling at you.

Take this for example: Dad decided it was time for me to learn how to use the power mower. I said “No” and he said he would kill me if I didn’t. So, it was time to learn how to mow the lawn with gasoline mower.

My father said “Hold over there on that thing.” He pulled the rope on the side of the lawnmower it started, and took off with me dragging behind it. I got to the edge of the yard and my father was yelling “Disengage the clutch!” I had no idea what he was yelling about. I let get go of the lawnmower. It took off across the street and headed for the neighbor’s dog sleeping under their car in the driveway. The dog jumped up and bumped his head on the rear bumper and ran away. The lawnmower hit the car’s bumper, bounced off and took off in another direction with me chasing it. It was too fast for me. I watched as it rolled down the sidewalk through the gate to the municipal swimming pool, and into the water. Me and Dad pulled it out of the pool and dragged it home. Dad told me he was hiring a hit man to take care of me. I was terrified for a week. Then, he told me he was going to give me another chance. He had a landscaper friend who taught me how to run our new power mower.

So, home learning was two phases: Phase 1. Dad doing a terrible job leading to a catastrophe, blaming me and threatening to kill me. Phase 2. Finding somebody who knew what they were doing to teach me. Dad just couldn’t give up Phase 1, no matter what. So now I was going to learn to drive a car—a big metal car—a potentially fatal lesson. I begged and pleaded for a proper instructor, but two days later I was sitting behind the wheel of our Oldsmobile with Dad in the passenger seat. He pointed and said “Turn that key until the motor starts. Pull that lever down from P to D and press on the pedal on the floor.” When I pressed on the pedal, nothing happened. Dad said, “That’s the brake pedal nit wit.” We were starting to roll down the street. I located the gas pedal to the right and pressed it down, the tires squealed and I could smell burning rubber. We went roaring down our residential street, hitting 50mph. We were headed for our neighbor’s house at the end of the street. I remembered the brake and pressed it. The Oldsmobile skidded to a stop sideways.

Mt father said, “Get out of the car and walk home loser. You better start thinking about the future now, because you don’t have much. The mob will take care of you, and don’t beg—I’m just sick and tired of your stupidity.” I knew it was an empty threat and I didn’t worry, until I saw this guy with a mustache and a bulge in his jacket walking up our sidewalk. I ran out the back door. When I came back home, my mother told me my driving instructor had been looking for me and had left his card.

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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Posted in metallage

Tagged elocutio, figures of speech, rhetoric

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