Tag Archives: elocutio

Inopinatum

Posted on July 31, 2023 | Leave a comment

Inopinatum (in-o-pi-na’-tum): The expression of one’s inability to believe or conceive of something; a type of faux wondering. As such, this kind of paradox is much like aporia and functions much like a rhetorical question or erotema. [A paradox is] a statement that is self-contradictory on the surface, yet seems to evoke a truth nonetheless [can include oxymoron].

I couldn’t believe it when he told me our friendship was over after 45 years. He offered me excuses like “It’s stale,” “You’ve become boring,” “You’ve gone blind,” You drool a lot more than you used to,” “You’ve become really contentious,” “Those Italian cigars you smoke smell like cat shit.” I would’ve punched him in nose, but my blindness prevented me from doing so—I couldn’t see his nose. So, I decided to get a “Home Aide” to fill in the blanks left by Ted’s abandonment. I called social services to ask for help finding somebody reliable. The receptionist put me in touch with “Helpless Humans Social Stoics.” It sounded pretty philosophical. I thought I would mistrust philosophy after I took a course in my Freshman year of college. The professor had a beard and smoked a pipe—two key indicators of Communist sympathies. My father had warned me, and he had gotten it right! Professor “Beardy-Pipe” told us we live in a cave and watch TV too much, to the point that “Bonanza” has made us want to own Lake Tahoe, be landlords, and live in a giant log cabin where we are served by the Chinese slave, Hop Sing, who cooks meals, chases bad people with a meat cleaver, and complains.

That class helped a lot. It opened my eyes and showed me the truth. I became a Communist and agitated for its implementation in the small Southern town where I lived. People called me names and wouldn’t let me live a normal life. McCarthyism was rampant. I had to leave town & that’s how I ended up in Berkely, California—a safe haven for Commies.

Anyway, Marla from Helpless Humans Social Stoics was on her way. The bell rang and I made my way to the door, stumbling over something. I opened the door. “Hi! I’m Marla and I’m here to make your life easier. Where do you keep your valuables?” She smelled so good. I just wanted to press my nose against her and keep it there forever. Instead, I told her my valuables, such as they were, were hanging in the top part of the upstairs toilet in a ziplock freezer bag.

She started into the house, tripped and screamed. “There’s a dead man on the floor!” She screamed. I felt the dead man’s face and it was Ted’s. “God Almighty!” I yelled. “Does he have a knife stuck in him?” I asked. Maria said “Yes.” “We’ve got to get his body out of here and dump it in the river.” I said. “Yes. Disposing of bodies is in my job description, and it isn’t clear whether natural causes or murder matters. Just give me your valuables and I’ll call my colleague Grinski.” When I gave her the bag I could hear her rifling through it. At one point she said “Ooh! A Buck Rogers Super Decoder Ring, worth thousands!”

Ted’s gone. The floor’s clean again, and Maria and Grinski moved into my bedroom. I sleep on the garage floor in a sleeping bag.

Definition courtesy of “Silva Rhetoricae” (rhetoric.byu.edu). Bracketed text added by Gorgias.

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

Inter se pugnantia

Posted on July 30, 2023 | Leave a comment

Inter se pugnantia (in’-ter-say-pug-nan’-ti-a): Using direct address to reprove someone before an audience, pointing out the contradictions in that person’s character, often between what a person does and says.

My name is Ted Wayward. I was born and raised in Thirsty City, Wyoming. The town was named in 1844 right before the Consequential Aquifer was discovered. The town was divided over whether to keep the name—there was a movement to change it to Bubbling Springs. To avoid bloodshed, it was put to a vote. The Snotty brothers stood outside the polling place with their guns drawn, pretending they were cleaning them. The Snotty brothers wanted to keep the name. They thought it would be funny living in a town called Thirsty City that had plenty of water. But that wasn’t their plan. Actually, their hope was that the town, now that it had water and could grow hops, would become famous for its beer, with “Thirsty City” referring to the number of bars and the citizens’ propensity for liver damage, alcoholism, and wild parties that would attract people from hundreds of miles away. It would be good for the economy.

There was a annual music festival institutes. It was held at the fairgrounds. It was called the “Beer Here! Music Festival.” 1,000s of people would come to the festival. In addition to the music, there would be stock car races during the day—roaring, roaring around the track, spinning out, crashing and, sometimes burning, to the great delight of the fans. Nobody ever got killed. The fans could only hope and enjoy the non-fatal crashes.

When the sun started to set, the racetrack was turned into a concert venue & that’s where I come in. I’ve been playin’, singin’, and writin’ country music ever since I was nine. When I was 11 my dad insisted that I take his race car for a drive. It was crazy and stupid but I did it. I was going around 80 when I veered off the track, ran over Dad, and killed him. Right there, I decided the rest of my life would be a tribute to him via my music. Given what had happened had happened on a racetrack, my musical tribute would consist of country songs about NASCAR and the races they sponsor for loyal fans. I would take the stage to the sound of a race car revving up. Then, “Eye of the Tiger” would start playing and I would be lowered on a cable from the rafters wearing my father’s racing suit emblazoned with his sponsors’ logos—Teddy Ticket Fixer, Hair-Bot Salon, Richard’s Fashion Moats, Mars Cars, etc.

This is the first NASCAR song I wrote. I sang it at my Dad’s funeral:

The roar of the racetrack helped me today

When we put my Daddy away

He’ll be drivin’ in heaven

On the love we gave him

‘Round and ‘round forever he’ll go

Always fast, never slow

He’s a NASCAR Angel, drivin’ with God

We stand for you Daddy and give you a nod

As I sung, people raised their lit lighters and imitated race cars revving up.

“NASCAR Angel” put me in the Country Music Hall of Fame. It sold 20,000,000 copies and made me a wealthy man, which I still am now. But now that I’m getting ready to step off the stage once and for all, I wanted to say that for most of my life. My father was a pain in the ass. He’d tell me we were going to the movies, and we’d end up at the library. He’d tell me we were going fishing and we’d end up at church. He’d tell me we’re going bowling and we’d end up pitching horseshoes. Damn him! He never followed through. His promises were like sand blowin’ in the wind. But he was my Daddy and I wish I could see him again. I’d tell him how much I love him and apologize for killing him.

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

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Tagged elocutio, figures of speech, rhetoric, trope

Intimation

Posted on July 29, 2023 | Leave a comment

Intimation: Hinting at a meaning but not stating it explicitly.

I’m not sayings it, but something’s wrong with my car. Ever since I ran over a squirrel on Broad Street last week, it’s been acting up. I drove past a grove of oak trees and the steering pulled to the left—almost imperceptibly. The squirrels stuffing their cheeks with acorns under the tree, stood on their hind legs like they wanted to box with me. I never thought I’d be intimidated by a squirrel, but there were six or seven of them facing me with their little paws clenched into fists.

My car pulled to the curb and the door opened. The foraging squirrels held their boxing postures. Something pushed me out of the car. There I stood facing the fighting squirrels. I didn’t know what to do. All I could think to do was to kick them like little teed-up footballs. I was bitten by a squirrel when I was a kid. I crept up behind it and grabbed its tail. The bite had broken the skin and I ran home bleeding and told my mother I had tried to pick her one of Mrs. Broadbent’s roses, but I had been pricked by a thorn. She told me, “Don’t worry son. Some day you’ll get it right, and I’ll have my rose.”

But that was then. This is now. I think I’ll be swarmed and beaten to death by a pack of angry squirrels. I had become rooted to the sidewalk and couldn’t move. Suddenly, an older-looking squirrel stepped forward. He put his paws down. He asked “Are you remorseful?” I answered with an instant emphatic “Yes!” “Good” he said “So many of you just flatten us without even swerving to avoid us.” The other squirrels nodded their heads, looking at each other. The elder squirrel continued: “Oaky-Doakey was a restless squirrel who took shortcuts. I tried to warn him over and over that ‘A stitch in time saves nine.’” All the squirrels nodded in silent agreement. “He’s still laying flattened in the street. He has been run over hundreds of times. He looks like a leather frisbee with a tail. Would you pick him up and sail him into those bushes over there?” “Yes.” I said.

I picked Oaky-Doakey up with my handkerchief. The squirrels bowed their heads and raised their fists. I got Oaky-Doakey into a good frisbee position, and I tossed him. I tossed him too hard. After being dried out for weeks in the street, he broke into pieces. The squirrels looked really angry and were making a growling chattering sound as they came toward me. “Now I’m going to die for my sins!” I thought in a total panic. But cooler heads prevailed. The wise old squirrel said, “You tried. We should have known he would turn into squirrel jerky brittle. Go in peace. Drive carefully.”

I still don’t believe it all happened. I must’ve been overworked or sleep deprived. I know I ran over a squirrel and there’s a stain on my handkerchief. Two days ago I found an acorn on my front porch.

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

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

Isocolon

Posted on July 28, 2023 | Leave a comment

Isocolon (i-so-co’-lon): A series of similarly structured elements having the same length. A kind of parallelism.

Wind. Rain. Snow. With climate change, that’s what we get here all in one day. Arizona has gone weather crazy. Last week, we had a hurricane, a tornado, and an earthquake on Tuesday. I’m not sure if an earthquake is a result of climate change, but I don’t care. A huge crevasse opened under the “Only True Evangelical Resurrectional Sanctuary of the Blood-Soaked Cross.” Rev. Natas told us the earthquake had put climate change on a spiritual footing: “Aside from Noah’s cloudburst, message have always been delivered by God by cracks and fissures in the earth, giving us a glimpse of the hell below us. If you look under the church, you may get a glimpse of the imps and demons living under our feet, and where most of us will reach our ultimate fate as minions serving Satan in hell’s “Home Style Buffett” where things are always steaming hot, even the ice cream.”

“What a lunar bird the Rev. is” I thought to myself, but I went and looked into the fissure anyway. It was smoking and glowing through the smoke. I heard soft moaning sounds coming from deep down in the fissure. The smoke was making me cough, so I had to step away. I decided the moaning was just the wind blowing through the hole. As I walked away, a giant bolt of lightning hit the ground around 10 feet away. I felt the electric current. My hair was singed off and my shorts and t-shirt were shredded. I was still standing and couldn’t believe that I wasn’t seriously injured. I turned around and Rev. Natas was nowhere to be seen.

There was a red telephone booth standing there like they used to have back in the day in England. So fat she filled the phone booth with her bulk, there was a woman dressed as a cowgirl talking on the phone. She held the phone out to me and said “It’s for you partner.” I held out my hand and took the phone. The energetic voice at the other end said, “Hello Mr. Graff! You’ve won an all-expense paid trip down into the crevasse. You will be treated to a “Body Bake” and a “Soul Roll” free of charge. Just jump in the hole and you’re on your way!”

I dropped the phone and ran home as fast as I could. I was exhausted and went to bed at 4:00 in the afternoon. I woke up at 3:00 am and looked outside. It was raining, snowing, sleeting and hailing. This was the craziest weather I’d ever seen. Climate change was making progress. Suddenly, it started raining cats and dogs. All breeds, ages, and sizes. They hit the ground softly and walked away. This was surely the beginning of the end of the world.

My phone rang. I answered it and it was the telemarketer from hell. He told me he could grant me immortality if I would “make the jump, and take the leap of faith.” I hung up and ran outside and picked up the cute little puppy that had just dropped out of the sky. I named him “Stormy” and I knew we were going to have some good times together, if we survived. .

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

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Kategoria

Posted on July 27, 2023 | Leave a comment

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

I thought I knew you. I knew what you liked to wear: Chanel. I knew what you liked to drink: Dom Perignon. I knew what you liked to eat: Porterhouse Steak with Truffle Butter. I knew what you liked to drive: a Mercedes Maybach. I knew your favorite place to live: Paris. I knew your favorite book: “Atlas Shrugged.” I knew your favorite movie: “Nightmare on Elm Street.”

I could go on for ten pages of “what you like.” But you already know what you like—it’s no mystery to you. But after scanning the ensemble of things and preferences, I realized too late that I don’t know you! I thought I married you. I thought I fell in love with you. I thought I lived with you.

I’ve been watching you and spying on you since you came back from the grocery store with your skirt on backward. I asked you how it happened and you told me it was “the wind” in the parking lot, that your chauffeur Brino had to cart you to the car and lay you down on the seat, where your skirt probably got turned around. You credited Brino with saving your life. But we both know there was no wind. We both know you’re lying.

Then you stayed out all night. You told me you were running in a marathon and got lost. Your phone went dead and you were panic- stricken, afraid you may be assaulted or mauled by one of the viscous dogs that lives by the beach. Once again, you credited Brino with saving you and taking you to his mother’s home for the night. But we both know there was no marathon. We both know there’s no “Brino’s mother.” We both know you’re lying. Then there’s my gold Rolex that disappeared. The next day, I noticed that Brino was wearing a gold Rolex. You told me he had gotten it for his birthday from his brother. But we both know there was no birthday or brother. We both know you’re lying.

I said, “Now I think I know you: You’re a cheater and a liar.” At this point my wife started crying. She sobbed: “I’m no good. I’m rotten. I stink.” I said, “Ok. I’ll add that to cheater and liar, and I’ll have a really good idea of who you are.”

I anguished all night. For some bizarre reason I couldn’t live without her. It was like I had reconciled myself to taking a small dose of poison every day. First thing the next morning, I met with an “associate” of mine from Palermo and hired him to do a hit on Brino. That would solve the cheating problem; maybe the lying problem too. I resolved that our next chauffeur would be a young blonde woman with an open heart.

But alas. Brino got wind of my plan and stole the Mercedes and a cooler full of Porterhouse steaks. My traitorous wife went with him. I told my associate from Palermo, if he could bag them both, he could keep the car and the steaks for himself.

Definition courtesy of “Silva Rhetoricae” (rhetoric.byu.edu). Bracketed text added by Gorgias.

Buy a print edition of The Daily Trope! The print edition is entitled The Book of Tropes and is available on Amazon for $9.99. A Kindle edition is available for $5.99.

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

Litotes

Posted on July 26, 2023 | 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).

How undeserving. How unworthy. How embarrassed by all this. I say “So what?” I am half the man you think I am. I’m “not what I’m cracked up to be.” I didn’t build anything, but I did make a difference—a minimal difference that destroyed as much as it produced, showing everything has two sides, at least. You’re all sitting here in rags with rice bowls hanging around your necks because of what I did—but instead of wanting to kill me, you want to hug me. And I should give credit to my imp friend Harry Stillskin, sitting over there with his hand on my wife, who helped me pull it all together.

I was stumbling through life with no direction when I met Harry perched on a stool at The Blue Moon Bar and Grill here in Lodi. I sat down next to him and he bought me a beer. He asked me to guess his name. He was wearing a bowling shirt that said Harry on it. So I said, “Harry?” He said, “Damn, that’s right. I should’ve listened to my wife—she told me not to wear my bowling shirt when I wasn’t with my buddies.” We drank a few more beers and got half-loaded. Harry asked me what I did for a living. As a joke, I told him I was a deep-sea diver. He looked shocked. He told me that salt water would set him on fire, so he had to stay from the ocean. I thought he was kidding me, so I let it pass. He told me he was in the kidnapping business. Now, the bullshit was getting out of hand. I ordered two more beers and asked him to elaborate.

He told me he had a spinning wheel that had been in his family for hundreds of years. The spinning wheel spun gold! He would find desperate mothers and make a deal: He would take the babies and spin gold. If the mother could guess his name, she would get to keep the gold and get her baby back. If she failed guess his name, he would keep the baby and the gold. He said it was surprising how few women could guess his name. One would think that “Harry” would be pretty easy to guess. He sold the babies to a baby broker in Canada, no questions asked.

I was stunned. “Bullshit!” was all I could think to say. With slightly slurred speech Harry said, “Oh yeah? Come on. Let’s take a walk.” We walked up the street and came to an old barn—a vestige of Lodi’s horse and buggy days. Harry waved at the door and it slowly opened. Inside there was a spinning wheel, an executive leather swivel chair, a wooden stool and a crib. God! He wasn’t kidding. He churned out a couple of ounces of gold and we split them 50-50. I asked him if we could hire a crew to spin night and day and Harry said “Ok.” So, that’s what we did out of sheer greed. But then, we had so much gold that we bagged it up and dumped it all over Lodi, and then all over the US. Our spinners had come under some kind of spell and couldn’t stop spinning.

The rest is history.

The world was glutted with gold. The price plummeted to 10 cents per ounce. Paper money lost it’s value, among other things, it was used as kindling to start fires. Bartering made a comeback. We have learned to do without. I am valorized for causing a worldwide economic collapse (along with Harry). But, so much good has come of it. When we’re all poor, everybody’s poor. We achieve an equality of misery and freedom from the nagging hunger for material gain. We may be ill-clothed and hungry all the time, but at least we’re all still alive (with the exception of the infirm and the elderly).

Harry and I are so undeserving. Really, it’s our out-of-control gold spinners who made all this happen. So let’s raise a toast to them, resting in their urns in the showcase back there. It was the only way to stop them. .

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

Buy a print edition of The Daily Trope! The print edition is entitled The Book of Tropes and is available on Amazon for $9.99. A Kindle edition is available for $5.99.

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Posted in litotes

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

Mempsis

Posted on July 21, 2023 | Leave a comment

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

I can’t believe how lost I am. I never should’ve gone to the Magnificent Mega-Mega Mall. I need a map, but the Mall’s map racks are empty. The personnel wear uniforms like movie theatre ushers wore back in the day—blue military-looking uniforms with brass buttons and epaulets that look like hairbrushes with gold bristles. The uniformed mall workers are no where to be seen. I’ve tried to ask my fellow shoppers where the hell I am, but they just keep walking by me like so many shopping zombies.

I’m hauling heavy loot on my mall scooter which, by the way has a broken GPS. It keeps saying I’m in Lima, Ohio when I’m actually in Short Hills, New Jersey. What a piece of crap. I’m carrying a portable window air conditioner on my lap. My mall scooter’s battery light is flashing red. I probably have a mile left with power. Then iI’ll be stranded in the biggest mall in the world. From entrance to exit, it extends for 5 miles. The architecture is like a funnel that makes you traverse the entire mall before you could exit. They had jitneys, but they were nowhere to be seen..

The Mall covers over land where I went rabbit hunting with by Beagle Buddy when I was a kid. I also went bow hunting for deer in the woods surrounding the fields. There were apple trees left from long-gone orchards. But, the trees still gave delicious juicy Cortland apples. I would go there with my Radio Flyer wagon and pick apples and haul them home where Ma and I would make applesauce and a couple of apple pies every fall.

I passed a sign: Exit: 2 miles. There had to be emergency exits nearby, but they were unmarked and I couldn’t see them. The red light on the mall scooter was flashing faster and showing a message that said “Charge me Now!” I thought that was pretty demanding. I looked around for a charging port, but didn’t see one. I didn’t need the damn scooter anyway. I admit it: I faked an infirmity whenever I went to the mall. I was actually in pretty good shape. So, I got off the scooter and stored my air conditioner in a nearby janitor’s closest, and covered it with rags. I looked for a jitney. Nothing, so I started walking, pushing past whole families walking slowly and looking straight ahead. Suddenly, I heard a humming sound behind me!

It was the mall scooter driving itself. It was going slowly and the red light had stopped blinking. It was following me! Then, it talked in the robot kind of voice that’s used in science fiction movies. “You we’re not authorized to ride me. You must come with me to mall security for your trial.” I ran. The scooter chased me and butted me from behind, making me fall backwards into the scooter’s seat, where a seatbelt shot across my lap and cinched me in. I was trapped. I asked the scooter if I would be supplied a lawyer. He laughed a creepy robot laugh and increased our speed.

We arrived at Mall Security. There was a mall cop sitting behind a messy dest wearing a white wig, like a British barrister. He said, “You are charged with the unauthorized use of a mall scooter. How do you plead: guilty or not guilty?” I said “not guilty” even though I was lying and everybody knew it. The cop said: “The court finds you guilty. You will be sentenced after I take a quick smoke break.” I was furious. “This is total bullshit. Who the hell do you think you are?” He looked me like he wanted spray mace in my face: “Look wise guy, the Mayor of Short Hills has given us control over the mall and meting out mall justice. That scooter you’re sitting on doubles as an electric chair. Do you want to fry, Mr. Scooter Stealer? Or, are you going to wait for your sentence.” I just shut up and waited for my sentence.

I’m serving my sentence as an H&M sales associate. For six weeks, I’m selling dumb-ass clothes to tasteless teenagers. “My” scooter visits me every once-in-while. All it says is, “Did you learn your lesson yet?”

For some reason, I’ve used my H&M employee discount to buy myself a full-length black pleather trench-coat that smells a little bit like motor oil. I wear it as a bathrobe at home, and also to mow the lawn, and go grocery shopping.

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

Buy a print edition of The Daily Trope! The print edition is entitled The Book of Tropes and is available on Amazon for $9.99. A Kindle edition is available for $5.99.

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Tagged elocutio, figures of speech, rhetoric, trope

Merismus

Posted on July 20, 2023 | Leave a comment

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

It was a pancake, flat and round, buttered, soaked with maple syrup. It had a top, a bottom, and sides. I picked up my fork and dug into it—holding my fork on its side, rocking it back and forth, and up and down to cut the pancake. There was sausage too, but the pancake was the focus of my attention. Ever since I was eleven, when I had pancakes for the first time, I’ve had them for breakfast every day. I figure I’ve had a hundred gallons of maple syrup. I dress like a lumberjack—Carhartt overhauls, buffalo-checked red shirt, Timberland work boots, and a navy blue watch cap. I carry an antique peavey wherever I go. I have trouble getting into night clubs, but I just check my peavey in the coat room. At the grocery store, I check it in the manager’s office, same with the liquor store.

So anyway, who makes my pancakes? It’s not my mother! It’s my girlfriend Shirley “Baby Batter” Tapper. It took her nearly a year to learn to make perfect pancakes. When she first started, the pancakes were the size of quarters and had flour dust inside from her failure to adequately mix the flour. I was so mad that I pulled my .45 and shot up the pancakes, and the dish, and the kitchen table. I was about ready to shoot up Baby Batter, when I started to calm down and put the gun away.

One morning, I asked Baby Batter to make pancakes with something interesting mixed in. I was thinking of blueberries or something like that. She mixed loose Oolong tea into the batter. It was the most god-awful pancake I had ever had in my whole life. The tea looked like snuff on my teeth and it tasted like my dog’s collar smells. I pulled out my .45 and pumped five rounds into the pancake from hell—the plate shattered and the five slugs went through the kitchen table and lodged in the kitchen floor. Baby Batter was crouched in a corner crying. I went to comfort her and she yelled “No!” and swung her stainless steel spatula at me. I had gotten it for her birthday. She was so happy! Now, she was a miserable wreck sobbing in the kitchen. I decided then and there to drizzle her with maple syrup and eat her.

I had never eaten a person before. I Googled “cannibalism” and found instructions for butchering and some “natural organic” recipes for Homo Sapiens Comedere that were quick and easy to prepare. The “Breaded Thigh Garlic Pizza” looked great. I couldn’t wait to get my teeth into Baby Batter. I was reloading my .45’s magazine. My mouth was watering. I could already smell Baby Batter baking in the oven. I got my butcher’s knife out of it’s drawer and jacked a round into the 45’s chamber. Suddenly, Baby Batter jumped up and scraped my face with her spatula, like my face was a crusty cookie sheet she was trying to clean off. I was bleeding profusely. Baby Batter grabbed my .45 and pressed it against my forehead. She said, voice trembling, “If you ever do anything like this ever again, I will blow off your testicles and shoot you in spine so you’ll be riding a wheelchair for the rest of your life, with no balls. And I will never make you pancakes again—not even on your birthday or Christmas. You WILL go to counseling.”

I agreed to everything. I went to counseling and found out that I was suffering from “Rapid Onset Cannibal Syndrome.” It is triggered by temper tantrums directed toward loved ones, and overindulgence in pancakes, which makes you want to eat people. The formula: ANGER+PANCAKES=CANNIBALISM is a part of my therapy, I am required to recite the formula to my therapist on Moodle twice a day.

My face is disfigured from Baby Batter’s spatula scraping. Every time I look in the mirror, I can’t believe that Baby Batter did this to me. We are married and have a daughter named Sally “Nonstick.” I’ve started tapping my maple trees and making my own syrup. I’ve created a maple syrup cologne that is selling really well in Canada. I haven’t wanted to eat Baby Batter for four years, although I must admit, sometimes my stomach growls when I look at her for more than 30 seconds.

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

Buy a print edition of The Daily Trope! The print edition is entitled The Book of Tropes and is available on Amazon for $9.99. A Kindle edition is available for $5.99.

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Tagged elocutio, example, figures of speech, rhetoric

Mesarchia

Posted on July 19, 2023 | Leave a comment

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

I drove a truck. I drove a truck to hell and back. I drove the truck wherever I could get asphalt, dirt, or concrete under my tires. My truck was a mansion dedicated to St. Christopher, the patron saint of travelers, keeping them safe and from getting lost. Behind my seat I had my sleeping chateau. When I was done driving, or tired, I retreated to the chateau. It was completely dark—not a shred of light. It was soundproofed—I could pull over anywhere and shut ‘er down for some shut eye. I had a water bed with black satin sheets and pillowcases. I slept under a Spider-Man comforter in my Carlos Santana pajamas imprinted with “A Black Magic Women” from the song—which I love. My mattress sat on a hinged lid with an electric motor that raised and lowered it. Underneath was a tanning bed I used to keep from getting a prison tan—a hazard of truck driving, where your cab can be likened to a cell. I had a 35” plasma TV at the foot of my bed where I could pick up Amazon Prime, and local programming. There’s a weight-lifting set at the head of my bed, which I use for bench pressing. There’s also a reading light. Currently, I’m reading Hemingway’s “Men Without Women.” The ceiling has a moon roof I can open and watch stars at night—I love counting shooting stars. But, when I close it, it completely blocks out the light.

In the cab, I have a microwave and a mini fridge, and a two-burner stove built into the dashboard where I make coffee and hot coco, and sometimes, soup. I eat mainly microwave dinners, so I don’t have any dishes—just a couple of bowls. My truck’s name (painted booth fenders) is “Flying Iron.” I like to think of my truck as capable flight. Then, I could pick up and deliver across the Atlantic and Pacific Oceans—to England and Malaysia. But, I’m just a cross-country trucker, a prisoner of RTE 80. I know every inch of it, every piece of unpicked-up litter, and enduring, unmoving, roadkills.

Driving at night across desolate stretches of RTE 80 can make you start seeing things that may not, or may, actually be there, like outside Winslow, AZ. It’s like the moon with underbrush. It was around 3:00 am and I was headed for Tahoe, a pretty good stretch. A turquoise 1961-or so Corvair panel truck came shooting out of the sky and landed in front of me. I slammed on the brakes and jumped out. Richard Nixon stepped out of the panel truck wearing lederhosen with a white shirt, vintage hiking boots, a German alpine hat with a feather in it, and an American flag pin pinned to his lederhosen’s suspenders. He said, “I’m not a crook.” Then raised two hands in peace signs, got back in the Corvair, and out stepped what was clearly a space alien.

He looked like he was made from Navy Blue modeling clay. His eyes were tiny little red beads that were very shiny. He was at least 7 feet tall and wearing lederhosen and a feather hat like Nixon’s. He didn’t need hiking boots—his feet were hiking boots. He said: “Nixon is doing well. He still insists he’s innocent. I have failed to change his mind, but we believe he is lying. Sometimes my job as intergalactic Nixon minder is boring. We’ve just been to the dark side of the moon to a music festival. There we are and Nixon’s walking around passing out his “I’m not a crook” flyers. He paused, though, when the (translated) “Pings” started playing (translated) “Outer Space.” The song questions the hegemonic foundation of the ethnocentric naming of my habitat, i.e., “Outer Space.” He told me that “outer” implies an origin that privileges a place in the universe.”

Suddenly, there was a flash of bright blue light and the Corvair was gone. I got back in Flying Iron and sat there, trying to make sense of what I just experienced. I couldn’t. So, I put the key in the ignition, started my truck, and headed for Tahoe. First, I stuck the feather I had found by my truck into the sun visor. It looked familiar.

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

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Posted in mesarchia

Tagged elocutio, figures of speech, rhetoric, trope

Mesodiplosis

Posted on July 18, 2023 | Leave a comment

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

I had won another free lotto ticket on my scratch off quest. Looking at the scratched off free lotto ticket bubbles brought me no joy. I felt like I was doomed to win free lotto ticket after free lotto ticket for all eternity. I wanted to win some money. Money! So, I kept buying lotto tickets and went for a two-week streak where I didn’t even win a free ticket. But, I persisted. I figured I had a few hundred dollars sunk in lotto tickets, with no return. Nothing. Instead of quitting the lotto thing, I ramped it up. I was frustrated and semi crazy. I put on my backpack, put on my helmet, and jumped on my bicycle (it was embarrassing, but I didn’t have a car). I made the pavement smoke as I sped down the street. First, I went to the bank and had my credit limit raised to $20,000 on my credit card. That done, I headed to Cliff’s, “The Lord of Lotto.”

“I want every scratch-off Lotto ticket you have, up to $20,000.” The woman behind the counter looked at me like I was crazy, and she was right. I had scratch-off fever. My mind was saying “scratch it, scratch it, never stop.” My heart was saying “scratch it, scratch it, never stop.” All my internal organs were urging me on, even my appendix which is supposed to be an inert piece of flesh that does nothing but get infected and explode.

The lady behind the counter was unreeling the scratch-offs from their plastic rack—like brightly colored toilet paper that would probably wipe me out. She swiped the tickets through the credit card scanner and stuffed them in my backpack as she went along. Cliff’s only had 600 tickets on the rack. I paid for them with my credit card—$600.00. I tore a ticket off of my Take-Five bundle and gave it to the women behind the counter. She kissed it and winked at me.

I got on my bike and peddled home with my potentially valuable cargo. I got home and dumped my tickets on the dining room table. It was a mountain. I thought, “What the hell, I’ll invite my best friends over for a ‘Scratch Down’ party.” My 3 friends trickled in around a half-hour later. I made Mojitos, gave them coins to scratch with, and we started scratching. Drinking and scratching. Scratching and drinking. After 200 tickets, I had won $25.00 and nine free tickets. I fell asleep from Mojito magic.

When I woke up, my friends were gone, and there was a weird-looking little man at the table scratching lotto tickets so fast his hands were a blur. “So far, $280.00 and 27 free tickets.” he said. He scared the hell out of me, but I wasn’t about to run away with all those tickets on the table. “Don’t worry, your friends didn’t steal any tickets. I told them if they did, I would kill them. They believed me.” I couldn’t speak. I was in shock. He said, “I manifest when otherwise normal people go crazy on scratch-off lotto tickets. I work for the State of New York. Once the scratching is done, I provide counseling. I confiscate your credit cards and have you banned from Cliff’s. My name is Norknock, a popular name among my people. I harken from the 12th Dimension. My people are never “led into into temptation,” and are “delivered from evil” by a genetic mutation propagated throughout the 12th Dimension at least 2,023 years ago. So, let’s finish up here.”

We “finished up” and Norknock dematerialized after we made an appointment for next Friday at 4:00 pm. I tried to go to Cliff’s for cigarettes and couldn’t get closer than 2 feet to the entrance—I felt like a magnet being repelled. In fact, I had the same experience anywhere lotto tickets were sold. Luckily, Norknock agreed to accompany me and make purchases for me wherever I’m blocked. We shop on our counseling days.

After all was said and done, my $600.00 worth of lotto tickets netted me $405.00 and 32 free tickets. That’s pretty bad. Things would’ve been different if I hadn’t given the ticket to the Cliff’s lady behind the counter. The ticket won $5,555.00.

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

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Posted in mesodiplosis

Tagged elocutio, figures of speech, rhetoric

Mesozeugma

Posted on July 17, 2023 | 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.

I was going to the park, to the mall, to the community swimming pool, to Cliff’s, to the landfill. I suffered from Chronic Wandering Syndrome, or CWS. It is a curse. When I was a kid my parents would have to call the police for help finding me. They’d fan out all over town. They never found me in the same place twice. Once they found me in the walk-in humidor adjacent to the gas station on the Native American reservation. I loved the smell of cigar tobacco. Once they found me on top of the town water tower basking in the sun in my gym shorts. Once they found me under a picnic table in the town park. I was pretending to be a dog begging for table scraps while a family played along, feeding me a hot dog and some macaroni salad under the table while they enjoyed their meal together. The little boy named me Roscoe and I would yip when he called my name.

As I got older, my CWS worsened. I could ride my bicycle to wander. I never knew were I was going, but I always ended up somewhere, for better and for worse. The most memorable was the Hippy camp outside of town. It was called Rainbow Binge. At least 50 Hippies lived there—whole families and pets too. I met a girl named Potatochontas. She was beautiful. She had purple hair. She wore a dress made out of a flour sack and she was barefoot. She told me is was time for her to take her medicine. She asked me if I wanted some too. I said “Yes!” And she handed me a little piece of paper with the Disney character Goofy’s picture on it. “Just put it on your tongue,” she said. I did, and we sat there. About ten minutes later she turned into a giant bullet. I hugged her, hoping she would fire. She didn’t. Instead I became a bottle of raw milk and I was begging for her to shake me. She grabbed me by the neck and started shaking me up and down. She shook me too hard and I turned into a slice of American cheese, and then a Persian carpet decorated with Humvees and helicopters. She sat on me and wept. I needed to get out of there, but I did not know where I was going next. I got on my bike—it had turned into uncooked spaghetti. I rode away on it anyway, following the road’s white line, hoping I wouldn’t be killed. The police found me jumping up and down on a trampoline at “Lucky Bounce” trampoline park, wearing only gym shorts with a peace symbol painted on my chest.

I was institutionalized. My therapy consisted of “travel agency” where, before I was allowed to go anywhere, I had to tell my therapist where I was going, how long it would take to get there, why I’m going and when I will return. Given the range of destinations at “Mind Passages Mental Facility” there weren’t many opportunities to work on itinerary building, but I did my best. I did well at bathroom, my room and cafeteria. Then, my parents’ insurance ran out. I was discharged with a roadmap and a pair of very good quality walking shoes, but I didn’t know where to go, so I wandered off. My parents had given up. I knew they had stopped retrieving me. It was sad, but necessary. Anyway, I was 25 years old.

I wandered onto a university campus and into the Human Resources office. I told them I was wandering. “Oh, you must be Professor Wandering, the new hire in the English Department” said the receptionist. “We’ve been trying to reach you for a week. I’m glad you’re safe and sound. Your students are waiting for you in ADMIN 312. Your class ‘From Pixels To Pixies in Marshall McLuhan’s Gutenberg Galaxy’ looks fascinating. Good luck and welcome!” As I headed down the hall, I knew where I was going, and for better or worse, I wanted to go there! My first-ever desire for direction. It was magic. I lectured about the “Pixies” a 1960s all-women rock group whose “Goin’ it the Chapel of Love” critiques the commodification of love in post-printing press America. I got a standing ovation.

The real Professor Wandering never showed up. I hope he’s dead. At any rate, my wandering days ended at “Mr. Jones University. I lectured, I published, I served, I’m tenured. I keep my roadmap and walking shoes as reminders of my past and my sojourn at “Mind Passages.” Every once-in-awhile, just to stay in practice, I share my itinerary with my Secretary when I’m going to the library. She humors me and laughingly asks if I need a cab or a map.

Heading to the library, I see a slightly aged Potatochontas sitting in a flour sack dress on a bench in the hall. I am shocked, but filled with joy. There’s a toddler sitting next to her dressed in a flour sack too. Potatochontas smiles. We embrace. I look over my shoulder and the little girl says “Hi. You are my daddy. My name is Rose. Mommy loves you very much.”

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

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Posted in mesozeugma

Tagged elocutio, figures of speech, rhetoric, trope

Metabasis

Posted on July 16, 2023 | Leave a comment

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

The words have been spoken. Now, I will speak more words, and then, even more words. Words. Words, Words. It’s a stampede. A riot. A whole lotta’ words. They have meanings. They affect people similarly and differently. They are words—almost worlds—if only words had that “L”, meanings would be more rounded, more global, but not more circular. Now that I’ve made no sense, let’s try to find out why.

I was raised by wolves. My father was a butcher and my mother sold used cars. My father quoted Plato all the time, the passage in Gorgias about cutting meat at the joints—a metaphor for dividing and organizing a speech “naturally.” My mother used to say “Stand in front of the rust.” She was so cool—ready to deceive, and cheat, to make a sale—to bring home the bacon for me and Dad, who would literally bring home the bacon from “Mighty Meaty,” his marginally successful butcher shop.

When I turned 16, my parents told be they could finally afford to buy me a toy for no more than $25.00. All those years I had spent without store-bought toys did not prepare me for my parents’ offer. I had just finished fashioning a horn to make a mooing sound. There was a dairy nearby and I was going to go there and moo at the cows. This was a very specialized toy that reflected my unique interests. Like a word, my moo horn had meaning—meaning that couldn’t be found in a dictionary.

What could I get for $25.00 that would appeal to me? Gambling. It had always fascinated me. My investment was a fake mustache I could wear at the “Shooting Moon” casino to conceal my age. I didn’t know that much about gambling games like dice, so, I went for the slot madness. I cashed my $25.00 in bills for 25 silver dollars. I had seen a slot machine with a $25,000 jackpot. All you needed to do was put a silver dollar in a slot and pull a giant handle. After my first pull it came up all zeroes, and a recorded voice said “Pull my handle again.” I did, and got the same result until finally, I pushed in my last silver dollar and pulled the giant handle. A recorded voice said “Holy Shit” and started singing “You’re in the money!” A huge pile of silver dollars was growing at my feet, pouring out of the front of the machine. An attractive woman asked me if I “needed help with the money.” I had read “The National Enquirer” enough to see right through that scam. Then I realized it was my mother. I said, “Sure Ma. How did you know I was here.” She told me she didn’t know, she comes to “Shooting Moon” nearly every afternoon, before she starts cooking dinner for the family.

By then, they had set up a security barrier. The floor was covered with silver dollars. A man in a sort of uniform came up to me and handed me a check for $25,000. “Good luck.” he said. Just then, my fake mustache fell off. I picked up off the floor, stuck it back on, and said calmly, “Incognito.” I shook his hand and walked out of “Shooting Moon” with enough money to maybe buy a car from my mom, or 50lbs of pork chops from my dad. But more than anything, I wanted to invest in the stock market. I did. I am a billionaire. Yesterday, I ate lunch with Elon Musk.

Now, we get back to words. It was a long haul. Without words we’d be living in pods and squeaking at each other, we’d be doing some kind of hula dance at our front doors to decide which way to go, we’d howl to achieve consensus, we’d honk on the way south and north so we could stick together, we’d rub our legs together on warm summer nights. But no, we have words! Sometimes I think I’d rather honk, or maybe purr.

There you have it. We’ve been there. Then we we’re here. Next we’re headed there.

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

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Posted in metabasis

Tagged elocutio, figures of speech, rhetoric

Metalepsis

Posted on July 15, 2023 | 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.

I am the screwdriver man. I have screwed many screws, making them go round and round, driving them to the finish, into soft wood, As in a 500 mile race at Indianapolis, fastening, fastening, fastening up to the finish line, The screw is mightier than the sword. You can’t just pull it out. You have to unscrew it!

But the screwdriver is the screw’s master—it is an affair of the heart—it is love at the first turn of the screw— it is Romeo and Juliet—star crossed tool and fastener, made to bind things together—to eclipse the dowel and the nail: fasteners of a baser shade, furiously beaten by mallets and hammers, not the sunshine of love ignited by the screwdriver’s spinning waltz with its chosen screw: together, screwdriver and screw connect and bore into the wooden plain like lumberjacks looking for the wood of gold. Will a lasting connection be made? Yes! The screwer, the screwdriver, and the screw will bring things together in a relationship deigned to last, and perhaps, to outlast the screwer’s screwing in the sun, snapping his mortal coil.

Anyway, I currently use a “Whip Tip” racing screwdriver. It is made in Germany where all great tools are made. When I started my career as a competitive screwer, or “screwy,” my father gave me his screwdriver—a Stanley Spinner. It was made in China (not Germany). Also, it really wasn’t designed for competitive screwing. It had a clear yellow plastic handle with a black rubber grip-improving sheath. The shaft was silver—garishly chrome plated. The blade seemed sturdy—like it could take the rapid hard turns that competitive screwdriving is known for.

Briefly, the first competition went badly. I inserted dad’s screwdriver into the screw’s slot. The slot was deep. The blade fit well— no wiggle, tight. The starting gun fired. I started screwing like my wrists were lubricated with WD-40. I was like wrists of fire. I had been following the exercise regime in “Screwing It,” by Philip Head. He was known as “The “Screwing King.” He lived in Germany’s Black Forrest where he made world-famous Cuckoo clocks, held together entirely by beautiful brass screws. Anyway, I was furiously turning my screwdriver when I had a catastrophic handle failure: the plastic cracked making the screwdriver shaft a free-spinning non-sequitur: killing the screwdriver’s capacity for screwing. Out of anger, I started stabbing my workbench with my screwdriver. A judge saw me and I was escorted out of the venue by a giant usher. He said, “I know how feel,” as he pushed me down onto the pavement. I considered stabbing him with my broken screwdriver, but decided not to. I wanted to be around for next year’s competition.

So, here I am—competing again. I’m clutching my German “Whip Tip” in my fist. In practice, I’ve got my screwing down to 2.6 seconds—almost a world record. Oh damn: there’s Philip Head. He’s competing. He’s holding a screwdriver that looks like it’s from a science fiction movie. I can see through the plastic handle that the screwdriver pivots on ball bearings. The shaft has a diameter the size of the handle and appears to be made of lead, for extra pressure on the screw head. Mr. Head’s innovations are too much for me.

I dropped out of the competition, and, clutching my “Whip Tip” caught a bus home. My dad, trying to be funny, said “Screw ‘em” when I told him what happened. Crying, I went out to the garage and starting screwing things together. I had to put a drill into play. I screwed the lawnmower to Dad’s car. I screwed the chainsaw to the wheelbarrow. I screwed my bicycle to the workbench. I had gone insane! I called my therapist and told her what I had done. She told me to pack a bag and catch an Uber to “Head Games,” the new mental hygiene facility near the county landfill. She would call ahead an set things up. I knew I could get well if I could get rid of my “Whip Tip” and say goodbye to competitive screwing. As we we rode along, I decided to throw my “Whip Tip” out the car’s window. That was a mistake. I speared a bicyclist in the leg. I called 911 as we sped off to “Head Games.” I was looking forward to taking medications and was hoping there would be a good snack time.

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

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Posted in metalepsis

Tagged elocutio, example, figures of speech, rhetoric

Metallage

Posted on July 14, 2023 | Leave a comment

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

“Hell” is right next door—it’s name is Mrs. Mubert and I don’t want to hear another “quiet down” out of her window when we’re playing in my yard. Playing involves making noise and there’s no law against it. Mrs. Mubert’s admonitions are unethical, if not illegal. The next time she yells “Quiet down” out her window, I’m going to walk up to it and yell “You quiet down, you broken-down old fat neighbor!” RX Jones thought it was a great idea. We called him “RX” because of all the medications he had to take, or he would die (or so his mother had told him).

The time had come. We made as much noise as we could; Michelle played he violin. Joey had one of those Vuvuzelas his grandfather had gotten at the 2010 FIFA World Cup in South Africa. Tommy had one of those yacht aerosol fog horns. “Blammer” Bombinski blew off fireworks. Norma Rock banged a wooden spoon on a saucepan. The topper was Giles Well’s hand-crank air raid siren that his great-grandfather used to warn people during WWII of impending bombing raids. We lived in Ohio, so the siren was never used.

So, we had a double-din going. The racket of all rackets. But where was Mrs. Mubert? We had expected that it would take no longer than five minutes for her to get to the window. If we couldn’t meet her at the window, we could meet her at her front door. We marched to the front door and rang the bell. No answer. What was going on? The front door wasn’t locked. We deliberated for a minute, and then we marched in.

The drapes were pulled and it was dark. Mrs. Mubert had a gold-colored, jewel encrusted throne in her living room. She was sitting in the throne holding a gold-colored scepter across her chest. She was wearing sunglasses and what looked like a wedding dress. She looked dead. Then, suddenly, she said “Quiet down” in a soft, yet earnest, voice that had a threatening edge to it. We jumped back and huddled together, totally freaked out. Nevertheless, according to plan, I yelled “You quiet down, you broken-down old fat neighbor!” Mrs. Mubert pointed her scepter at me and slowly stood up. I could feel a tickling in my chest as I was lifted off the floor, and then fell to the floor. “Let’s get the hell out of here!!” I yelled as I headed for the door. It was locked. Mrs. Mubert made a snarling noise, like a bad dog. I noticed she had fang bite marks on her neck. I pulled my crucifix out of my shirt and pointed it at her. She started to writhe around and smoke. Two other kids were Catholic and pulled out their crucifixes. Mrs. Mubert fell down and we dragged her out the front door, into the sunlight. She burst into flames and became a pile of ashes in a minute.

We knew nobody would believe Mrs. Mubert was a vampire and she would yell at us to “be quiet” because she needed to sleep during day so she could stalk people at night. So, we told the police she had invited us in for cookies and milk. She was going to have tea and her dress caught on fire when she reached across the lit burner to grab her teapot. We told the police what a nice women she was and how heartbroken we were when she caught on fire and our efforts to save her failed.

Evidently, Mrs. Mubert was a Class 2 Vampire. She fed on raccoons, feral cats, rats, opossums, and homeless dogs. I determined this after discovering that no people were ever found with their blood sucked out, but there were numerous animals that had been drained, and found their way to Mrs. Mubert’s trash can—which the police examined after her death.

I managed to nick Mrs. Mubert’s scepter. It’s like a flashlight with a button on the side. I figured out how work it and I’ve been flying my little sister’s pet bunny around the house when I’m home alone. I am tempted to give my baby brother a ride, but I need to get him a helmet. I’m saving my money.

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

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Posted in metallage

Tagged elocutio, figures of speech, rhetoric

Metaphor

Posted on July 13, 2023 | Leave a comment

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

“I am an unpaved driveway. Think about it. Mull it over. Forget about it. It’s a heavy metaphor. Dirt. Gravel. Ruts. A weed strip down the middle.” That’s it! Miss Mantandino will love it. She might even read it to the class. I—Billy Widdle—was in love with her and wanted to marry her after we finished the school year—maybe in July. It didn’t matter that she was fifteen years older than me. I was going to do it. She came to my desk to pick the metaphor. She read it, and without a word, put it back on my desk. She made her way back up to her desk and said: “Attention boys and girls. Attention!” The room quieted down and she said”Billy Widdle has written something for today’s metaphor assignment that he will read aloud. Billy, go ahead.” I read it and there was silence when I finished it. James Klogar was the first to speak: “It is more stupid than what Billy usually writes.” Then Suzy Schmid chimed in: “It is a striking portrait of Billy’s self concept. He should be escorted to the school nurse for counseling.” Then Bella Schazoul was called on: “I agree with Suzy, but I would add, clearly he is dangerous. We should call Public Safety and get him out of here before he goes berserk and hurts us.” Miss Mantandino had pulled a small automatic pistol out of her desk and pointed it at me:

“Don’t be afraid Billy. Just don’t make any fast moves. I’ve been trained in classroom firearm utilization by the school district’s ‘Bureau of Bombs, Guns, Gases, Chalk’ in a one-day workshop in a very nice hotel with a jacuzzi and swimming pool.” I did not know what to do. I never imagined the metaphor would take me down this road. I couldn’t tell anybody, but my big sister had written the metaphor for her senior class. I had found it squished between the cushions of our couch. I had copied it and used it.

I started singing a song I had composed. It was a version of “Old MacDonald’s Farm” where he has exotic animals and two wives. His Wife #1 is mauled by a Raccoon, catches rabies, and dies. I was on my final “eee-yi-eee-yi-oh” when Public Safety showed up. They knocked down the classroom door. There were ten of them dressed in military gear with automatic weapons. They yelled at Miss Mantandino, “Where’s Widdle?” She said, “I’m aiming my pistol at him.” They handcuffed me and led me to the Principal’s Office for questioning. The officer slammed my sister’s metaphor down on the desk. “What’s this crap?” He asked. I told him my big sister had written it and I had stolen it and passed it off as mine.” “Oh,” he said “We’re going have to hunt down your sister. Where is she?” I told them she was working on a coffee plantation in Brazil. He said “Ok. You may go back to class now. Please thank Miss Mantandino for her service and vigilance. Just remind her to keep her pistol under lock and key.”

I went back to class. It was nearly 3.00 PM. My fellow students cowered behind their desks when I walked in unescorted. Miss Mantandino stood there—if she had her arms amputated, she would be Venus’s identical twin. I figured the time was right to ask Miss Mantandino to marry me. I raised my hand . . .

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

Buy a print edition of The Daily Trope! The print edition is entitled The Book of Tropes and is available on Amazon for $9.99. A Kindle edition is available for $5.99.

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Posted in metaphor

Tagged elocutio, figures of speech, rhetoric, trope

Metaplasm

Posted on July 12, 2023 | Leave a comment

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

I told my mother “I paahked my caaa in owuh naibuh’s yahd,” I thought I was pretty funny imitating my great-great-grandfather’s Maine accent. He had been a sailor all his life. His nickname was “Yardarm” and he had actually served on clipper ships. He was 112 and had been forced to move in with us after the “incidents” at the nursing home. He had been accused of “snacking out of order” and running over peoples’ toes with his wheelchair. The snacking thing was ridiculous. Snack time was 2.00 pm every day. Everybody got one apple, sliced, on a plate. My great-great grandfather would sneak into the kitchen and steal an apple at 1.00 pm, and eat it in front of everybody in the day room before the designated snack time. I asked him about the whole thing and he told me “Those bahstads! Make’em wawkh the plank!”

I thought, what the hell is wrong with eating an apple when you want to? I went to Red Crest to find out. I asked Yardarm’s caregiver, Nurse Cakes, and she said “protocols” and took off her nurse hat, and looked me up and down. She said, “He was the roughest customer I ever had. I wanted to push him down the stairs. But, I didn’t. It’s illegal.” She gave me a flirtatious look. It was temping, but she looked like a human moose, and I had a girlfriend. Also, I thought she was crazy.

I ran to the VP’s office with the nurse walking quickly after me. When I got there, I slammed the door in her face. She pounded on the VP’s door and yelled “Come on! I can take care of you! I won’t hit you with my shoe or push you down the stairs.” More craziness. The VP told me to ignore Nurse Cakes. She helped make a lot of people happy at Red Crest Home—mostly younger staff who appreciate her hands-on approach to their welfare.

I had to leave Red Crest before I went crazy. Nurse Cakes was over the rainbow and I was beginning to believe the VP wasn’t too far behind. Before I left, I asked him about Yardarm’s wheelchair incidents. He told me that without cause, by surprise, and with malice and forethought, my great-great grandfather had rolled over a few people’s toes, chipping their toenail polish, and generally damaging their expensive pedicures, causing waves of sorrow throughout Red Crest. I was really angry, I asked him, “Is that all?” Due to “protocols,” I knew I couldn’t do anything. So, I yelled as I went out the door and headed home: “You crazy ass losers! You’ll be hearing from my lawyer!” I didn’t have lawyer. I don’t have a lawyer. I’ll never have a lawyer, unless I win the lotto. But, it was still a good thing to yell it. People do it in movies all the time.

When I got home, I saw Yardarm sitting at the kitchen table working on something made of wood. I asked him if he wanted some grog and he said “shoowuh.” I brought the mug to the table and he gulped half of it down. I asked him what he was making. He said “Lobstah buoy.” I asked him if he was going to make it into a lamp. He said “Naw.” That was it. End of conversation.

Great-great grandfather left that night without letting us know. The next day’s headlines told us where great-great grandfather had gone—Red Crest. Nurse Cakes had been seriously injured by an intruder. There was a freshly painted bloody wooden lobster buoy found at the scene where Nurse Cakes had been assaulted. The lobster buoy was brown and yellow, the colors of my home which I had just finished painting. I kept the unused paint stored in the garage. Clearly, the buoy found at Red Crest was the one Yardarm had been working on in my kitchen.

POSTSCRIPT

Great-great grandfather called us that night from Canada. He had dual citizenship from his sailor days. He had checked into a “much niceuh” facility, Maple Grove, using his Canadian passport. “It reminds me of a hotel I stayed in in Baahbahdos when I was in the rum and sugah trade.” Great-great grandfather’s life is a saga. Now, he’s living as a fugitive at Maple Grove, learning the Canadian accent so he can blend in.

By the way, Red Crest went out of business. Soon after the Nurse Cakes incident, the VP was arrested for replacing resident’s jewelry gemstones with Swarovski crystals.

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

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

Metastasis

Posted on July 11, 2023 | Leave a comment

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

“You’re no damn good.” That’s all my father said to me whenever the family went to visit him in prison. I would tell him, “No. You’ve got it wrong. You’re no damn good. You killed Mr. Grant with a bow and arrow. It was horrendous. He lay there face down, soaking his lawn with blood while you did a jig. And why did you shoot him with your bow and arrow? You found out he was a METS fan! He was wearing his METS hat and was on his way to a game with his son Tommy, who saw the whole thing and went crazy at the age of nine, vowing to get you. God Dad, you are a colossal loser. You are no damn good!” After my diatribe, Dad gave me the double finger, lit another cigarette, and continued talking to Mom and bouncing my little sister Grace on his knee.

Oh well, Dad was a burden I was doomed to bear. Mom still believed him: that he killed Mr. Grant in self-defense. He claimed that Mr. Grant had “drilled” into his soul and made him want to jump in front of car and kill himself. He was feeling an uncontrollable urge to close his eyes and run into the street—the dead-end street where we lived—when he noticed he was holding the bow and arrow, he felt that “the time had come” to defend himself by shooting Mr. Grant. His cockamamy defense was laughable. There were people snickering in the jury when he told his story, which was totally debunked by Mrs. Grant’s testimony—which was the truth—how Dad suffered from METS-a-phobia and harassed Mr. Grant on numerous occasions before he murdered him.

Dad’s first trial was a mistrial. Dad is very, very attractive. One of the female jurors fell madly in love with him. She bribed a guard to deliver love letters and tasteless pictures to Dad. She was caught when Dad taped the pictures to the walls of his cell. She was recognized as a juror by an honest guard, and that was that for trial #1. Now, the juror lady regularly visits Dad for conjugal visits. Mom thinks ‘conjugal’ has something to do with grammar. Dad told her that the woman is a tutor supplied by the sate for his rehabilitation. Improving his grammar will help him get a job if he ever gets out of prison. He is up for probation in 10 years.

Mrs. Grant has remarried. Her new husband, “Warpy” Grant, is the murdered Mr. Grant’s identical twin. The first time I saw him out in the yard I nearly fainted. Although he is his identical twin, Warpy is way different from the dead Mr. Grant. For example, he struts around his backyard in boxer shorts and no shirt. Mom has bought a pair of cheap binoculars for “birdwatching.” But, there’s no doubt they are for “Warpy watching.” Yesterday, Warpy came to our house to fix the kitchen wall clock. Somebody had removed the batteries and Warpy was going to replace them. Mom gave me $5.00 to take my sister to Dairy Queen. She told us to take our time and take the long way home through the park.

We had our favorites—Buster Bars—and we headed home. We didn’t listen to Mom, and took the shortcut through the school playground. We got home and heard Mom crying in the kitchen. Warpy was laying on the floor. He was wearing his boxer shorts and had a double-A battery in each hand. My little sister screamed and ran and hid in her bedroom. I called 911. An ambulance arrived in five minutes. Mrs. Grant was crying on her front lawn. She pointed at Mom and yelled “Tou killed him you whore!” Actually, he had died from a heart attack, but his wife couldn’t let go of the idea that Mom had murdered him.

One night, Mrs. Grant broke into our house with a bow and arrow to get revenge against my mother. I was in the kitchen getting a late drink of orange juice. When she heard us talking, mom came into the kitchen to see what was going on. Mrs. Grant aimed the bow and arrow at her, and pulled back the bow string. My mother laughed. The bow and arrow was a child’s toy. The arrow had a suction cub tip. It was harmless. Mrs. Grant apologized and went home.

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

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Tagged elocutio, figures of speech, rhetoric, trope

Metonymy

Posted on July 10, 2023 | Leave a comment

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

“Pipe Cleaner” was a friend of mine when I was a kid. He made amazing things out of pipe cleaners, so I called him “Pipe Cleaner.” It all started in the second grade, when, after carving swans out of bars of soap, we moved on to pipe cleaners. Miss Moodie told us that twisting cotton-covered wire built character, the same reason for carving soap bars into swans.

Our first project was to make a pony. I watched Miss Moodie make one, and tried to imitate hers. My pony only had three legs and no tail. William’s (aka Pipe Cleaner’s) was beautiful. He had taken 25 packs of pipe cleaners to make a two-foot tall pony with a mane and tail that looked like it was blowing in wind behind the galloping horse. He named the horse “Cheeto.” All the kids went crazy. Miss Moody slumped down behind her desk and fanned herself. She said, “Nap time boys and girls.” We got out our rugs and laid down—too excited by William’s accomplishment to sleep. We just lay there on our backs, with our eyes closed imagining William’s galloping horse. I could hear hoofbeats in our little classroom. It was weird.

The next day Miss Moodie gave us an “advanced pipe cleaner project.” we were all excited and hoped that William would make something amazing again. We were instructed to make whatever we wanted. I made a coaster. It was round and flat. It looked like a hairy pancake. Nobody liked it. William had outdone himself—he had made a Miss Moodie doll. It was unmistakably Miss Moodie, down to the teacher-bun hairdo and weird lace-up shoes with heels like sawed-off broomsticks. We all just stood there and looked at the pipe-cleaner Miss Moodie. William Said, “Watch this” and tickled pipe-cleaner Miss Moody under her arm with a single pipe cleaner. Miss Moodie giggled and told William to “Stop it! Right now!” We all stood there with our mouths hanging open while William kept on tickling Miss Moodie. She was out of breath from giggling and looked like she was going to be sick.

I wrestled William to the floor, and I let him up, and he handcuffed me with pipe cleaner handcuffs. Clearly, William had gone around the bend, but his pipe cleaner feats were sheer genius. He tickled Miss Moodie one more time and ran out the door, stealing the remaining pipe-cleaners from our classroom.

Miss Moodie recovered and stood up behind her desk. She said, “Boys and girls, what you witnessed here today was strange but true. William made what is called in Florida or Granada or someplace like that a “Voodoo Doll.” It is dangerous. You all saw what happened to me. I lost control and giggled. I was embarrassed. William’s family come from Haiti and may not know the ins and outs of being American. I will call them tonight.”

The next day Miss Moodie came to class wearing giant earrings, a beautiful blue dress with ruffles around the shoulders and what looked like a red turban, sandals, and a small bag of something hanging around her neck. She said “bon matin” when she entered the classroom. Her eyes were a little glazed, but beside that, and her beautiful clothes, she looked normal. She told us she was going to be roommates with William’s family and she was going to learn the cultural “activities” of walking on burning embers and “sniffing out Zombies.” Two weeks later, she was gone. William wouldn’t say anything about it and our new teacher was not much older than us. She was stern, but William took care of that with a pipe-cleaner “Loosen Up” amulet that he gave her as a welcome gift.

As time went by, I realized that William was gifted. What he could do with pipe cleaners was magic. As our friendship endured over the years, he became better and better at creating pipe cleaner manifestations. He said the voodoo thing was low-budget and he was still ashamed with what he had done to Miss Moodie. He had stopped practicing voodoo—no more tickling or raising the dead, or anything like that.

He put some kind of spell on his pipe-cleaner creations so the pipe cleaners blended so well with the objects they manifest they were undetectable. William made an 11-room mansion out of pipe cleaners and gave it to his parents. He made me a VW bug for my high school graduation. Finally, he made “iron” lungs for kids who had contracted polio. William was truly amazing. I asked him on day: “Whatever happened to Miss Moodie?” He told me simply: “She walks the night.”

Definition courtesy of “Sliva Rhetoricae” (rhetoric.byu.edu). Bracketed text added by Gorgias.

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Tagged elocutio, figures of speech, rhetoric, trope

Ominatio

Posted on July 9, 2023 | Leave a comment

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

After I graduated from Minor University with an MFA in Creative Writing, I went searching for a job as a writer. The university is located in Arkansas and takes great pride in its distinguished alumni. For example, there was Nostrom McOgle who held the world record for riding on a flat tire. Anyway, I was lucky to get a job in a Chinese fortune cookie factory, WonTan Food Groups Ltd. My job was to write fortunes “addressing peoples’ hopes and fears.”

I had a desk and a computer. The screen displayed a template with 20 fortunes per page. I typed in my fortunes and sent them off to the “proofer” who accepted them for printing, or rejected them. I thought my first sheet was pretty good. For example, “Your house won’t burn down,” “Keep drinking,” “ Your pet may run away,” “You might have cancer.” “Something bad might happen to you.” I thought of my fortunes as “adventures in realism.” I was a fan of Earnest Hemingway. The compact prose he was noted for was perfect for fortune cookies. The blunt and vivid pronouncements exemplify brevity’s “soul of wit.” I was loving it.

Then, the Manager, Ms. Lee, visited my desk one day. She said, “Are you trying to put WonTan out of business? Your fortunes are pathways to misery. Who wants to end a meal with the possibility of having cancer? If you can’t get more upbeat, you’re fired. Do you understand?” I could barely say “Yes.” She was so beautiful and so charming, and so nice that I developed a huge crush while she admonished me. Later that afternoon, she called and asked if I wanted to take a tour of the factory to get better oriented. “Of course!” I instantly replied. I decided I would write “love fortunes” and email them to her. The first one was “Our souls have met. What’s next?” I emailed it to her before our tour.

The tour was fantastic. The machines that insert the fortunes into the cookies are amazing. Such delicate work for a machine. After the tour was over and we had removed our hard hats, Ms. Lee pulled a sheet of paper from her blouse. She handed it to me. It was warm from being in her blouse. “Read it,” she said. It said “You’re fired.” “Why did you take me on this tour? What the hell is going on?” I was nearly crying. “”Your ‘two souls meeting’ did it. I wanted to take you on a tour anyway, so you could hate yourself all the more when I fired you.

Now I was mad! I went back to my desk and threw my computer on the floor. It popped a couple of times and died—just like me; heartbroken without a chance. Ms. Lee was out of my league. So, now I have a new job working for Smut Brothers, the world’s most prolific producers of pornography. I write the movie synopses that appear on CD-dust jackets or on-screen. I enjoy the work, although I do get tired of the repetition of what the actors do. I often think of Ms. Lee and the total failure I was at winning her affections. Then, a new movie titled “Hong Kong Time-bomb” came across my desk one morning. Ms. Lee was the star. Her screen name was Feng Banana and she ran a company in Hong Kong that made crotchless garments. It was called “Flash Pants.” Her role was to randomly “test” the product, which was the central theme of the movie.

I couldn’t believe it. Now, I was really heartbroken. But, I wanted her more than ever. I took a cab to the fortune cookies factory. I had a big sign that said “I know what you do in your spare time Feng Banana.” I stood outside the factory hoping she would see me. She came outside and said to me “If you do not leave me alone, I will have you gruesomely murdered. Do you understand me?” “Yes,” I said. But actually, I did not understand. I remembered something from my MFA program at Minor University: “Don’t criticize what you don’t understand.” I was too young to be murdered. I went back to Smut Brothers and sat down at my desk. I booted up “Hong Kong Time-Bomb” and pressed play.

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

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Tagged elocutio, figures of speech, rhetoric, trope

Onedismus

Posted on July 8, 2023 | Leave a comment

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

“I do more for you than God, and all you do is complain. You’ve been wearing those pajamas for two weeks—they smell like a kitty litter box that needs cleaning. You’re not sick. You’re not injured. Why the hell don’t you put on some clothes and go look for a job?” “You’re no role model either,” I yelled. Her bathrobe looked like a feed lot for monkeys—there were ants crawling down one of the sleeves and cigarette burns on the lapels. Her hair looked like tossed pasta. But God—her figure was to die for. When she opened her robe I went berserk, lunging across the kitchen floor like a raging buck. She smelled like cigarettes, feta cheese, and her kisses tasted like Maalox. She pushed me away and said “Get a job and you’ll get what you want.” Finally, she offered an incentive that would get me out the door.

I took a quick shower and put on some clothes that were way too tight due to my stay-at-home sabbatical—no exercise, eating and drinking too much. I combed my hair and headed down the street to CVS to get a newspaper. I got home and sat at the kitchen table perusing the want ads. I had a Master’s degree in “General Studies,” from an on-line university in Australia. I was ready for anything “in general.”

I couldn’t believe it! There was an ad that read, “Wanted. Man or Woman prepared to do anything in general. Call: 800-231-5673. Mention this ad and ask for Abaddon Acheron.” I immediately called the number. Abaddon himself answered the phone. He asked me if I had a conscience. I told him “not much.” “Good. Perfect” he answered. “You’re hired. Starting salary is $200,000 per year, with benefits, including a 401K pension plan. One of my minions will pick you up at home tomorrow morning at 9:00 sharp. Don’t worry, we know where you live.” When he said a “minion” would pick me up, I got little nervous. But what the hell. Even though she wouldn’t take her bathrobe off, I had a great time with my wife that night. I had a job even if I didn’t know what it was.

The minion picked me up right on time. He looked normal, except one of his sideburns was missing. I figured it was some kind of fashion statement. We settled into the limo and took off. We pulled up at a landfill and drove into a tunnel in the side of a mountain of trash. There were armed guards all along the tunnel. We stopped in front of an elevator door, got out, and the minion pressed the button marked zero. When we got to zero, we were met by Abaddon. He kept going in and out of focus as we made our way to his office. He said, “if you’ve done your research you know that our company, “Infinite Misfortune” specializes in the manufacture of woe. Your position is that of Pet Killer. Your job is to eliminate peoples’ beloved pets by running them over, poisoning them, and even shooting them. You will be a major nexus of woe, second only to our corps of killers who put an end to peoples’ lives, causing the worst woe possible. I thought, “So, this is what a master’s in General Studies got me. Pet killer.”

I was immediately sent out on assignment—a three-person family who had just gotten their little boy a puppy. I was posing as a representative of Purina Puppy Chow. The family had “won” a bag of puppy chow. it had been poisoned by a technician back at Ft. Landfill.

The family was delighted. I wanted to throw up. I couldn’t do it. I grabbed the bag of puppy chow and took off rinning. I dumped out the puppy chow and kept running. I looked back and there was a woman with three Chihuahuas on leashes. They had started eating the poisoned dog food off the sidewalk.. “Too late for them,” I thought as I started crying. Abaddon popped out of a sewer grate and yelled “You’re fired!”

When I got home I called the police. They told me to “shut up” and leave them alone. So I did. To keep my wife happy and willing I got another job: school crossing guard. Every time a kid got run over on my watch, I thought of “Infinite Misfortune” and the great pension plan I could’ve had.

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

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Tagged elocutio, figures of speech, rhetoric, trope

Optatio

Posted on July 6, 2023 | Leave a comment

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

I wished upon a star. Totally futile. No avail. “If wishes were horses, beggars would ride.” Have you seen beggar ride by on a horse lately? No. No way. “Your wishes will come true, it will happen to you if you’re young at heart.” Ha ha. More bullshit. “Watch out what you wish for,” I never quite understood this. Does it mean if you wish for a car, you’ll get run over? I have no idea.

Even though I never got anything I wished for in my whole life, I still made wishes. I know, pretty stupid. Actually, I’m more than stupid: my wishing was self-destructive. Why? Even though I didn’t believe in wishes, I was an ardent wisher. I lived in a sort of tension between disbelief and belief—in a contradicting twilight zone between a pair of contradictory terms. Our textbooks tell us that contraries can’t occupy the same conceptual space, at the same time, under the circumstances. That may be true of the physical world, but not my mental world.

In order to cope, I tried to stop wishing, but for each wish I wanted to stop wishing, I wished I could stop. This was a conundrum that went on forever: I wish to stop wishing, I wish I would stop wishing I would stop wishing, blah, blah, blah. At one point, I just said the hell with it, and decided to keep on wishing, even if none of the wishes ever came true. This was self destructive: it made my wishes insincere. It made made into a sham.

I told myself that now I was a big fake, I could make fake wishes that were beyond the pale. I could wish for made up junk—anything I could imagine. I even made up a “Wish Fairy” that I could petition with my bogus wishes. After I made up my mind, I made my wish:

“Dear wish Fairy, I speak from the bottom of my heart and depths of my soul, from the pinnacle of my desire, please, I wish for a duck with four wings.” There was a whoosh at my bedroom window. An elderly woman in a golden wheelchair flew in my window and landed softly on the floor by my bed. She was wearing a beautiful purple dress and a Diamond encrusted tiara. Her magic wand looked like a lead pipe with a star on the end of it. I was terrified. She said, “My name is Glenda. You may have seen me in ‘The Wizard of Oz’. I am now working as a Wish Fulfillment Specialist for The Powers That Be. Here’s your duck. Feed it mash once a day.” Her wheel chair lifted off, turned around and flew out my window with Glenda at the helm. “Good luck,” she yelled as she waved her wand.

Not only did the duck have four wings, it could dance. We worked up a repertoire and tried our act out at our town gazebo in the park. I named the duck King Kong and away we went: I sang the “Chiquita Banana” song on a karaoke machine while Kong flapped his wings and danced. Then, I would tell some duck jokes I got off the internet:

What time do ducks get up? The quack of dawn.

Why did the duck get detention? He couldn’t stop quackin’ jokes in class.

What’s a duck’s favorite taco topping? Quackamole!

The townspeople loved us, except for Marge Cramwell. She yelled “Witchcraft” and the applause abruptly stopped. Marge was a smelly old former teacher who had been fired from the local school for performing exorcisms on eight-year-olds. She was bitter because she had been fired for believing in fairies, imps, genies, and evil spirits and teaching her beliefs to children, and making them into her minions. Given my experience, I knew what she was saying was true, but I would never rat out Glenda: she had transformed my life, for free! So, I yelled “You’re stark raving mad!” The applause resumed and all was well.

The years flew by. King had I had a permanent gig at Caesar’s in Las Vegas. King’s getting old. I’m thinking of wishing for another duck. King could teach him the act, and then retire to a duck pond in a warm climate where he could spend his twilight years eating bread crusts floating on the water, tossed by kids and kind people. So, I decided to conjure another four-winged duck with a wish to Glenda.

The glass in my hotel bedroom window smashed. It was Marge Cramwell sticking her head through the hole in the glass wearing rock clmbing gear and yelling, “I’ve been watching you Devil Wisher!” I pushed her back out the window and she fell to her death on the pavement below. Back home, in the local newspaper it was called a “tragic accident” and possibly an “attempted burglary.”

Two days later, Glenda delivered my new duck. I named him “Goose.” King retired to very nice duck pond outside of Sarasota, Florida.

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

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Palilogia

Posted on July 2, 2023 | Leave a comment

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

“Ho, Ho, Ho, Ho, Ho, Ho” Santa had gone mad. Usually he limited his “Ho ho’s” to three per session,. The kids in line were getting restless. Santa was sitting in his throne and he couldn’t stop going ho ho. He was up to 45 Ho ho’s and was sweating and out of breath. He looked terrible. We called 911. As the EMT people took Santa away, the kids who had stood waiting for a half-hour to reveal their Christmas wishes, became uncontrollable and went berserk.

They looted the baskets of candy canes, smashed Christmas tree ornaments on the floor, tipped over the fake reindeer, tore open the fake presents. Then Billy Whaley, whose nickname was Zippo, who loved playing with matches, piled crumpled paper from the torn up presents in the middle of the floor. He said “Bye bye bullshit Santa’s workshop” and pulled out a pack of stick matches, lit one, and threw it on the paper. Everybody made it out the door. The kids watched the smoke, and then the flames coming through the roof. Billy was yelling “Oh baby, oh baby. Do it for me baby.”

By the time the firemen got there, Santa’s Workshop was a pile of smoking charred embers. Shoving what looked like a poker hand back into his boot, one of the firemen said, “I had a goddamn Full House. What am I supposed to do? Fold? Santa’s Workshop is fake anyway, just like Santa and all the rest of the shit with Christmas. You’ve lost the Christmas spirit boys and girls—peace on earth, goodwill toward men.” One of the kids yelled “How are we going to get what we actually want for Christmas; piles of presents, and some money too? Why don’t you go back to the firehouse and resume your poker game, you big fat hypocrite. Kiss my ass.”

The firemen left and the kids and their parents left. The sun was setting and Santa’s Workshop was just a pile of charred wood with remnants of red paint here and there. Santa got out of the hospital and was dropped off by a cab in front of the rubble. His fake beard had been pulled off at some point. He noticed Rudolph the red-nosed reindeer laying on his back with his front legs burned off. Santa started to cry. Immediately his chronic persistent “Ho Ho–ing” stopped, but he couldn’t go “Ho-Ho” anymore. His psychologist told him he couldn’t “Ho-Ho” due to the traumatic experiences he had with “Ho-Ho,” the core of his his being’s signature. Now, in order to “Ho-Ho” again, the psychologist told him he had to build positive associations with “Ho.” The psychologist said, “Prostitutes are frequently called Ho’s.” When you say “Ho” think of an attractive and willing prostitute.” Santa did just that, and was cured. He got his “Ho ho’s” back and went on to serve as a Santa Surrogate for five more fruitful years. He also came to enjoy the company of Ho’s and frequented their lodgings during the holiday seasons, where they watched “The Bob Newhart Show” reruns on Tv and laughed together at the jokes. Out of respect for the ho’s, Santa laughed “ha, ha, ha.”

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

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Parabola

Posted on July 1, 2023 | Leave a comment

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

Life and death are two sides of the same coin: The coin of Being. Life and death are different states of existence, but being nonetheless.

I am an amateur philosopher. I read lots of philosophy books like Descartes’ “On The Method,” Aristotle’s “Analytics,” and Canard’s “Candy Man.” You have probably never heard of Canard. He taught at an obscure university in Hungary in the 17th century. The university’s name was Tréfa Egyetemi (Joke University). It’s mission was to produce Europe’s best, most accomplished, stand up comics. Given Hungary’s belligerence as a nation, and aggressiveness to go to war with its neighbors, many of the jokes made fun of the cultural norms, intelligence, and the morality of their neighbors. For example, “How many Russians does it take to put a candle in a candlestick holder? Two: One to hold the candlestick holder. One to pull the candle out of his butt and stick it in the candlestick holder.” The comedian who first told this joke was burned alive by a company of Cossacks who crossed the border to do away with the unfortunate man, who by all accounts was a nice man with a wife and child who were getting ready to move into their own hovel, down by the river. Of course, the wife and child were left destitute, but not for long. Dorottya sold her child and moved to Krakow where, after demeaning herself in 100s of ways, she saved enough money to open a comedy club named “Bolond” (Bonkers).

At the time, Krakow was the most liberal city in Europe. Everything was legal except robbery, murder, and the transmission of venereal diseases. Dorottya took to it like a duck to water. Bolond (Bonkers) did not allow jokes that demeaned people because of their national origins. This made Bolond a gathering place for people of all backgrounds who started discussing politics during breaks between the comedy sets and during the one-hour break at 9:00 pm.

An evil English Duke, touring Europe and making trouble, went straight to the king and told him what was going on Bolond. The king was alarmed. Without war he would have nothing to do and would be made redundant, and would have to go into exile in some place like Finland or Denmark—two countries he had not gone to war with, planning ahead, saving them for his exile. So, Roland was raided by the king’s men. Dorottya was detained and turned lose under the condition that she went back to Hungary and shut up. But Dorottya couldn’t shut up. After being admonished many times for allowing royalty jokes to be told at her new comedy club, Nevető Oszvér (Laughing Mule), she was arrested for being disrespectful toward “her betters,” tried, convicted and sentenced to 500 years in the Hungarian National Repentance Colony. There was such a public outcry that Dorottya was released. But she was not allowed to say words like “justice” or “freedom” or she would be executed on the spot. She didn’t last a week. She went unburied and has been blotted out of history’s records. Until now.

She is my great, great, great, great, great grandmother. She sold my great, great, great, great grandmother to a stall mucker. She was named Eszter. There was a Catholic Priest named Father Brown who taught her to read and write. After searching for years, I found Eszter’s memoirs at Tréfa Egyetemi in a secret room with an antique bed and erotic woodcuts from the 17th-century. It hadn’t been opened for 100s of years. The dust was thick. The memoirs were hidden under the mattress and were written in pen on single sheets of vellum. Eszter hated her mother for selling her, but she understood why she needed to do it. Now that the memoirs have seen the light of day, Dorottya and Eszter have become heroes.

I have been offered, and accepted, a tenured “Chair of Studies” at Tréfa Egyetemi. I think it is some kind of joke in keeping with the university’s mission. I will ask my uncle who is Rector.

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

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Tagged elocutio, example, figures of speech, rhetoric

Paragoge

Posted on June 30, 2023 | Leave a comment

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

“Hi Ho Johnny-o“ said the jester to the king. “How many fruit flys will you kill before you go to sleep?” Things weren’t going well. I was trying to write a children’s story, but violence, bloodshed and death kept creeping in. I don’t know if fruit flies have blood, but they produce some kind of juice when you squish their irritating little bodies. Anyway, squishing kills fruit flies.

The story I’m working on is about a court jester who gets “The King is a Joke” tattooed on his butt after a night of drinking. One of his best tricks was “show Butt” where he sang a song about sitting in church that ended with him pulling down his pants. It was the king’s favorite. The king demanded the “pants down” song every day. Since he got the stupid tattoo the jester was in big trouble—he couldn’t show his butt and it’s message to the king—he would be executed, probably flayed by the king’s son Prince Plato, whose name far outstripped his capabilities. After three days of giving excuses, he had run out. His most recent excuse came close to failing: “Princess Hooters pushed me down the wine cellar stairs.” Princess Hooters believed anything He told her, so he told her she pushed him down the stairs. She asked him if he had gotten hurt. It worked (for now).

THE REST OF THE STORY:

The Jester’s Tattooed Butt

I had to go see Mollgrad the Excuse Broker. I scraped together my meager resources and headed to Mollgrad’s hovel. As a Jester, I didn’t have much to offer. I had three spare bells, a worn-out Punch and Judy set, and juggling balls painted to look like testicles. The Broker took my offerings without question. He left the room and same right back. He had a tin of pine tar and a piece of pigskin. He told me: “Stick the pigskin over your tattoo with the pine tar. Next time you perform, tell the king you backed into a hot stove and burned your butt, and the pigskin poultice is helping you heal.”

The ruse worked for two weeks, then the king wanted to know when I would heal. I panicked and told him in a couple of days. I went back to the Broker. He was surprised that the king cared. “You must see Gregory the Cutler. He is a friend and will not charge you for his services.” Gregory was a stout man—he was strong from grinding metals on his wheel. He told me to pull down my pants and press my butt’s tattoo agains the grinding wheel—to press as hard as I could. Gregory pushed on the wheel’s pedals making the wheel spin faster and faster while I p pressed tattoo against it.

It started to sting, and then it started to hurt. Gregory took a mouthful of rum and spit it on my butt. I started to moan. I started to cry. He went faster. I screamed with pain. He went faster. Then, suddenly he stopped. “It’s done,” he said. My jester pants were soaked with blood, and the the tattoo was erased! The cutler gave me some salve made from ground rabbit ears, hog fat drippings, and dandelions. I was to smear it on my butt twice a day, until my wound started to itch. Then, I was supposed to soak a rag in rum and press it on my wound to stop the itching.

I was saved—saved by lies and modern medicine.

COMMENTARY

As I read it again, I see it will not work as a children’s story. I should’ve realized that a story about a butt was unsuitable. However, as an adult-oriented story liberally seasoned with grown-up themes, I may get it published in “Cosmopolitan,” “Vanity Fair,” or maybe “Golf Digest” which has a really liberal idea of the relevance of golf to adult-themed short fiction.

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

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Paralipsis

Posted on June 29, 2023 | Leave a comment

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

I saw something that was very disturbing. It was a Wooly Bully, so disturbing I can’’t talk about it. It had horns and a great big jaw. It looked like a Buffalo with some kind of genetically induced malady. There were two women I know who were there observing it—Hattie and Maddy—two girls I went to Lucky Strike High School with. They ran the school paper “Help!” It was almost totally gossip about teachers and teachers and students. Every once in awhile, they’d run an opinion piece. The last one I read was about gym uniforms. It was salacious, written luridly and explicitly about the uniforms’ crotches discomfort, and how the tops of the girls’ gym suits “chafed and flattened their soft cargo.” Then, there was the revelation that the mens coach’s brother supplied the ill-fitting gym suits at inflated prices. The op-ed created a sensation. The men’s and women’s coaches were publicly shamed—made to stand in front of assembly wearing the uniforms the students were made to wear. The men’s coach kept pulling on his gym pant’s crotch, unintentionally showing how uncomfortable they are. The students loved it, chanting “crotch, crotch, crotch.” Hattie and Maddy became celebrities, to the point of being interviewed by Erin Burnett, who was visibly envious of the girls’ op-ed/expose, asking them inane questions like their favorite colors, favorite food, pet peeves.

Clearly, Hattie and Maddy were born journalists. Hattie went to the Newhouse School of Communication at Syracuse University. Maddy went to Columbia University. Maddy’s senior project is a documentary titled “Is there Hope for Rope”? It tracks the decline of rope in Western culture, and its impact on binding, hanging and towing. She looks at the “invasion” of bungee chords, Velcro, duct tape, zip ties, and to a lesser extent, super glue. In the face of the onslaught, rope has fallen. It’s vestiges are still observable in shoelaces, kite string, macrame, lobster traps, etc.

Maddy’s senior project is a biography of Gutenberg, the inventor of the printing press. It follows his successes and failures. He had 7 wives and 18 children. He was the greatest bigamist of his time, keeping his wives in the milking barn where each was assigned a cow. He got his idea for the printing press in the barn, when he stepped in a cow flop. In his next step his boot “printed” a duplicate image of its sole in fresh cow manure. Gutenberg stepped in the cow flop three or four times, printing more images of his boot sole. His first printing press was two boards like a sandwich. One board was the base, the other had text carved in it and would be smeared with ink. The text board would be set atop a sheet of paper set on the base board. Next, Gutenberg’s morbidly obese brother Hans would sit on the inked text board. The pressure from his 300 pound body would make a print. It took Gutenberg a few year to perfect the press. And once he did, business took off. He first printed a series of “bawdy” stories about Lil, a shady lady. The stories had titles like “Lil Befriends the King,” “Lil Goes to Jail,” “Lil Meets the Devil.” Finally, Gutenberg was persuaded to print Bibles, which he thought was a bad idea, but the profits would be huge, so he did it.

Both of these senior projects are admirable. Hattie and Maddy deserve to be the joint anchors that they are on MSNBC. My understanding is they’re going to do an expose of the Wooly Bully’s employment by the Republican Party to scare people away from the polls on Election Day. He is ugly and menacing looking, but I’ve heard he’s really nice with interests in gardening, origami, and knitting.

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

Buy a print edition of The Daily Trope! The print edition is entitled The Book of Tropes and is available on Amazon for $9.99.

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

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