Tag Archives: elocutio

Synonymia

Synonymia (si-no-ni’-mi-a): In general, the use of several synonyms together to amplify or explain a given subject or term. A kind of repetition that adds emotional force or intellectual clarity. Synonymia often occurs in parallel fashion. The Latin synonym, interpretatio, suggests the expository and rational nature of this figure, while another Greek synonym, congeries, suggests the emotive possibilities of this figure.


Mad. Angry. Pissed off. Burned up. Locked and loaded. The more I thought about it, the angrier I got. It was time for annual reviews. I worked at “Jimmies Jingle Bells,” a small shop in the mall dedicated to “keeping the Christmas Spirit bright all through the year.” Jimmie’s parents had abandoned him and his sister Nell on Christmas Day when they were children. They lived like feral children for a month. Their parents were survivalists so the basement was stocked with Dinty Moore Beef Stew, Hawaiian Punch, mustard sardines, and potato chips. To keep warm, Nell and Jimmie read out loud to each other while they huddled underneath the living room carpet—their parents had stripped the house before they left, leaving only a can opener, a beer can opener, two forks and the canned goods. Anyway, there were only three books in the house: a lawn mower owner’s manual, a Bible, and Kafka’s “Metamorphosis.” Their favorite was the owner’s manual—it had lots of pictures and they loved how all the parts fit together, unlike the random jumble that was their lives. Given the craziness of their upbringing, Jimmie and Nell thought that camping in their abandoned home was what their absent parents wanted them to do. But, finally, their extremely wealthy Grandmother rescued the kids and they lived like royalty. Their cruel parents were killed in an avalanche while driving over Donner’s Pass in California on Christmas Day.

Due to the date when Jimmie’s parents had left him, and when they had died, Jimmy had a weird fixation on Christmas. He wanted it to never end—he did not want the day after to ever come—to wake up and find his parents gone. Hence, “Jimmie’s Jingle Bells,” the perpetual Christmas store. Jimmie dresses like Santa all the time. Nell has little triplets who she dresses as Santa’s little helpers. Nell (who is beautiful) dresses like Santa’s close friend “The Snow Queen.” It is all very crazy. But what’s even crazier are the cans of mustard sardines and lawnmower owner’s manuals we throw out of Jimmie’s limo on Christmas Eve as we cruise slowly past the homeless people.

I haven’t gotten a pay raise for five years. Inflation is killing me. That’s where my anger’s coming from.

So, now, Jimmie gives me the annual review. He says: “You are doing good: The Mistletoe is hung in the doorway, The lights are flickering on the tree, Baubles of glass and glittering angels, Presents are wrapped in silver and gold and green.” I thought, “same old bullshit quotation from ‘The Night Before Christmas’.” I felt like sticking a candy cane up his butt, but I didn’t. He went on: “This year, your bonus consists of a six-month supply of Dinty Moore’s Beef Stew, and a year’s supply of Hawaiian Punch. As we try to fight inflation, your pay will remain the same, or maybe go down a little.”

Well, there you have it. If I wasn’t in love with his sister, I would kill him. But I had to swallow my rage and go on with my asinine life. You see, Nell’s three little imps were mine. Her husband had fallen off a train and was killed the week before we met. Nell had been standing right behind her husband when he slipped on a wet candy cane. It was traumatic for her. She was lonely when we accidentally crossed paths in her bedroom. We plan on getting married and moving to a country with no Christmas.

My wife is dragging her feet on the divorce. Nell has suggested that my wife and I take a relaxing train ride to “unwind, so she’ll think you’re not trying to just push her out the door.”

Ha ha! Oh Nell! Your sense of humor is like the scent of a stuffed Christmas stocking hung with care.


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

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Synthesis

Synthesis (sin’-the-sis): An apt arrangement of a composition, especially regarding the sounds of adjoining syllables and words.


“Aeronautics: Airplanes and Armpits.” Don’t ask me why I bought this book, because I don’t know. The book jacket pictured a commercial airline pilot in a jet’s cockpit with huge sweat rings under his arms. His co-pilot was making the “PU” sign, holding his nose with an upraised, waving, hand. The blurb said: “Follow Carl Jamesway as he struggles with acute body odor in the confines of a cockpit—trying desperately to neutralize his sickening stench and save his job with “American Jetliners,” and his romance with Jane Crab: buxom former stewardess who is now a Middle School teacher, hounded by the Principal to “give it up in his office sometime after 3:00 o’clock.”

Once I started reading the book, I was gripped—gripped by fear, suspense and disgust. As read, I kept trying figure out how Jane Crab became enamored with Carl, King of Stench. Then, about 20 pages in, we learn that Jane lost her sense of smell in a car accident when she was a teenager. So, she was perfectly suited to Carl. Her only problem was with perfume. She couldn’t tell how much to put on, and it was always too much. However, her strong perfume smell helped ameliorate Carl’s stench. That part of the book was very uplifting.

Next, I started wondering about Carl’s co-pilot. How did he manage the stench on transatlantic flights? Then, almost right after I started; wondering, I found out: he wore a reusable stink and odor filter, an activated charcoal carbon nose filter.

The bulk of the book, though, cover’s Carl’s search for a cure. First, when deodorant failed (as it always had), he wore a dozen pine-tree car deodorizers under each of his armpits. He was no Chevy. They didn’t work. Then, he decided to go “all in.” He went to Peru where it was rumored a stink-removing shaman practiced his magic. The shaman placed two giant leeches under Carl’s armpits for Carl to “feed his stink to.” The shaman turned out to be a con and took off with Carl’s money, leaving Carl to figure out how to unfasten the leeches. This, in my opinion, is the most exciting part of the book.

After the debacle in Peru, Carl goes back home to New York. He is still desperate to eliminate his stench. He knows it won’t be long before American Jetliners gives him the sack. Panicked, he decides to have his sweat glands removed. You’ll have to read “Aeronautics, Airplanes and Armpits” to find out how the surgery goes and whether it solves Carl’s problem.

I can say that the surgery does not go as expected.


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

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Syntheton

Syntheton (sin’-the-ton): When by convention two words are joined by a conjunction for emphasis.


“Love and marriage go together like a horse and carriage.” This is a song lyric from the mid-twentieth century, when there were still a few horses and carriages around. People would actually know what the lyric meant. But here we are in the 21st century. What’s left that rhymes with marriage? What about: Love and marriage go together like croutons and borage. Or, love and marriage go together like grease and sausage. Or, love and marriage go together like stamps and mucilage.

The further I go with this line of thought, the worse I get. Given my experiences with love, I should shut up. But, there was Rosalie. She was the horse and the carriage. She was like a native-English speaking Melania Trump. She had the looks but she’d never modeled nude, and she had a brain that was beyond mine. She was an AI developer for Eagle Claw Enterprises. When I first met Rosalie, I thought AI had something to do with “indoor” something, like maybe “Agriculture Indoors.” When I found out it was “Artificial Intelligence” I wanted to get some—I had always been a little bit “slower” than my friends. Maybe, if I got enough AI, I could get really smart—like add and subtract without using my fingers or tie my shoes real fast.

Rosalie called me “Mac.” She said it was short for Macho. But, I heard her talking to some colleagues and she referred to me as “Mech” and they all laughed and pretended they were plugging something into the wall. I wanted to know what Rosalie was up to. I got a job as a janitor at Eagle Claw Enterprises. I wore a big black beard so nobody would recognize me—especially Rosalie. The first thing I noticed was a group of hula-dancing hot dogs. They were wearing grass skirts and had flexible toothpick arms and were wearing dark glasses. Wouldn’t you know it? The were dancing to Don Ho’s “Tiny Bubbles.”

I heard Rosalie call my name. She followed that with “You idiot. Take off that stupid beard and leave the little Hula Dogs alone!” She told me she wanted to make me smarter so we could get married and live happily ever after. I would be the culmination of her AI project. We went to her lab. She stuck me with hundreds of colored wires. It took five hours. Then, she flipped five toggle switches, one after another. She told me the process would take another five hours. The feeling was wonderful. It felt like a heated feather duster brushing across my exposed skin.

When the process was completed, Rosalie pulled out all the wires and asked me how much 2+2 is. I said “four” without using my fingers. while I was calculating. We rejoiced and we went home and opened a bottle of champagne. I was smarter. Rosalie asked me if I wanted take out for dinner. I laughed and asked “Why would I want to take something out for dinner? I think I would rather be taking something in for dinner.” Rosalie cried “Oh my God!!” and we ordered take in from Tokyo Corn Dogs.


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.

Synzeugma

Synzeugma (sin-zoog’-ma): That kind of zeugma in which a verb joins (and governs) two phrases by coming between them. A synonym for mesozeugma.


The night was fading and so were my hopes. It had been a long moonless night. It held the final exam for my patience. I’d passed my patience exam, pacing up and down the dock, peering into the shadowed parking lot, waiting for the headlights telling me she was there at last—like she had promised me for the tenth time. The dock had become my night-time hangout, like a bar—a bar without other people or booze, or anything but a wooden floor.

I was sick of this crap. She was the accountant for the business where I worked—her husband’s business—“Oinkies Spicy Pork Rinds.” They were the most disgusting thing ever put in a plastic bag. The logo was a pig with flames coming out of its mouth igniting a pork rind. Strangely enough, though, people bought and ate “Oinkies.” I was surprised that more of them weren’t hospitalized. My job at “Oinkies” was to tend the cooking cauldrons, where floppy pig fat was transformed into spicy crispy pork rinds. Me and Barbara, the boss’s wife, started our affair in the bagging shed, which was fully automated—there were no other employees there. We would take off our clothes, shut down the machinery and hop into the pork rind hopper. We’d squirm into the warm oily rinds and have sex. Afterwards, we’d be covered by an attractive cooking oil sheen and also, smell faintly of pork rinds. Her husband told us he was getting reports of crushed rinds and wanted me to more closely monitor the packing. When he told us that, Barbara and I smirked and almost laughed. We were crushing the rinds!

Anyway, there I was on the dock with my Chris-Craft moored and ready to go down the coast and board a love boat to Mexico. Barbara was supposed to rob the safe—it had close to a half-million packed in it. That would go pretty far in Mexico. The birds were starting to sing their morning songs when I saw Barbara’s Mercedes pull into the lot. My dream come true! My ticket to paradise! Barbara pulled up and got out of the car carrying a really big suitcase. Definitely filled with lots of cash! We hurried down the ramp, jumped onto my boat, and took off for San Diego. As we sped along, Barbara tearfully told me she had made her husband into a giant pork rind. She had pushed him into the hot oil vat. I thought about it for a couple of minutes and then pushed Barbara overboard. After what she had done, she was excess baggage. I could hear her screaming and splashing as I hit full throttle and headed down the coast. I was humming the theme song to “Love Boat” as I pulled up to the dock in San Diego, tied up, and lifted the heavy suitcase out of the boat. I opened the suitcase on the dock. It was filled with pork rinds and a bag of sand.


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.

Thaumasmus

Thaumasmus (thau-mas’-mus): To marvel at something rather than to state it in a matter of fact way.


I can’t believe, I’ll never believe what a good good dog I have. Why? Because he isn’t—he’s a late night barking, leg humping, crotch sniffing, jumping up, slobbering, farting, carpet scratching canine wasteland. I have to keep him because my sister gave him to me. He was a little puppy in a thing like an Easter basket with a red ribbon around his neck when she handed him over. He was so cute! I picked him up to hug him and he farted. It smelled like he had a corpse stuck in his butt that was marinating in rotten eggs. My sister said, “Aw that’s cute” as I swallowed hard to keep from puking.

My sister had spent the past five years as a Nun. She had started having visions, but when she realized it was the lenses in her glasses that needed updating and replacing, not visions per se, she left the Convent of the Rolling Stone and got a job handing out menus for Wee Wong’s Chinese Restaurant. Her area was the worst part of the city, but that’s where she found the puppy she gave me. It was curled up next to a homeless man napping on the pavement wearing sweatpants and an aloha shirt with pictures of fishing poles and leaping Marlin. He was wearing Dr. Scholes Corn Busters on his feet. My sister gave him a little nudge and he made a growling sound. She offered him 10 menus for the puppy. Before he could answer, she shoved the menus down his sweatpants and took off running with the puppy, who she named Menu to commemorate his liberation.

I didn’t actually hate Menu. Sometimes I almost liked him, like when he looked at me with his big brown eyes. But then, he would blow one of his signature farts and I would have to open the window and bomb the apartment with Glade. I had taken Menu to dog obedience training school—the best in the City: Proper Pups. Menu wouldn’t stop humping the instructor’s leg and barking, and she kicked us out. Not even a cattle prod could deter Menu. He was not, and never would be, a Proper Pup.

I took Menu to the Vet too, for his gas and slobbering problems. The Vet shook his head and told me me he could insert a removable charcoal filter in Menu’s butt, but I would have to change it once a week, or it would have to be surgically removed by the City’s hazmat team for $300.00. The slobbering was a different story. The Vet told me he could “stem” a number of Menu’s saliva glands using a newly developed Super Glue designed specifically for medical applications. It “only” cost $2,500.00 for the procedure. Both options were too expensive for me.

So, I was stuck, and like a lot of stuck people, I became inventive. I invented the remote controlled window—it went up and with the push of a button on a hand-held controller. I didn’t have to run around the apartment any more opening windows when Menu farted. I also invented a “Slobber Bucket” to catch Menu’s drippings. It is loosely based on the drool bucket I saw on TV when I was a kid. It hangs around Menu’s neck and has a special siren that goes off when it needs emptying. These two innovations make life with Menu nearly tolerable, and I’ve made millions off the remote control windows, but we’re still living in the apartment. Location, location, location. I live across the street from Hooters.

In my research I found out that Menu is actually a breed of dog: “The Drippinker Otcrotcher Schtinkmaken.” It is of Austrian origin and was originally bred in the late 19th-century to “cultivate and strengthen it’s owner’s Nordic virtues— the Stoic propensities necessary for living a lonely, detached, angst-ridden, and brooding life.” There are only 20 known Drippinker Otcrotcher Schtinkmakens left in the world. I don’t know who owns them, but there’s a good chance they are mentally unstable or victims of coercion.


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

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Adynaton

Adynaton (a-dyn’-a-ton): A declaration of impossibility, usually in terms of an exaggerated comparison. Sometimes, the expression of the impossibility of expression.


I can’t tell you what I feel right now, Filling my mouth with those words is like trying to juggle water. It can’t be done: I can’t pour out my soul. I would choke on it. But anyway, I don’t know how to do it. In fact, I don’t think it can be done. I don’t even know where my soul is located. I tend to think it is somewhere in my chest—maybe in my heart. People do talk about pouring their hearts out. I think what usually follows is an oral ‘outpouring’ of something that matters to them and the target of their outpouring. Now that I think of it, I think I may actually have poured my heart out once.

It was Christmas, 1957. My mother took us to Santa’s Workshop. It was a little—more like a shed—erected on the town green. Santa sat in the shed waiting for children to come in and tell him what they wanted for Christmas. The kid in front of me in line wanted a BB Gun. He was a real doof, with his glasses held together with adhesive tape and a stupid red sweater with reindeer on it. When it was my turn, I think I poured my heart out. I told Santa how much I loved Miss Pennywink, my 5th grade teacher and how I wanted her for Christmas. Santa said “Pennywink? Ho Ho Ho! She’s my girlfriend little boy. We go for rides down by the river in my car and sometimes camp overnight at the Swan Dive Motel. We are getting married in two months.”

I was outraged. I pulled out my battery-powered Buck Rogers ray gun. I turned it on and pulled the trigger, The siren went off and it flashed red and green at the end of the barrel. I turned it up all the way to “Fry” and started beating Santa in the face with it as hard as I could. People screamed and ran from Santa’s shed. By the time the police showed up, Santa was unconscious on the floor. He had a bloody nose and his head was starting swell.

I was charged as a youthful offender with attempted murder. My case never went to trial. Charges were dismissed because it was decided that Santa provoked me. Also, my dad was Fire Chief. He threatened to “hose Santa off the face of the earth” if he didn’t drop the charges.

It is hard talking about the Santa episode. After all these years, I remember the pain Santa inflicted. Beating him half to death was nothing compared to it. I saw him at the mall every Christmas until he died 15 years ago. He never had his front tooth replaced and had a scar across his forehead. But I am scarred too. I can’t pour my heart out. I have been a prisoner of reticence for 70 years. Luckily, my undisclosed innermost thoughts and feelings are intangible, or I would explode like an overfilled balloon.


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.

Alliteration

Alliteration (al-lit’-er-a’-tion): Repetition of the same letter or sound within nearby words. Most often, repeated initial consonants. Taken to an extreme alliteration becomes the stylistic vice of paroemion where nearly every word in a sentence begins with the same consonant.


“Big Bill!” I yelled after I read what was in the envelope. Bill answered “What?” And came running into the kitchen. “What do you want?” he asked looking puzzled. I told him I wasn’t calling him—the credit card bill was big—really big. And then I asked him why he thought I was calling him “Big Bill.” He was 5’ 8” tall—hardly big— more like small. He said, “Big is in the eye of the beholder, and so is beauty and every other adjective and maybe adverb too, including smells. Wake up and smell your armpit.”

Every year, Bill gets closer to falling into the abyss. It is all about money. We share the credit card. Every couple of months Bill runs wild on Amazon buying stuff that I have to return—relabeling it and dropping it off at CVS for return. A couple of weeks ago he ordered 3 nail guns, an electric bicycle, and a Shetland pony. Luckily, I received notice of the orders and I was able to cancel them, except for the pony. To return it, I stuck the mailing label to its forehead and hired a trailer to take him to CVS. When I walked into CVS with the pony, it caused quite a stir. But the manager told me it was the third pony this week. Kids were getting on their parents’ Amazon accounts and ordering ponies. So, just leave the pony in the stall by the tooth care aisle. I hope it’s not a peppy pony! Last week, one got out of the stall and galloped up and down the aisles wreaking havoc on the laxatives and cough medicines. We managed to herd it back in the stall, but it was covered with NyQuil PM and smelled like cherries.

God, I was glad that was over. Even though it was a couple of week ago, the memory of the pony return was making me lose sleep. But now, I had to tackle the horror of a credit card bill that would kill my life savings if I paid it off: $6,000. It was Bill blissfully destroying our lives. He had bought a prefabricated chapel kit. It was too late to cancel the order. Bill told me he was going to use the chapel for funerals and weddings. He had become a Minister in the Universal Church. He said, “All we do is open the doors. Whether it’s life or death, people show up and I officiate for $500.” “Ok,” I thought, “I can see this as an investment of my life savings.” Bill’s first funeral was a disaster. He dropped the deceased’s ashes on the floor and the back of his pants ripped when he bent over to look at them scattered all over the place. We were sued for desecrating the dead, even though it was an accident.

We’ve turned the chapel into a chicken coop. We get by selling eggs and chicken-themed gifts. Our business is called “Eggistential Crisis.” I have taken Bill’s credit card away and enrolled him “Spendthrifts Anonymous.” Since he has no credit card, Bill is undergoing withdrawal. I have spray painted an expired insurance card and written “Credit Card” on it. I gave it to Bill. It works like a pacifier. When he feels the urge to shop, he takes it out of his wallet and holds it until the urge subsides.


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.

Anesis

Anesis (an’-e-sis): Adding a concluding sentence that diminishes the effect of what has been said previously. The opposite of epitasis.


“That’s one small step for man, one giant leap for mankind” I thought as I stepped over the hefty dog bomb on the park’s sidewalk. The quotation from Neal Armstrong didn’t quite fit, but I thought it was close enough to assuage my anger and disgust. The dog that dropped the bomb must’ve been the size of a Shetland pony. That’s when I came up with my plan.

I applied for a grant from the NEH to study the effects super hero costumes on influencing unwanted public behavior. In my case, it was to reduce the incidence of dog bombs on the park’s sidewalks. I had formed the basis of my idea from reading comic books—most significantly, Batman, Superman and Green Lantern. The NEH granted me $55.00. I was grateful. My mother would sew my costume. It was made of Lycra so it wasn’t easy to put together. I wracked my brain to come up with a design. Finally, I settled on a big dog poop—I would be a two-legged doggy-dooley the color of “k-9 Natural,” probably the most expensive dog food in the world. I had a sculptor friend make a realistic looking pile of doo-doo in a plastic bag affixed to a bicycle helmet with “DOO-DEVIL” emblazoned on the front. I was ready to go.

I went to the park and hid behind a giant oak tree by the sidewalk. An elderly woman came walking by. She Stopped and her Chihuahua started to go. He finished his business and they started walking away without picking up the poop. I jumped out from behind the tree and shouted “I am the DOO-DEVIL! Here is a plastic bag. Pick up the poop!” She looked at me, terrified. She fell to the pavement dead.

NEH pulled my funding and the police confiscated my DOO-DEVIL costume and helmet for “further examination.” They returned it the next day.

I have become a celebrity. I am enjoying the notoriety. I will be wearing my DOO-DEVIL costume and helmet on Fox News tonight. I’ve got a concealed piece of fresh dog poop that I am planning on smearing on Tucker Carlson’s face.


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

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.

Antanagoge

Antanagoge (an’-ta-na’-go-gee): Putting a positive spin on something that is nevertheless acknowledged to be negative or difficult.


Life is hard. But it’s life. It is better than death. At least that’s what I think sitting here in my big comfy chair with my remote control in one hand and a martini in the other and a full pack of Marlboro 27s on the end table waiting to be smoked. So, what’s hard about this? I’ll tell you: eventually, I’ll have to pull a “Hungry Wolf” TV dinner out of the freezer, read the microwave instructions, and put the damn thing in the microwave. Inevitably, part of the crust is still frozen when I pull it out. So, I have to shove it in for another minute. Then, the unfrozen part gets burned. What a pain in the ass! There’s just so much about making dinner that’s a pain in the ass—that makes it harder than hell just to eat. There’s a lot of other things too.

I have to drag my garbage cans to the street. Why the hell don’t the garbage haulers drive down my driveway and pick my garbage cans up? Same with my mail—up the driveway I go to get it. What the hell is the mail slot on my door for? Jehovah’s Witnesses” pamphlets? I know I’m going to hell—I don’t need a reminder from them. Then, there’s my job.

It’s not very much better than death. I am a professional birthday clown. My stage name Jabber Warble. I wear a baggy red and green striped costume, a blonde wig, and a big red nose. I don’t wear giant shoes. I think they are ridiculous.

I specialize in balloon tricks—winding up hot dog shaped balloons into animals. I specialize in 8-10 year olds: smelly little imps. I do mostly Dachshunds. I bark with a German accent and the kids love it. My most challenging balloon twist is the hot dog on a bun. It takes two balloons. Often the hotdog won’t fit in the bun laying down, so I have to ad lib. For example, I stick the hot dog in the bun at a perpendicular angle and make it fit. I tell the kids it’s a sail boat, but some of the mothers have told me it reminds them of something else that we could talk about after everybody goes home and their husband and kid have gone to the movies or somewhere else. It is really hard saying “No.” But, I need to maintain my spotless reputation. Once, a mother followed me home. She walked in the door and dropped her raincoat on the floor. She was naked underneath. She came toward insisting that I bark with the German accent. I strained my vocal chords barking. It was scary, and that’s what makes my job hell.

Anyway, life is hard, but it beats the hell out of death, or a coma. What do you do in coma? You lay there surrounded by beeping hospital equipment and tubes in your arms monitoring your descent into death, or incremental return to being awake. I think it’s pretty bad to be in that situation, even if you come back to life. It is like trying to do your income taxes on April 14th with no computer, calculator, pencil, or forms, filing for an extension the next day, and buying a plane ticket to someplace you’ve never heard of, like Belarus.

Remember: life is hard, but it could be worse. No matter how hard it gets, just be glad you’re not dead yet.


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

Paperback and Kindle editions of The Daily Trope are available at Amazon under the title The Book of Tropes.

Antiprosopopoeia

Antiprosopopoeia (an-ti-pro-so-po-pe’-i-a): The representation of persons [or other animate beings] as inanimate objects. This inversion of prosopopoeia or personification can simply be the use of a metaphor to depict or describe a person [or other animate being].


Me: Hey Rocky! Did you get your nickname from what your head is filled with? Rocks? Ha ha! I think a better nickname for you would be Itch. You spend half your time scratching and pulling on the crotch of your pants. It is one of the weirdest habits I’ve ever seen & I’ve seen a few. Like the guy who constantly combs d his pubes with a tiny nit rake. Or the guy who had to put whipped cream on his armpits before he could go to the movies. Or the woman who drank her coffee from an enema bulb. Finally, I knew a guy who always wore three pairs of underpants.

Every one of these behaviors is a habit, and as the cliche says, “Habits can be broken.” Think of your butt sniffing dog. You broke him of the habit by punching him in the nose whenever he tried a sniff.

Your habit can broken too.

You: Really? I’ve tried everything—wearing mittens, taping it up with duct tape, wearing a pre-formed plaster cast on my crotch. Nothing works. It is like my hands have a mind of their own—they’ve torn off the mittens, they tore off the duct tape, they pounded the plaster cast until it broke. Nothing works! I am doomed to be known as “Charlie Crotch Itch.”

Me: I can help you. There are two paths: 1. You can have your hands amputated, or, you can try some of my “Hands Off!” An organic chemical compound that dulls your desire to grab, pull, and scratch. It was developed by Vikings who had unusually sensitive skin. They needed to take it so they could successfully raid their neighbors. Without it, they would stand on the battlefield itching and scratching and get whacked to death by a walrus-tusk wielding enemy.

You: Wow that’s incredible. I’d like to try some “Hands Off!”

Me: Ok. I have a bottle right here for $200.00. I’ll take a check. Take 10 in the morning, every morning, and you’re all set. The bottle has 30 tablets, so I’ll set you up with automatic refill. Give me your credit card information so I can process your recurring order.

You: Ok. This is great.

Postscript

He took the pills that night, before bed—not in the morning as directed. His penis grew four feet and strangled him. It was the first recorded instance of Peniscide. The person selling the pills was arrested, but was released to work at a chemical warfare facility in Maryland for the US Army. It is rumored he is working on a gas-emitting “Borsht Bomb” that will be deployed in Ukrainian restaurants frequented by Russian soldiers in occupied areas.


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.

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

Antisagoge

Antisagoge (an-tis-a-go’-gee): 1. Making a concession before making one’s point (=paromologia); 2. Using a hypothetical situation or a precept to illustrate antithetical alternative consequences, typically promises of reward and punishment.


Ok, it’s true, the swimming pool has turned into swamp. But more importantly, it has become a local attraction since my friend Dr. Preedle accidentally discovered a heretofore undiscovered organism chuffing around the deep end. Once people found out about it, they came flocking around to see the amazing Preedle-Paddle-Rectus. The fence around the pool is working to stem the flow of curiosity seekers. Since started charging admission, we’ve made $500! The hats, key chains, t-shirts, and travel mugs are doing well too. We’ve named the organism “Bloppy” after his gooey exterior. We don’t have to feed him or do anything except make sure the pool is full of algae-laden dirty water. Bloppy has beautiful blue “eyes” (we’re not sure they are actually eyes—Dr. Preedle was working on this). Whenever people look into Bloppy’s eyes their bodies slump a little and they seem to find peace. I have experienced it a couple of times and I never felt better in my life. This is another selling point—we call it “Slimelightenment.” Bloppy seemed to enjoy making people whole. And he could smile, with his human-like lips.

He was as big as a watermelon. He was transparent—you could see his internal organs. He didn’t seem to have a heart, and that did not bother us because he was alive. As far as the other organs went, we were clueless. He had what looked like tentacles on his rear that propelled him around the pool very fast when he moved them. Also, almost miraculously, he would swim to me when I called—he had learned his name.

Then one morning I went outside to say hello to Bloppy. Dr. Preedle’s white lab coat was floating in the pool. I looked all for him—the University, the “Mean Beans” coffee shop, and few other places he frequented. I went back home and sat down by the pool, making sure the “Closed” signs were up. Bloppy came swimming over and I looked in his eyes. My anguish over Dr. Preedle melted away. All of a sudden Dr. Preedle’s hand emerged from below the water. Bloppy squeaked. “Uh-oh” I thought.

I was making so much money, I could not risk losing Bloppy and closing everything down. I pulled what was left of Dr. Preedle out of the pool, dragged his remains to the garden, and buried him. What was I going to do? I started bringing homeless people home under the pretext of a good meal and a swim in my pool. I would push them in the pool and Blobby would feed on them. There were always leftovers I had to dispose of. I had filled my garden with bodies, so I started driving them around in my car, and shoving them out in mall, school, and church parking lots.

I became the most notorious serial killer ever, even though nobody knew it was me. “I” was known as the “Parking Lot Killer.” I knew they would catch me eventually. All the parking lots were under observation, and some smart detective would eventually make the connection between the fact that all of the bodies were wet, and my famous swimming pool Bloppy concession. But I was stuck and nobody put two and two together yet, and I vowed to stay in business until they do. Besides, the homeless population is going down. Most people think that’s a good thing and so does Bloppy, who has put on weight and looks really healthy.


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

A paper version The Daily Trope is available from Amazon under the title The Book of Tropes.

Apophasis

Apophasis (a-pof’-a-sis): The rejection of several reasons why a thing should or should not be done and affirming a single one, considered most valid.


Life is made of decisions. Some more complicated than others. Some more urgent then others. Some escape consciousness altogether, like walking—a series of small steps that take you somewhere—you may call it a habit because you don’t “feel it,” you just go. Maybe we could say that a habit is a foregone decision, but I’m not sure I know what I’m talking about. I guess a traditional decision happens when something needs to change—it may involve the reconsideration of your habitual way, or dealing with something that pops up in your life, has a degree of urgency, can’t be ignored, is absent a clear-cut plan for its resolution, and appears to be amenable to choice—that you can and should do something about it. The challenge is manifest in pros and cons, and their relative weight in the particular case of judgment which is about coming to a decision founded on pros and cons, which include, in addition to empirically verifiable facts, feelings and emotions pertinent to the judgment: you may decide to drink a glass of milk because it is good for you. You may decide not to drink a glass of milk because you don’t like how it tastes. There’s more to it than this, but it’s good enough for me, or I’m pretty sure it’s good enough for me as I change the kind of underpants I wear.

I have been wearing tighty whities since the beginning of time. I have never used the pee pee fly. It is completely useless. Why is it there? As I’ve gotten older, my tighty whities have started to pinch my crotch and make it itch. The only way I can relieve the itch with my pants on is to pull down on my pants crotch and squirm around. Very embarassing.

So I checked out boxers. They have a nice accessible pee pee slit. Highly functional. And if you want, you can pull them down from the top. They are made from light weight cotton, silk, or super light synthetics, not dish towel weight material like the tighty whities. Given their light weight, you can pack more underpants when you travel—a real plus. They aren’t as absorbent as tighty whities, which may cause problems when you have an extra drop of pee pee that does not make it to the urinal and shows up on the front of your pants as a little wet circle.

The other alternative is to go commando. You will save the cost of underpants entirely, have less laundry, and feel tougher as a man—ancient warriors wore no underpants. However, the embarrassing pee pee spot is still a possibility, unless you wear blue jeans all the time. The heavyweight denim will absorb your little boo boos every time.

I am not going to lay out the pros and cone of each kind of underpants (or none). I think it should be clear. Oh, by the way, I considered the jock strap, but that’s so “out there” it didn’t warrant consideration.

I’m going to go commando. I wear blue jeans all the time. I will be burning my tighty whities this afternoon.


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

Paper and E-versions of the Daily Trope are available on Amazon under the title The Book of Tropes.

Aporia

Aporia (a-po’-ri-a): Deliberating with oneself as though in doubt over some matter; asking oneself (or rhetorically asking one’s hearers) what is the best or appropriate way to approach something [=diaporesis].


Time was running out. It was almost my birthday and I couldn’t face it it. I was old: I was getting deaf, my legs were wobbly, I had developed a double-vision malady and could no longer drive. I got up a half-dozen times at night to pee, my teeth were coming lose, I was chronically constipated. An MRI had shown white spots on my brain. My right pinky was frozen in a 90 degree angle to the palm of my hand. I wear a brace on my hand to retrain my pinkie to go flat. Probably, if I thought about it a little longer, a few more signs of age-related body-rot would come mind.

I said to myself “Billy, you’re only 62. You ought to be able to overcome all this crap and feel young again. Chin up. Damn, that was stupid, my wattle buried my chin 5 years ago. Hmmm. Do some research. You’ll find something. I felt a little like Humpty Dumpty trying to put myself back together again.”

I went where everybody goes when there’s an urgency in their lives: Google. I made a boilerplate search document listing my malady’s and asking for cures. I sent it off to Google. I got one of those blue responses asking “Do you mean you are dying and want to be cremated?” I tried again with less detail. I spent all day going through the responses. As you can imagine, a good number of them were bizarre. I think the weirdest was the recommendation that for a week to stick a lit Christmas tree light in my butt every-other day, leaving it in for six hours each time. When I read that, I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. One recommendation was to “scoop out” one of my eyes, precluding being cross-eyed. That one almost made me turn off the computer. But I didn’t.

What came up next was a site selling supplements. My daughter takes supplements and they don’t seem to hurt her, except for the barely visible mustache that looks like a shadow on her upper lip. So, I ordered a bottle of “Youngy” ground “Gods Nuts” for $200.00. They came in the mail the next day. They smelled a little funky. I took the recommended dose of 12. Nothing happened right away. Eventually they kicked in and ALL of my malady’s evaporated! I went wild celebrating non-stop for two days. I woke up on my birthday ready to rip. About halfway through singing “Happy Birthday” to me, I started feeling funny. My stomach was bulging out. I went to the bathroom and was shocked to see my penis was gone, replaced by a vagina. I was going to have a baby! It all moved so fast! My pregnancy lasted a week. I have a beautiful little girl who looks like my late mother, and my penis returned!

Now I am a very young looking celebrity. I was on FOX News the other night. Tucker Carlson interviewed me and said he had already given birth to 3 babies, but he has to keep them out of sight. What a liar! I’ve Googled “Youngy” and “Gods Nuts” hundreds of times and they’ve completely disappeared from the internet. My daughter Athena has grown four feet in two months and has started to speak. She talks in a monotone like one of those outer space creatures in a 50s sci-fi movie. But, who cares? We love each other and are living a good life together.

POSTSCRIPT

After writing what’s above, Billy was found dead, run over in his own driveway. Athena was suspected of his murder. She stole his car and was reported by some drug-soaked hippy losers to have boarded a flying saucer along with Jimi Hendrix, Kieth Moon, and Janis Joplin. According to the hippies, the flying saucer “like shot off into the sky like a big flat jet, man.” The hippies said she was 8-feet tall and was wearing a t-shirt that said “Gods Nuts.” The police ignored the hippies’ “insane ranting” and the case was listed as unsolved, and remains so today.


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

Paper and Kindle editions of The Daily Tope are available on Amazon under the title The Book of Tropes.

Articulus

Articulus (ar-tic’-u-lus): Roughly equivalent to “phrase” in English, except that the emphasis is on joining several phrases (or words) successively without any conjunctions (in which case articulus is simply synonymous with the Greek term asyndeton). See also brachylogia.


What language is “ee-I-ee-I-oh?” I think it’s of French, Italian, Swedish, Icelandic, and possibly, Chinese origins. Millions of years ago people routinely hiked around the world. There were no impediments. For example, there were land bridges from Paulus Hook (Jersey City) to New Amsterdam. With the farmland more affordable in Paulus Hook, world-hikers flocked there. They raised sheep and developed a code for displaying ownership that was understood in all languages operative then in Paulus Hook. They would point at their flock and sing “ee-I-ee-I-oh.” Eventually, this phrase evolved into an autobiographical song that was more expansive and included farmers’ entire lives—from agriculture school graduation, to moving to a dell, to taking a wife, to starting a dairy, to a livestock inventory—from chickens to goats.

My family emigrated to New Amsterdam from The Netherlands in the 1600s. They wore painted and varnished wooden shoes and loved tulips. They covered their mouths when they yawned and did not speak when chewing gum. Way ahead of their time, my ancestors went dancing at the “Van Gogh-A-Go-Go.” They did “The Wood Shoe Clomp,” the “Licorice Twist” and the “ee-I-ee-I-oh.” It was a beautiful, lovely, amazing, wonderful time back then; until the British showed up and took New Amsterdam away from my ancestors and named it New York, after York, a city in England with a wall around it to keep the residents in—licking boots and being lapdogs.

The English outlawed everything and ridiculed our culture. They wouldn’t cover their mouths when they yawned—this would make children cry. And they would roll their chewing gum around their tongues when they talked, making women and some men sick to see. Because “ee-I-ee-I-oh” was not derived from English, they deemed it subversive and banned it, and jailed anybody who used it. However, as an act of resistance, when they recited their vowels my ancestors would say “a-e-I-e-I-o-u.” It became a sort of anthem that wasn’t detected by the English until the Anglophile traitor Daan DeJong, pretending to be drunk, revealed the secret. He was granted a manor in New Ark, New Jersey, displacing its Dutch occupants. He was killed one week later by canon fire directed at his privy.

History is complex. Language is complex. Culture is complex.

Ee-I-e-I-oh.


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

Paper and Kindle versions of The Daily Trope are available on Amazon under the title The Book of Tropes.

Chiasmus

Chiasmus (ki-az’-mus): 1. Repetition of ideas in inverted order. 2. Repetition of grammatical structures in inverted order (not to be mistaken with antimetabole, in which identical words are repeated and inverted).


Truths are lies. Lies are truths. Good is evil. Evil is good. I could go on and on with every word paired with its dialectical other. We are caught in a cultural trance. The inversion of goods is a consequence of years of unbridled free speech. When anybody can say whatever they want to say into the internet to be circulated repetitively and globally without the citation of it source, in the guise of reporting a conspiracy, it passes the truth test among masses of people, and motivates collective action among them to act out of fear and anger to put the conspirators down.

The internet is a garbage bump. It is not a clear and rippling reservoir. It may harbor more lies than Hell. Whenever you dip your brain into it, you run the risk of filling it with toxic waste. But how do you distinguish the poison from the cure? Many actual insights garner ridicule and even banishment to their proponents. The Earth is round? Ha ha! Lunatic! Lock him up. Burn him at the stake! What did it take to get “round” certified as the shape of the earth? I’m sure the story is told somewhere, but I don’t know where. Do you? The roundness certified by the view from a spaceship? That’s my point of reference, but who knows for sure? Is it a Hollywood stunt? Some people think so. Are they a paradigm case of healthy doubt, or totally nuts, or both?

Now we come to flat-out lying. Almost daily, some politician is caught lying. When I was a kid, lying politicians would be censured, appear crying on TV, apologize, and tearfully resign. Now, they just tell more, and usually bigger, lies. Or, they admit everything, and don’t resign, and are not censured by their political party. Lies don’t seem to register in public consciousness like they used to. Why? I don’t know.

The right is dominated by zealotry, and frequently engages in righteous indignation. The left has little zeal, even though it avows an interest in resolving significant social issues freighted with moral import. Liberals need to weigh in with more exuberance and less smugness. They need to elect a greater number of liberal yellers—enraged actors, with their own brand of righteous indignation, and an unwillingness to capitulate under any circumstances.

Who are the liberal firebrands? I don’t know. Since nobody readily springs to mind, I conclude there are none. I am probably wrong. Am I irresponsible? Ill-informed? A crypto-conservative? A nit-wit?


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

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

Diaporesi

Diaporesis: Deliberating with oneself as though in doubt over some matter; asking oneself (or rhetorically asking one’s hearers) what is the best or appropriate way to approach something [=aporia].


“Think about it.” My father said that about pretty much everything I said. I’d say “Please pass the mashed potatoes.” He would tell me to think about it. When I got older, I told him I had a girlfriend. He said, “Think about it.” I told him I needed a new winter coat and he told me to think about it. Once I asked what what “think about it” means and he told me to think about it. As you can imagine, it drove me crazy, but I couldn’t tell him or he would tell me to think about it.

If I treat my father’s “think about it” charitably, it is an invitation to contemplation; to wonder about nearly everything, and that, in turn, might make me a philosopher. It might also make me crazy, deliberating with myself, which, is, in a way bizarre. It means that there are multiple me’s that may be in conflict with each other. Do I have an integral self? How do I integratemy being, or am I doomed to a cacophony of voices competing for primacy in the play of my thoughts? Or, is this what my self is? The conflict coordinator? But, as coordinator, my self must have an aim, or is the aim to cultivate conflict. Think about it.

I had developed the habit of locking myself in my room and thinking about it. I would come down for dinner. One evening, my mother asked what I was up to and I said “Think about it.” My father glared at me and said “You think about it.” I said “No! You think about it.” He stood up and kicked over his chair. I did likewise. We stood there glaring at each other for around two minutes. I had to pee, so I turned and started toward the stairs, toward the upstairs bathroom. He yelled “Think about it!” as I climbed the stairs.

I yelled “I’m not thinking about anything you pitiful bastard! Oh wait! I am thinking about something—I’m thinking knocking you on your ass and kicking you until your internal organs explode. But, don’t worry, it’s just a thought.” I made my way upstairs, back up to my room, and I thought about it. Then, I tried to light the house on fire with my gas-powered lighter that I used to light my bong. I got a nice little blaze going in my wastebasket. Then, I thought about it. I carried my wastebasket into the bathroom, put it in the tub and doused it with the hand-held shower.

Now, I’m a resident in “Rugged Mountain” in-patient mental hospital. My therapist, Dr. J. Locke, has told me to think about it. I told him that’s what got me here in the first place. He said, “Ah ha! Think about it!” I can’t find a way to stop thinking about it—no matter what it is. I just wish I could shut up the voice in my head. I blame my father for my mental woes. They’ve asked me to participate in testing a new drug that has great promise for curing what I have. I’m thinking about it.


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

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

Dilemma

Dilemma (di-lem’-ma): Offering to an opponent a choice between two (equally unfavorable) alternatives.


Boss: Making choices is what we’re all about. I say yes. You say no. I say maybe. You say certainly. I say, you better agree with me or I’ll kick your ass. You say, you and who else. Look, you can have your ass kicked, or find a job somewhere else. Look at me—i work out every day from 7:00-11.00. My biceps are bigger than your thighs. Your arms are like broom sticks with hinges. Mine are like tree stumps with fingers. I will pound you into the ground like a tent stake and use your head as a swivel stool. You better just run away to your mommy baby boy and hide behind that stupid baggy dress she wears all the time. There she is over there, coming our way, waving her cast iron skillet. She should be in the kitchen with that thing. She is too stupid for words.

Worker: I’m gonna fight for my job, Cold-hearted Boss. You know damn well there aren’t any jobs within a thousand miles of this place. Even though I work here, I’d rather work somewhere else—making mop handles 12 hours per day 7 days a week makes me want to puke, but it is a job. The income is meager, barely enough for my family to afford one meal per day, and a bad meal at that: a bowl of cabbage soup and a crust of bread. My children are all bowlegged and my wife is saggy and cranky all the time. Our younger son, Milo, fell off the back of a wagon and was run over and killed by Lord Helmsly’s speeding carriage—he was late for his weekly poker game. He blamed my little boy..

I learned Karate when I was in the Queen’s service stationed in Japan. It is deadly. Most likely, I will kill you with two or three blows. Or, my mother will whack you with her cast iron frying pan, leaving you with a cracked skull and dimwits. Step over here to this level ground and we shall commence our fighting.

The fight: Boss started toward the level spot to fight his worker. The worker’s mother jumped out from behind a tree, whacking Boss on the side of his head, cracking his skull and turning him into a drooling idiot. Boss became the mop handle factory mascot and would grovel for bits of candy carried by the workers in their pockets.Worker kept his job. His mother was sentenced to one month in jail for “over aggressive self defense.”


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

A paper edition of The Daily Trope, entitled The Book of Tropes, is available for purchase on Amazon for $9.99 USD. There is also a Kindle edition available for $5.99.

Enigma

Enigma (e-nig’-ma): Obscuring one’s meaning by presenting it within a riddle or by means of metaphors that purposefully challenge the reader or hearer to understand.


I’m tall when I’m young and short when I’m old. What am I? I don’t know. I lost my book Why Riddles: Wrestling With Obscurity. I think I left it under my pillow. It’s the only place I haven’t looked. I’m sure I’ll find it when I go to bed tonight. If I do, I’ll text you the answer to the tall-short riddle. It might be like the “How many toes does a crayon have?” riddle. My quick answer is “none,” but that thwarts the riddle and displays an immature drive to kill that particular riddle. It thwarts the spirit of the riddle that has carried people beyond the vagaries of literalism, to the hallowed heights of metaphors, and similes and puns for millennia.

When I was in the Army, I knew a guy who worked in the message vault. He carried a .45 and picked up and delivered messages in his own Jeep. When he was working spoke only in puns or obscure pronouncements. I though he had gone crazy spending his time in the message vault when he wasn’t picking up or delivering messages. The vault was like a big bank vault with stacks of messages scattered around. I asked what he did with the stacked, undelivered, messages. He said: “The flight of the bluebird is aimless.” I could sort of understand him—maybe the bluebirds were the messages, flight was delivery. But aimless was pretty much beyond me—maybe it meant that the addressee was unknown, so they couldn’t be delivered. I asked him if I got it right and he said: “You are taking a tour without a compass.” Well, that was clear—I was not right and I was headed in the wrong direction. I asked him if I was right about being wrong. He said: “Apples and tomatoes can be red or yellow.”

My visit with my buddy was going south. I was headed down a dead end street. I was dancing in the dark. I was on a treadmill. I was running on a Hamster wheel. I’d been dealt an empty hand. The chain was off my bike. My shoe laces were tied together. My brain was in neutral.

I was frustrated, but he was my buddy, and I could still remember him before he was put in the vault. Maybe his purposeful obscurity was part of his training to keep from inadvertently disclosing top secret message content. Anyway, I visited him after the war. He was living in the psychiatric ward of his local VA hospital. They didn’t know what to do with him, so they kept him. He wasn’t dangerous, but he made people angry with his crooked talk. I sort of knew how he felt. My head was full of secrets too, but I didn’t care. I would blurt them out. As a consequence, a lot of people were afraid of me. Secrets are secrets for a reason.

I’m going off course. My GPS is smoking. My roadmap is blank. I am lost in space. My bulldozer is stalled. I am drowning in memories. But, I’m ok. When I think of Cinderella I am calmed. When I think of Porterhouse steak, I develop an appetite. When I think of dreams, I want to go to bed. When I write, I’m quite clear. When I talk, not so much. When I sing, I am an angel spreading light.


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. There is also a Kindle edition available for $5.99.

Enthymeme

Enthymeme (en’-thy-meem): 1. The informal method [or figure] of reasoning typical of rhetorical discourse. The enthymeme is sometimes defined as a “truncated syllogism” since either the major or minor premise found in that more formal method of reasoning is left implied. The enthymeme typically occurs as a conclusion coupled with a reason. When several enthymemes are linked together, this becomes sorites. 2. A figure of speech which bases a conclusion on the truth of its contrary. [Depending on its grammatical structure and specific word choice, it may be chiasmus].


Me: It is 115 degrees outside. You better wear shorts to work, along with a T-shirt. The blue T-Rex t-shirt would be perfect! Given this climate stuff, we’re going the way of the dinosaurs, pretty soon we’ll all be crude oil or tar balls jostling together in a bubbling pit. If we lose our electricity, we’ll die. They’ll find you clutching a beer on the couch, shriveled up like a piece of dried fruit, like a fig with ants crawling all over you. And, oh, nobody will find you because they’ll be shriveled up on their couches too. Yup, it is the end of the world. We’re headed for extinction, Maybe before the end of the summer.

You: I can hardly be in the same room with you. You never stop. When we were kids it was the atom bomb. You refused to get under your desk during the school drills that were supposed to save us from the bomb. You would sit there saying “If the bomb comes here, the school will be leveled. If we survive that, we will all be turned to ashes cowering under our chairs.” Everybody started crying and tried to get out the door at once. There were injuries and our teacher, Miss Roper, was demoted to classroom aide.

Your hysterical harangues were dangerous back in the sixth grade, and now even more so, given the ubiquitous bullshit flying around—pushed by fake scientists so they can make money while scaring the holy hell out of average Americans and their children, like Joan and Bill’s who, by the grace of God go to a private school where climate change crap is not permitted to be taught, along with other evil brain poisoning ideas like Critical Race Theory. I don’t know what Critical Race Theory is, but it must be bad if it’s banned from “Himmerler Middle School” where my neighbor’s kids go. They’re not going to be fooled by the communists aiming to destroy America by destroying American values. So, why don’t you just can it and go on with your life, such as it is, filled fear and unfounded predictions. Go home and put some clothes on. Tightly-whiteys and sandals are so wrong, no matter how hot it is.

Me: it’s nice to see you’re running with the Lemmings toward the cliffs of denial. Does it feel good to be a part of the pack? All together. Eye to eye. Perfect harmony until death do you part. It is supposed to be 130 degrees tomorrow! I’m headed north to buy myself some time. If I’m going to die, at least I’ll be in a beautiful place. I mean, the sidewalks are starting to crack here in Manhattan and the streets are buckling. I can’t take a shower and I’m pooping in plastic bags and dropping them off behind trees and bushes in Central Park.

Uh oh. Hear that? It’s quiet. The electricity has gone out. No A/C. 130 degrees tomorrow. Let the looting begin! Let the home invasions begin! Let the City burn. Let the “normal” people who’ve ignored the climate change warnings for the past 20 years die without dignity in the coming conflagration. They willfully ignored the hard truth, opting for the soft comfort of lies because the lies aligned with their hopes and stilled their fears.

Goodbye. I’m headed to Alaska. I’m wearing my tighty whiteys. I hope my old VW Bug makes it. I’ll never forget driving it to Woodstock with you and Beth. Do you want to come with me now?


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

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Epitasis

Epitasis (e-pit’-a-sis): The addition of a concluding sentence that merely emphasizes what has already been stated. A kind of amplification. [The opposite of anesis.]


I was on my way to Barty’s Ark, the wildest bar in the Tri-state area. That’s saying something—New York, New Jersey, and Pennsylvania. Three states populated by crazy people. There’s a shooting every night at Barty’s and a couple of pole dancer kidnappings. These guys think that because these girls are totally naked they can take them. It’s biker gangs that do the kidnapping, especially the “Swamp Trompers” from Green Village, NJ, “Satan’s Dancers” from New York, NY and the “Conventions” from Philadelphia, PA. The girls are never harmed. They aren’t mistreated in any way. They come back to Barty’s wearing expensive designer clothes. I guess, what you should call what the gangs do “recreational abduction.” It gets Barty mad to be down at least three dancers every night. But what can he do? Especially since he’s not interested in losing his business, and committing “suicide.”

I have been hired by the “Tri-State Commission for the Study of Corruption, Crime, and Catastrophes.” I’ve been hanging out at “Barty’s” for two months running my undercover operation. I’m under cover as a 65-year-old lech. It’s easy for me to affect this identity because I am a 65-year-old lech. I didn’t want this assignment to ever end. Sitting on my spinning stool night after night, watching the nude dancers and befriending violent psychopaths, was nearly my idea of the perfect assignment. If only the bikers would go away. But they wouldn’t.

I grew my hair long and pulled it into a ponytail. I got a couple of fake tattoos. On my left shoulder I had Freddie Kruger with his hand-blades dripping blood. On my right shoulder I had a fake tattoo saying “1/6.” The tattoo is captioned “Let Freedom Ring.” My tattoos create a strong positive impression when I show them to the bikers. When they ask me what I do, I tell them I’m a mercenary & I’m home for a few weeks resting up before I go back to Ukraine. Works like a charm! I carry three concealed pistols: 1. One Glock on the shoulder, 2. Two Astra Cubs (one on each ankle). I also carry a 9” OTF switchblade, a box cutter, a blackjack, knuckles and an edge-sharpened credit card—buy you dinner? Slit your throat? Also, I had a load of cash—$200,000. It was almost to heavy to carry.

I won’t need any of this stuff—it’s a quiet assignment. Well, maybe I’ll need the money. A thirty-year-old dancer named “Spotify” has fallen in love with me. I told her I’m 45 and I love her too. I don’t know what I’m going to do with her. We haven’t been intimate yet. We’re waiting until we leave and start a life together. I haven’t seen my wife in 30 years. A divorce should be easy.

So, my assignment ended. Spotify and I took off in my Maserati for Morristown, NJ where her mother lives. She says she has to pick up some clothing and “belongings,” and say “Hi and Bye to her Mom. So, we finally get there. I have to pee really bad, so I run in the door fervently asking where the bathroom is. As I’m running past Spotify’s Mom, I realize that she’s my wife from 30 years ago, that Spotify’s my daughter, and that this is really insane. So, I peed, ran back out of the house, jumped in my Maserati, and drove away as fast as I could. “Just think?” I thought in terror as I hit 110 MPH. “Shit!” was all I could say.

I’ve started a new assignment. We’re looking at the son of a high profile, wealthy, public figure. It is alleged that he has a vast and illicit network of nefarious dealers in black market pink ballet slippers. That’s all I can say there. The second, tandem case, involves lumberjacks. They’ve been doing unfathomable and uncalled for things with their wood chips. I can’t talk any further about this.


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

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Exergasia

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


Time to go Christmas shopping! It’s always fun buying Christmas gifts for people you love, and more or less tolerable for people you could give a damn less about, like the mail carrier, my cousin Lavern, or my friend from high school who works at MacDonald’s—a total loser, but I don’t want him spitting on my burger patty. It is a real challenge choosing gifts for people you think you’re obliged to buy gifts for—that you are coerced in some social way to give gifts to—that there are unpleasant consequences involved in not giving gifts to. It involves some kind of extortion, mainly because you get nothing in return except US mail, an appeased cousin and a spit free burger at MacDonalds. Merry Christmas.

So, I went on line. First, I Googled “gifts for US Mail carriers.” Google told me it was illegal to give gifts to federal employees. So, I tried Canadian mail carriers. Boom! Jackpot! There it was: a collapsible snow shovel! But wait, bear spray! I bought my mail carrier two cans of “Crying Ursine Bear Spray.” I’ll wrap them and put them in my mailbox on Christmas Eve. I think that might be illegal, but I don’t care. Next, I Googled “gifts for looser cousin who swears a lot.” 100s of hits came up, but one caught my attention. It was a kit for making signs to use to beg for money on the street. It comes with fifty clever messages and 100 more are available for a “low cost” on their internet site. One of my favorites was “GIMME 5 DOLLARS.” It is straightforward. I didn’t get this one: “Homeless! Need Credit Card!” Anyway, my gift may help lift Lavern out of her ditch. If I gave her no gift, she would throw rocks at my house again on New Year Day. She’s a tough customer. Then there was Giles. He’s been working at MacDonals ever since he graduated from high school in 2015. We were friends in high school, but we’ve drifted apart since I’ve made something of myself and he hasn’t, and for some reason he blames his failed life on me. Maybe it was the college scholarship we competed for. I won it, but didn’t really need it. As a consequence of losing, he couldn’t afford to go to college, and in his mind, it was my fault. So, I Googled “What gift do you give a man in a dead end job who blames you for being there?” I got fewer hits than the other two searches, but there was one that stuck out: Very expensive tile cleaner that Giles could use on his day to clean the rest rooms at MacDonalds. The tile cleaner comes with a special “absorbent” washable rag that “helps fights streaking.” By using Shinhonian, he may get a promotion or pay raise for extra good work, and, I’ll be relieved of worry about eating spitty burgers.

So, I finished shopping for my challenging gift recipients in 20 minutes. I hope the gifts get me off the hook again for another year. Now, it is time to shop for people I pretty much care about. First up, my girlfriend. Asking Goggle: “What gift do you get for somebody you are stuck with because of promises you made, her violent brother, and her allergies that require you to rub her back with terrible-smelling medicated cream twice a day?” Google referred me to Duck Duck Go for answers to my query. Unfortunately, I can’t tell you what I bought for her, but I can give you a hint: Hisssss.

Merry Christmas!


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

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Heniadys

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


Night and day. Day and night. Which came first? I don’t care. Or, put another way, what difference does it make? That’s the trouble with numbers. You can count with them, and that’s it. 1, 2, 3 blah blah. And now, with computers, everything can quantified, from the bullet hole in your arm, to the hat on your head. 1, 2, 3, blah blah. Counting can be a waste of time—if you have a bunch of beans to count, why not save some time and decide that you have “many” beans? You don’t count your problems, do you? Instead, you have “a lot” of problems.

Counting everything can lead to greed and excessive worry. You look at your bank account. It has a lot of money in it. The bank counts it and gives you statement reporting with a number the amount of money you have. You see that big number and you want a bigger number Now, you have entered the greedy zone. You have to have more, more, more. You start a real estate scam, you lie to the IRS, you lie to everybody so you can have more, more, more. Now you are all alone. Due to your constant lying, nobody knows who you are any more. You won’t even share your French fries at MacDonalds any more. You are alienated, alone, miserable, all because counting your money made you want more, more, more when you didn’t need it.

And then, there’s the anxiety. You look at your bank account and it says: “Balance, $63.00.” Your rent is due next week. You’re out food. You haven’t paid the utility bill. Your car payment is due tomorrow. Your student loan payment is due in two days, as is your credit card bill. Your phone bill is due today. You get paid $400.00 per week. It is barely enough to pay your bills, let alone, have a life. The crack you expect to fall through gets bigger every day.

Your job is no help. You can’t evade numbers there. You work for “Prestige Pies” making custom pies for the wealthiest people in the world. Some of the pies are named after their noteworthy accomplishments. There’s “The President,” “The FoxNews,” “The Tesla,” etc. At “Prestige Pie’s,” you’re paid by the piece: you get paid in accord with the number of pies you complete on your shift. Your philosophy degree is no good here—here, it’s make the dough fly or you’re fired.

When I talk about myself, it may be in measurable characteristics—shoe size, waist size, weight, head size, etc. We all know this goes nowhere when trying to give another person the means of getting to know you. “You” is a difficult concept to grasp, but it is best done without numbers. You are not your shoe size. You are unique and immeasurable. I learned this in college. When I realized I was not my stuff, it changed my life. I am immeasurable—that means you can’t quantify my being. I am unique, maybe my body is too.

So anyway, when Lawrence Welk used to say “A one, and a two, and a three” and the bubbles started to float from the bubble machine, and the polka music music started to play, it was magical. My sister and I would dance around our tiny living room. My father would yell, “Sit down, you’re blocking the TV.” We knew he was having trouble seeing the woman with the big boobs who was a regular on the show and sang romantic love songs. We would sit down, but we’d still tap our feet and rock back and forth.

Everything can be counted, but it is transformed in the counting, maybe into a collection, like Lawrence Welk’s accordions. But the members of a collection are unique and the same. Maybe unique in essence, but the same in name and number. A one, and a two, and a three.


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

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Heterogenium

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


He asked me what I was doing in a place like this. I told him I owned it and he told me he was from Yonkers. Then he told me the snow outside was beautiful. I told him he was full of shit and probably wanted to talk about his new living room furniture, or some thing like that. I asked him if he wanted a drink and he told me the bar stool was very comfortable. I asked him if he knew how to give a straight answer. “I could ask you for a job,” he said. I told him I might have a position. He told me he was lonely and wanted to spend time with me outside the bar, in the parking lot, in his car.

He was cute. Black hair, tall, thin, blue eyes, nicely dressed, trimmed beard. But I thought he was crazy—the way answered questions, or should I say, didn’t answer questions. I could imagine if I asked him if he loved me! What would he say? “I had fish ‘n chips for lunch.” But, he wants me to go out in the parking lot and get in his car with him! I am a little crazy, but I told him there was no way I would go outside with him to his car, besides, I was in charge of the bar and couldn’t leave it. I also told him I wouldn’t do anything like that with anybody anyway. I had a reputation to maintain at “Prima Donna’s” if I was to keep packing in the customers.

He told me he had a “relevance” problem that he picked up when he was working for the government. He was trained to give irrelevant answers to all question. This was for national security reasons. “Irrelevance” was a key tactic for maintaining secrecy and thwarting the United States’ enemies from obtaining sensitive information. Since he couldn’t tell who were friends and who were enemies, irrelevance soon became a ubiquitous feature of all of his speech. As a consequence he became alone and isolated, unable to build a conversational bridge between himself and everybody he met. All of his relationships ended in catastrophe after 10- or 15-minutes. Some ended worse than others. One time, a date he met on “Woo Woo!” asked him whether she should park in his driveway when she got to his house. His answer was “I had fried eggs.” At first she was confused, so she asked again. He said, “My dog’s name is Pete.” She became angry, pulled in the driveway, got out of her car and hurled the bottle of wine she had brought through the front door’s storm door window. He went running outside, shook his fist, and yelled “My tropical fish need feeding!” His date did a lawn job, peeling across his front yard, leaving two deep ruts and torn up grass behind her as she sped away. He chased her and ran into a stop sign on the corner of his street, doing $2,300 damage to his car, a used Tesla that he’d flown all the way from Massachusetts to California to buy.


Now he is in the process of trying to get disability compensation for his condition—for his “irrelevance syndrome.” The “Syndrome” it is, for all practical purposes, impossible to treat. First, there is no record of “irrelevance” being induced in any government employee, including CIA. Second, with his condition as it is, no progress whatsoever can be made, because everything he says is irrelevant to any questions that are asked by medical doctors and psychotherapists. He is best at angry monologues that are prompted by medical personnel sticking pins in his hands. But Still, although coherent, they are irrelevant—ranging from bird watching with his mother to watching “Magnum P.I.” reruns in bed.

A mild breakthrough has been made recently. Getting him drunk and giving him a pack of Marlboro 27s enable him to capture brief moments of relevance. For example, two days ago he was asked what two plus two equals. In a drunken voice, he said “I don’t know what for.” His use of the word “for” is a homophone for “four.” The Doctors and Psychotherapists say this is a clear bridge to relevance. They will be jointly authoring a research paper titled: “Building Bridges with Nicotine and Alcohol: The Case of Government Agent X.” Agent X is nearly always drunk and smokes three packs of cigarettes per day. I have taken pity on him and will be hiring him at Prima Donna’s. It is probably a stupid move, given his malady. I’m going to have him in work in the basement shining beer, wine, and liquor bottles. Maybe some day he’ll snap out of it and we meet in his car in the parking lot.


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

An edition of the Daily Trope is available on Amazon under title The Book of Tropes.

Maxim

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


“Blow your tuba parallel to the ground.” Whenever I was off on my way to do something—play baseball, go to the grocery store, go on a date—anything that took place in public, my father would utter these words of wisdom. When I asked him what he meant, he’d say, “Come on, don’t mess with me. I’m your father shit for brains.” What he did tell me was that “Blow your tuba parallel to the ground” was a saying whose meaning was passed down through the years in the family from the oldest male who was a father, to his oldest male son who was a father, from generation to generation. There would be a secret ceremony in the garage, in the parked car’s front seat, where the saying’s secret meaning was revealed. I was the oldest son, but I didn’t have a son yet.

The years passed. I went to college, and then on to State University for a PhD. in Anthropology. Given my family background, I specialized in “sayings.” I studied the ancient Camdenite culture of Southern New Jersey. They had left inscriptions carved in trees throughout the region. It had taken linguists years to decipher their language. Able now to translate the trees’ inscriptions, I set about compiling their sayings, looking for themes that would shed light on the hierarchy of the good giving meaning to their lives.

The first thing I discovered was their equivalent of the English f-word was most prevalent. It was used in a contracted form to modify nearly each word in a sentence, as in “F-in eat the f-in clam.” This saying, along with a few others like it, appeared over and over again in the context of advice concerning male romantic endeavors. Most of the tree sayings were simple and basic, aside from the romantic sayings (as above) that were oblique, cryptic, and metaphoric and referenced activities of a sexual nature (as above). The more straightforward and utilitarian sayings were clear and down to earth: “Put your f-in spear away on an f-in rainy day.” “Don’t f-in piss on the f-in fire.” “F-in go outside to f-in fart.” I think these sayings can be taken literally, but they may also have deep figurative references that speak to the soul of Camdenite culture—a culture beyond my understanding as a 21st century bearer of a multi-faceted wi-fi and Zoom-enmeshed in all the f-in mind-game crap you have to put with to get a goddamn f-in PhD. So, I finished my dissertation as fast as I could, and graduated. My dissertation was titled “Differently Cultured Differences in Ancient South Jersey Sayings: F-in ‘A’ Mother F-er.” My dissertation won the “New Jersey Cultural Award for Making New Jersey Look Interesting.” There was a $200 prize and I didn’t start my professor job for a month, so I decided to go home and see if I could wrest out of my father the meaning of “Blow your tuba parallel to the ground.” In a way, it would top off my studies.

I arrived on a Friday afternoon. I rang the doorbell. My father answered the door.

So, standing right there on the porch, I asked him about the saying’s meaning for what seemed like the hundredth time, followed by: “All I can say dad is I don’t know the meaning of the advisory saying you’ve been plying me with all these years. How can I take its advice if I don’t know what is?” He put his hands together in a monk-like prayerful pose and said “That’s the f-in point, son.” Now I was even more confused. I was angry. I turned and stomped off the porch and headed for the bus station. As I turned the corner, I heard him yell, “Blow your tuba parallel to the ground.”


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.

Mesarchia

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


My hats are my passion. My hats are my inspiration. My hats are my corridor to what I can be. I started collecting hats when I was 10 years old. I got a set of electric trains for my birthday. Along with the train set, my father gave me an engineer’s hat. It had black and gray pinstripes and a tall floppy brim. The town’s train station was about two blocks from where I lived, It was a key stop for the commuter train going to and from New York City. I had a squirt can of “3-in-One Oil.” I’d walk up and down the platform in my hat pretending I was a railroad engineer waiting for my train. I’d tell people in thick railroad jargon that I was waiting for a “Brass Collar” (Railroad Bigwig) so we could have a look at the Clown Wagon” (Caboose) behind the “Battleship” (Large Locomotive) when it arrived from Hoboken at 3:30. Some people would laugh, others told me to go home where little boys belong. I understood that when I fell off the platform one day. People were screaming and yelling. The 2:30 from Newark was only 100 ft away, so nobody could help me. I laid in the middle of the tracks until the train stopped. I crawled out and the Conductor reached down and pulled me back up on the platform. He yelled, “You’re lucky to be alive!” as I ran for home, crying. My Mom asked me what was wrong, and I told her I had been tun over by the train from Newark. She smiled and said “You’re just like your father: an idiot! Have some milk and cookies.”

My second hat was a Union Soldier hat. Our family had taken a spring road trip to Washington, DC. We stopped at Gettysburg along the way to visit the famous battlefield where Lincoln had delivered his “Gettysburg Address” to dedicate a cemetery there. There was a museum there. It was a tribute to how crazy the US had gone, dividing into two separate countries and going to war. There was a gift shop attached to the museum that had a lot of Abraham Lincoln souvenirs—rulers with the “Gettysburg Address” printed on them and pencil sharpeners in the shape of Lincoln’s bust. There were placemats imprinted with photographic images of battlefield carnage, red white and blue garters, and cheap bourbon called “Famous Grant.” Then, there were the hats!

There were Union hats, and Confederate hats. I wanted a Confederate hat—I begged. My father called me a traitor and gave me his signature karate chop on the back of the neck. I blacked out for a second, like I always did. When I snapped back, I was wearing a Union soldier’s hat. “We won that damn war, and don’t forget it. Your great great great grand Uncle was killed by a Rebel—shot in the back and left to bleed to death on the battlefield at Shiloh. Never forget that. As we came out of the gift shop I saw a kid at the other side of the parking lot wearing a Rebel hat. I was mad after what my father had told me. I ran across the parking lot to kick the Rebel boy’s ass. I slipped on an oil spot, fell, and cut my knee. The Rebel boy came over and asked me if I was ok. I told him I was fine. He was from Fishhook, North Carolina. He told me his great great great grand Uncle was killed by a Yankee—shot in the back and left to bleed to death on the battlefield at Vicksburg. We made friends right there in that parking lot and were pen pals for years: he died on the battlefield at Can Tho in Vietnam.

In a way, my hat collection is a repository of memories—some good, some bad. I have 106 hats in my collection. When I put one on, it can be like flipping a switch on a time machine. I guess my most important hat is my Davy Crockett “raccoon skin cap.” Mine had a snap-on tail and glow-in-the dark eyes. It also had tuck-in ear flaps. When I put it on, I became “king of the wild frontier.” Knowing Davy had “killed him a bear when he was only three,” I was deeply disappointed that there were no bears in New Jersey that I could kill, but I went bear hunting anyway. I had a bow and arrow set that I had pulled the suction cups off of and sharpened the arrow shafts’ tips with my pencil sharpener. There was a patch of woods near were I lived. That’s where I went hunting. I never saw a bear, but once I saw my woodshop teacher Mr. Rippey with the girl’s gym teacher Miss Meedle. Miss Meedle was holding onto a tree while Mr. Rippey hopped up and down behind her. Now that I’m older, I know what was going on. At the time, I didn’t. When I told Mom what I had seen, she said “Oh my!” Nearly immediately, she called my school and asked for Mr. Rippey. When she got him on the line, she told me to leave the room.

Anyway, when you put something on your head, you put something in your head. Hats can affect your identity. Where would Napoleon have been without his hat? Mickey Mantle? The Cat in the Hat? Earnest Hemingway? Chico Marx? Tom Mix? Benny Hill? Queen Elizabeth? The Mad Hatter? There are hundreds more. Get a hat. Take a break from being you.


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.