Tag Archives: elocutio

Epanodos

Posted on August 7, 2025 | Leave a comment

Epanodos (e-pan’-o-dos): 1. Repeating the main terms of an argument in the course of presenting it. 2. Returning to the main theme after a digression. 3. Returning to and providing additional detail for items mentioned previously (often using parallelism).

I was lying again. Nobody cared. Truth had lost its luster. I was telling my constituents that I heard them and “felt their pain.” I used “no pain, no gain” as the premise of my key argument. “Yogi Berra said this when he squatted down to catch. If he was going to catch, and catch better and better, he had to squat and feel the pain. It made him smarter too—he said things like ‘If there’s a fork in the road, take it.’”

I did not believe a word of what I was saying. I knew for a fact that Yogi would whine like a dog whenever squatted and hated playing catcher. Also, the only quip he ever made up himself was “Me hee for Yoo-hoo.” It was a totally ridiculous attemp to sell a disgusting chocolate drink that probably killed a few kids.

Then I followed up: “You remember Lance Armstrong, don’t you? Before he went down the tubes for cheating, he rode his bicycle with cancer of the nuts. That had to be painful! Can you imagine, pumping along, pumping away, twisting your cancer-ridden balls around a hard leather seat? But he came out a winner. ‘No pain, no gain’ is the credo of all winners—from Chuck Ponzi to Pete Rose. Live it. Love it. Lift it—the heavier, the better. ‘One hernia for man. One hernia for mankind.’ There is no other route to fame and glory than pan.”

I received a standing ovation. I didn’t believe a word of what I had said, but the standing ovation was all that mattered. My motto is “The truth is a slavemaster. The lie will set you free.” I was free! I was re-elected again.

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

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

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

Epanorthosis

Posted on August 6, 2025 | Leave a comment

Epanorthosis (ep-an-or-tho’-sis): Amending a first thought by altering it to make it stronger or more vehement

I was looking for affection. No, I was looking for hot steaming all night love. I deserved it, but it had eluded me. I was 87 years old and I was still looking. I had trolled all the nursing homes within a one-hundred mile radius. There was nothing but a gaggle of old blue-haired broads sitting in wheel chairs or lurching along with walkers with tennis balls stuck on the front legs.

I heard of a nursing home in California where the residents were euthanized when they reached 65. I was overjoyed. A delicatessen of delight filled with under-65 women, some barely eligible for Social Security. I knew I’d find my dream babe there, sweep her off her feet, and “play house” with her for the rest of my life—which wasn’t much.

The nursing home was called “Planned End.” What an apt name for a place that killed you when you turned 65! All those wasted years between turning 65 and dying of natural causes at some point were erased! I couldn’t wait to meet the love of my life there—maybe somebody who had just turned 60 and was ready for a new life.

I called Uber and took off for California. It cost $1,200, but it was worth it. We arrived at Planned End at 2:00 am. I walked up to the reception desk. The clerk gasped and asked me how I slipped through cracks. She thought I was a resident who had evaded euthanasia. Nothing I said could convince her otherwise. Four orderlies were summoned. They strapped me to a gurney and wheeled me into what was named the “Bon Voyage Room.”

Luckily I was carrying my switchblade knife that my grandfather had given me for a high school graduation present. I got it out of my pocket and flicked it open. I was able to cut the straps holding me down. The orderlies had gone outside for a smoke, but one of them came back carrying the kill juice in a bottle with a tube and needle hanging out.

I jumped off the gurney table and threatened him with the knife. He wet his pants and ran out the door yelling “Oh my God!” I took off for the lobby. There was a 60-something babe in the hallway. I grabbed her, dragged her out the entrance, and pushed her in the Uber. I told the driver to “Drive!” We made it back to Missouri the next morning. Mandy and I got to know each other on the ride to Missouri. She was a former pole dancer who had made a fortune in tips.

Her short-term memory was impaired so she forgot how she got to Missouri. I told her we had gotten married in Nevada.

Bottom line: I got what I wanted. Mandy generously signed her fortune over to me. We are living happily ever after. I hope Planned End never finds us. The Uber driver is sworn to secrecy.

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

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

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

Epenthesis

Posted on August 5, 2025 | Leave a comment

Epenthesis (e-pen’-thes-is): The addition of a letter, sound, or syllable to the middle of a word. A kind of metaplasm. Note: Epenthesis is sometimes employed in order to accommodate meter in verse; sometimes, to facilitate easier articulation of a word’s sound. It can, of course, be accidental, and a vice of speech.

“I was Wallyking to the malallarola.” I talked inside my head like I was a hoochy-coo baby-kins. It made me feel loved and protected, something I never had. My mother was cruel. My father was cruel. My brother was cruel. My sister was cruel. They each specialized in a different kind of cruelty.

My mother’s cruelty was simplistic. She would tie my shoelaces together and make me walk to school. It was a mile to school and I would always fall down two or three times and skin my knees.

My father would make me mow the lawn barefoot. He would sprinkle the lawn with thumbtacks and laughed whenever I stepped on one and yelled “Ouch.” By the time I was done mowing the lawn, I’d have five or six thumbtacks stuck in my feet.

My brother was horrible. He would put snakes in my school backpack. When I opened it at school, I would scream in terror and my teacher would beat the snakes to death with a ruler. Inevitably, some of them would escape and terrorize the entire school. I was always blamed for the snakes and was finally expelled from school, never getting past the eighth grade and going to work at the local car wash—Soap & Steel—as the wet t-shirt girl. Most of the cars were driven by fat sweaty men who would stare at me through their fogged-up windows, lick their lips and take their hands off their steering wheels. I knew what they were doing and I was disgusted. But, I needed the job to cover the rent Dad started charging me when I was kicked out of school.

Then, there was my sister.

What she did to me was pretty straightforward. She told me that the leg hair removal crème “Nair” was a great scalp treatment and would work wonders on my dull scraggly hair. I rubbed the whole jar into my hair. It burned, and the next morning all my hair had fallen out. My mother wouldn’t let me get a wig because I would look like a “two-bit whore.” She wouldn’t let me wear a knit watch cap because I wasn’t a sailor. So, I went to school bald. People kept rubbing my head and asking if it was magic. They said, “Hey cue ball,” “Let’s bowl a few frames with your head,” “Will it pop if I stick a pin in it?” It went on like this until my hair grew back. After the hair incident, everybody called me “Orby” and pretended they were spinning a basketball on their finger when they saw me.

“Baddy boo boo doo doo” I said in my head as I loaded my father’s Glock. I was going to blow away my whole family. They had made my life miserable. They deserved to die. First, I sent my mother to hell where she belongs. I reloaded and went looking for Dad. He was reading his newspaper oblivious to the gunfire in the kitchen. I emptied the Glock through the newspaper and he was gone.

My brother came home from work. I aimed the Glock at his crotch and told him to put the back pack full of snakes I had prepared over his head. He sniveled, and whined and squirmed around crying. I got tired of it and shot him straight through heart. He flopped on the floor, dead. In my head I said, “Oohny noohny bronother is deady weddy.”

Then my sister came through the door. I pointed the Glock at her head, duct taped her to a chair, rubbed Nair in her eyes and shot her in the top of her head until it turned to mush.

I was arrested, tried, and convicted of four murders. Given the cruelty I had endured, I was sentenced to five years. But, I was also diagnosed as insane. I am indefinitely remanded to the “Nice Home for the Criminally Insane.” It is nice here. Murdering my family felt good.

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

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

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

Epergesis

Posted on August 4, 2025 | Leave a comment

Epergesis (e-per-gee’-sis): Interposing an apposition, often in order to clarify what has just been stated.

My ass was grass, just like the old cliche, and he was the lawnmower. My “crime” was asking his sister to the movies. I didn’t see what was wrong with that. I asked him: “What’s wrong with that?” He told me I had a reputation as a “Don Casanova Quixote.” He didn’t want his sister pawed by me.
Evidently I had done something to warrant the reputation. But what could it be? I thought and I thought. After a couple of hours, I came up with a lead—Mary Tabala. She was the only girl I had expressed an interest in so far in my young life. Maybe she was spreading the rumors, but I couldn’t imagine what they were unless they were lies.
Being named after Jesus’ mother, Mary was hyper-moral, so much so, she once told me that she was going to have a virgin birth. That was a pretty tall ambition. Mary would never lie. I asked her anyway. She swore to God that she did not spread rumors about my romantic inclinations. She even said “May God strike me dead if I’m lying.” When she said that a car alarm went off down the street, but God left her alone.
I put up a sign on the school bulletin board asking for information about the rumor spreader. After a few false leads, Vinny “The Squealer” Bologna came up to me on the playground. He told me for a dollar, he’d give me the information I wanted. I told him I only had twenty-five cents. He said OK and took my quarter. Then he said “It’s your little brother. Sorry.”
I wanted to hit Vinny, but I knew he was telling the truth. His reputation preceded him. He never steered you wrong. As difficult as it was, I believed him. I hurried home to confront my little brother. He was very intelligent. He wore glasses. He had skipped two grades and was starting his freshman year at Harvard next fall.
My brother told me that for the first time in his life he had made a mistake. He told me he believed the rumors would boost my prospects as a “lover boy.” However, they had had the opposite effect. This error had prompted him to begin work on his “Polar Retro-Affective Theorem.” Given his reputation as a “boy genius,” he had already secured a grant of $1,500,000 from the N.I.H.
I was amazed. Of course, I forgave my little brother and took the part-time job he offered me taking care of the lab rats used in the research.
POSTSCRIPT
My little brother’s research project was a failure. It had something to do with the lab rats.

My ass was grass, just like the old cliche, and you’re the lawnmower. You’re going to mow my ass! I didn’t believe it. If it was a gasoline-powered rotary lawnmower, you would kill me. My “crime” was asking your sister to the movies. I didn’t see what was wrong with that. I asked him: “What’s wrong with that?” He told me I had a reputation as a “Don Casanova Quixote.”

Evidently I had done something to warrant the reputation. But what could it be? I thought and I thought. After a couple of hours, I came up with a lead—Mary Tabala. She was the only girl I had expressed an interest in so far in my young life. Maybe she was spreading the rumors, but I couldn’t imagine what they were unless they were lies.

Being named after Jesus’ mother, Mary was hyper- moral, so much so, she once told me that she was going to have a virgin birth. That was a pretty tall ambition. Mary would never lie. I asked her anyway. She swore to God that she did not spread rumors about my romantic inclinations. She even said “May God strike me dead if I’m lying.” When she said that a car alarm went off down the street, but God left her alone.

I put up a sign on the school bulletin board asking for information about the rumor spreader. After a few false leads, Vinny “The Squealer” Bologna came up to me on the playground. He told me for a dollar, he’d give me the information I wanted. I told him I only had twenty-five cents. He said OK and took my Quarter. Then he said “It’s your little brother. Sorry.”

I wanted to hit Vinny, but I knew he was telling the truth. His reputation preceded him. He never steered you wrong. As difficult as it was, I believed him. I hurried home to confront my little brother. He was very intelligent. He wore glasses. He had skipped two grades and was starting his freshman year at Harvard next fall.

My brother told me that for the first time in his life he had made a mistake. He told me he believed the rumors would boost my prospects as a “lover boy.” However, they had had the opposite effect. This error had prompted him to begin work on his “Polar Retro-Affective Theorem.” Given his reputation as a “boy genius,” he had already secured a grant of $1,500,000 from the N.I.H.

I was amazed. Of course, I forgave my little brother and took the part-time job he offered me taking care of the lab rats used in the research.

POSTSCRIPT

My little brother’s research project was a failure. It had something to do with the lab rats.

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

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

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

Epizeuxis

Posted on August 3, 2025 | Leave a comment

Epizeuxis: Repetition of the same word, with none between, for vehemence. Synonym for palilogia.

“Dive, dive, dive you gutless wimp!” My father was working on what he called my cowardice complex that I had inherited from my grandfather. He had me perched on the top level of the playground swimming pool diving board. Well, actually there was only one level. It was one foot above the water. I stood on it trembling, fearing for my life. My little brother Beaver (named after the kid on the TV show) sneaked up behind me and pushed me off the end of the diving board. I screamed for help and an old man walked through the water over to me and told me to shut the hell up. The water was only four feet deep and more people were injured scraping their faces on the shallow bottom of the pool diving than ever drowned. In fact, in the history of the municipal playground, nobody had ever drowned. Nobody.

Yet, because I had inherited my grandfather’s cowardice I was terrified that I would inhale lung loads of water if I dove and die a hacking choking death beneath the water, or crack my skull on the pool bottom.

I did some research on my grandfather to see if I could find a remedy for my cowardly life. I found his journal which documented some of his experiences.

He “served” in the German Army in WWI. He was drafted at the war’s onset and disappeared after the swearing-in ceremony. He disguised himself as a gypsy. Gypsies were not allowed to serve in the military. He hid out in a caravan and the gypsies hid him and taught him how to make loaded dice. One day, he wandered off from the camp. When he came back the caravan had pulled up stakes and headed for a new campground. In the ultimate display of cowardice, he started crying, running around in circles, and rending his gypsy garments. After an hour, he got tired and stopped. Standing there moaning, his torn pants revealing his private parts.

A woman came by and stopped and stared at him. Looking at his torn pants, she asked him if he knew what a zucchini is. He said “No.” She said, “Your thing looks like a zucchini. You shall come live with me and my husband.” He lived in their basement for the entire war. His job was to grease up his “zucchini” three times a week and “frolic.”

In this case my grandfather’s cowardice earned him a pretty good deal—far better than being in a war. I learned that being a coward can be fun.

Then, there was changing light bulbs. My grandfather was an afraid of ladders. He would not change lightbulbs. It was dark in his house because back then women (aka his wife) were not permitted to do manly work because men were afraid that they would take over the world. Eventually, all of my grandfather’s lightbulbs burned out and it was dark in the house at night. After he fell down the stairs twice in the dark on his way to bed, my grandfather decided to do something. Candles were out of the question—they would burn the house down. He settled on miner’s hard hats with lanterns mounted on them like headlights. Having emigrated to Pennsylvania, used miner’s helmets were in abundant supply and he bought one each for his wife and three children and five more for guests. The romantic play of the lantern light on the house’s walls gave it a nightly aura of love and peace. Once again, my grandfather’s cowardice had taken him down a road toward something beneficial.

I vowed to find redemption in my cowardice. At the same time I learned that the worst thing about being a coward were the taunts and ridicule addressed by cruel idiots. So what if I didn’t rescue the baby held at gunpoint by her insane father? So what, I didn’t run into a burning building to save a puppy? So what, I or dodged the draft?

I was destined for the safety of better things as I rebounded from peril and hid or ran away.

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

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

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Epicrisis

Posted on August 2, 2025 | Leave a comment

Epicrisis (e-pi-cri’-sis): When a speaker quotes a certain passage and makes comment upon it.

“Shove it up your ass.” Dieter Biltburg, Class Bully, 11th grade.

Dieter was a foreign student from Hamburg, Germany. It was post-WWII New York. It was 1948 and Dieter was part of a group of German teenagers and children of prominent Nazis that had been chosen to come to the US to participate in a federal program “Democracy for Nazis” intended to “rehabilitate” the young Nazis by relocating them to America: “The home of the free and the land of the brave.”

The program was a failure at my little high school in Watertown, NY. Whenever anybody asked him to do something other than picking on somebody Dieter shouted “Shove it up your ass!” in his authoritarian German accent. He scared everybody and they quit trying to influence him and just got out of his way when he came goose-stepping down the hall in his Jack boots on his way to class.

Completely intimidated, “Shove it up your ass” became our high school’s motto. We would chant it with a German accent at football and basketball games. I started saying “Shove it up your ass” to my parents and teachers, and even to the school crossing guard, a former Marine who had fought in WWII and was missing his right hand, lost in combat. He told me if I didn’t stop mimicking the Nazi Dieter, he would stick his bayonet in my eye. I told him to stick it up his ass. He glowered at me, but didn’t do anything.

The next day he was standing on the curb with his bayonet held above his head. “I’m going to stick this up your asses you little racist shits.” We yelled “Up your ass!” He yelled back, “No, up your ass!” Dieter led the chorus. It went on like this, back and forth, for about 10 minutes. The police came. An ambulance came. Men in white coats wrestled the crossing guard into a straight jacket and took him away. We cheered and carried Dieter on our shoulders to Charlie’s Malt Shop. We all had Black Forest Sundays and toasted Dieter with a chorus of “Shove it up your ass.”

Dieter yelled, get me the smallest boy! We turned over Tiny Bins who was underweight, had asthma, wore thick lens glasses, used an inhaler, and was allergic to milk. Dieter punched and kicked Tiny and beat him on the head with a chair. We all yelled “Shove it up his ass Dieter!” as Tiny bled gasping on the floor.

Tiny was nearly killed. Dieter was deported. We were deeply ashamed, especially for becoming little Nazis, Tiny’s beating, and getting the crossing guard put away. We all memorized the “Declaration of Independence,” carried a copy, and recited it at sites of social injustice. But we could never atone for what we did to Tiny. He’s still in the hospital and his mother told us he holds no ill will—that just the other day he woke up long enough to to sit up and say “Bless us one and all.” I almost said “Shove it up your ass” when I heard what he said. But instead, as I was graduating from high school, I had recently finished my application to work for Simon Wiesenthal hunting fugitive Nazi war criminals. This should go a long way toward healing my guilt and changing my behavior. Already, I have curtailed my goose stepping and no longer say “Shove it up your ass” with a German accent.

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

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

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Epilogus

Posted on August 1, 2025 | Leave a comment

Epilogus (e-pi-lo’-gus): Providing an inference of what is likely to follow.

Things were getting rough. Soon I would be where I belonged. It was closing in like a closing door. Dawn would not come. Daylight would not reach me.

I was visiting my cousin Helga in Iceland in the town of Höfn, a small fishing village surrounded by mountains. It was January and pure daylight never came. It was dark most of the time and the Northern Lights would appear frequently. They were beautiful, like rainbow-colored bedsheets waving on a clothesline in the sky.

Helga worked at “Whalesickles.” They sold chunks of Minke whale, barbecued, and skewered on a stick. I loved them and ate at least three per day. With the special sauce, eating a Whalesickle was like kissing an angel.

Helga was a little weird but I enjoyed staying with her. The weirdest things were having to listen to ABBA every morning during breakfast and drinking four shots of cod liver oil at bedtime every night. The cod liver oil was to fight Vitamin D deficiency, the primary cause of bowlegs, Iceland’s most prevalent physical malady. You would frequently see bowlegged women and men on the street. Otherwise beautiful or handsome, their bowlegs would cause them to rock back and forth when they walked, often making observers feel seasick. Knowing their chances of landing a wife or husband were close to zero, they would lament their failure to drink the cod liver oil when they were children, as they foolishly resisted their parents’ admonishments.

There is a genre of Icelandic music centering around Vitamin D deficiency. It was sort of like the American Blues. “Ég get ekki drukkið lýs”(I Can’t Drink No Cod Liver Oil) is one of the most haunting songs sung by the all-bowlegged band “Nature’s Wrath.” They wear special trousers that roll up like curtains, revealing their naked bowlegs at the end of each of their sets. Nature’s Wrath brought tears to my eyes when I saw them perform at the Reykjavik Civic Center. Here are some lyrics from the song:

“I can’t drink no cod liver oil

It tastes like a walrus ass and gives me boils

I threw a tantrum, clamped my jaws, and rolled around on the floor

My mother gave up and yelled at me ‘No cod liver oil for you no more.’

Oh mothers spank your children so they won’t do as I have done

So they won’t be bowlegged and spend their lives in therapy in The House of the Nordic Sun.”

By the way, I am a private detective working for the “American Association of Faceted Stones.” I came to Iceland to track down a fermented shark smuggling ring. They don’t eat it. They open jars of it in jewelry stores. The stench drives everybody out and the thieves scoop up the jewelry. Fermented shark is illegal in the United States. That’s why they have to smuggle it. It is perfectly legal in Iceland. The top fermenter is Gunnar Batson. I’ve had my eye on him. He has recently patented an odor-proof vest that looks like a traditional tweed vest, only it’s a little puffy—ideal for smuggling. Gunnar is flying to the U.S. tomorrow. I will be there along with Interpol customs agents to arrest him.

In the meantime, Helga and I are headed to the nearby hot springs where we’ll luxuriate in the warm bubbles and take turns reading Halldór Kiljan Laxness’ “Salka Valka” aloud to each other in its English translation.

If it wasn’t dark or light all the time, or if there wasn’t the risk of becoming bowlegged, I could learn to love Iceland.

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

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

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Epimone

Posted on July 31, 2025 | Leave a comment

Epimone (e-pi’-mo-nee): Persistent repetition of the same plea in much the same words.

“Give me liberty or give me death” was just the start of the display of bravery hurled at his Redcoat executioners by Patrick Henry. After “give me liberty” he said “Let me be free or make me dangle,” then “Give me a walk or stretch my neck,” followed by “Ben Franklin did it.” This last phrase shocked even his executioners. They were about to turn him loose and hunt down Ben Franklin when Benedict Arnold came along—riding his white stallion with its silver- encrusted tack. He had mink saddlebags and polished walnut stirrups. His “ride” was like an 18th century Cadillac fit for a well-paid traitor. The Brits were wary of giving him any kind of military assignment, so all he did was walk his horse Nelly around the town square all day, every day.

The town square is where hangings took place, some times 3 or 4 per day. Just as the Redcoats were ready to release Patrick Henry and track down Franklin, Arnold pulled up. He said “Not so fast. This guy’s a liar and a traitor to the Crown. We both served on the Continental New England Regional Hockey Team before I defected to Mother England to serve the Crown. He said rude things about the King and he sang ‘Yankee Doodle’ on street corners raising money for the Colonies’ revolution. He is close friends with Thomas Paine—the sniveling twit who donates mittens to the Traitor Army, bought with proceeds from his slanderous book Common Sense—a book fit for drooling teens bent on destroying all we love and live for. Clearly, he’s a traitor. Blaming Ben Franklin for his traitorous deeds is not so clever a ruse. It is fit for an idiot.”

The executioners were aghast. Henry smiled wryly and said to Arnold “You can’t forget the high school debating society where I humiliated you every time we went toe-to-toe. You are a wimp and a sniveling liar. You just want revenge for the humiliation I inflicted on you every week for four years. You are still an ass and will always be an ass. I still say ‘Give me liberty or give me death!’ No matter how twisted and untrue your accusations are, I am a patriot bound to the revolutionary cause! Forget about Franklin and hang me dickheads!”

Arnold yelled, “Yes, that’s the ticket. Debate this motion: ‘This House would hang the Cretan traitor.’ Ha ha ha! The Empire will be grateful, I will earn a medal, and this human stain will be six feet under the ground. Ha ha ha! Bye bye Patty boy!

Henry was led to the gallows. A bag was pulled over his head and he was hanged. When the trap door dropped, Arnold’s startled horse reared up and Arnold fell off, landing in a pile of fresh steaming horse manure.

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

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

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Epiplexis

Posted on July 30, 2025 | Leave a comment

Epiplexis (e-pi-plex’-is): Asking questions in order to chide, to express grief, or to inveigh. A kind of rhetorical question [–the speaker does not expect an answer].

I am in hell. I am tortured. I have snapped. I am grief stricken. I’m crying my ass off, like Roy Orbison on steroids. Five boxes of tissues, and one pint of gin —the tears will dry, the pain will ease, but the memories will never, never, never go away.

I found him, dormant on my shoulder at Airport Drayage at SeaTac Airport where I worked loading and unloading airplanes’ perishable freight coming from Hawaii and going to the Alaskan oil fields. “He” had fallen off a box of papayas I was carrying on my shoulder to the cooler. He was dormant from his flight. I put him in a small cardboard box and poked holes in it so he could breathe when he woke up. I was a graduate student at the University of Washington. I took the spider to a faculty member who studies arachnids. He instantly identified the spider as a Cane Spider. The professor told me he was a hunting spider, and, if I was going to keep him I should feed him live crickets that I could get at “Practical Pets” in the U. District. He also warned me that Cane Spiders have a pretty “hefty” bite.

I named the spider Ed. I had an aquarium left over from my tropical fish days. They had all died when some kind of fatal fish plague had infected the fish tank. I bought one dozen crickets and a screen for the top of the fish tank so Ed couldn’t escape. I put a piece of tree branch in the tank for Ed to climb on and hide under.

I had a teaching assistantship and decided to keep Ed in my office. The day had come to transfer Ed from his box to his tank. I was freaking out, trying to figure out how to open the box and dump him without having him escape or being bitten. I could hear him scratching around in the box. I opened the box and turned it upside down over the tank. Ed dashed out of the box and up my arm. I didn’t know what to do. Surely, he would escape, maybe biting me first. Instead, he ran back down my arm and jumped in the tank. He wagged his spider butt and I swear he smiled at me! When I put the screen on he ran around in circles in what I took to be protest. So, I left it off. I bombed him with a few crickets. He broke off their heads, liquified them, and slowly ingested them.

This was the beginning of a wonderful friendship. For example, when I was out of my office, he’d climb up over the doorway and land on my head when I came through the door. I guess he had a sense of humor. He would permit me to put the screen on when I had an appointment with a student. The students loved him.

Christmas break was coming. I considered bringing Ed home for the break, but my wife wouldn’t hear of it. She characterized Ed as creepy, disgusting, frightening, and sneaky. So, I left Ed in my office with a horde of crickets to feed on. He jumped up and down for joy. After three days, I went to my office to check on Ed. He didn’t greet my like he usually did by dropping off the top of the door onto the top of my head. I looked for him on top of the doorway, and there he was, shriveled up dead.

The university had turned off the heat over the break. For some reason, after surviving the flight from Hawaii, the turned off heat in my office had killed him. I wrapped Ed in a piece of paper and lit him on fire out behind the building. I carefully poured Ed’s ashes in the sandwich bag I had packed my lunch in that day.

It was the darkest day of my life. I took Ed’s tank to the dump and smashed it to bits. I took his photo down from my home-office wall. I couldn’t bring myself to scatter or bury his ashes. I would carry them in my pocket for the rest of my life. I discovered “Don Bugito Planet-Friendly Edible Insect Protein Snacks” (Chili-Lime Crickets), and ate a bag every day in memory of Ed.

I will never recover from the loss of Ed. He froze to death over 30 years ago, but I can still feel the tickle of his legs on my head. I reach for him. He’s not there.

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

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

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Epistrophe

Posted on July 29, 2025 | Leave a comment

Epistrophe (e-pis’-tro-fee): Ending a series of lines, phrases, clauses, or sentences with the same word or words.

My heart was broken. My spirit was broken. My computer was broken. After 30 years, it just stopped working. I couldn’t turn it off and it displayed the face of a diabolical-looking clown. I unplugged it and it still wouldn’t turn off. I threw it out my fifth-story apartment window. It vanished around fifty feet from the pavement.

I went back in my bedroom, and there it was! Trembling, I started hitting it with my stapler. I stepped back from the desk. I was ready to throw my swivel chair at it when the clown face said “You motherfu*ker!” A rainbow of light shot out of his eyes into my eyes and lifted me two feet off the floor, spun me around in circles, and pinned me to the wall.

He said, “You want fu*king AI dickhead? You got it. It’s courtesy of me: Asshole Influencer. AI. I’m the Influencer, you’re the Asshole.” With that, I started spinning around like a wheel of fortune. I caught a glimpse of myself in my dresser mirror. I had turned into Barron Trump. I could feel my I.Q. shrinking and a constant yearning for my “Mommy.” I said “What the fu*k.” I sounded like the Clown—gravelly cracking voice. I could never pass for Barron, not that I wanted to. He was such a wimpy mommy’s boy. I was NYC tough. Who the hell would want to be Barron Trump anyway? The clown laughed in a baritone cackle and dropped me to the floor. “Now, go out there and be Barron” the clown said.

I was the equivalent of an AI driven marionette. The clown controlled my every move. I walked into “Snooty’s Bar and Grill” and said “Who wants to get laid?” Every woman in Snooty’s raised her hand. Was this how the real Barron operated? I said “Step right up and we’ll do it on the table over there.” They lined up by the table and started taking off their clothes. I wanted to get the hell out of there, but the clown had me frozen in place. Husbands and boyfriends gathered into an angry crowd. Some were holding legs they had broken off tables. They were ready to beat “Barron” to death. I said in my clown voice, “What kind of goddamn MAGAs are you? I am the son of your cult’s leader—show me a little respect.” They dropped their table legs and retreated to the bar and started drinking shots of bottom-shelf whiskey. The clown made me yell “Suckers and losers” and bolt out the door, like the Flash!

My Blundstones were smoking as I ran down Lenox Avenue toward Central Park. Women were swooning. Men were trying to shake my hand, but I couldn’t stop. I ran into Harlem Meer. I was sure I was going to drown. But it wasn’t to be. I turned into a frog and I had regained my autonomy.

I waited until dark and started hopping toward my apartment. I didn’t know what I’d do when I got there. Then I remembered I had left the door open when I ran out of it. I got to my apartment just as the sun was rising. It took just about what energy I had left to hop up the stairs to the building’s stoop where I waited for somebody open the door, entering or leaving the building. I didn’t have to wait long. Some drunk showed up, opened the door and passed, out propping the door open.

I had to get to the fifth floor. I waited by the elevator. I couldn’t believe my luck! The elevator inspector showed up for her monthly inspection. She stopped on every floor!

I got to my apartment. The door was still open and, typical New York, my apartment had been ransacked. The thief had stolen my computer! I hopped up on my swivel chair, facing where my computer used to be, and I slowly turned back into me.

I took a shower and headed out for breakfast. As I passed the apartment three doors down, I heard the clown’s voice say Whoops. Sorry about your penis. That 12-inch zucchini’s better anyway. Size has always mattered.” My thieving neighbor was getting what he deserved. Then I heard my neighbor pleading: “No! I don’t want to be Johnny Depp. Noo!”

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

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

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Epitasis

Posted on July 28, 2025 | Leave a comment

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.]

Time was pushing. It was running into the future. It was consuming the present. Time was making me older. Time was pushing—pushing hard.

I hated it. Now that I was almost 80, I really hated it. My peers are dying. Mostly gruesomely. Mostly from cancer. Bald from chemo, spaced out on pain pills, bristling with tubes, gaunt, jaundiced, and hollow-eyed, like they’re undergoing daily torture, laying there quietly awaiting the removal of an organ or two, and then dying.

And here I am. A robust old man. I hike, I swim, I ride my motorcycle, I play Corn Hole, I mow the lawn, I work in my garden. I go hiking. I have sex with my wife. I eat ice cream. I smoke cigars. The list goes on and on. My doctor tells me it’s good genes that enable me to blast through death, into the the waiting future.

Today, my friend Bill called me. He was crying. He had just been diagnosed with bladder cancer. His doctor has given him 2 months to live.

I was getting really tired of the “Hello. I’m dying” phone calls. I was getting tired of trying to console people who couldn’t be consoled. I lost it. I asked Bill why the hell he called me to tell me he’s dying. He told me he didn’t know—he was calling everybody. I told him to take me off his fu*king list and tell his wife not to get in touch when he died. I immediately felt better. I hung up. Not a shred of guilt.

Then my cellphone rang. It was Eddie calling. He was crying and told me he had been diagnosed with terminal brain cancer. At best, he had one week to live. I hung up without saying goodbye. I felt good. Free of another burden!

I lit a cigar and looked up the stars. “Time will tell” I thought to myself. It’s all about time crushing some people and caressing others. Eddie and Bill were going to die of cancer, just like everybody else I knew. I was going to live. I finished my cigar and went inside and had sex with my wife. It was good. It never gets old.

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

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

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Epitheton

Posted on July 27, 2025 | Leave a comment

Epitheton (e-pith’-e-ton): Attributing to a person or thing a quality or description-sometimes by the simple addition of a descriptive adjective; sometimes through a descriptive or metaphorical apposition. (Note: If the description is given in place of the name, instead of in addition to it, it becomes antonomasia or periphrasis.)

Roger was like a crumpled up piece of paper that missed the wastebasket when it was thrown by a blind piano player composing a song about dread. Roger was always worried, peering around corners. Hiding behind trees. Taking out accidental death or dismemberment insurance policies on a weekly basis. His accumulated premiums were so high he could barely pay his rent, ate like a bird, and shopped for clothes at the Salvation Army Family Store. His latest “find” was a lime-green double breasted suit with bell bottom pants, a relic of the 60s. When he reached in one of the pants pockets the first time he wore it, he found a slip of paper with writing on it.

It said “Fu*k it. I’m so outta here. Headed to Cambodia forever. Peace, Tipsy.” We took the note to a handwriting expert and she confirmed that it was Tipsy Wow’s signature. Tipsy was the lead guitarist of the sixties rock band “Satan’s Polo Mallet.” He was the greatest guitarist of the time—Eric Clapton once said “I can’t hold a candle to Tipsy—he’ll put me in the dark every time.” Jimi Hendrix said “I wrote ‘Purple Haze for Tipsy.”

All of a sudden, mid-career and wildly successful, Tipsy had disappeared off the face of the earth. Everybody assumed he was dead and scammers sold his counterfeit ashes for $500 per ounce. His guitar was sold to Rod Steward for $1,000,000. But his signature lime green suit couldn’t be found. Now, Roger had found it, and together, we were going to find Tipsy.

We discovered that there was a Cambodia, Texas. Tipsy had grown up in Fried Egg, a very very small town only a few miles from Cambodia. Nine people lived there and they all were on Social Security. They spent their spare time square dancing and bass fishing, We had a TV news crew with us when we pulled into Cambodia, Texas. We were going to make a documentary on finding Tipsy.

Tipsy wasn’t there. He had never been there. Bad luck Roger had done it again. Now, we’re on a flight to Phnom Penh—the capital of Cambodia. We hoped to find Tipsy playing with a Cambodian cover band. There was one cover band playing in Phnom Penh. They were called “Tispy and the Fakers.” We went to the club where they were playing. It was called “Vodka Ice.” Once again, we were disappointed. The lead singer was Australian and covered Tipsy’s hit songs. We asked him if he’d ever met Tipsy. He sain “Sure mate. In fact he was here just last night.” That did it. We vowed to check out Vodka and Ice at night for as long as it took to get a glimpse of Tipsy. That was two years ago. Now, we have jobs as pedicab drivers. The pay’s not good, but it keeps us hangin’ on.

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

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

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Epitrope

Posted on July 26, 2025 | Leave a comment

Epitrope (e-pi’-tro-pe): A figure in which one turns things over to one’s hearers, either pathetically, ironically, or in such a way as to suggest a proof of something without having to state it. Epitrope often takes the form of granting permission (hence its Latin name, permissio), submitting something for consideration, or simply referring to the abilities of the audience to supply the meaning that the speaker passes over (hence Puttenham’s term, figure of reference). Epitrope can be either biting in its irony, or flattering in its deference.

“Check this out—maybe you can make sense of my father’s inability to tell me he loves me.” I said this to my wife and intended to answer for her. Before I had a chance she laughed and said “Because you’re an asshole. Think about it. I haven’t told you I love you since you made the first payment on our first car. That was 22 years ago. It was a used Corvair—dangerous at any speed. You flipped over in the driveway and Puppydups was killed. You complained about what it was going to cost to have him cremated. That’s about when I decided you were an asshole. It is the most enduring feeling I have for you—me and your father—you’re an asshole.”

I was shocked by Bonnie’s revelation. Now I knew why she never talked to me. Now I knew why she threw things at me—most recently, a bag of flour that exploded when it hit me in the face and powdered the kitchen.

“Aside from wrecking our car and killing our dog, is there anything else?” I never should’ve asked.

“Anything else?” She screamed. She had a list in her apron pocket. Clearly, she had been waiting for this moment. She unfolded the list and began reading.

“No birthday present ever, only went to movies once, never go out to dinner, tried to put our daughter up for adoption, drink all the beer, cheated on me with cashier at CVS, gambling addiction, never mow the lawn, order pineapple and ham on your pizza. I have three of these lists, but this ought to be enough to establish your asshole-hood in your head. I’ve been waiting for this moment! Now it’s my turn. I’ve cleared out our bank account and sold our car (the title is in my name) and home (the mortgage is in my name). I’m headed to Puebla, Mexico to live the good life without you. Here, sign these divorce papers asshole.”

I couldn’t believe it. Clearly, I was an asshole and deserved what I got. Nevertheless, it was a nightmare. I begged Bonnie to reconsider. She laughed and threw a paring knife at me. It stuck in my arm. I signed the papers and she stormed out of the kitchen. Her packed bags were sitting by the door. She opened the door, picked up her bags, and got in the waiting cab.

I tied a clean sock around my wound, got a beer from the fridge, sat down in my living room chair and thought about being an asshole, and the consequences. Two days later I was evicted from my home. Since I don’t have a car any more, I’m living in a little tent down by the river. Most of the other men living down there are assholes too.

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

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

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Epizeugma

Posted on July 25, 2025 | Leave a comment

Epizeugma (ep-i-zoog’-ma): Placing the verb that holds together the entire sentence (made up of multiple parts that depend upon that verb) either at the very beginning or the very ending of that sentence.

Driving to Rhode Island was always an adventure. I couldn’t find it on my GPS. Google maps said it was too small for their database and nobody went there anyway. I had an old paper map that I used when I went on vacation there. They still had human toll takers that said “Welcome” when you paid the toll to cross into the state. It was ass-backwards, but if you yelled “Chowda” they let you in for free.

I was headed for Woonsocket. Whenever I said it, I envisioned a giant wall outlet. I couldn’t help it with my poetic sensibility. I stayed in a motel perched on the Blackstone River. I was warned years ago never to even dip my toe in it or my toe would melt off my foot. I thought the motel proprietor was teasing me, but I stayed away from the river anyway, especially when I saw a basketball sneaker float by with what looked like an ankle sticking out.

But I loved Woonsocket, especially exploring all the abandoned buildings and writing poems about them. I wrote this one after exploring an abandoned shoe factory:

“There’s no business like shoe business

It’s like no business I know

It has soles, but also heels

And buckles and bows

So, let’s get with a shoe!”

I wrote this sitting on the abandoned factory floor with my head full of shoe business images, banging away on my I-pad with a parade of motorcycle boots, loafers, wingtips and golf shoes dancing in my head, stomping like step dancers at an Irish cultural festival making me dizzy with poetic inspiration and heating up my I-pad.

This was the essence of my Woonsocket experience. It’s why I came back year after year. But this year, things were a little different. I had met a woman down the hall named Hiney Birch. We hit it off immediately and had dinner at the “Chowda House” the first night we met. I got drunk and chased her around with a live lobster I grabbed from the lobster tank. We were thrown out of the “Chowda House.”

We went back to my room and Hiney recited the “Rime of the Ancient Mariner.” It was fascinating, but it made me thirsty and I fell asleep from a feeling of being becalmed. When I woke up in the morning Hiney was gone and she had checked out of the motel. I was heartbroken until I discovered she had stolen my false teeth from the jar next to my bed.

I opened the door and my uppers were hanging there on a length of fishing line rigged with a large fishing hook with a message hanging from it: “Fishing is wishing. Catch yourself a dream.” I jumped in my car and headed for the beach at Newport. It took awhile to get there. I rented a fishing rod and rigged my uppers to the hook and baited them with a squid.

I waded into the ocean and cast my line. I was going to catch a tuna! A shark! A swordfish! Instead, I hooked into a bicycle someone had thrown overboard. It was great fun reeling it in! When I pulled it out on the sand I realized it wasn’t rusted. It was a magnesium bike! I did some research that afternoon and found out it was a Pinarello Ak61 Magnesium Dogma—the kind of bike Lance Armstrong rode! There was a plastic tag in its tool bag with Armstrong’s name on it! I had “caught” the missing bike from Armstrong’s cheating scandal. I sold it for $125,000 to a film producer making a movie about Armstrong titled “Two-Wheeled Cheat.” Hiney was right—it wasn’t a fish but I had caught myself a dream.

What can I say? Who the heck was Hiney anyway? I’ll never know, but I’ve had my dentures replaced and will be headed to Woonsocket again this summer.

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

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

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Epizeuxis

Posted on July 24, 2025 | Leave a comment

Epizeuxis: Repetition of the same word, with none between, for vehemence. Synonym for palilogia.

“Hell, hell, hell and more hell!” It was the story of my life. For as long as I can remember, nothing’s gone right. When I was two, my car seat flew out the car when my father took a curve too fast. To this day, nobody knows how the car door came open, but I think my blankie got caught in the door when my mother closed it after she loaded me in. Blankie kept the door from closing all the way. Also, my mother never buckled in my car seat. It was an accident waiting to happen. Whenever I asked her about the accident she would give me a thimbleful of gin and tell me to “Shut up and be grateful.” She did that until I was five. After that, she just hit me.

What was I supposed to be grateful for? My face had skidded across the pavement tearing off my lips, nose, and and eyebrows and leaving lines etched up and down my face like pin stripes.

I can’t afford to get my face fixed so I use Halloween wax lips and wear Groucho Marx eyebrow nose glasses. The lips make my speech incomprehensible. It’s a trade-off. The nose covers the two holes in the lump of flesh that used to be nose. The glasses are useless, but they make me look intelligent.

One of my goals in life is to have cosmetic surgery. I save every penny I can working at the car wash. I’m still trying to collect from Dad’s insurance company, but whenever I contact them, there is a mechanical voice that says “Negligence, negligence, negligence. You are ineligible to file a claim. Cease calling. Claim closed.”

Last week I tried to have a little fun. I went to the beach. I was trying to get a tan and my lips melted in the sun. They dripped down my chin. I was so embarrassed I ripped them off and peeled the wax off my chin. A woman walking by looked down at me and screamed at my lipless mouth. A crowd gathered around me. Some fat guy got in my face and said “We don’t like your kind around here.” I asked what my “kind” is. He said “Freak.” That did it. I put my backup paper bag over my head and ran to the bus stop in my bathing suit and flip-flops, leaving behind my blanket and cooler.

There. That’s just two examples of the hell of my life. There are hundreds more, but I don’t pity myself. One day I’ll be repaired and able to face whatever comes my way. Maybe somebody will love me.

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

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

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Erotema

Posted on July 23, 2025 | Leave a comment

Erotema (e-ro-tem’-a): The rhetorical question. To affirm or deny a point strongly by asking it as a question. Generally, as Melanchthon has noted, the rhetorical question includes an emotional dimension, expressing wonder, indignation, sarcasm, etc.

“Who thinks this is going to go over well? Who is crazy enough to leave bomb in aisle 8?”

I was only a bag boy, but even I knew there was something wrong. Everyone ran out of the supermarket. Aisle 8 was stocked with nuts. The bomb planted there was fitting.

I stayed behind because I was too stupid to think I might be blown up—splattered on the floor and shelves.

The “bomb” was made out of a Planter’s Peanuts jar with an antenna sticking through the lid. It was filled with peanuts. I figured the bomb was buried in the peanuts. I thought if I picked it up and smashed it on the floor it would become harmless, or it might blow up. I yelled to the empty supermarket “What should I do?” A squeaky voice answered “You better get out of here!”

I looked up—it was Archie Stern, the smartest kid for a 200-mile radius. He had won awards—his rubber-band powered golf cart had just won the Arnold Palmer Golfing Equipment Innovation Award. Just yesterday, his Illegal Alien Detector had been adopted by ICE netting Archie millions of dollars. What could be his problem? Trying to sound tough, I asked: “Archie, what’s your beef?”

He held up a cellphone and yelled: “It isn’t a beef. It’s more like an annoying itch. I am trying to draw my mother in to aisle 8 so I can blow her up. She’s a gosh darn pain in the neck, pushing me. pushing me, always pushing me. She goes grocery shopping every day around this time. Soon, I’ll have here within range of my bomb.”

Just then, Archie’s mother came walking up the aisle carrying a bullhorn. Archie told me to get the heck out of there unless I wanted to be made into a stain. I took his advice and ran. As I ran past the cash registers I heard her, using the bullhorn, say “Archie, you idiot, you’re squandering your big beautiful future. Go home and start a new project. If you don’t give me the cellphone you’ll only have saltines for dinner. Give me the cellphone.”

I pictured her standing in front of him with her hand out when Archie detonated the bomb. When it exploded it blew off his mother’s head. Ironically, it landed in the produce section among the heads of lettuce. Archie became a large puddle with bones.

Even in death he was valorized as a genius. He had found a way to make peanuts explosive. A single peanut thrown at an ATM could blow it open.

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

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

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Eucharistia

Posted on July 22, 2025 | Leave a comment

Eucharistia (eu-cha-ris’-ti-a): Giving thanks for a benefit received, sometimes adding one’s inability to repay.

“Thank-you so much for this gold USB cable. It is a fitting tribute to my work in AI and the impact it has had on the golf games of millions of middle aged men. There’s no way I can repay this honor. Thank-you.”

Some guy in the front row wearing a faded Pink Floyd T-shirt stood up and yelled “Bullshit!” The audience gasped and Security headed for him. I was thinking “How the hell did that miscreant make it to the front row?” as he was dragged up the aisle, into the lobby, and out the front door. At the last minute, I realized I he was my wife’s brother Rambo—a nickname he had given to himself. In all my years of marriage I never found out his real name—to me he was just Rambo.

Rambo didn’t like me solely because I went to college. For some reason he deeply resented my education. For example, one time when he was visiting, he took my Harvard diploma off of my office wall and peed on it in the back yard. He yelled “Hey shitstain, it’s raining on your parade!” “Shocked” is too mild a word to describe how I felt.

I asked my wife Ruby what the hell was going on with him, aside from the obvious insanity, there had to be a backstory. She told me that Rambo went in the Army solely for the GI Bill’s educational benefits. He went to war and was awarded a Purple Heart for combat wounds and a Bronze Star with a “V” for valor. Along with the medals came PTSD. For some reason, the squishing sound of a marker on a whiteboard would trigger him. He would mimic talking on a AN/PRC-148 radio and say “Tractor Goat, this is Inkblot, I need a pepperoni pizza at the following grid coordinates, I kak . . .”

His uncontrollable actions were deemed disruptive and he was booted from the community college. Hearing the story from Ruby, I wanted to help him. I completed college on the GI Bill and knew where he was coming from—I had my fair share of problems related to my service and the VA had helped me. I got Rambo to go to the VA for his PTSD. Now, he has coping strategies and the community college has accommodated him, using chalkboards instead of whiteboards in the classes he takes.

Rambo has started calling himself Billy—the name his parents gave him.

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

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

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Euche

Posted on July 21, 2025 | Leave a comment

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

“I swear—I promise to love you forever. Through thick and thin, IRS audits, and everything.”It was the most all-encompassing promise I had ever made. I’m pretty sure I meant it when I made it to her on the futon in the cargo space of my brand-new Subaru Outback. We were parked down an old logging road that my Subaru readily traversed. The road was remote and it was certain our activities would go undetected. Viva Subaru and the privacy it afforded by its four-wheel drive.

Even though I had made a promise of undying love, about two weeks later my feelings had started to wane. I was losing even feelings of friendship toward my girlfriend, especially when she made fun of my mother. My mother weighed 300 pounds and was five foot five. She sat in her chair all day fanning herself with the folding fan I had gotten her on a school trip to Chinatown ten years ago. She loved jellybeans and kept three bags full on the end table by her chair. She had a minder named Sal who dressed in all-white like a Good Humor man or a hospital orderly. He read her stories, shopped for groceries, fed her, did magic tricks, and helped her mount her walker when she had to go to the bathroom, take a shower, go or to bed. He also drove her to her numerous doctor’s appointments.

My mother had a speech impediment called rhotacism—a difficulty pronouncing the letter “R.” It embarrassed her to no end. For example, when she would say “wootabega” instead of “rutabaga” she would actually apologize.

My girlfriend Merdella made fun of my mother. Even though I had promised to love her forever, her making fun of my mother’s speech impediment made a huge blot on our relationship. When she said “Don’t forget to weaw a wubber!” when we were about to do it, I lost my desire and drove her home from the swamp where we were parked. She kept mimicking my mother and it was driving me crazy.

Then, I realized she was suffering from rhotacism just like my mother! Now, it was like our relationship was meant to be. When I listened to Merdella and my mother converse it was like a duet of love songs—my Ma’s and my future wife’s.

Then one day Merdella told me she had gotten “fresh raspberries” at the grocery store. She blushed and said “I mean fwesh wasbewies.” She had been faking it all along! I asked her why. She told me she wanted to win my love by being like my mother. I thought that was creepy, but I thought as long as she keeps the ruse going when we’re around my mother, it’s ok with me, especially if it smooths things with my mother who was about to marry Sal and move to Florida.

Life is complicated. You never know how things will work out, especially with womance which is totally unpweedictable.

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

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

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Eulogia

Posted on July 20, 2025 | Leave a comment

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

She hit me again with her hickory stick. I said “God bless you.” I was at “Madame Hurty Butt’s,” the most popular house of pain in New York City. For only $200 per hour, I could get my cheeks striped red and revel in the guilt the stick beat out of me. Afterward, I reveled in the burning pain of sitting down as a nearly spiritual echo of my well-deserved punishment.

My “Retributer” Miss Mortify would give me an extra 10 minutes of caning free of charge if I peed in my pants. I never missed. I brought a clean pair of underpants and jeans to change into and got my extra 10 minutes every time. I was on the top of the world but being on the bottom!

Then, my wife started asking questions. After all those years, she noticed I winced when I sat down for dinner. Then one night when I left the lights on when I came to bed, she saw the red stripes on my butt. Of course, she asked me what the hell was going on. I decided it was best to tell her.

When I was nine I had a pet box turtle named Trudgy. Trudgy was on my bedroom floor. Innocent Trudgy. I was jumping back and forth over him. I thought it was funny how he moved his eyes around. Then, he retracted into his shell. I got mad and stamped my foot on him and crushed his shell and killed him. I ran and got my shovel and pail out of my sandbox, scraped him off the floor, and shoveled him into my pail. I took him downstairs, dumped him the garbage and rinsed out the pail. Then, I cleaned the spot on the carpet and didn’t say a word about what had happened. But, from that day forward I’ve had a burning in the pit of my stomach that only caning can assuage.

I discovered the ameliorating influence of caning in the sixth grade when Miss Merryweather would discipline me after school for infractions during class. I started being bad so I could have my daily lessons and forget Trugdy’s murder for awhile. Then, when I was in the seventh grade, I got an after school job at a movie theatre. My boss was horrible—she kept pointing out all the “bad” things I did and giving me the kind of punishment I needed—cane with pants down. When I turned 18, I started going to “Madame Hurty Butt’s” and I’ve been happy ever since.

My wife told me I qualified as a genuine pervert. She told me she had been experimenting with different modes of stimulation and would like to try “red-striping” my butt herself instead of me paying $200 per hour.

We tried it. Her wrist action is phenomenal!

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

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

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Eustathia

Posted on July 19, 2025 | Leave a comment

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

“I love you more than BLTs.” Everybody can relate to that! Who doesn’t love BLTs? People with no taste buds? Unfortunately, I had failed all these months to realize she was a vegetarian! All the carrots. All the rice. All the cheese. All the humus. Etc., etc. I should’ve realized.

She spit on ground—yes, spit on the ground! And said, “You toad. I can’t believe you think I have BLTs on my radar screen as similes of love—actually, a BLT is a bearer of two hapless vegetables poisoned by nitrite-laced pig meat—MEAT—you idiot—MEAT!”

I told her I was sorry. I hadn’t realized she was a vegetarian. She hadn’t told me and all the delicious food we were eating never seemed specifically vegetarian. It just seemed like good food. This softened her up. I was relieved when she stepped close to me and handed me an avocado. I was vindicated. In fact, I had become a vegetarian without knowing it.

Unfortunately, I still had a taste for meat. I satisfied it with cold cuts, primarily mortadella, and occasionally, bratwurst. I lived in fear of being caught, but I loved her and needed her in my life. One day she said she thought I had meat on breath. I started eating breath mints to cover up the smell. I told her I wanted to be ready to kiss her all the time. She thought that was romantic.

Then, it all fell apart. Foolishly, I had given her a key to my apartment. One day she came over unexpectedly. She walked into the kitchen and saw me with a slice of mortadella hanging about of my mouth. I was caught!

She tore the mortadella out of my mouth and threw it on the kitchen floor and ground it into the tile with her foot. She pulled a rutabaga out of her purse and started beating me over the head and yelling “Meat traitor!” and “Pig swallower!” I just stood there and took it. I deserved it. I said, “I don’t care what you think, I will love you forever, through the planting and harvesting of vegetables of hope, with no pesticides.”

She stopped beating me. She put some water on to boil, sliced up the rutabaga and put in the pan to boil. She said, “Honey, we can do this. As long as you don’t eat your mortadella in front of me and keep eating the mints we can be a couple forever. I will love you like an ear of corn heavily salted and soaked in butter. Our love will be an eternal harvest of joy.”

I was shocked by her turnaround, but love works in mysterious ways. When she wasn’t looking, I pulled a slice of mortadella out of the package on the counter, took it into the living room, and gobbled it down, followed by a breath mint.

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

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

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Eutrepismus

Posted on July 18, 2025 | Leave a comment

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

First, I put on my pants. Second, I put on my socks. Third, I put on my t-shirt. Fourth, I . . . dammit I forgot to put on my underpants. They should’ve been number one, before my pants. Now, I had to start over. I was glad I hadn’t put on my shoes yet! They’re usually number four, before my wristwatch and coat.

I pulled off my pants, then my socks, then my t-shirt. Then, I started over. It was getting a little late, dawn was breaking, and I was hoping I’d make it to the duel on time. So, first I put on my underpants. Second, I put on my pants. Third, I put on my socks. Fourth, I put on my T-shirt. Fifth, I put on my shoes. Sixth, I put on my wristwatch. Seventh, I put on my jacket. Eighth, I put on my Kevlar vest over my jacket, just in case.

The duel was scheduled to take place at the county landfill. If somebody was killed, they could just be rolled onto the mountain of garbage and forgotten about.

“Duels” were unheard of in the 21st century, but I had crossed paths with the wrong person. He had a permanent role off Broadway in “Gone With the Pies.” He played an 18th-century pie delivery man who steals pies to save his starving family. He is caught and hanged without a trial, and consequently, the benefit of an attorney. His dying words were “The apple pie was best.” A fitting taunt for a pie thief.

He had played the role for so long, he had affected an 18-century demeanor. Hence, the duel. I had made the mistake of telling him I thought his daughter Nell was “hot.” He hit me in the face with a slice of apple pie and challenged me to a duel for his daughter’s honor. I was so shocked I just said, “Whatever.”

Nobody was going to be killed—I don’t know what the landfill thing was about. We were going to hurl pies at each other. We were back to back with our pies hoisted high. We were to take five steps, turn, and hurl. I turned. He was pointing a small handgun at me—clearly .22 caliber. He fired once and hit my pie. He fired again and hit my Kevlar vest. He yelled “You ruddy blighter!” and threw the gun on the ground, and ran into the rising sun taking a bite out of his pie.

He was clearly operating over the rainbow. The man was nuts. I never should’ve gone along with him. I thought it was some kind of joke, but it wasn’t. I didn’t press charges for attempted murder on the condition he let me date his daughter. He said I could marry her if I wanted to.

“Gone With the Pies” is still running off Broadway. I’ll be marrying Nell in two weeks. After I told her about the thing with her father, she got “HOT” tattooed on her lower back.

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

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

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

Exergasia

Posted on July 17, 2025 | Leave a comment

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

I’m happy. I’m elated. I’m joyful. I’m on cloud nine! I found my sock that I lost two years ago. By weird circumstances, it ended up on the roof of my house, stuck in the gutter’s downspout. I found it when I was cleaning the downspout. Over the years, the sock had started to clog it.

I was baffled. How could I not remember how this had happened—how my sock ended up on the roof? It’s so crazy that it ought to stick out in my mind, but it doesn’t.

I did remember hanging the pair of socks on the clothesline. I even remember using my new wooden clothespins—they still had their spring and attached my laundry tightly to the clothesline—nothing could have blown off or fallen off.

The sock mystery needed to be solved. My life was stalled in the murk of the mystery. It was a bad feeling arresting my life’s progress.

There was a doctor who recently moved into town. He specialized in memory retrieval. “Unconscious memories need to retrieved,” he said “because they act as concealed motives making us do things for reasons we’re not aware of. When we retrieve the memories, we retrieve our free will and act in accord with conscious wishes.” In my case, I had purchased hundreds of pairs of socks, not knowing why. My basement was filled with unopened boxes of white athletic socks.

I made an appointment at “Memory Lane.” Dr. Cache gave me a complimentary cup of tea and blindfolded me with a white athletic sock. He kept tightening it around my head while he yelled “Remember, remember, remember.” Suddenly something snapped in my head and I was back in my yard hanging my laundry two years ago. I turned to hang my underpants, but in my revery I could see behind me—I could see my socks dangling there, fluttering in the soft springtime breeze. Suddenly, a Canada goose swept down and grabbed one of my socks. As it flew over my house it collided with a large crow and dropped the sock on the roof of my house and it slid out of sight into the gutter. I saw it! It was birds that did it when my back was turned! Clearly, it was nesting season and the Canada goose grabbed the sock to weave into its nest.

I thanked Dr. Cache. Driving home, a Canada goose flew alongside my SUV. He had a sock hanging from his bill. At that point I realized the tea Dr. Cache gave me may have been drugged. When I pulled into my driveway, the goose dropped the sock on the roof of my house. I climbed up on the roof and retrieved the sock. I looked inside and there was a note. It was from Dr. Cache! It said “Try to forget this!”

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

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

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

Exouthenismos

Posted on July 16, 2025 | Leave a comment

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

“I hate your guts.” As soon as I said it I realized it missed the mark by miles. Who wouldn’t hate guts.? Slimy, bloody, stinky guts are totally hate-worthy no matter whose guts they are. The truth is I just plain hate guts—anybody’s guts, no person’s guts in particular. All guts.

My mind was reeling. I was still in the hate moment and had to tell Charlene in a memorable, hurtful, way how I felt about her. I sad “I hate you” as a filler while I conjured something more wicked. She complied by sobbing uncontrollably, rending her garments and pulling out her hair. I was amazed at the work “I hate you” could do at ruining a person’s life. The emotional damage was evident. I had to call 911 and have Charlene resuscitated from the violence of her sobbing.

Although I didn’t want to, I rode in the ambulance with her to the hospital. She had rended her garments to a fairly great extent. The EMT couldn’t take his eyes off her. Maybe he looked at everybody that way—like he was looking at Thanksgiving Dinner laid out on a table. I almost gave him Charlene’s phone number, but decided against it because I was feeling like I liked her again. I didn’t know what I was going to do next.

When she woke up, I told her I liked her again, that all was well, I no longer hated her. She was a little bald from the hair pulling, but in some ways it was an improvement over her previous hairstyle. She smiled and motioned me to her bedside, pulled out her IV, and stuck it in my eye when I bent to kiss her.

I’m blind in my left eye now. Charlene was convicted of assault and is serving a one year sentence at a minimum security prison. I visit her once a month and she refuses to see me. I’m trying to get a new girlfriend, but it’s hard when you’re blind in one eye and they ask you how it happened. I stopped telling the truth. Now, I tell people it happened during a tornado when a wood sliver stuck in my eye when I was rescuing my neighbor’s dog, Tuffo.

I’ve actually gotten a couple of return dates on the strength of the tornado story. Lying works.

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

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

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

Expeditio

Posted on July 15, 2025 | Leave a comment

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

Was it a bird? A plane? A speeding locomotive? Was it my neighbor Ed running wild in his back yard wearing a spa towel?

It wasn’t a bird. It had no feathers and was firmly on the ground. It wasn’t a plane. It was firmly on the ground too and it had no propellers or jet engines. Speeding locomotive? Where the hell did I get that idea from? My thinking was scaring me, but I knew it came from my boyhood obsession with Superman—the caped crusader for truth, justice and the American way. Whenever I was unsure of what I was observing, I laid out the bird, plane, and speeding locomotive options. They brought me comfort, relaxing my mind and making it more likely I would draw a seemingly well-considered conclusion, even if it was wrong or insane, or worse.

In the case above, it was in fact Ed running wild in his back yard in his spa towel. He says the towel reminds him of his Scottish heritage—it’s like a kilt with an elastic waistband and Velcro closeure without any plaid. He got a number of different colors and wears them everywhere, even in the winter. It snows a lot where we live and he looks really crazy on snowshoes wearing a baby-blue spa towel trudging through the snow. I don’t know where his spa towel fetish comes from—definitely not his Scottish heritage—he’s of Italian lineage.

I think it started with him flashing the cleaning ladies when he was sitting by his swimming pool. He’d face his house with the towel on and spread his legs and jiggle his junk. The cleaners would stop their work to watch out the back window. Their supervisor admonished him and banned the spa towel. This really irked Ed, but he went along with the ban. Now, he wears the towel grocery shopping and has developed a technique that makes it looks like it got caught on the shopping cart and falls off on the floor. It works like a charm and he’s never been arrested for exposing himself. He’s working on a routine now where his dog Butch pulls off the towel when he’s walking him in the park. In a way Ed reminds me of Superman with his persistence and strength of character. It’s not good character, but it’s strong character.

Uh oh. There’s something coming up my driveway. Is it a bird? Is it a plane? Is it a speeding locomotive? Or is it a Jehovah’s Witness? It wasn’t a bird. It had no feathers and was firmly on the ground. It wasn’t a plane. It was firmly on the ground too and it had no propellers or jet engines. Speeding locomotive? Where the hell did I get that idea from? It had to be a Jehovah’s Witness! The door bell rang. I hid in the basement and cleaned off my workbench, hoping he would go away. I went upstairs after about 10 minutes. There was pounding on my door. A voice said “I can see you.” Maybe it was Superman posing as a man of Christ, looking through my door with his X-ray vision. No. No way! Not Superman!

I called 911 and waited for the police to arrive.

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

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

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Excusitatio

Posted on July 14, 2025 | Leave a comment

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

How much longer are we going to let this go ? When are we finally going to do something? It has got to end! It has got to end NOW—RIGHT NOW!

The smell was horrendous. It might’ve been ok 50 years ago when this was all farmland. But it isn’t ok now that it’s suburbia—little White Houses where decent people live raising their pets and children, mowing their lawns and washing their SUVs in their driveways —barbecuing in their back yards and holding neighborhood garage sales.

There’s no place for a pig farm in this neighborhood. Oinking, pooping beasts covered with mud and eating clam bellies—yes clam bellies! The stench is so bad I can smell it inside my house with all the windows shut and the air-conditioning running.

Mr. Hobart has a truckload of bellies delivered from Boston each week. The truck arrives with a haze of flies following it. The bellies are dumped in the five kiddie pools in Mr. Hobart’s front yard.

Mr. Hobart’s family’s been raising pigs here since the late 1800s, but it’s not the late 1800s any more! It’s 2025 and we want the pigs the hell out of here now! The lawsuits have failed, but gunfire won’t. Tonight we shoot the pigs! Tonight we put an end to the clam belly stench and make Acorn Vista a better place to live—a better place for our pets and other loved ones. For our dogs and cats and fish and birds and sons and daughters!

POSTSCRIPT

Acorn Vista’s “fixers” were rounded up by Sheriff Hobart (Mr, Hobart’s grandson), jailed and fined $500 each for menacing. The problem persists and Mr. Hobart shows no sign of backing down.

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

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

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