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Prolepsis

Posted on December 11, 2025 | Leave a comment

Prolepsis (pro-lep’-sis): (1) A synonym for procatalepsis [refuting anticipated objections]; (2) speaking of something future as though already done or existing. A figure of anticipatio.

I am not a fool.

I don’t wear a cap with bells on it, or carry a wand with a model of my head mounted on it. I do carry some jingle bells, but only around Christmas for celebratory purposes—not jesting.

Although I like Rodney Dangerfield, levity is not my game. I am characteristically grave. I usually talk about deaths in my family, as you well know from last week when my sister collapsed, went into a coma and died of a brain hemorrhage. I told everybody about it, in detail. People took off running when they saw me coming so they wouldn’t have to listen to me.

No levity here!

But maybe by “fool” you mean unwise—a sucker and poor decision maker. Ha! Ha! Have you missed the point! My wisdom is illustrated in my practice of putting open cans of tuna slurry cat food in my refrigerator to preserve them. This makes my refrigerator stink, but in my wisdom, it saves me money on cat food: stink vs. money is a classic dilemma. I have resolved it in favor of stink ‘for the money.’ But that’s not the end of it. With soap, for example, you willingly spend the money to keep your stink at bay. That goes for scented toilet paper too.

One must be flexible.

I’m sure you’re dazzled by my reasoning skills—at my prowess as a decision maker!

But maybe you think I’m gullible like all fools are. I spent a long time digging holes in my back yard—mostly at night. My older sister had told me Dean Martin’s bow tie from his tuxedo was “out there” somewhere. After two weeks of digging, I found the bow tie. Anybody watching me dig would think I was gullible, but I wasn’t. Before I started digging I did some research. Looking at my mother’s diary, I found out she had an affair with Dean Martin that went on for years.

On New Years Eve 1959, they went wild, wearing formal attire to “Bambino’s.” They got totally drunk and went back to my house. Dad was on the night shift at the firehouse. They went out in the back yard to look at the stars. They were lying there looking up when Dean passed out and his bow tie fell off.

He left in the morning before Mom got up so Dad wouldn’t catch him. When she got up, she went out in the backyard to say good morning to Dean and sure he made his getaway, but he was gone. However, his bow tie was lying there. In his haste, Martin had left it behind. Worried that Dad would see it and ask questions, Mom buried it in a zip-lock bag in the little garden plot she tended in the back corner of the yard.

So, where’s the gullibility there? I sold the bow tie on Etsy for $60,000! It paid for college.

Excuse me, but I’ve got to go home now and tend to my on-line transactions. I’ve got my banking information here, right from the bank. Now, I can give Vladimir the information he needs to deposit the $200,000 I’ve been granted to remodel my bathroom, buy a generator, and pay off my mortgage. I feel blessed to have met Vladimir. He sent me a text message informing me of my good luck. The rest is history! I’m waiting!

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

Daily Trope is available in an early edition 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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Protherapeia

Posted on December 10, 2025 | Leave a comment

Protherapeia (pro-ther-a-pei’-a): Preparing one’s audience for what one is about to say through conciliating words. If what is to come will be shocking, the figure is called prodiorthosis.

I’m am the owner of a salt processing plant. It is called “Saline Solutions.” We manufacture basic table salt, salt tablets, saltines, salt water taffy and a specialty salt for rubbing into wounds. It’s called”Hurt Me.” We sell it on the dark web to S&M aficionados.

Due to President Trump’s 600% tariff on imported salt, my business is going down the tubes. I can’t sell a container of table salt for $30.00!

We are located in Provo, Utah, not far from Salt Lake City. The salt flats are fairly close. I have hatched a plan to save our business: steal salt off the flats late at night when nobody’s around. We will put four bulldozers, along with two front-loaders on two flatbed trucks. We will rent five dump trucks. All this will be provided by “Mel’s Heavy Equipment and Handmade Tacos.” So, our convoy set out the next night, each member eating a delicious fresh taco provided by Mel, free of charge.

When we got to the salt flats we turned our headlights off and cranked up the bulldozers for the operations’s Phase One. The bulldozers made a racket that I was afraid could be heard all the way to Salt Lake City . Then I heard what sounded like a shofar and galloping horses. They were coming toward us, a cloud of dust trailing behind them. My God! It was “The Watchtowers!” a troop of radical Jehovah’s Witnesses with no clear mission. Then, came their Mormon counterparts “The Decaf Dads.” The leader of the Watchtowers dismounted asked us politely to go home to our wives and children unless we wanted to be smote.

We went home.

My plan was a failure. Now, I have lay off 200 employees. I called a meeting of all employees to break the news. I stood up and said:

“Life has its ups and downs. It is like a seesaw, but not as much fun sometimes. Sometimes, it is like an elevator in free fall, cable snapped, plummeting to the passengers’ certain death.

The seesaw ride is over. Almost all of you are fired. Saline Solutions is dead.”

My speech didn’t go over well. I had to run for my life out to the parking lot. Luckily I was covered by a small contingent of the Decaf Dads. They surrounded me, gave me copy of “The Book of Mormon” and I got in my car, and drove off tires squealing.

Since Trump was jailed, the insane tariffs have been abolished. I’m back in business and hiring my former workforce back.

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

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

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Protrope

Posted on December 9, 2025 | Leave a comment

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

“C’mon. We’ve got to save her! If we don’t help her, she’ll drown. Get off your asses or I’ll kick them!” I yelled as loud as I could. Everybody just sat there. They didn’t even move their heads. I ran toward the lake to save the little girl who was drowning.

This was Silver Lake. It was more like a big pond. We hitchhiked there almost every day in the summer, all summer long. We had already lost one friend there—Floogie. His face looked like a flounder. He had jumped into the lake from a tall tree, hit bottom and died of a broken neck.

But now, little Susie Schmedder was going under. She was screaming “Help me! Help me!” While everybody sat there, some not even paying attention. I got to her and she rose from the water while everybody yelled “April fool!” It was August, what the hell? Nobody cared. It was the “Prank of the Week,” Susie’s brother Steven had Susie on his shoulders and had been breathing through his snorkel while he squatted under water so it looked like Susie was drowning.

“You wait!” I said “I’ll get you. You better watch out!” I started wracking my brain for THE prank of the ages to get back at them with. It didn’t take long. I would fake hang myself from the big maple tree on the edge of the city park by the bike path. My friends and I walked by there every day to our hitchhiking spot. They were bound to see me hanged. In the run-up to the prank I would tell them how depressed I was and how I wanted to kill myself. They staged an “intervention” and I was dragged to a psychologist. I told them I was only kidding about suicide. They told me “So are we! April Fool.” They left me standing on the sidewalk outside of the psychologist’s.

I was totally angry. I had been mega-pranked. I didn’t know what to do. I decided to go ahead and fake hang myself. They would think it was their fault because of what they’d done to me. I got a book from the library on how to fake hang yourself. It was titled “Up In The Air.” It was pretty complicated and warned that not following instructions would almost certainly result in death. I went to the hardware store and bought a length of hanging-grade rope. I told the Ace Hardware man that I was making a scratching post for my cat Jiffy. Then, I went home and tied a noose as “Up In The Air” instructed. Without going into detail, lacing the rope around my shoulders so I wouldn’t actually hang was quite complicated, but it would save my life.

The next day, all rigged up, I climbed the tree and tied the rope around the tree limb. When I saw my friends coming up the path, I jumped.

I woke up in the hospital with my friends clustered around my bed. Marie said “You almost killed your self. If Billy hadn’t cut you down with his Boy Scout knife, you’d be dead.” Chuck said, “We’re so sorry for what we did. We never should’ve faked taking you to the psychologist. We’ve decided no more pranking for the rest of the summer, or maybe ever agin.”

I felt satisfaction flowing through my veins—it must’ve been what morphine’s like. I had botched the prank by almost being killed. They had said nothing about the safety rope around my shoulders, so they probably didn’t see it, and believed I’d actually intended to kill myself.

I decided that instead of making this a prank, I’d make it a deception so they would be remorseful forever and would never be released from the nagging regret for what they had done to me. I would never tell them what my plan had been. They would never know—they would be deceived. Not knowing the truth is the kind of punishment they deserved. Like the Bible says, “The truth will set you free.” Does withholding the truth from them make them my slaves?

I hope so.

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

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

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Proverb

Posted on December 8, 2025 | Leave a comment

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

When I was growing up I had the weird good fortune of a mother who spoke in proverbs, or at least what sounded like proverbs. For example, on my birthday she would say “May you age like a fine cheddar cheese my son.” I had never heard of “cheddar cheese” before, so I went to the grocery store to track it down. I bought a small wedge of “aged” cheddar. I took it home and unwrapped in my bedroom. I sniffed it and it smelled like my butt when I needed a shower. I didn’t want to smell like an unwashed butt as I went through life. I did not know what to do, so I let it drop. It was just a question of butt hygiene. I pursued it assiduously—ha, ha. I made my mother buy perfumed toilet paper and I took two showers per day—morning and bedtime.

Once, my mother said “Let sleeping dogs lie.” First, I was shocked to hear that dogs can talk. And what’s worse, that we should not require them to tell the truth. The big takeaway for me was that they would be asleep when they told lies! I thought my mother had flipped out. Then, I remembered that our dog twitched and whined when it was asleep. He was very sneaky, so he was probably a liar. Mom would yell “Shut up!” at Pindar when he whined and twitched. It was quite possible that Mom knew dog talk, and Pindar was saying distasteful things and needed to be silenced.

When she gambled online, Mom would say “The sky is the limit.” I asked my astronomy teacher if this was true. His name was Mr. Polaris. He was really fat and all the kids called him “The Big Dipper.” He knew about it and liked it. He had Mr. Hammer, the metal shop teacher, make him a giant ladle—he called “My Big Dipper” and hung it above the blackboard at the front of classroom.

Anyway, he told me the sky was not the limit—it was limitless. Poor Mom. She was mistaken. She hardly ever won at gambling. Maybe her misconception of the sky’s limit was the cause of her massive losses. Our car had been repossessed the week before. It wasn’t much of a car—a 1998 blue Dodge: a former police car that still had the police logo on the doors: three black boots standing on a rabbit’s neck. It said “Spindlesplint Police. United We Stand.” So, I told Mom what I had learned about the sky. She yelled “Get out you nitwit.” I was stunned and angered by my mother’s closed mindedness.

I would show her I wasn’t a nitwit. I would clean the swimming pool. “Cleanliness is next to godliness” I said as I looked into the pool. It was full of leaves. I got a garden rake and starting raking out the pool. The ines on the rake tore holes in the pool’s vinyl liner. Water started gushing out of the ground at the end of the pool. The pool drained in about 10 minutes.

I ran away from home to escape my mother’s wrath. I’m living in a dog kennel in Florida. In the little room behind the run, I’m quite comfortable. I have a box filled with straw and a water dish and a food dish. Mr. Boxer advertises the kennels as “Dog-Gone Good Little Homes.” I have a job picking up litter on the “Ringling Estate.” I have a stick with a nail on the end and a big shoulder bag for the litter. I almost lost my job when I stabbed a squirrel.

I am happy here. My parents are glad to be rid of me. By the way, Mom hit the lotto for $1,000,000. I sent her a text message that said “Quit while you’re ahead.” She texted me back “Leave me alone!” Maybe she didn’t understand the proverb I sent her.

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

Daily Trope is available in an early edition 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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Prozeugma

Posted on December 7, 2025 | Leave a comment

Prozeugma (pro-zoog’-ma): A series of clauses in which the verb employed in the first is elided (and thus implied) in the others.

I went to the mall. The bar, the Bronze Goblet. Then the motel, Mr. Mattress. I met a woman—Norah—at the Goblet. She was beautiful. She was smart. We talked about the relative actual value of car batteries based on the material their positive and negative poles are made of. She presented a compelling case for lead. Then, we talked about the epistemic significance of sock patterns—what they can teach us about the wearer’s ontological grounding and ethical sensibilities.

After three or four whiskey sours, we went to Mr. Mattress—it was across the street from the Bronze Goblet. We both got naked and jumped into bed. We snuggled up. She was soft and warm and smelled like lavender. I felt like this was the high point of my life so far. Maybe Norah was the one!

I rolled over on my side to embrace her and she jumped out of bed. She stood at the end of the bed and said, “Before we embark on this sexual activity, we need to know about its history and practice to pave the way toward the success of our screwing.” When she said “screwing” she squeezed her breasts and laughed.

She began at the beginning with Adam and Eve. She said the serpent that tempted Eve was Adam’s penis. Eating the apple was a metaphor for Adam giving head to Eve. I was shocked. But, I stuck it out because when she was done, I’d get laid. I’d crawl through broken glass if I had to.

Then, there was Heloise and Abelard. Heloise was Abelard’s student. He knocked her up and she went away to have her baby. Abelard was a philosopher so he used this episode in his life to find the truth. While he was compiling his notes in his room the monk J.D. Leviticus broke in and cut off Abelard’s penis. Abelard decided that, since he was now dickless, he should become a monk. Heloise opened a book store in Bruge specializing in infant care, healthy relationships and befriending monks. She raised the baby Pontious, and married a man named Joseph who wore a coat of many colors and played the accordion in a traveling folk band. He was arrogant and made a lot of enemies, but Heloise loved him.

Then, Norah warned me to wear a condom or I’d end up like Abelard. I agreed that it was a good idea for birth control, and also, thwarting STDs. She looked a little angry at my mention of STDs, but we marched on.

We had come to Sonny and Cher. She started droning on about the rhetorical significance of the lyrics of their songs. She was talking about “I got you babe” and how they saw each other as things canned goods that are stocked on the shelves at the grocery store—maybe like cans of tuna or boxes of macaroni. As interchangeable objects that satisfy a hunger.

That’s when I fell asleep. It was 3:00 a,m. and I couldn’t stay awake any longer. When I woke up the next morning she was gone. She left a condom on her pillow and a note that said: “Maybe next time.” Also, there was a box of store-brand macaroni under the pillow.

I heard she was the most controversial professor in the history of Carl Perkins University where, I found out, she teaches acting and held the Andy Griffith Chair.

I didn’t know what to do so I crashed one of her classes and held up a box of Macaroni. She blushed and asked me to meet her at the Bronze Goblet that night. I put the box of macaroni, a can of tuna, and a condom in my backpack I anticipation of ending up at Mr. Mattress. As I walked up to the Bronze Goblet, Norah jumped out from behind a shrub and yelled “I’ll never be yours!” and hurled a can of baked beans at me, hitting me in the head and knocking me out.

When I regained consciousness, I was propped up with pillows in Norah’s bed. There was a bowl of steaming baked beans on a tray on my lap. She said “Eat your beans baby. We’ve got a big night ahead of us!” I said “I’ve got a headache.” She laughed and said “I’m supposed to say that, ha, h, ha! Eat your beans!”

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

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

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Pysma

Posted on December 6, 2025 | Leave a comment

Pysma (pys’-ma): The asking of multiple questions successively (which would together require a complex reply). A rhetorical use of the question.

Why is the sky blue? Why does it get cold in winter? Why am I a man? What time does the train leave? Where am I going.L Am in coming? What are these little bugs crawling around my crotch? I can answer that! They’re crotch crickets, my old friends. I’m going to observe them with my OED magnifying glass before I kill them with “Spinosad.” It costs over $300 and instantly whacks them.

I focused in and observed the crotch crickets. It looked like they were square dancing. There was no music coming from my pants, so I concluded they were marching, not dancing. Every once in a while two or three would give me a nip. it itched like a mosquito bite. I couldn’t slap them to death, their bodies were like shells. Then, they started doing acrobatics. They were tumbling and they had built a tower out of my pubic hair. They were diving off the tower into a little puddle of blood they had made from biting me.

It was disgusting and fascinating at the same time. For a couple of minutes I considered training a troupe of crotch cricket acrobats. I even thought of a name for them: “The Nice Lice Acrobats.” I would afford them a place in my crotch where they would live while we travelled the country putting on shows.

I would give audience members cheap complimentary magnifying glasses, pull down my pants and lay on a table exhibiting my crotch crickets and MC-ing the show: “Ladies and gentlemen! Turn your attention to the tower of hair as Little Carl will leap into the pool of blood from the very top of the tower!”

Then I realized something had gone wrong. It was my PTSD. It was the residue of my numerous encounters with crotch crickets when I was in the Army. The prostitutes around Ft. Bragg were al infected, but I couldn’t help myself. Every Monday I’d hit the dispensary for a can of crotch cricket killer powder—DDT—after a weekend of cavorting with bug-infested whores.

I pulled out my Spinosad, twisted the cap, pulled down my pants, and sprinkled a dose on my crotch. It worked. The crotch crickets died immediately and fell like little snowflakes to the floor. Already, I missed them—the little itchy nips and the daring acrobatics. I felt a sort of withdrawal from having an itchy crotch. I didn’t know what to do.

I went into counseling.

My psychologist kept scratching her crotch while we were talking. She called my crotch crickets “crabs” with a little smile on her face and admitted she had a case. In one of our sessions, I asked her to infect me. she sad it was unethical, but she had become fond of me and would be glad to do it. She gave me some of her crabs in her office with the door locked.

Now, she gives me crabs on Fridays, I whack them on Mondays and then go back on Friday for another dose. It is complicated, but it is therapeutic.

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

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

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Ratiocinatio

Posted on December 5, 2025 | Leave a comment

Ratiocinatio (ra’-ti-o-cin-a’-ti-o): Reasoning (typically with oneself) by asking questions. Sometimes equivalent to anthypophora. More specifically, ratiocinatio can mean making statements, then asking the reason (ratio) for such an affirmation, then answering oneself. In this latter sense ratiocinatiois closely related to aetiologia. [As a questioning strategy, it is also related to erotima {the general term for a rhetorical question}.]

“Why did the chicken cross the road?“ I was holding it by the neck. Its mangled body was oozing giblets and intestines, hanging down and swinging like bloody pendulums. But time had run out for this young chicken, my prize Rhode Island Red, Betty. She had attempted to cross the road. She was run over by a 15-wheeler carrying a load of potatoes from Boise, Idaho to Chicago, Illinois. He didn’t even stop after flattening Betty, making her look like a Hippy wall hanging alongside the white line.

How did this happen? Why did this happen?

Betty has just laid her second egg before she took off across the road. Maybe she felt lighter and faster and just wanted to run. I was settling in on that answer when I saw Cockadoodle, the neighbor’s rooster, strutting up and down the road shoulder, flapping his wings, and crowing.

There it was: Cockadoodle had lured Betty to her death. She was an innocent young hen. She was not wise to the ways of the barnyard. Cockadoodle knew this and killed her. Does Cockadoodle deserve to die? Yes! Most certainly!

I went home and got my flamethrower that I use to burn weeds. Today I would use it to burn a rooster. I brought my dog Thyme to catch Cockadoodle and deliver him to my feet. Everything went well, up until Thyme delivered Cockadoodle to my feet. Cockadoodle ran away. Thyme caught him, and we went through the running away and catching several times, until finally, Thyme bit down hard and killed Cockadoodle. I put the dead rooster in the road where Betty was killed and lit hm on fire.

This is called “Justice.” Right?

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

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

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Repotia

Posted on December 4, 2025 | Leave a comment

Repotia (re-po’-ti-a): 1. The repetition of a phrase with slight differences in style, diction, tone, etc. 2. A discourse celebrating a wedding feast.

I had been “married” 75 times. I was in the visa business. It’s a complicated process. It takes time, but in the end all you need is a marriage license. You get married. You get divorced. I live in Nevada where divorcing is a piece of cake.

I had “gone around the world” with my visa brides. The one I liked the least was German. She bossed me around, making me do too much for her—laundry, clean house, cook, water the houseplants, and go to Cliff’s all times of the day and night to buy her chocolate with almonds in it. We had to live together for 2 months for her visa to “stick.” It was hell for me. At one point I considered pushing her down the basement stairs. Then, the worst possible thing happened that can happen to somebody like me: she told me she loved me more than apfelkuchen (Apple Cake) and she wanted to stay married. Luckily, I had a way out. I reported her to my friend at ICE. ICE were there in ten minutes, tasered her, handcuffed her and took her into custody. She yelled “You are like Gestapo!” At that, one of the agents hit her on the head with his truncheon. She was deported to Belize and, given her status as a “criminal,” the divorce was quickly executed.

My best visa catch is Seezy Bellacola. She’s from Trabib (not East Trabib). I didn’t think East Trabib actually existed, let alone, Trabib. Growing up in New Jersey, it was known as a metaphor for a a far-away place in somebody’s head where they might be hopelessly lost. For example, if somebody was really lost in their head, we would say he was in East Trabib. Seezy told me there were many lost people in Trabib. Even the Pime Minister did not know where he came from, but he thought it might be England. Anyway, we decided to get married for real & stay together. Our “visa” wedding been bland, but the second one was going to be an extravaganza—Seezy was an heiress.

So, we got married. My best man, Jumper Johnson, gave a pretty good wedding speech:

“When two people get married, they are actually married. My friend Lyle and Seezy are married because they got married—both of them together, married together, married, right here. Married. They will walk down life’s sidewalks and streets together, and drive them too, in their new black Audi. Some day one of them will die, unless they both die together in a plane crash, a car wreck, or a terrorist attack, or maybe an armed robbery or house fire when home alone. One will be alone. One will be depressed. One will find a new partner and start all over again, in a new and happy marriage. The other will be dead, maybe wearing a new suit, buried in a coffin somewhere, or maybe, posing as ashes in a jar on a shelf in the garage.

This is how it goes. Enjoy your Audi.”

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

The Daily Trope is available in an early edition 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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Restrictio

Posted on December 3, 2025 | Leave a comment

Restrictio (re-strik’-ti-o): Making an exception to a previously made statement. Restricting or limiting what has already been said.

I will walk from Boothbay Harbor, ME to Derry, NH, tracing the route my ancestors took when they arrived in the New World. Only, I was going in the opposite direction from the route they took. At the last minute I decided to travel via skateboard to celebrate my late mother’s life-long desire to be a figure skater. Then, I realized that skate boarding and figure skating are two very different things. It would be like celebrating Earth Day by littering. Not a good match.

So, after giving it a lot of thought, I decided to travel by electric scooter. Quiet. Fairly speedy. Easy to ride. Good for the environment. I would carry a back pack with all my essentials—clean underpants and socks, toothbrush & toothpaste, deoderant, wallet, collapsible cup, washcloth, flashlight, chapstick, transistor radio, compass, Preparation-H, iPhone, binoculars, nail clippers, sun glasses, SPF 100 sunscreen, Q-tips, two cans of beans, can opener, water bottle, pen, butt wipes, spork, eye drops, and a Buck knife.

I was packed and ready to go when I reazied I had no idea how I’d keep the scooter charged up. So, I decided to drive my Chevy Impala. I could make it to Derry on one tank of gas and I could load everything in the trunk and bring my dog Chris (short for “Christmas” when I got him as a gift from my wife). I loaded the car, Chris hopped in, and I turned the key. Nothing happened. The impala was dead. I called my mechanic “Bolts” Jackson and he told me he couldn’t come and pick up the car until next week.

I called Uber. For $300 each way they could take me. There were probably better options, but in the state of mind I was in, I couldn’t see them. I just wanted to get to Derry! My wife tried to talk me out of my pilgrimage, but she failed. I was going! We got about 10 miles out of Boothbay Harbor when the Uber driver pulled onto the road shoulder. He pointed a pistol at me and said “I’ll take that $300 now.” I told him I was using a credit card and said “Asshole” and kicked me out of the car and took off. I walked to Freeport, to LL Bean’s.

OMG! There was a car from Rhode Island in the parking lot with the keys in the ignition. I jumped in and turned the key. A siren went off and red smoke started billowing out from under the hood. But, the car had started! I jammed it in drive and took off for Derry. Thank god they don’t have live toll takers on the Turnpike in Maine and New Hampshire. The car was still smoking and the siren wailing when I got to Derry. I jumped out and ran to the docks where my ancestors landed. There were no docks. Derby is inland. There’s a lake nearby and that’s it. It was heartbreaking. One thing I know for sure, 1697 was when they landed/arrved there. They were all convicts in a “company” from Scotland who were sent to the New World to “Make Scotland great again.”

I hitchhiked back to Boothbay Harbor. I got a ride with a lobster buoy salesman. They were custom pained to “your specifications.” They are made from “iron-lite” rock-hard styrofoam guaranteed to float for 500 years. They could be passed down through generations as a sort of family lobster-loom. His name was “Red” and he travelled up and down the coast from New York to Maine. The name of his business was “Bobbing Buoys.” He asked me if I wanted to be his sidekick. Given what I had just been through, I eagerly accepted. After six months, I discovered that he was selling special bouys that could be used to sell drugs. The buoys were hollowed out with trap doors. They were filled with ziplock bags loaded with cocaine or ecstasy and “hauled” by customers. Red didn’t handle any drugs, just the hollowed-out buoys.

I decided I didn’t want to live so close to criminality. Accordingly, I quit Bobbing Buoy. I went to work for “Red’s Eats” in Wiscasset. I’ve moved my family into a trailer in Back Narrows. Strangely enough, Red is my landlord. He drives a Cadillac now with a gold lobster buoy hood ornament and a horn that plays “Sea Cruise,” sung by Freddy Canon in the sixties. Ewwweee baby!

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

The Daily Trope is available in an early edition 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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Sarcasmus

Posted on December 2, 2025 | Leave a comment

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

“You look like a balloon filled with helium. I think you might float away to the trough where you spend your days snuffling. Let’s call you Pork Roll—you can’t oink your way out of this. You’ve disgusted too many people.”

He just stood there looking at me with his beady little eyes, drool dripping from his chin, his fat pink skin twitching. I admit it. I took it out on the pigs, specifically, Big Pink. He was a Hampshire pig, known for their intelligence. In WWII they were used to guard cricket pitches and ammunition dumps. If they saw something amiss, they would pull the rope on the alarm whistle, alerting nearby troops and cricket players. Supposedly, they saved 100s of lives. I didn’t believe it. All Big Pink wants to do is eat slop and roll around in the mud.

What a useless piece of crap—good to eat on special occasions, and that’s the end of it. “You’re nothing but a four-legged ham or a side of bacon, crispy and delicious.” At that, Big Pink jumped his pen and came at me, tusks dripping with saliva. I wasn’t going to apologize. I pulled my nine-inch switchblade knife. If I could get the right angle, I could poke him in the heart and kill him. As soon as he saw the knife he stopped dead, turned around, and shot a stream of pigshit at me. It hit me in the face. I almost puked, but I kept my head.

I picked up a bucket for a shield. There was an axe hanging by the pen. I grabbed it and slowly approached Big Pink. He eyed me cautiously and gave me a low-volume oink. I said, “You fat piece of shit. It’s time to go outside.” He seemed like he had calmed down. I held my hand out. He grabbed it and started chewing it. There was nothing else I could do—I split his skull with the axe.

Already, I could smell the bacon and eggs. Maybe some pancakes too. Finally, dead, Big Pink would be worth a damn. In life, he was a stinking leach, now he’s a good-tasting meal. I’m glad I killed him. I’m already looking forward to wringing some chickens’ necks.

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

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

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Scesis Onomaton

Posted on December 1, 2025 | Leave a comment

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

“Big Buffalo prairie cabal.” That’s what I called it. The massive herd was slowly moving toward me, heads down, except for the alpha Buffalo “Shaggy,” head up with a dead rabbit impaled on one of his horns.

The buffalos picked up the pace and soon were galloping full tilt toward me. Did they want to kill me? I answered “Yes” in my head and jumped behind a large boulder.

The herd came streaming by—hundreds of buffalo. They smelled like unwashed underwear. They made a mooing sound like a car with a dead battery—ruh, ruh, ruh, ruh, ruh—only louder. It was a nightmare. I tried praying but I couldn’t remember how. So, I just yelled “Help!” There was a naked guy riding a white buffalo wearing a buffalo horn hat and thick eye shadow. He yelled “Stop!” And the herd stopped on his command. He looked at me and said “I am the Buffalo God. Go now! Go back to your family. Go back to your friends. Go back to MTV if it still exists. Or, you can ride the plains with me.”

I took him up on his offer, stripped naked and climbed on the buffalo he pointed out. “Her name’s Pandora” he said. I asked what we do in cold weather. He told me we fly to a nudist colony in Florida for the winter and that he was able to make us invisible for the flight.

We rode the plains all summer long. When it came time to go south naked, we took an Uber to the airport. We were arrested for public nudity at the airport’s entrance. Something had gone wrong with the Buffalo God’s invisibility spell. I was shocked and disappointed.

Under questioning, the police told me he was a certified nutcase. But then, he disappeared from his cell. Nobody could find him. Then, the police station’s entrance door opened and closed by itself. The Buffalo God had fixed his spell! The next thing I knew, I disappeared too!

We did a reprise of our trip to the airport, boarded a United Airlines flight to Miami, and then, took a bus to “Nudy, Nudy Nudist Colony.” We swam. We fished. We para-sailed. We water-skied. We ate the best food. We drank the best cocktails.

We both looked forward to returning to the buffalo.

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

The Daily Trope is available in an early edition 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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Sententia

Posted on November 30, 2025 | Leave a comment

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

“Let the wind blow.” My father used to say this to me when I was upset and wanted to kill somebody—anybody—including him. If I “let the wind blow” he’d be on the fooor with a bullet hole in his forehead. I couldn’t “let the wind blow” because I was afraid to go to prison. My father was a beloved hardware store owner in our town. He catered to the DYI crowd. They would relentlessly search for his killer and I’m sure that when they found him it would be nail guns at dawn on the Little League field’s pitcher’s mound. That’s where they found the mangled remains of Red Rider. He had a hot dog stand he would wheel around town, selling hot dogs. He was observed picking his nose and wiping it inside a hot dog bun. He was doomed. The Society for the Preservation of Sanitary Conditions met that afternoon and voted to nail gun him to the pitcher’s mound that night. He was lured by what they said were his “favorite buns.” He took that to mean Barbara Shine AKA “Boulder Buns Barb.” When he arrived, he was tackled, held down, nailed to the pitcher’s mound, and sprayed with hand sanitizer—it was sprayed down his throat. He choked on it and it killed him. Bye, bye Red Rider. Go sell your hot dogs in hell!

“Let the wind blow” has become totally meaningless to me. Now I abide by “Suck it Up!” It sounds like a vampire credo, but it isn’t. Actually, I got it from my housecleaner. She talks to her vacuum cleaner, telling it to “Suck it up!” referring o the dirt on the floor. It “sucks it up” into a bag inside that gets thrown in the trash when it gets full. I say “Suck it up” to myself when something bad comes my way. I put it in my brain-bag which I dump when it gets full. I dump it in a bottle of vodka.

I am becoming a drunk, but I’ve still got to suck it up into my brain bag. I’ve tried to come up with different way to empty my brain bag. I stuck my head in the low-hanging ceiling tan in my living room. I now have a large bald spot on top of my head. It did not work. My inane plumber Mario is going to install a faucet on the side of my head to drain my brain bag. If that does not work I’m going to find a new saying. Maybe “Christ on a crutch!” or “Holy shit!” I think the religious sayings are edifying.

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

The Daily Trope is available in an early edition 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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Simile

Posted on November 29, 2025 | Leave a comment

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

He was like a pizza covered with all the wrong things—pineapple, baloney, jolly ranchers, and Brussels sprouts. He was like toenail clippings in a dish of ice cream. He was like a white sport coat with no carnation. He had gotten his finger stuck in a wine bottle and was calling for help from under the train trestle where he had gone camping with his dog Barney that he had dyed purple and taught to bark whenever he said “Hi boys and girls!” It’s almost as if he had cracked the code of buffoonery. For failing clowns and comedians, he may have had some value. What that would be, I don’t know, but there is something there that has a modicum of value, like a counterfeit coin, or a fallen Autumn leaf, or a raw carrot.

I think he is what the Doors would call “a rider on the storm.” Into this world he was thrown like a scuffed up traffic cone or a piano without a tone: a rider on the storm. He is like a one-armed cowboy riding a nasty big-horned bull. It will probably gore him when he falls off. But, he rides it to the buzzer. When he steps off the bull it licks him on the face. The crowd roars like 50 hungry harbor seals. He gets in his limo with the New York state vanity plate saying “STUPIDASS.”

This is a phantasy comparison with no merit. He’s more like a hockey puck sliding over the ice of pomposity—confidently spouting inaccuracies, misconstrued fables, and recipes for inedible “treats” like a dried pea sandwich, gravel and cream, or fried blind mice. Scary!

I was going to end my relationship with him, but I couldn’t. He had me and was ready to blackmail me for the deed we had done. We were drunk and I was driving. I ran over a dog walker and the 10 dogs he was walking. I killed the dog walker and the dogs. We took off out of there and I ran over an elderly woman in the crosswalks as she crossed the street. We sped away only to hit a woman pushing a baby carriage, killing her and injuring the baby. Luckily, we were a block away from home and escaped detection. The next day we took the car to Gleaming Fenders Car Wash and washed off the blood and hair. Now, he was going to blackmail me! He wanted $50 per month to keep his mouth shut. I agreed and wrote him a check for $50.

Now, he’s like a stain on my life. He needs to be removed. My .45 is like stain remover. One pull of the trigger and no more $50 per month, no more him. I’ll invite him over, shoot him, and then I’ll tell the police I thought he was an intruder.

It didn’t work. I’m doing 30 years in Attica. My aim was bad. The shot wasn’t fatal. He’s still out there., like an overweight Beagle or a moldy raison scone.

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

The Daily Trope is available in an early edition 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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Skotison

Posted on November 28, 2025 | Leave a comment

Skotison (sko’-ti-son): Purposeful obscurity.

Some people like them. Some people won’t even go near them. The first time I tried one, I can’t even tell you how much I enjoyed it. I never thought I would’ve liked it at all. It was just sitting there like it wasn’t worth anything at all, but it was soon to become worth everything to me.

Are you ready for the big “disclose”? Do you want to know what “IT” is? I bet you do. I can see the anticipation in your eyes. You look like you’re going to explode.

It was a motorcycle—a 1965 BSA Thunderbolt motorcycle—black and chrome with a 650cc engine. I had just gotten back from Vietnam and the motorcycle was my salvation. The wind in my face blew away things I didn’t want to think about. It gave me hope and a good night’s sleep.

I decided to ride it across the USA. I had a VA disability so I got a very small monthly check—so although I didn’t have a job, I had some money, and I thought I could pick up odd jobs along the way. I ran out of money in Boulder, CO. My Army boots had come apart, so I went to an Army Navy store to see what I could find. I found a pair of Army surplus ski boots for ten dollars—all that I could afford. I was broke.

The next morning, I hopped a stake truck in front of the state employment office, rode out of town, and went to work chopping weeds to clear a place for a trailer park. All my fellow workers were Mexican. There was an arroyo down the hill were everybody took turns hanging out—smoking and drinking beer—taking unauthorized breaks. When it was my turn, I eagerly joined my compadres who offered me a beer and a cigarette. I worked long enough to make enough money to head off to my new destination.

New Orleans!

When I got there, I went into this bar where a guy was “dancing” on s small stage. He was clothed only in black underpants. He was doing a sort of hip-humping dance to Deep Purple’s “Highway Star.” There were women packed around the stage waving money at him and stuffing it is his underpants. He was very demented looking—dark rings around his eyes, chipped front tooth behind a lewd smile aimed at his audience. Suddenly, he dropped to the floor twitching. “Fu*ing speed,” the manager yelled. She had him dragged off the stage to loud boos. Then, she came over to me and asked me if I wanted the job—$150 per night, plus tips. This was a godsend! I said “Yes” and became an underpants dancer. She handed me a pair of black underpants and told me to change in the back room.

I came out on the stage and did a series of hump thrusts. The women screamed and the music started. It was The Rolling Stones “I can’t Get No Satisfaction” covered by Devo. I started humping and the money started flying. These were some of the best nights of my life. I saved up a pile of cash and decided to call it quits.

I was a big fan of the TV show “Bonanza.” Now, I wanted to go the Lake Tahoe and get a look at the Ponderosa. So, I headed west. I encountered a nearly lethal dust storm—blowing my motorcycle over to 50 degrees. Suddenly, a building emerged from the nearly blinding dust. It had a sign on the front that said “Trading Post.” I went in. There were Native Americans sitting on the floor and a guy that looked like Burl Ives standing behind a lectern and reading from a ledger. He stopped and welcomed me. Then, he started again—reading a name and what that person owed. It was really weird, like something from the 19th century. I got up and peeked outside. The storm had ended.

I resumed my trip. I headed for Salt Lake City. I wanted to see the Great Salt Lake, cut across the Salt Flats, and across Nevada to Lake Tahoe. As I was pulling out of Salt Lake, there was a beautiful blond woman hitching a ride. I pulled over. She put on my backpack and slung her messenger bag over her shoulder and jumped on the back of my motorcycle. She told me she was going to Tahoe. I said “So am I!” and we took off. Somewhere on the Salt Flats, she told me to stop. She jumped off my bike, opened her messenger bag and pulled out a sheet of paper imprinted with pictures of Daffy Duck. She said, “Blotter acid. Tear off a Daffy, let him melt on your tongue, and let the good times roll.” I did as she said. In about ten minutes, the mountains in the distance turned into piles of diamonds. The sky started falling until I yelled “Stop!” My passenger was sitting on the ground wiggling her fingers in front of her eyes and laughing. Then we decided we were cows grazing on the Salt Flats. Sadly, the acid wore off and we resumed our trip.

We arrived in Tahoe the next morning. My passenger told me she had fallen in love with me. I sort of loved her too. I met her parents. They lived in a huge mansion and owned two gambling casinos on the Nevada side of Tahoe. I ate dinner there and got to meet Wayne Newton. I said “Danke schon” to him as a joke and he threw his martini in my face and called me an asshole.

So, I found out my passenger’s name was Cher. As crazy as it seems, we got married. As a part of the wedding vows, I said “I got you babe.” She said “I’ll hold you tight and kiss you at night.” It was perfect.

I’m too old to ride a motorcycle any more, but my memories are vivid. I keep the BSA in the garage and go sit on it every once in awhile. I go “vroom vroom” sometimes.

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

The Daily Trope is available in an early edition 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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Syllepsis

Posted on November 27, 2025 | Leave a comment

Syllepsis (sil-lep’-sis): When a single word that governs or modifies two or more others must be understood differently with respect to each of those words. A combination of grammatical parallelism and semantic incongruity, often with a witty or comical effect. Not to be confused with zeugma: [a general term describing when one part of speech {most often the main verb, but sometimes a noun} governs two or more other parts of a sentence {often in a series}].

She broke my heart and broke my bank account. I never should’ve given her my PIN number. Money, money, money was all she cared about. She asked me two of three times every day how my net worth was doing. She asked me why I didn’t leave more cash lying around. She said it was polite to leave stacks of twenties in the bathroom.

It was crazy but I loved her. I started leaving stacks of twenties in the bathroom. I could hear her squeal when she went in to take a leak. It was endearing and brought me lots of pleasure, and that’s what life is about. When we made love, she made me spread $100 bills on the mattress.

Her name was Susie Lou. When she left in the middle of the night she took my watch and chain, she took my diamond ring, she took the keys to my electric car—she jumped in my Tesla and drove real far. I lived n New York and she called me from Moosejaw, BC. She was crying and promised to be good if I let her come back. She told me she was living with a Mountie who was abusive. He made her put on his Mountie pants while he sang the Canadian national anthem and made her eat poutine with chopsticks. She was humiliated by what he put her through. The only thing she could do was jump in the Tesla and drive home. She had sold my watch and chain and my diamond ring and needed more money. She asked me to wire $250,000 to Mountie headquarters and everything would be all right. I wired her the money and never heard from her again. I admit, I missed her. I even hired a private investigator to track her down.

She had gotten a divinity degree at “Holy, Holy, Holy Seminar” in Nevada. Now, she was the pastor of a Baptist Church in Florida where she ministered to the elderly, assuring them a place in heaven if they signed their worldly goods over to her, to be transferred to her upon their death. By targeting people over 80, she cleaned up.

She was taken to court over her “place in Heaven” offer. One family’s dead matriarch kept manifesting in the back seat of their Subaru yelling “God knows it’s a fraud.” She had landed in Hell, clearly not what she had been promised. The PI discovered that Susie Lou had left town after the matriarch episode, like she always did—disappearing down the wide open highway.

Next, she was an Uber driver, using the Tesla to ferry tourists around New York City. Among her colleagues she was referred to as “Lost Lou Lou.” Clearly, she wasn’t so good with directions. It came to a head when she drove into the East River. That was the end of my Tesla and Susie Lou too. Nobody at her funeral had anything good to say about her. However, I did. I said “She loved money. That’s a kind of love. It resonates with Paul’s Epistle to the Pergans who had a banking crisis and needed God’s help.”

This was the end of it.

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

The Daily Trope is available in an early edition 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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Symploce

Posted on November 26, 2025 | Leave a comment

Symploce (sim’-plo-see or sim’-plo-kee): The combination of anaphora and epistrophe: beginning a series of lines, clauses, or sentences with the same word or phrase while simultaneously repeating a different word or phrase at the end of each element in this series.

Where there is a will, there’s a way. Uncle Ed was going to die soon.

Where there’s a will there’s a way. I was going to be rich soon.

Uncle Ed had tons of money. He had a truckload of gold that he had bought back in the day for $35.00 per ounce. Over the years its value had gone insane—it was now worth $4,000 per ounce. Ed’s “truckload” was probably worth 20 billion dollars.

I had been kissing Uncle Ed’s ass since I was sixteen. I treated him like a king. I got him hooked on cigarettes and fed his desire for alcohol. I can’t tell you how many times I left him passed out in the afternoon. Scoring alcohol wasn’t much of a challenge. My best friend’s father owned a liquor store and my friend supplied me with bottles of Gypsy Rose for free! I was hoping Uncle Ed’s liver would go to hell soon and so would he.

I am ashamed to say, I started drinking Gypsy Rose in the 7th grade. Me and Ed would hoist bottles and toast each other. But, I didn’t lose sight of my goal: do in Uncle Ed’d liver and collect his coins. “Where there’s a will there’s a way,” I said to myself and started going to AA. The group facilitator told me that I was the youngest drunk he had ever met. I felt good about that and got dried out.

I went to visit Uncle Ed. I had a case of Gypsy Rose for him. He reached out his shaking hands to take the wine. He dropped the wine and most of the bottles broke on the floor. Uncle Ed crawled to the kitchen, turned on the oven and stuck his head in. Uncle Ed was going to commit suicide! This was the kind of break I was looking for!

I got the hell out of there. I was almost home when I heard a loud explosion. Uncle Ed had blown himself up with his head in the oven! I heard sirens and went back up the street to watch Uncle Ed’s house burn to the ground. They brought him out on a stretcher. How the hell did he survive? He pointed at me and yelled “It was him! It was him!”

He died before he reached the ambulance. I wasn’t even questioned by the police who thought Uncle Ed was delirious. I was waiting to hear of my gigantic inheritance. I didn’t happen. Uncle Ed left his fortune to “The Wind.” Nobody could figure out who or what that was. So, all that money sits in trust and will be granted to the state of New York if the heir can’t be located.

I have started eating food that gives me gas. I intend to argue the “The Wind” is a reference to my copious farting—that I am “The Wind” and am entitled to the inheritance.

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

The Daily Trope is available in an early edition 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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Synaloepha

Posted on November 25, 2025 | Leave a comment

Synaloepha (sin-a-lif’-a): Omitting one of two vowels which occur together at the end of one word and the beginning of another. A contraction of neighboring syllables. A kind of metaplasm.

Th’ extra strong stench made me cough like an old man at the edge of death! It was like a giant was squatting over the city, farting prolifically, spreading his rotten-smelling gas like a blanket.

My grandfather needed fresh air in his lungs or he would die choking in his hospital bed. He had worked all of his adult life stringing beads in the back room of a head shop in San Fransisco’s Haight Ashbury district. He had gone there after returning from the Vietnam War. In Vietnam, his job was picking up litter from the front steps of CIA headquarters. He would stand watch every day and burn the trash in the Agency’s incinerator. It was believed that VC agents would clandestinely drop poisoned candy wrappers, misleading coded messages, and random trash which often consisted of 8X10 photographs of Ho Chi Minh. Additionally, green pith helmets with gold and red stars pinned on them often littered the steps in the morning.

My grandfather believed it was the poisoned candy wrappers that had affected his lungs, but he couldn’t prove it. So, the VA would not classify it as service connected, so he wasn’t granted disability compensation for his condition. It was sad, but we lived with it. We loved grandpa and would be there with hm until the end, which, given the poor quality of the air here, was very near.

I did some investigating and found out it was the new battery acid factory that was stinking up the air through its prodcton line’s ventilation system. As far as I could see, we had been conned by our Republican mayor Stewart Greedski. As soon as the deal was struck for building the plant, he showed up in a Maserati with a vanity plate saying “OOHTHESMELL.” Clearly, he was an advocate for the factory that was bringing my father’s life to a close.

First, I would assassinate the mayor, and then, burn the factory down.

Sadly, I didn’t fulfill my self-proclaimed mission. My grandfather died and it became pointless.

Our town was named Pine Cone Hamlet when it was founded. It has since been nicknamed “Stinky Town.” The battery acid factory has driven 3/4 of the residents away. I’m moving to Tuber Town on Monday. I will be working in the organic produce section of the Happy Hippy Supermarket, arranging potatoes and learning to juggle them to attract and entertain customers.

I saw my old friend Buzz at the store yesterday. He still lives in Stinky Town. He has a chronic cough and memory problems. He told me that Mayor Greedski had coughed to death in church after singing “Amazing Grace” with the choir. We both laughed. Buzz started coughing and fell to the floor dead.

Stinky Town has become a ghost town. The battery acid factory has relocated to someplace in Texas. Some people say they can hear coughing on the deserted streets of Stinky Town when the moon is full.

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

The Daily Trope is available in an early edition 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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Synathroesmus

Posted on November 24, 2025 | Leave a comment

Synathroesmus (sin-ath-res’-mus): 1. The conglomeration of many words and expressions either with similar meaning (= synonymia) or not (= congeries). 2. A gathering together of things scattered throughout a speech (= accumulatio [:Bringing together various points made throughout a speech and presenting them again in a forceful, climactic way. A blend of summary and climax.]).

I had that same sandwich every day for lunch for nine years—elementary school, middle school, high school. I didn’t dare to trade lunches with my class mates. Ma had told me she would kill me if I did, just like the guy she killed at the supermarket when she set the orange display loose on him and smothered him under a torrent of rolling navel oranges. It was judged an accident so she got off scott free. Nevertheless, when we misbehaved she alluded to the “accident” and the 50 lb. sack of flour on the top shelf of the cupboard with the piece of rope tied around it. When we were bad she made us stand under the flour with her holding the rope. She’d jiggle the rope and make the sack wobble over our heads and imitate a witch cackling. It was traumatic. It instilled in me the belief that only bad things come from above. So much for God and Jesus and miracles. That hymn, “On The Wings of a Snow White Dove,” gave me panic attacks as the “white dove” for me, was a 50 lb. sack of white flour falling from above and breaking my neck.

Heaven, hell, freedom, curse: peanut butter and jelly every day, every week, every year. White bread sliced into triangles. Crusts gone. No redeeming value like duct tape holding the doorknob on your house. Ridiculous, sticky, craven.

In sum, I was a skinny, hyper-nervous kid, suffocating in peanut butter and jelly packed between white bread triangles and eaten every day for lunch. I had to do something. I considered killing my mother, but given my luck, I knew I’d get caught and end up in prison. Instead, I decided to lure her into the cupboard and slash the flour bag and make the flour cascade down on her—covering her in flour and teaching her lesson.

To get her into the cupboard, I told her I noticed that Dad had left a wrapped package in the cupboard right before he ran away with his 20-year old secretary Bunny. With an a angry look on her face Ma said “Yeah?” and started rummaging in the cupboard. I pulled my knife and slit the bag, but I slipped and cut off Ma’s right ear. It was a gusher. Her blood mixed with the flour turned pink—it was not altogether unpleasant. It reminded me of the makings of a Valentine’s Day bundt cake.

Nevertheless, I called 911. Ma was cursing me out as she bled all over the kitchen floor looking for her ear. The ambulance arrived and I picked up her ear—it was lodged under the refrigerator. I had to stick a fork in it to pull it loose.

Ma’s ear was successfully sewn back on, but it was a little crooked. It was bigger than her other ear too, making me think it wasn’t actually her ear. I asked the doctor. He told me hee new ear was harvested from a dead horse whisperer from Montana. Evidently, Ma’s ear was lost on the way to the hospital.

With her new ear, instead of yelling all the time, Ma whispers. This is a huge benefit, although Ma is hard to hear sometimes.

The accident opened a new door in our lives. Ma’s brush with death gave her a new appreciation for life. Now, she works at the pet shop “Roll Over!” She takes care of the Guinea Pigs—feeding them peanut butter and jelly protein treats, brushing them, and whispering to them. But beyond that, she has stopped making peanut butter and jelly sandwiches for me! Instead, she gives me a different frozen meal for lunch every day. The school cafeteria has a microwave oven that I cook my lunch in. Today I had a “Hungry Lumberjack” beef-chicken-beaver dinner with mashed potatoes and beer. It prepared me for my 1:00 creative writing class.

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

The Daily Trope is available in an early edition 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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Synecdoche

Posted on November 23, 2025 | Leave a comment

Synecdoche (si-nek’-do-kee): A whole is represented by naming one of its parts (or genus named for species), or vice versa (or species named for genus).

My 10-inch switchblade flashed in the moonlight. I was going to whack “Shoe” Bigelow, named for the exotic shoes he wore, made from different kinds of skins. He had a pair of jaguar loafers with a black nose and whiskers on each shoe. He had a pair of brogans that were stained with blood from the Battle of Gettysburg in the American Civil War. They were gruesome, but he wore them anyway to intimidate his rivals. Probably the weirdest shoe in his shoe collection was made of dodo bird skin harvested in the late seventeenth century when the dodo went extinct.

I was going to make Shoe Bigelow extinct.

I wasn’t going to club him like the dodos were clubbed. I was going to stick him in the heart for his transgressions against the “Golden Hand,” a social club managing the conduct of crime in our small town in upstate New York. We committed crime in a measured way to keep our profile low and make sure the police would take their bribes and ignore us. Shoe was running wild, trampling on the false trust we had cultivated in our community’s 175 years of existence. Shoe had stolen a baby carriage with the baby still in it. He had committed bigamy with the Mayor’s daughter. He had sold fake Christmas cards door to door. They depicted Jesus pole dancing with a cross on Calvary Hill. He dressed up like the Grim Reaper, scaring everybody out of “Booker T Elementary School,” and then, stealing the day’s lunch money and basketballs from the gym. I have word that he’s at the county flea market selling the balls.

I drove out to the flea market. I walked up to him and said “Hi Shoe.” He threw a ball at me and ran across the field. He tripped and fell on an upturned garden rake. Stabbed by the tines, he flopped around like a speared fish, bled, and died. He was wearing his dodo shoes. I grabbed them and put them in my backpack. A crowd gathered and I slowly walked away, fading back into the flea market.

I get a lot of compliments on the dodo shoes. They’re designed like Chelsea boots and have Vibram soles added in the 1970s by a rich hippie. Back in the day the dodo shoes came with a dodo beak on a lanyard that you could blow on to make dodo sounds, calling the dodos to slaughter.

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

The Daily Trope is available in an early edition 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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Synonymia

Posted on November 22, 2025 | Leave a comment

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.

Big. Large. Huge. Gargantuan. My sunflowers had broken the bands of size. When I planted their little seeds I never imagined they would reach into the sky. I bought the seeds at the farmers market from a guy named Jake. It was a small town and I’d never seen him before. He told me his cousin Jack lived on Maple Street where he tended a small garden for its seeds. He usually grew beans, but claimed he had started experimenting with sunflowers—tall sunflowers. I bought a small bag of what I thought were Jack’s sunflower seeds. They were called “Cloud Kissers.” I thought that was hyperbole and was hoping, at best, for ten-foot high plants.

I planted them on a Friday and when I woke up on Saturday they had grown into the sky. They disappeared into the clouds. Not only that, they were marijuana plants. Jack had lied to me, but to tell the truth, I loved to smoke pot and this was an amazing, stupendous, good thing.

When it neared the time to harvest the buds, I bought rock climbing gear to scale the plants. I had a marajuana leaf painted on my helmet and practiced climbing at “Sheer Drop” at the mall. I was a little uncomfortable practicing at the mall with 12-year old kids, but it was the only option I had.

It was harvest time.

I donned my climbing equipment, adding my electric hedge clippers to cut off the buds. It took me two hours to get to the buds. The air was pretty thin and it was freezing cold. I probably should’ve enlisted my SCUBA tank and worn my snowmobiling snowsuit. But I didn’t. The snot was freezing in my nose as I lopped off the first bud. It was at least three feet around. I was going to be the king of pot! I lopped three more buds, letting them fall to the ground. My lips froze shut and I started to think I was going to freeze to death. Time for an emergency descent! I didn’t know how that was done, but I knew I had to do it or I’d freeze to the pot plant and die.

I picked a marajuana leaf, and cut handholds in it with my hedge trimmer. Then, I grabbed ahold and jumped. The marajuana leaf worked like a hang glider, taking me in for a soft landing about a mile from home. When I got home the giant buds were there on the ground. I pulled a piece off one and packed it into my pipe. I lit up, took a hit and drifted into oblivion. At the edge of unconsciousness, everything took on pastel colors, throbbing. It was righteous. I would never sell this pot. It would be like selling my brother. I went inside and took a nap. When I woke up and went outside, everything was still there. Under a fake name, I rented five self-storage units on the outskirts of town. They’re jam-packed with pot. They wreak to high heaven, but nobody’s complained.

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

The Daily Trope is available in an early edition 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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Synthesis

Posted on November 21, 2025 | Leave a comment

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

The sliding dog tried to break the sound barrier, borne on fresh beet booties marinated in vinegar. He was launched on a football field with a small rocket on his red collar, howling his determination and wagging his tail as he sped along. He failed, but he put on a good show for everybody who came to watch him on his 85th attempt. He modeled perseverance. Bobby was the ultimate Beagle—he kept his tail up and his nose to the ground. He enjoyed leg humping, go fetch, rolling in shit, and tugging on a towel.

I got him from an unbalanced rabbit hunter named Fudd. Fudd had 101 Beagles. They overran his life. When he walked around his fenced yard, it was like he was floating on a sea of tail-wagging barking Beagles. As fast as they had puppies, he gave the puppies away. He would put a big cardboard box filled with puppies on the curb in front of his house. The adult dogs lived in dumpsters that were modified to accommodate them with entrance holes cut out with acetylene torches at the bottom corner of each dumpster—there were 70 dumpsters in his fenced-in back yard. The pet store delivered a pickup truck overflowing with dried dog food every week.

When it came time for a rabbit hunt, Fudd would lasso one of his dogs, shove it in a carrier box, and put it on the back seat of his vintage Oldsmobile. They would drive out to the state land tract on the outskirts of town. He would load his shotgun, turn the dog loose, and wait for some action. On this particular day the dog “opened up” almost immediately, but it wasn’t chasing anything—it was just barking in one place. Then, it came out of the woods carrying a sneaker. The dog turned around and went back in the woods. Fudd followed him.

There was a corpse of a middle-aged woman leaning up against a tree. she had been shot several times in the forehead. She was wearing only one sneaker. Fudd commanded his dog to drop the other sneaker. He put a leash on the dog and they got out of there. Fudd had a criminal record and didn’t want to take any chances with the police. They drove a mile up the road and Fudd turned the dog loose again. The same thing happened, only this time the dead person was sitting in a wheelchair riddled with bullets. He was about 70-75 and had note pinned to his chest. It was full of bullet holes and soaked with blood. Fudd could still read it. It said “I did him a favor.” Fudd said to himself “Mercy killing,” leashed the dog and headed with him back to his car.

When he got out to the road, there was a state trooper standing by his car. He asked to see Fudd’s hunting license. Fudd produced it and the Trooper told him “You’re ok” and Fudd put it back in his wallet and decided it was time to go home. The rabbits could wait.

When he got home, his house was on fire and all of his dogs were gone—“liberated” by the local animal rights activists “Barking Up The Right Tree.” Fudd was furious. He called his homeowners insurance agent and put in a claim for his burnt down home.

“Barking Up The Right Tree” was meeting at the “Doozy Duds” laundromat that afternoon. They had five members. Fudd loaded up what was left of his charred pump shotgun and headed to the laundromat to kill them all. He walked in the front door and the first thing he saw was “Bouncy” Barbara Mills. She was the one woman he had loved in a life littered with pain, rejection, and humiliation. Barbaa looked at him with tears in her eyes and said “My Fuddy.” She ran to Fudd, embracing him and kissing his neck. His thoughts of mass murder quickly faded away and they headed for “Slammin’ Chalets” to reconnect.

Believe it or not, they got married the next week. Fudd bought a new home with his insurance settlement. “Bouncy” is pregnant and Fudd has promised to own no more than 10 Beagles. Rabbit pox has caused a significant setback to rabbit hunting. Fudd has started hunting groundhogs and squirrels, and the occasional house cat.

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

The Daily Trope is available in an early edition 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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Syntheton

Posted on November 20, 2025 | Leave a comment

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

I live somewhere between heaven and hell, New Jersey and Oklahoma, and hook, line and sinker: a trifecta of woe. There is a cloud continuously hovering over my head. It rains on my parade and strikes me with lightening illuminating my inhumanity. I have two arms, two legs, a body and a head that talks, but I fall short of being human.

I have no empathy. I am missing the feeling in my gut that most people get when they witness horror with a human cost—a teenage girl impaled on a tree branch after being hurled from her boyfriend’s pickup truck, moaning with pain in her final moments—bleeding, dying five feet away from where you stand in shock. This is an experience that will haunt you with inner tumult for the rest of your life—with the empathy embedded in your gut. Medication and counseling will help you deal with your PTSD. But me? Nothing.

Or, what about the time I saw a mother (a friend of mine) yelling at her toddler—a little being barely able to understand language. She was blaming the child for her losses at the horse track where we were. She was shaking the child. So far, she had bet on four races and lost them all. She had smuggled the child into the track in her oversized purse. I didn’t care, and didn’t care that I didn’t care.

The child’s name was Marlon and there was a horse named Brando running in the next race: Marlon Brando—it had to be a winner. She hadn’t bet on a winning horse for years—they all lost. At Gamblers Anonymous she had been encouraged to stay away from the track—it was poison to her. She didn’t care. She headed for the betting window with every cent she had. She bet it on Brando and waited for the race to begin. She lost everything. Brando ran last. I felt nothing—it was almost as if nothing had happened. Nothing.

She was crying and banging her head on the track’s rail. Her forehead was bleeding. I felt nothing standing there holding her smuggled child’s hand. “Take the little f*ck!” she yelled as she climbed the pole at the finish line. She reached the top and jumped and smashed her head. The EMT said she died instantly. I felt nothing. I left the child there alone, but I had second thoughts and went back. He was standing right where I left him. I wrote out a note that said “His mother is dead” and taped it to his forehead with a piece of the duct tape I keep in my car’s glove compartment. I drove him to his grandmother’s, rang the doorbell, and ran back to my car. I didn’t want to get involved. I felt that was an improvement over feeling nothing.

I was becoming human.

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

The Daily Trope is available in an early edition 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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Synzeugma

Posted on November 19, 2025 | Leave a comment

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.

“That’s how a life bereft of morals goes, bereft of edification, bereft of charity, empty as a dog dish waiting to be filled. But the emptiness bears a quality—a palpable quality, a negative quality inducing hunger—a distraction from a feeling of comfort, without the anxiety of deprecation, of lack, of absence—of the absence of something desired—warmth, physical contact, a favorite TV show—‘Andy of Mayberry,’ ‘Slow Horses,’ or ‘Carbon Dating,’ a show where contestants compete for the affections of people over 80.”

This is the opening paragraph of my creative writing assignment: “Plumb Truth.” My assignment’s tentative title is “Around the Bend: Building a Nietzschean Nest in the Valley of the Deaf.” I’m not very insightful when it comes to truth. But I feel confident that in the valley of the deaf, the one-eared man has an advantage.

My dad was a professional wrestler. Mad Dog Dynamite had bitten of his ear. He sued, and settled for 2-million dollars. So, being a one-eared man afforded him many benefits: a villa in South Beach Miami, a Rolls Royce, and countless beautiful girlfriends. Eventually he married one—Steamy Lakes. She’s my mom. Dad didn’t like it, but she was a dedicated pole dancer. We had two poles set up in the family room where mom and I danced to classics like “Disco Inferno.” These are some of my most fond memories. We would sweat and wriggle like two nervous snakes. Sometimes we would hiss just for the heck of it.

I had a girlfriend, Eloise. She said she came from Mars. She wore two antennas on her head all the time. When she was aroused they turned red. That convinced me she wasn’t faking it—that they were actually an outgrowth of her body, and possibly, tokens of her being from Mars. She could tune into radio broadcasts from anywhere in the world and channel them through her mouth. I enjoyed Radio Belize for its unbiased news reporting. Unfortunately, Eloise disappeared one day—there was a roaring sound in the yard that left a large smoking circle. I believe it was Eloise going back home. I think her parents made her leave Earth because she was getting too attached to me. I do think we loved each other. I miss her, maybe too much. I bought blueprints for a rocket ship from “Space WXYZ,” Elon Musk’s DYI space ship company.

My “Ship” came with no guarantee. It cautions that taking off in it will likely result in being burned alive. I was blinded by love, so I was willing to take a chance.

I have burns over 100% of my body.

Eloise came down from Mars and hovered over my hospital bed. Her tears dripped on my bedsheets. They were different colors—red, green, blue and purple. She lowered herself to about a foot above my body and put her hands on either side of my head. I felt like a great weight had been lifted and I was healed! I sat up and hugged Eloise. She said, “I hear my mother calling me” and disappeared.

I told my father what had happened. Now I’m on medication and seeing a counseling psychologist once a week. I can tell that she thinks I’m a total nutcase. So far, we’ve talked about my memories of being born. I told her I thought it was like a vaginal dump; that I was a crying pink poop. My therapist was visibly excited when I told her that—rubbing her hands together and saying “Yes, yes, yes!” Of course, I was lying. I had no recollections, but I wanted to give us something to talk about. We spent the next two months talking about it, then, I quit seeing her.

I was starting to worry about completing “Around the Bend: Building a Nietzschean Nest in the Valley of the Deaf.” I wish I had a deeper reservoir of experiences to draw on. I figured that a couple of all-nighters would do the trick. Adderal, Red Bull, and Marlboros would pull me through. I was confident.

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

The Daily Trope is available in an early edition 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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Systrophe

Posted on November 18, 2025 | Leave a comment

Systrophe (si’-stro-fee): The listing of many qualities or descriptions of someone or something, without providing an explicit definition.

“Five foot two, eyes of blue. Big fat ass blowing gas. Feet lke logs, croak like frogs. Fingernails like knives, scratch her hives. Nose like a cliff. It can’t take a whiff.”

Has anybody seen my science project?

Her name is Frankenbarbra and she’s wandering the grounds. I know she can’t escape from Franken U. The walls are tall and electrified with enough voltage to kill a potential escapee. She was originally “harvested” from a grave in the faculty cemetery at M.I.T. (a graveyard filled with genius’s) by my idiot minion Eager. He dragged her to my lab from the cemetery—a distance of eight miles. She was a mess by the time she got here. I had Eager give her a bath and dress her in clean clothes—a nightgown imprinted with Tinkerbells and bunny rabbits. I laid her on the operating table and hooked a car battery to her ears with jumper cables. There was smoke and a little crackling sound and she sat up. She said “This is bullshit.” She tore the jumper cables off her ears and ran out of my lab. I called “Frankeenbarbara, Frankenbarbara,” out my lab’s window. There was no answer.

I grabbed Eager and we took off to find her. If we couldn’t find her, at best, I’d get a “D” on my resurrection assignment. Franken U. had rigorous standards. My professor, Carl “Dolly” Pearton, was very strict about losing subjects. He wouldn’t hesitate to cut off one of my fingers if I screwed up. One of my fellow students only had 4 fingers left after screwing up as many times. So, Eager and I went hunting for Frankenbarbara.

We found her leaning against the wall clutching an arm and a leg that had fallen off of her. This wasn’t unusual for resurrected cadavers. She wasn’t going anywhere unless she crawled. I had installed an emergency “off” switch in her head before I juiced her with the car battery. I stuck my finger in her left ear, pressed, and she went back to “deceased.” I carried her arm and leg while Eager dragged the rest of her back to my lab. Professor Pearton was waiting at the door with a meat cleaver. He checked out Frankenbarbara and determined that, despite the detached leg and arm, she was whole enough to keep experimenting on. My finger was spared.

What a relief!

During the year, I succeeded in bringing Frankenbarbara back to life! She is employed by the University and works in the University dining hall setting tables and refilling napkin holders and salt and pepper shakers. She has her own staff room and, despite her smell, has a small circle of friends making up a book club that meets on Thursday nights. Currently, they are discussing a book about belly-dancing blue-haired women. It is titled “Dancitude in Miami.”

I earned an “A” on my Frankenbarbara project. I went on to earn a degree in Mortuary Science. Every time I reach inside a dead client to yank out their guts, I think of Frankenbarbara. Although I never eviscerated her, I think she has been a real inspiration.

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

The Daily Trope is available in an early edition 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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Tapinosis

Posted on November 17, 2025 | Leave a comment

Tapinosis (ta-pi-no’-sis): Giving a name to something which diminishes it in importance.

I was trying to become some kind of Buddhist. I needed to give up my attachment to the material world. Once freed, I would be Enlightened. Accordingly, I believed calling everything “shit” would set me free. Who wants to be attached to shit? Only a mentally ill person would!

So I started calling everything “shit.” I called my dog Shit. When I called him at the doggy park, people looked at me like I was mentally ill. I told them that calling my dog “Shit” was part of my path to enlightenment. Some of them laughed, but most of them turned and walked rapidly away. Some said “poor man” and offered to give me a ride home. I refused—I could feel the enlightenment coursing through my body, cleansing it of its attachment to the foul garbage heap world.

Things came to a head when I told my girlfriend Molly that she had become shit to me. I was going to use that statement as an intro to the story of my progress toward enlightenment—her becoming shit to me was a milestone because I had been so attached to her. Molly didn’t give me a chance to get my story out of my mouth. She sprayed me in the face with a good dose of pepper spray. I had given it to her on her birthday for self-protection. While I was rolling around on the ground crying, she put her foot on my throat and yelled “If I’m shit, you’re a puddle of steaming vomit! Now I know why you shaved your head and started wearing orange robes. You’re a loser. You’ll never become enlightened by calling everything shit!” With that, she removed her foot from my throat and kicked me several times in the stomach.

I was starting to think my “shit” strategy wasn’t working. No matter how I tried to think of everything as shit, their reality leaked through. My dog Rip was still Rip no mater how many times I called him Shit. And Molly. My god, calling her shit was the biggest mistake of my life. I don’t think I’ll ever be able to make it up to her. It gave me an ache in my stomach.

My doorbell rang. It was Molly. She asked me if she was still shit. I said “No.” She forgave me. Her compassion restored my hope and taught me what it means to be enlightened.

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

The Daily Trope is available in an early edition 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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