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Antisthecon

Posted on June 25, 2024 | Leave a comment

Antisthecon (an-tis’-the-con): Substitution of one sound, syllable, or letter for another within a word. A kind of metaplasm: the general term for changes to word spelling.

I was lost. I was always lost. When I was headed to Alabama in search of wisdom and a catfish sandwich. I ended up on the beach in Corpus Christi with a banjo super glued to my knee. I know it sounds crazy, and it is! It took a week to find a solvent that would cut th glue. While I was waiting I had to wear shorts all the time and I pretty much stayed in my hotel room reading. I read four books. The best was “I Was a Teenage Middle-Aged Man.” It grabbed my hart-strings and womped my soul. The man was known as “Bill Booring.” Only gin and tonic would put him on a role—three and he became the lite of the party—juggling 3 flashlights while the other partygoers watched, awestruck.

Anyway, I hired a certified “Wayfinder” to lead me “somewhere.” I had spent more time in the middle of nowhere than any human being should. The middle of nowhere can range from a Kansas cornfield to a Mormon commune somewhere at the outside edge of Utah, somewhere near Nevada. I once spent a week at a landfill that had all the trappings of nowhere—which will remain unstated here. The worst was the Microsoft administrative offices. The people all looked the same—all men, perfect teeth, skinny asses, glasses, white socks with black shoes. They treated me like I was one of those poison toads. When they talked they sounded like mating gerbils—or muskrats in love. When I tried to leave, the supervisor gave me a work pouch—a large zip loc bag containing black shoes, white socks, clip-on teeth and an elastic ass shrinker. I said “No thanks!” And threw the bag on the floor. A “Get Out” app came out of the floor and grabbed me by the feet and dragged me out the door.

The “somewhere” I went to first with my Wayfinder was Grant’s Tomb” in NYC. It was somewhere for sure! It is gigantic and you can smell cigar smoke wafting through the air. Then, we went to Howe Caverns in Central New York. It was a thrill riding the elevator to the caverns and riding in a boat to view them. I thought I saw my dead grandmother float past—it was like the River Styx.

I’ve been traveling with my Wayfinder to “somewheres” around the world. Next, we are headed to a place called Chernobyl. It is in Russia. There, we hope to see the five-legged dog, the man with nine penises and the woman with a fin on her back between her shoulders.

So you can see! No more middle of nowhere for me! We’re speeding to the airport in my Somewhere Mobile. It always takes us somewhere after my Wayfinder programs it.

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

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

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Antithesis

Posted on June 23, 2024 | Leave a comment

Antithesis (an-tith’-e-sis): Juxtaposition of contrasting words or ideas (often, although not always, in parallel structure).

Either or. In out. You know what I’m talking about—all the opposites that send us on decision’s trajectory, and may be accented by all the in-between, which themselves maybe further divided. We live in a world of thought that is fissured and refissured, over and over.

The divisions create conflict, hierarchies, and coerced choosing. I see it every day at my fruit stand. “Oh dear, should I get the strawberries or blueberries?” I say “get both” and some customers do get both. But most go into a quandary and I end up telling them which one to choose. People with lots of money tend to buy one of everything—from apples to zoo fruit, which is a really weird fruit. Two bites and you become a honey bear—only in your head. Zoo Fruit is still legal, but not for long. People who are “on” the fruit can be seen trying to climb telephone poles and rummaging for figs in the grocery store, or surreptitiously eating a mango in the grocery store’s back storage area, making loud slurping sounds and bouncing up and down. If you know what’s going on, it shouldn’t be alarming, but if you’re not familiar with the Mango Dance it can be shocking. The police are routinely summoned and they have to explain what’s going on to the naive observer. This usually works out just fine. Yet, there is a group that want Zoo Fruit banned.

They claim the “Zoosters” make a mess and mate in the back rooms of grocery stores.These assertions are both lies. There has never been a recorded instance of either one. In fact, the opposition group was caught making a sexually explicit movie in a grocery store to pass off as zoosters mating. They were fined $3,000 and prohibited from the back rooms of grocery stores forever.

Still, the legalization of Zoo Fruit is in jeopardy. Mango growers are up in arms over the mango eating zoosters giving their product a bad name. We laugh at that!

Anyway, I have to help this customer make a choice between apples and oranges. She says she teaches logic at Martha Washington College. In her mind apples and oranges are an irreconcilable binary—like spam and pork roll—that can’t be mixed. Buying both would violate logic’s primary axiom and put her life into free fall. I recommended she consider the peaches. She picked an apple up and ran away, stepping in a large puddle, slipping, falling down and dropping the apple. People started laughing and she yelled, “Do you know who I am?” Somebody said “Nobody gives a shit lady, this is New York.” I picked up my apple and threw it at her. It hit her in the head. Then I said, “That’ll be a Buck-fifty Ma’m. Cash only. I’ll throw the orange in for free.”

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

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

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Antitheton

Posted on June 22, 2024 | Leave a comment

Antitheton (an-tith’-e-ton): A proof or composition constructed of contraries. Antitheton is closely related to and sometimes confused with the figure of speech that juxtaposes opposing terms, antithesis. However, it is more properly considered a figure of thought (=Topic of Invention: Contraries [a topic of invention in which one considers opposite or incompatible things that are of the same kind (if they are of different kinds, the topic of similarity / difference is more appropriate). Because contraries occur in pairs and exclude one another, they are useful in arguments because one can establish one’s case indirectly, proving one’s own assertion by discrediting the contrary]).

The full moon was like a pitted rock hanging in the sky. Its beams of light were soft and bright, casting shadows across the mall parking lot. The street lights’ shadows stretched across the asphalt making it seem like daytime. I had been sitting there for an hour, waiting for Becky, waiting for our bi-monthly romp at the “Gallopin’ Rabbit” motel. We were both married. We were both wicked. I had met Becky at church. She sat close to me, touching me. When we stood to sing the hymn, she squeezed my butt cheek and stuffed a business card in my back pocket. My wife didn’t even notice. She was too busy praising the Lord.

When I got home, I read the card: “Lookin’ for love in all the wrong places. Becky: 214–555-6969.” Should I call her? If I do, it will probably end badly. But, I would miss out on the pleasures of the flesh that surely awaited me with Becky. i thought it might ruin my marriage. But I laughed to myself—“My marriage is already ruined. Haha.”

So I called her and we met at the Gallopin’ Rabbit. We went wild. The room’s windows were steamed up and I learned two new positions—the “Merry-Go-Round” and “Mozart’s Banana.” My life was complete. Becky had become my shelter in life’s storms.

We were going to meet tonight in my car to discuss the possibly of divorcing our spouses and getting married.

Suddenly there was a bump on my car’s rear bumper. I thought it was Becky fooling around. It wasn’t. It was a red 1960 Plymouth. I recognized it because it was the first car I ever loved as a kid. A short man with a foot long white beard wearing a New York Yankees uniform got out of the Plymouth. I got out of my car and walked up to him. He punched me in the nose and yelled “You’re wreckin’ your life boy. You’re on the highway to hell. Forget about Becky. Play ball with me and you’ll be Ok. I’m Yogi’s grandfather. Would I lie?”

Just then, Becky pulled up. She and the old man got in his car and drove away, burning rubber. I just stood there. I thought about chasing them down, but, then I thought “Why bother. I don’t want her any more. She’s no good.” Then the Plymouth flew overhead with the Shirelles blasting “Will you still love me tomorrow.” That was like another punch in the nose, but the flying Plymouth erased all my doubts about everything I ever doubted. Nobody would believe me when I told them about it. I gave up and stopped caring.

One day when I was headed out to work, I saw Becky dead on my front lawn. She was wearing a short black dress and red high heels. She looked like she had fallen from the sky. Her neck and back were broken. I knew exactly what had happened, but I wasn’t going to tell anybody. I reported it to the police and went to work. Later that day I was called in for questioning. The police had found a nude photograph of me tucked in Becky’s bra. I was arrested and tried for murder. In the newspaper it was called the “Front Lawn Murder.” I got off on a technicality. I had a nervous breakdown and am currently under care at “Root and Branch Home for Total Lunatics.” One of the orderlies is a short old man with a foot-long white beard. Whenever we cross paths he points at me laughs and I yell “Murderer!”

I was finally allowed to go on a home visit. When I got there in a cab, I saw a red 1960 Plymouth back out of the driveway and run over the spot where Becky had fallen from the sky. The Shirelles were playing on the radio. I got out of the cab, walked to the front door and rang the doorbell. My wife answered the door wearing a scanty nightgown, surely from Frederick’s of Hollywood. She said, “I wasn’t expecting you.” I took her by the hand and walked into the kitchen, turned on the blender and stuck her hand in it. We told the insurance company it was an accident. She was remorseful about the bearded man and told me she would never tell how I was responsible for the loss of her left hand. Then, I heard a horn honking in the driveway. It was the red 1960 Plymouth. I ran upstairs and got my .45 so I could blow the bastard away. By the time I got downstairs, he was gone. There was a note in the driveway: “I hope you’re enjoying my twin brother’s company at Root and Branch. Haha. Lunatic.”

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

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

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Apagoresis

Posted on June 21, 2024 | Leave a comment

Apagoresis (a-pa-gor’-e-sis): A statement designed to inhibit someone from doing something. Often uses exaggeration [or hyperbole] to persuade. It may combine an exaggeration with a cause/effect or antecedent/consequence relationship. The consequences or effects of such a phrase are usually exaggerated to be more convincing.

“If you don’t stop peeing on the toilet seat, I will kill you” my mother said. She was the only one who complained in the whole family—2 brothers, 3 sisters and Dad. Why should I put the seat up just to pee? It is a waste of time. It was summer and I had to be at the playground by 10 to get into the all-day horseshoe match. They called me Mr. Ringer. It was the only thing I was really good at aside from doing wheelies on my banana-seat bike. I could go a whole block.

So, I ignored my mother’s admonition. I made a sign and tapeed it to the open toilet seat lid: “Wipe me off with a piece of toilet paper, stupid.” I figured that would do the trick—that she’d get off my back and I could have a good summer.

When I came home from the playground, my mother was waiting in the living room. She said: “Johnny, I told you I would kill you if you didn’t stop peeing on the toilet seat. I keep my word.” She pulled a Ruger from her purse and aimed it at my head. Then, she stuck it in my back and marched me to the bathroom. The toilet was just as I had left it with pee drops on the seat. “Sit!” She said. I was terrified—I was going to die sitting in my pee. She told me to close my eyes. I heard my father’s voice saying “Now?” “Yes, go ahead.” said my mother. I felt warm liquid hitting me in the face. I felt sick and opened my eyes. Dad had a squirt gun, and was squirting warm water all over me. I was relieved!

I had learned my lesson, I thought. My mother aimed the Ruger between my eyes. She pulled the trigger and a flag came out of the barrel that said “Put up the seat or die.” We all laughed. The next morning I forgot to put the toilet seat up. My mother shot me in the leg when I came home from the playground. She was arrested for attempted manslaughter. I found out when I was in the hospital that a good number of boys are shot by their mothers for peeing on the toilet seat. In fact, it’s almost become normal.

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

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Aphaeresis

Posted on June 20, 2024 | Leave a comment

Aphaeresis (aph-aer’-e-sis): The omission of a syllable or letter at the beginning of a word. A kind of metaplasm.

‘Bout time you got here Bozo. You know, time does not last forever. It is like a frozen lily or a bowl of ice cream. Here today, gone to Hoboken tomorrow. It’s complicated. It’s complex. It’s convoluted. It goes tick tock or it hums with electric inner workings.

I tried to explain the majesty of time to my nephew. I bought him a wristwatch on his third birthday. He said, “Time fly” and threw it at the living room wall, laughing. The watch was destroyed. I wanted to hit him, but I knew my sister would get mad, so I hit her instead. She punched me between the eyes and I fell down. When I woke up I had a cuckoo clock mounted on my head. I couldn’t remove it and it never needed winding. I would cuckoo every hour, without fail. I’d be riding on the bus and I’d start to cuckoo. It irritated the other passengers, and often, I’d be removed from the bus forcefully by them—once when the buss was moving.

So finally, I got a job as a cuckoo clock in a pawn shop. I was not for sale and lived in the back room of the pawn shop, “Mr. Fence’s.”

Then one day I was standing there marking time when a pocket watch flew through the door like a flying saucer. It hovered in front of my face and said “Your time is up.” My cuckoo clock fell off my head and smashed on the floor. I was “normal” again! I thanked the pocket watch and it said “no problem” as it settled in to the top of my head.

Suddenly my mind was filled with sayings about time—time flies, time is a thief, a stitch in tine, let the good times roll, etc. I didn’t know what it all meant. But I felt like I was becoming a ticking time bomb. I lost my job and wandered the streets of Athens, GA. The pocket watch said “You need a time out.” The pocket watch had an alarm. I was hired by a wealthy man to be his human alarm clock. He would set me before he went to bed and I would wake him up in the morning. If he did not get up, I would yell at him. One morning he hit me in the face with a hiking boot. I had no idea why. I retaliated with my box cutter. Now I’m serving 12 years for manslaughter. Time passes slowly here in prison, but there’s a time and a place for everything. I’ll serve my time and then take my time rebuilding my life. My hope is to learn how to repair wall clocks, and time is on my side. I’m only 34. The pocket watch is hidden away in my hair. He served my time with me. We’re together all the time, but he stopped talking to me. I think his battery went dead around five years ago. Oh well, off we go. We can’t afford to waste any time.

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

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

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Aphorismus

Posted on June 19, 2024 | Leave a comment

Aphorismus ( a-phor-is’-mus): Calling into question the proper use of a word.

Rick: He has a peach on his mind. Me: I think you mean “leech.”

Rick: oh you must be right, even though it never occurred to me. Your book “Right Word, Right Life” shows should’ve been in my hand. I wear it around my neck on a bootlace, but I’m reticent to use it all the time. Me: Uh oh. It’s “hesitant” not “reticent.” Shame on you for word abuse. I’m gong to have to fine you $50. I let “peach” slide. It is a common and quite harmless error. In fact, peach is the most misused word in the English language, right next to “addendum.” There’s an ATM right across the street. Get the money or you’re going to the Thesaurus for the night. You’ll be made to say the same thing in different ways until bedtime. You will be given a ten pound dictionary for a pillow and expired galley proofs for a blanket—boring classifieds from years ago.

Nobody knows why, but “Criers” are housed in Thesaurus too. Criers have an inherited malady that has been traced to the Stoic Marcus Aurelius. Criers cry for no reason. Sometimes they sniffle, but often they blow a bomb laced with machine gun-like sobs. That’s why they are jailed here in our little corner of dystopia. Marcus Aurelius developed Stoicism in an attempt to stem crying. It didn’t work, so he came up with idea that you can’t control how people see you, so screw it and them. This made him happy.

Roy Orbison is a noteworthy 20th century Cryer. He was “all right for a while” but then he had an uncontrollable crying fit, and had a hit record.

So now you have the whole picture. Get me the $50 now or I’m calling backup.

Rick: I’m reticent to . . .

Me: Stop! I’m calling backup. Be prepared to be kept awake by the Cryers! You fool. You foul-mouth turkey butt. You’re a rotten peach.

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

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

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Apocarteresis

Posted on June 18, 2024 | Leave a comment

Apocarteresis (a-po-car-ter’-e-sis): Casting of all hope away from one thing and placing it on another source altogether.

For most of my life I believed there was a magical creature assigned to me and only me by Buck England, patron to people of all sizes and ages, with or without limbs, anemia, and good posture. My assigned creature was the family dog. It took me years to work out the patterns in Magchop’s barks. I would ask hm a question and he would “wooferate” an answer. To outsiders, it looked like he was just barking at me. I would give hm a treat and go on with my life. Magchop’s advice wasn’t always on the mark, and I would pay for it. For example, once advised me to squeeze my teacher’s boobs. I was expelled from school, chafed with assault, and put on probation for 5 years and undergo rigorous psychological counseling. I prayed to Buck England for a new magical creature. He sent me a raccoon. The family dog mysteriously ran away. The raccoon’s name was Dicky Dumpster.

All of his advice cycles around rummaging in trash receptacles where I would eventually discover untold wealth and delicious leftovers. My first nightt out I was bitten on my finger by a rat.

So, here I am. No more Buck England for me! I’m moving on to better things. I’m moving on to bibliomancy. I’m using “Dr. Zhivago” as my text. I open the text to a random page and then point at a sentence, which becomes my guide for the day. in my first attempt I bought a snow blower, even though I live in South Florida. I’m not sure what to do with it, but I’m sure time will tell. Maybe I can use it to till my garden or weed my lawn.

I am generally happy with my venture into bibliomancy. Today, I decided to enlist in the army and become an aristocrat.

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

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

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Apocope

Posted on June 17, 2024 | Leave a comment

Apocope (a-pok’-o-pe): Omitting a letter or syllable at the end of a word. A kind of metaplasm.

“Nothin’ says lovin’ like somethin’ from the oven.” Why do I remember this? I don’t remember what it’s a slogan for—maybe oven, or cake or a Thanksgiving turkey. I can see us now—huddled around the table—the table piled high with steaming food. My Grandfather would slip out his 2 foot carving knife—so dull it shouldn’t be called a knife. It was more like a tire iron. He’d slam it down on the turkey, and as he started to carve, the turkey would move around propelled by the dull blade

Uncle Carmine would yell “Chadrool” from across the table and pull out a ten inch switchblade knife, get up, and push my grandfather out of his chair. He had the turkey sliced and diced in about two minutes—he was like one of those Japanese chefs at Benihana. Aunt Candice told Carmine he should apologize to grandpa for pushing him. He told he to go “F” herself. Her husband, Uncle Buck didn’t like that one bit. He told Carmine “You apologize to Candice or I’ll cut off your nuts and put ‘em in the gravy.”

Carmine was ready to blow. Then Grandma chimed in: “Stop this bullshit right now—nobody’s going to cut off anybody’s nuts. This is Thanksgiving for God’s sake. Carmine! Apologize!” Carmine closed his switchblade and apologized.

Uncle Filbert started the prayer. He was a fake Catholic Bishop. He had no pull or influence as such. His primary motive was the vestments. He loved going to the mall in full dress and have people make the sign of the cross at him, and from time to time he would say “Bless you.” He began the prayer: “Father, thank-you for the bounty we are . . .”

Carmine yelled “Fuc*k you!” He grabbed his wife’s arm and headed for the door. Filbert yelled “You Goddamn hothead. Go! Leave! Get out of here. May your mother burn in hell!” Carmine pulled his knife and started climbing across the table. Filbert held up his cruxifix like he was trying to ward off a vampire. Grandpa hit Carmine over the head with a silver gravy boat. The gravy poured over Carmine’s face and he hit the floor out cold.

Thanksgiving dinner went on with unconscious Carine stretched out on the kitchen floor. It was peaceful. It was family like it ought to be. After we finished dessert, Grandma called an ambulance for Carmen. As they wheeled him out the front door we yelled “Asshole” in one familial voice. He heard us and started struggling on the gurney. Grandpa said “We shoulda’ killed him.” We all laughed, even Carmine’s wife and children.

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

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

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Apoplanesis

Posted on June 14, 2024 | Leave a comment

Apoplanesis (a-po-plan’-e-sis): Promising to address the issue but effectively dodging it through a digression.

I now you are all interested in the fate of The Modern Bungee Company. We’ve been boinging people up and down for the past forty years. And we mustn’t forget the hundreds of young men and women who jumped off bridges and soiled themselves.

I will address the reasons behind Big Bungee’s pending demise and the liquidation of its inventory.

The liquidation goes like auctions where everything you strived and sacrificed for is strewn across a warehouse floor and listed in a catalogue with its opening bid.

I saw the letter opener my father gave me. Opening bid $1.00. I never used it, but I would have if there had been any envelopes to open. I used email and text messages. I put the letter opener in my desk and that’s where it stayed. Until now.

I saw my computer. It had a sign on it that said “Adults Only.” I’m not surprised. I used my computer primarily to view and download porn. I find porn inspiring and I think it makes me a better person. The actors are carefree and in search of pleasure. Although we’re not all carefree, we all search for pleasure. What’s wrong with that? To be sure, I wasted a lot of time as CEO watching porn, but the opening bid is higher on my computer than any of the company’s computers.

Then, there’s the fake award I kept hanging on the wall behind my desk. That goes hand in hand with the photoshopped photo of me shaking hands with Joe Biden. The award was a 2×2 foot plaque mounted on walnut. It was for “Being the Most Impactful Steward of a Gold-Plated Business Venture.” In the award’s narrative I was cited for greatness in the line of duty. It was a real honor, too bad it was fake. I had an employee who suspected the veracity of the award. Sadly, he was found in a vat of molten rubber. Too bad.

The picture with Biden is for keeping up with my brother. He has a picture of himself shaking hands with Trump. We both know it’s fake, but it’s fun to play these games, and pretend we care about each other. We hate each other. I fantasize about killing him with a jackhammer.

Well, it’s time to go home. Drive carefully. Oh. There are some cookies left over. You may grab one or two on your way out. Chocolate chip is my favorite.

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

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

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Aporia

Posted on June 13, 2024 | Leave a comment

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

“Do you like women out on work release?” That’s what it said on the dating site “Dating the Damned.” It was sponsored by the New York State Department of Corrections. It was believed that forming relationships would help rehabilitate offenders. The name of the site was offensive, but it had been coined by the Director who is known for his insensitivity, hollowness, and broken sense of humor, He has a chair in his office labeled “The Chair,” after the electric chair, a banned form of execution due to its cruelty and frequent malfunctioning, where for example victims would smoke and bounce around and survive, only to be re-executed the following day. And then, if he has negative feedback, you “get the chair” by being made to sit in the chair while he yells at you.

So I say to myself, “Should I give the woman on work release a spin? What could be the possible benefit? There’s only one way to find out.” I contacted her. Her name was Martha Muzzle. We made a date to meet at I-Hop. She ordered the Pink Pirate pancakes. She poured ketchup on them and spit n them and stabbed them repeatedly with a knife. She had a twisted look on her face and said “you bastard” over and over as she stabbed the pancakes. I told her I thought she was she was filled with emotion and it was beautiful. She pointed the knife at me and said “Good. How’d you like to be my next bastard?” I looked at my watch and said “Wo! It’s time for you to get back to the half-way house. I’ll drive you.” As we drove along, I noticed she had stolen the knife from I-Hop, and it was pointing at my leg. She said “Feel like bleeding?” Without waiting for my answer, she jammed the knife into my leg and said, “The halfway house is right there. I’ll get out and walk. I hope we can have another date.” She kissed me on the cheek and hopped out of my car.

I drove myself to the hospital. They asked what had happened. As I told them they nodded their heads and told me I was the fifth victim that month. I called the police. They told me she was about to go back to prison and that she would be tried for multiple stabbings, none of them fatal. I couldn’t contain my anger. I got my old baseball bat out of my garage and went to the halfway house to beat her to death. She opened the door and stabbed me in the stomach. I fell to the floor and she yelled “You bastard!” and kicked me in the stomach. Luckily, one of the residents called the police and an ambulance.

I’ve healed, but I’m lonely. For some reason “Dating the DamnEd” still appeals to me. In a way Martha Muzzle was exciting, even though she almost cost me my life. My new interest is Bongos Beatty. I’ve bought a Glock to take on our first date. Self defense is always a good excuse for murder.

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

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

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Aposiopesis

Posted on June 12, 2024 | Leave a comment

Aposiopesis (a-pos-i-o-pee’-sis): Breaking off suddenly in the middle of speaking, usually to portray being overcome with emotion.

My time is. . . is run . . . ing out. The clouds are gathering. My sight is dimming. Shot 42 times in the stomach I should be dead already. I can hear you asking through the fog of my demise: “How do you know it’s 42 times.” I don’t know. It’s hyperbole, a figure of speech. Maybe if I said 100 times it would be clearer that I’m exaggerating for effect. You know, like there’s a million reasons for you to shut up and let me die in peace. But, there wasn’t going to be any peace. A dog started barking in his face and a car alarm went off and a motorcycle roared by.

Maybe his final wish would be fulfilled: win $5,500 on the Take Five scratch-off lotto ticket. His brother Thor was kneeling alongside him. They had been on their way to the marijuana dispensary to get a vape for their dad for Father’s Day. With great effort he pulled his wallet from his back pocket, pulled out a dollar, and told his brother to go to Cliff’s and get him a Take Five scratch-off lotto ticket, and also, call an ambulance.

He had been shot up by a gang of crackheads who roamed the neighborhood, mugging people, pushing people down and yelling insults—then they’d go back to their crackden and gloat over the evil they’d done. Somehow, they had gotten their hands on a bunch of handguns. They were shooting them in the air and dancing around. One of them tripped and accidentally shot him. If only he had been running his usual 3-card Monte scam, he would not have been shot. The crackheads had apologized promised him an ounce of crack if he kept his mouth shut.

Keeping his dying wish, his brother came running up the sidewalk waving the lotto ticket. He handed it to his brother who vigorously scratched it. It won a free Take Five ticket. He tore it up, dug out another dollar and told his brother to get another one.

Just then, the ambulance pulled up. The attendant said “What’s this red stuff?” and laughed. He said, “It’s my blood you f-ing shit for brains!” The attendant said “if you keep talking to me like that, we’ll leave you here.” He laughed again. They loaded him in the ambulance and took off for the hospital siren blaring. He underwent 6 hours of surgery, removing the bullets from his stomach. He died asking for his lotto ticket.

Meanwhile, his brother came back and nobody was there, so he scratched off the lotto ticket. He had hit the $5,500 jackpot. He kept it for himself.

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

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

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Apostrophe

Posted on June 11, 2024 | Leave a comment

Apostrophe (a-pos’-tro-phe): Turning one’s speech from one audience to another. Most often, apostrophe occurs when one addresses oneself to an abstraction, to an inanimate object, or to the absent.

“Marty had a little clam. It’s shell was brown as mud. It followed him to school one day and was dissected in biology class. Mrs. Smart pulled out his guts and swung then around, making them go up and down. The clamshell was made into a brooch painted with purple flowers. Marty sold it at the farmers market for”$2.00 and bought 10 comic books for him to read in bed.”

Now, this story is all well and good with the exception of the walking clam. There is no such thing as a walking clam. If there were, they’d sell clam leashes at pet stores. And that’s that. The story is fictional, and certainly, is a vehicle for animal activists—the clam as alive when it is dissected—alive! If clams could only speak and cry out. What would the clam say?

What would you say clam? “Ow that hurts. Stop. You are killing me. Ooh that’s my belly! Yaaaa! Hellp! My foot—it’s ooozing.”

Now you are dead poor clam—diced up for no good reason. Laid out on a blood-stained table for the children to see—to learn it’s ok to hack things up for, in this case, for a lesson in biology. And then, the children are given dead frogs to hack up and revel in removing their organs and learning the organs’ names which should be “perversion” and “madness.” The children go home and attempt to to practice their new found skill on their puppies. They put the puppy in the oven and turn on the gas. Once the gas has done its job, they take the puppy out of the oven, lay it on a cutting board on the counter by the kitchen sink. They find a steak knife and begin their macabre task. When his mother returns home she sees the horrific scene: Buffer’s insides neatly arranged on the cutting board. Timmy walks slowly toward her with the steak knife pointed in her direction. She calls the police on the phone behind her on the wall. By the time the police arrive, it is too late for Timmy’s mother. Timmy had her liver and kidneys neatly arranged on the kitchen floor. He looked at Sgt.. Meally with a twisted grin and asked: “Do I get an A?”

Timmy became known as the “Dissection Devil.” He was convicted of murder and is serving a life sentence in the Iowa State Home for Convicted Criminals. Timmy pleaded insanity, but that was rejected because he had learned what he did in school in his biology class. Now, he strives to catch rats in the prison yard. Since he’s not allowed to have a knife, he tears them apart with his bare hands and arranges their insides neatly on the yard’s dirt surface.

What is the moral of this story? Knowledge is dangerous. If you don’t need it to do your job, stay away from it.

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

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

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Appositio

Posted on June 9, 2024 | Leave a comment

Appositio (ap-po-sit’-i-o): Addition of an adjacent, coordinate, explanatory or descriptive element.

Life was good—good as a slice of pumpkin pie. I was living the sensual life—no reins, no steering wheel, no rudder. If anything directed my trip through life it was cheesecake, chocolate candy and marshmallow fluff. I frequented soda fountains and candy stores. Sometimes I’d pop a Jolly Rancher out of nostalgia. Once in awhile I remembered my elementary school days when I started my turn toward sensuality. It was the chocolate pudding served with lunch that hooked me in sugary treats.

I inherited a fortune when I was 19. Self indulgence is not much of a feat. I have bins of candy in the basement of my mansion. The basement smells so delicious it brings tears to my eyes. Taking a page from Scrooge McDuck’s book, I swim in my candy daily—my favorite flavor to swim in is cherry—the fragrance is intoxicating.

Every morning I have a bowl of malted milk balls in heavy cream followed by two raspberry jelly donuts and a shot of Lumber Jack Joe maple syrup from my 200 acre sugar bush in northern New York. I’d set my Stairlift on full speed to get down to breakfast. It went so fast, I got butterflies, but maybe they were just in anticipation of starting another sweetened day. After breakfast my butler would help me put on my swimming trunks and help me get seated in the Jacuzzi. I would have a glass of Kool-Aid plus—my own invention with quadruple sugar and a handful of sour balls and one cup of grenadine syrup. This was the time of day when I composed poetry about my obsession and good fortune to be surrounded by sweets:

“On my tongue,

Not my lung

The red hot dollar lay

And chewed and swallowed

it would pay

My desire’s flicking flame.”

I wrote this just last week as I was wiggling my toes in the Jacuzzi. It is titled “Red Hot Dollar.” It queries he price of desire. It will be worked into the opera I am composing titled “Caked in Trouble.”

Next, my butler hauls me out of the Jacuzzi with our water-ski tow rope and ferries me off to lunch in our battery-powered “Little Roller.” I eat outside whenever I can, getting my Vitamin D and a healthy tan. A typical lunch consists of a craft made Peruvian dark chocolate bar on rye, sprinkled with chocolate flavored Jimmie’s, soaked with chocolate syrup and topped with Fluff and a dollop of peanut butter. The beverage is mango keifer blended with molasses and Red Bull. After lunch, I feel like I’ve died and gone to heaven. I ride Little Roller back up to the mansion and my butler lifts me out with a tow truck crane bolted to the concrete driveway and sets me down on my feet.

Walking is difficult, but I make it to the media room. I watch “Charlie and the Chocolate Factory” until it is time for dinner. With great effort I make it to the dining room. I sit on my throne at the head of the table and survey the meal set before me.

First, I notice the chocolate-covered yams. Hmmm. Then I see a small gumdrop mountain on my salad plate—bravo! Kudos to the chef. Next—a chocolate five foot replica of the White House filled with blackberry jam. I almost fainted—it combined so many edifying themes. There were other lesser dishes. One that stood out was sugar-covered wild boar jerky. We had a light desert—hills of whipped cream garnished with red M&M’s.

Time for bed with a bowl of “Carnal-Nut” ice cream and 3 packs of Little Debbie “Swiss Rolls.” They remind me of Heidi without the goats. Well, it’s been another stellar day consuming my nummie edibles! Good night!

POSTSCRIPT

Known worldwide as “The Sweetest Man,” Edward Ronka lived his life steeped in sweets. He died last week from every known malady associated with over indulgence in sweets. At 425 pounds, he was a formidable presence. Watching him consume sweets with two hands was awe inspiring, especially handfuls of candy kisses. We will miss him as a symbol of freedom from the constraints of good judgment and moderation.

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

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

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Articulus

Posted on June 7, 2024 | Leave a comment

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

My dreams were broken, shattered, destroyed, obliterated. All I had hoped for was driving away in a Subaru Outback packed with remnants of our ended love. My electric toothbrush, cowboy boots, fencing foil, wagging tail cat clock were rolling down the driveway to her new happy home. It was Herb’s car, Herb behind wheel. Herb who had assaulted our love. Herby that I had vowed to kill.

I was the model husband. I did what model husbands are supposed to do: sit in my recliner and complain and yell orders. My recliner was my throne and I was King. One of her primary duties was to clean the bathroom. If she missed anything, I made her stand on one foot in the toilet for 15 minutes. she never learned her lesson and I actually enjoyed seeing her stand in the toilet—she was like a beautiful flamingo. Vacuuming and dusting were straightforward, so that left things in good order, unless she missed a spot—a smear of dust. When this happened, I rubbed her nose in it until she sneezed and blew the dust away.

Laundry was no big deal, but cooking was. I picked a recipe every night from her cookbook “What to Feed an Ogre.” It was mostly roadkill. She had to forage for it every day: if I wanted raccoon, she had to drive around until she found one, skinned it, and cooked it according to the cookbook’s recipe. Any deviation from the recipe earned her a threat to have her hand liquified in our blender.

So, as a typical loving husband, I couldn’t fathom why she would ever run off with Herb—a nondescript average man. Or, so I thought. Somehow he had seduced my wife—he probably promised state of the art kitchen appliances, or vacuum cleaner. Maybe he bought her new packs of cleaning rags, or window cleaner. Her faithless abandonment of me has shocked me and made me despondent. Now, I’m going on the hunt for a new woman.

Most men would hit the web or hang out at a bar, but I have plan. There’s a rehab center—“Back to Normal”—right down the street from me. I think I can find a normal woman there to get attached to me. My idea is to wave a spatula at women coming out of the facility. If they seem attracted to it, I will strike, saying nice things and asking them to move in with me. I’ve had no luck yet. Maybe I should wave around a different cooking utensil. Like tongs— their grabbing motion says “Come here baby.”

In the meantime, I’m trying to figure out how to murder Herb without getting caught. I’ve decided to hit him on the back of his head with a baseball and then, pour Clorox down his throat with a funnel. I saw that on an episode of “Columbo.” The guy got caught who did it to his wife because he had a receipt for the Clorox. I won’t be that stupid—I will steal it!

I got caught stealing the Clorox and have to go to court next week. It changed my mind about everything. I have decided to kidnap my wife and keep her as a prisoner until Herb comes looking for her and falls down the basement stairs and is killed. Ha! Ha! Maybe we will eat Herb. Ha! Ha!

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

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

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Asphalia

Posted on June 5, 2024 | Leave a comment

Asphalia (as-fay’-li-a): Offering oneself as a guarantee, usually for another.

I was on my way to Canada—the whole big mysterious Canada. Land of stereotypes and dreams. This was a vacation I had planned and saved for a whole year. I planed to see a Mountie in a red suit, Santa Claus in his home town banging out Christmas gifts, lines of pancake flour, wild women, spawning fish and Grizzly bears.

I had managed to save $500 for my vacation, so I had to be careful with my spending. Gasoline came in imperial gallons—bigger than American gallons. That was enough right there. I didn’t have an imperial gas gauge. What was going to happen when I put an mperial gallon in my Ford’s American tank. I was afraid it would overflow and break some Canadian global warming law. But, this is a trip of a lifetime. So, I stopped for gas. I told the clerk I had an American gas tank. and I wasn’t sure if it would fit imperial gallons—that they would run all over the ground. She laughed and said “Don’t worry aboot that. Imperial gallons will fit any tank. They adjust to the prevailing size and rule the tank.” I thanked her for explaining and pointed out to her that she said “aboot.” “What does a boot have to do with anything?” If Canadians say a boot when they mean something else, they need to change their tune and speak English the way our ancestors did and use words like yonder and utilize. She told me to pump my gas and leave, and hopefully have an accident and die! Can you believe it? This episode just about ruined my trip, but I could tell she was different from most Canadians. What a boot that? Ha ha!

My next stop is Niagara Falls. I’m spending the night in the Moose Bellow Motel before I get there. It is moose themed. A moose bellow goes off every hour from 7:00am to 10pm. I think it is kind of romantic and regret not taking Mindy with me on the trip. She teaches voice at Pine Stick Community College. I am sure she could call back to the moose, even though it’s a recording. The bed is a Queen size moose with a moose antler headboard. The nightstand is a baby moose with a piece of glass on its back. The lamp is made of a leg with a pull chain off-on switch. Of course, the carpet is a moose skin with 3 bullet holes in it.

Around 3am I started sneezing, my eyes were watering and I had a bloody nose. I was allergic to moose—most likely the carpet. I went to the front desk and demanded my money back. The desk clerk told me “I’m sorry. I can’t do anything a boot that.” A boot! He was taunting me! I picked up the cash register and threw it to the floor. I jumped in my car and headed for Niagara Falls. Soon I was being chased by two men in red on horseback. The horses were wearing helmets with flashing red and blue lights. One of the men was holding a bull horn making a siren sound. I pulled over. they asked for my license and registration. One of the men said “We’re worried a boot you after what you did at the motel. We are going to deport you to the States. Here is some complimentary maple syrup to help you drown your disappointment.”

Suddenly, the girl from the gas station pulled up. She asked the Mounties to let me go, and she would keep an eye on me. My faith in Canada was restored, until the Mounties said no and followed me to Niagara border crossing.

I couldn’t believe it. Maybe being deported from Canada would earn me kudos somewhere. What a boot that?

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

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

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Assumptio

Posted on June 3, 2024 | Leave a comment

Assumptio (as-sump’-ti’o): The introduction of a point to be considered, especially an extraneous argument. 

See proslepsis (When paralipsis [stating and drawing attention to something in the very act of pretending to pass it over] is taken to its extreme. The speaker provides full details.)

I dropped my flashlight, and it went out, and total darkness descended. I was in the middle of the woods looking for a rare nocturnal slug. They were so rare that they were worth millions. That was a good reason to hunt them, but it was rumored that they could talk. They weighed up to 10 pounds and left a wide slime trail I was hunting the logos maximus for all these reasons, but really, it was the slug’s color that compelled me to hunt it: the slug was brown with a yellow stripe. What could be more fascinating? A sock with a hole? A blender? A leg brace?A three-legged pig? No. None of the above. Well, maybe a red cat. Or, an ivory shoe horn. Or, a half-used roll of aluminum foil. I don’t know. I have trouble rank-ordering, hierarchies, and increments. Especially increments. People say about me: “Give him an inch and he’ll take a mile.” That means that I can’t measure.

But anyway, I heard a squishing sound in the darkness. I got down on my hands and knees and could barely make out what looked like a jiggly watermelon inching past. It was a logos Maximus. I wanted take a picture, but I couldn’t find my phone. The slug said “What’s the matter shithead, can’t find your phone?” I was shocked by the talking slug. I asked what his name was. He told me slugs don’t have names, but you can call me Vick. I asked him what it was like to be so rare and relentlessly hunted. He told me it was “a pain in the ass.” I agreed as I squatted to pick him up and stuff him in my slug hunting bag. When I grabbed him he screamed, started squirming violently and cursing. He slimed up and slipped out of my hands.

He took off like a bat out of hell. I took off running after him. We were headed down the bank of a creek. I made a move to bag him and I tripped over a log and stepped on him. It was like stepping in a bowl of jello. Vick died. He liquified and soaked into the ground. All I could think was “I was so close.” I hadn’t gotten to know Vick that well, so I didn’t care that much about killing him. In fact, I was kind of angry that he liquified. I didn’t even have a trophy to mount on my living room wall over the fireplace.

When I got home, there was a large slug trail leading to my front door. I got in my car and drove away and never went back.

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

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

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Asteismus

Posted on June 2, 2024 | Leave a comment

Asteismus (as-te-is’-mus): Polite or genteel mockery. More specifically, a figure of reply in which the answerer catches a certain word and throws it back to the first speaker with an unexpected twist. Less frequently, a witty use of allegory or comparison, such as when a literal and an allegorical meaning are both implied.

Joann: No ifs, ands, or buts about it.

Gill: No butts? a world without butts is a world where there’s nothing worth looking at.

Joann: Give it up. Your attempts at humor are a joke. And that does not mean funny. It means pitiful. So again, you’ve got to get your act together or I’m packing up and leaving, no ifs, ands, or buts about it.

Gill: My favorite act is getting my act together. That means knowing my lines, memorizing them, and speaking them in the right tone with the right gestures, including facial expressions. See? I am smiling with a depth of sincerity that shows my act is together. See? See? That means “yes” in Spanish.

Joann: Yes, I see. Si. Si. You’re disturbed. Your relational calculus is missing actual sincerity—the foundation of trust, and possibly, in some cases, a sure sign of love. We’re supposed to be n love. I don’t think you know what it is.

Gill: My idea of love goes deeper than my favorite cut of beef or flavor of ice cream, which is chocolate, by the way. For me, true love is more like rolling in gold coins. What a feeling!

Joann started laughing, but it wasn’t for happiness. It was angry laughter that had a sort of growl to it. Gill had heard that kind of laughter before. Joann was going to break up with him. He lamented the fact that he had no staying power with women. Barbara had made get out of her car at gunpoint out in the middle of the desert. He never should’ve gone camping with Joann. She was fingering a can of bear repellent. Gill was pretty sure he was going to take a squirt in the face. Why? Because he’s ugly? No. Because he’s mean? No. Because he’s socially inept? Yes—that’s it. He begged Joann not to squirt him. She squirted hm. He ran to the lake and soaked his face. She came running to lake yelling “I’m sorry. My god. My finger slipped!” She was holding something behind her back. It was a small log. She beat the half-blinded Gill over the head until he was dead. Too bad Gill did not know that Joann was psycho and was a fugitive from “Bluto’s Hope Mental Hospital.” There were pictures posted all over the place with a warning—they were everywhere—from telephone poles to the internet. If Gill had done a little research he would’ve been saved.

So, the lesson here is check out telephone poles and mental institutions’ websites. “Billy’s Bear Spray” has set up a memorial fund in Gill’s name. Joann is still on the run. She was last seen in Tulsa with a man with a bruised and swollen face.

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

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

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Astrothesia

Posted on June 1, 2024 | Leave a comment

Astrothesia (as-tro-the’-si-a): A vivid description of stars. One type of enargia.

I was up in Maine for my 50th summer. It was a moonless night. There were almost more stars than sky. There were shooting stars zipping through the starry sky. I had never seen anything like it—they were criss crossing, making fiery patterns across the sky. This was a special night—one in a million. It was beautiful and scary at the same times me. I figured the time was right to wish on a star, for the 500h time the same wish. I focused on one star and made my same old wish: “Twinkle twinkle little star bring me a beautiful woman, a big house, millions of dollars, and an expensive car.”

The star I wished on went bight and then dim. It started slowly coming down from the sky—slowly like a snow flake. It landed about 10 feet from me. She sort of looked like she belonged on a Raisin Bran box. Her head was incredible—a gold star with a circle cut out and filled by a face. The face was beautiful—with bright red lipstick and greenish blue eyeshadow. Her body was toned and adorned in black tights. She came toward me. She kissed me with her ruby red lips and said “Congratulations! You wishes have come true. You are a very lucky man. Manage your good fortune wisely and prudently. And most importantly, do not tell enybody how you came to have such luck. If you do, you will lose everything.” She went back up into the sky.

A limo pulled up and a beautiful woman stepped out. She took one look at me and said “I love you. Marry me. I want your babies.” The limo disappeared and we walked back to the cottage as she planned the wedding. The next day, we went looking for a home. We found a 10,000 sq ft mansion up on a cliff overlooking the Atlantic Ocean, it was $3,000,000. I called my bank and told them what I was going to do and how much it was going to cost my banker told me it was no problem. I had more money than he thought it was possible for one person to have. When we woke up in the morning there were two Maseratis parked out front.

Marla was ecstatic. Her happiness was boundless, and infective. She became pregnant. We had a beautiful little girl we named Star.

It was all built upon a wish that came true. It was a testament to hope and believing the impossible. I will never tell anybody the secret of my success. You could say my life is built on a lie.

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

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

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Asyndeton

Posted on May 31, 2024 | Leave a comment

Asyndeton (a-syn’-de-ton): The omission of conjunctions between clauses, often resulting in a hurried rhythm or vehement effect. [Compare brachylogia. Opposite of polysyndeton.]

I got an unbelievable deal on a new car. Well, it wasn’t actually new, it was one year old, but it was new to me! It only had 9,000 miles on it. It was a black Escalade CSV. It cost around $65,000 new. I paid $3500 for mine. I had gotten it from a newspaper ad. The tag line was “No bullet holes!” The guy I bought it from was named John Smith. It was on the title, so I figured it was legitimate. He said to me: “I hate to get rid of it, but I need to get rid of it fast. There could be consequences I don’t want to deal with.

This was one of the best things that ever happened to me. I was overjoyed, totally stoked,ecstatic. Ever since I was a little boy, I wanted a black Cadillac. All the mafia guys drove them. They were like four-wheeled merit badges, expressive of a major accomplishment. Now I had one! The leather seats were enough to make me cry with joy. I bought a handgun and stashed it under the seat. I didn’t know how to shoot it, but it made me feel cool. My girlfriend, Rosy, wanted to move into my Cadillac and live together. She said, riding in the car she felt like a goddess—like Venus. I felt like a mobster: Bosch suit, stingy brim hat, Gucci shoes, black cashmere overcoat, Di Nobili cigars, dark glasses.

I was waiting in the cue for a burger at McDonald’s when a guy who looked like a mobster, knocked on my window and asked “Where’d you get that car?” I didn’t answer. I pulled out of line and sped away. I swear, the guy pulled out a gun. I never saw him again. Then something started to smell. I tried to cover it with air fresheners, but it didn’t work. The smell got really really bad. I couldn’t ignore it any more. I drove out to an isolated place in the woods. I opened the back of the Escalade and the smell got worse. I opened the hatch where the spare tire was stored. Just as I suspected there was a dead body stuffed in the space. He was wearing a black suit and all the other things mobsters wear. There was a note pinned to his suit jacket: “When you find me, throw me on the ground somewhere isolated. You will be rewarded. Keep car.” So, I was somewhere isolated—the woods. I hauled out and let him flop to the ground. Underneath him was a shopping bag filled with $100 bills.

I’ve been scrubbing my car and have made some headway getting rid of the smell.

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

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

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Auxesis

Posted on May 30, 2024 | Leave a comment

Auxesis (ok-see’-sis): (1) Arranging words or clauses in a sequence of increasing force. In this sense, auxesis is comparable to climax and has sometimes been called incrementum. (2) A figure of speech in which something is referred to in terms disproportionately large (a kind of exaggeration or hyperbole). (3) Amplification in general.

The wind was quiet, then blowing, then like a jet engine sweeping across the land. Trees shot through the air like giant leafyl spears, impaling people on their branches. Whole towns disappeared into the sky. Livestock flew. The only safe place was Cliff’s, a convenience store catering to beer drinking, smoking, scratch-off lotto players. People packed in to save themselves as dogs and sheep and cows flew by.

Nobody knew exactly why Cliff’s survived the annual wind storm. The most credible rumor was that Cliff was descended from Viking stock—after all, his last name was Fiord. It was rumored he had a shrine to Njord, the Viking god of the wind. To appease the god he ran an electric fan that blew on the shrine 24-7. It even had a back-up battery for when Njord made the power go out. The constant wind appeased Njord and kept hm from blowing Cliff’s away.

I wanted to believe the rumor. If it was true, I would build a Njord shrine in what remained of my basement. Cliff denied he had a shrine, so I had to do some sneaking around. Cliff’s house was always unscathed by the wind, and his basement windows were painted over. I had to go inside. I had worked briefly for CIA and learned how to pick locks. I knew Cliff was at the store, so I wouldn’t be worried about meeting up with him. I picked the lock and went straight down the basement stairs. There it was!

There was a 70” plasma screen Tv with a box fan blowing on it. I turned on the TV and it was tuned to an episode of “Vikings”—where they were a sacking Paris. Suddenly, I heard a voice with a Danish accent ask “I am Njord. Who in the name of Odin are you?!” I told him I was Cliff’s neighbor and friend and I wanted to build a shrine to Njord. He told me I was looking at one—he told me to just keep the fan blowing and “Vikings” tuned to the TV. Njord swore me to secrecy. If I revealed the secret of the shire, he told me he would “blow me to pieces with one gust of northern wind.” I believed him, so I kept my mouth shut.

Everybody attributed our recurring wind storms to climate change. I knew better. With my shrine running in my basement, my house has remained unscathed for the past 9 years—Cliff has the same kind of “luck.” Every couple of months Njord stops by disguised as an EMT. He brings a bag of Kringle. I make strong coffee and we play Hnefatafl, a board game with a military objective. We talk too. He misses the old days, when the wind was the primary ”fuel” for moving trade and war ships.

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

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

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Bomphiologia

Posted on May 28, 2024 | Leave a comment

Bomphiologia (bom-phi-o-lo’-gi-a): Exaggeration done in a self-aggrandizing manner, as a braggart.

I’m a man. I can eat more Big Macs than anybody can. I can make a hound dog shut up. I have so many girlfriends I can’t remember who they are. I can drink a bottle of scotch and do my taxes. I gave myself a tattoo with a chainsaw. I drowned and came back to life.

These are just a few of the things I list on my resume. Strangely enough, there was a ad in the local muckraker for a man. It was next to the story about the duck who saved a whole town from drowning, lead the townspeople down a derelict canal that was last used in the 18th century to smuggle beaver pelts into the US from Canada. Unfortunately, it was called “Beaver Canal” and it inadvertently opened the door to the construction numerous brothel along it bank, serving the deviant smugglers and the not too intelligent dupes who worked for them. Beaver Canal also attracted saloons and gambling houses run by immoral greedy Canadians.

The man description in the ad fit me to a “T.” They wanted somebody physically strong but morally weak. I worked out four times per day and I did a lot of things that skate on the edge of legal, but don’t cross the line. Lying is my favorite—but not to break the law. Like, I told my mother that I’m married and my wife is in the Air Force stationed in Iraq. That got her off my back.

I was hired to be a man on Beaver Canal! It has fallen into total disrepair. Most of the buildings have fallen down, but the towpath is still in good shape. There is no passport control where the canal crosses the border. My job is to put Canadians into large canvas bags and drag them across the border one at a time. For this service my employers’ clients pay 1,000USD. The Canadians I drag are really desperate. Many of them are fans of rap music which is outlawed in Canada along with black lipstick and Sushi.

The company I work for is called “Freedom Drag.” It is owned by a Mexican drug cartel “Corriendo Muerta” (Running Dead). I’m starting to think that the canvas bags I drag are filled with drugs, not people. So, I flicked open my switchblade and jammed it into the bag I was pulling, which I hadn’t filled with a Canadian and which I was instructed to pull across the border. I was right! It was full of cocaine! I snorted some off the slit I’d made, and then some more, and some more, until fireworks were going off in my head. Now, I had a drug induced plan. I would drag the bag to Buffalo, Nw York and sell its illicit contents in little plastic bags. I fail to see that cocaine was leaking out the slit in the bag and leaving a white powdery trail. DEA had picked up my trail somewhere around Niagara Falls, and, wearing rubber knee pads, had been following on their hands and knees for hundreds of miles.

I was in my hotel bagging what was left of the cocaine, when the two Agents burst in guns drawn. I threw the bag at them and ran out the door. But, as I ran between them, they shot at me and missed and shot each other. They lay on the floor cursing at each other. I dumped what was left of the cocaine into a trash can liner. I tied a knot in it and stuck it under my hoodie and walked out of the hotel. I went back to Beaver Canal, but it had been abandoned.

I got a grant from the Canadian and US governments to “restore” Beaver Canal as a heritage site complete with gambling casinos, saloons, and pseudo brothels.

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

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

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Brachylogia

Posted on May 26, 2024 | Leave a comment

Brachylogia (brach-y-lo’-gi-a): The absence of conjunctions between single words. Compare asyndeton. The effect of brachylogia is a broken, hurried delivery.

I make lists and use them to give my life an orderly appearance. Bell, butter, cow, jeans, gas, war, car ]ack. This is a typical list. It has content that is incoherent. What is it a list of? I take these items and lay them out on my garage floor in the order they appear on the list. Starting with “bell” I go down the line. But first we’ve got to check contextualize the bell—it is the little thumb ringer bell from my tricycle. When I was 3 I had a callous on my thumb from ringing that bell. I would ride up behind my neighbor 70-year-old Mrs. Pinko and ring my bike bell and startle her. She would say “Oh my” and pull her grocery cart up close to her and rummage for protection, usually a loaf of Italian bread, which she wielded as a club. Once she actually hit me with it. It broke in half and dented my NY Yankees hat. The den topped right out. No harm done, but I didn’t care.

I rode him as fast as I could and told my parents that Mrs. Pinko had hit me “really had” and it had hurt.my parents were law and order paranoids. They called the police two or three times per week. Most recently, somebody had “planted” a toad on the front lawn. The toad “sent a message” to everybody who walked past. Whoever put it there should be tracked down, arrested, and jailed. The police concluded that the toad found its way to the lawn on its own. My mother called the mayor and complained. A hazmat detail was subsequently sent to our yard to remove the toad.

Now, Mrs. Pinko was in mom’s sight. She was arrested for “clubbing a child.” She was convicted of attempted murder. She died in prison at the hands of her fellow inmates for “what she had done to the kid.”

Maybe I could make a list of all the things I could’ve said to save Mrs. Pinko. But that would be too tedious and would thwart my current list: things that clog or can clog toilets. This is a really challenging list. From apples to zebras—the arc of possibilities is huge. For example, a boa-constrictor. Can you image? A boa- -constrictor head gaping from your toilet, tongue flicking, maybe hissing. If you had it on your list, you would be less startled and better able to deal with it. Or what about a wet beaver? Hugging a small log, smiling, showing his orange beaver teeth’s? Think about it. Without the list, you’re shocked, and lost and frightened. Save yourself from this kind formidable peril, and possible PTSD for the rest of your life, medications and expensive therapy. Make lists and spare yourself the trauma and its aftereffects. But god forbid, there’s a Ninja Warrior clogging your toilet, holding a sword and glaring at you. You can’t speak Japanese so you can’t reason with him and you can’t risk the consequences of peeing in his face. If you had a list, you could’ve anticipated this a prepared yourself by learning how to say “Get out of my toiletries!” in Japanese. Problem solved.

I could go on forever. Remember, before Santa comes to town, he makes a list and checks it twice. Follow the wisdom of Santa—make a list and check it twice.

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

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

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Catacosmesis

Posted on May 23, 2024 | Leave a comment

Catacosmesis (kat-a-kos-mees’-is): Ordering words from greatest to least in dignity, or in correct order of time.

A gourmet meal. A pile of garbage. The peak. The trough. The spectrum makes life meaningful. The stretch from here to there is somewhere —the contrast makes meaning, and meaning is what we need more than anything, more than sunrise, more than a good sandwhich—good because of its difference, perhaps, from party dip—which can drip on the floor and make a mess. The intricacies of these discernments can actually lead to the composition of tunes like “Elevator Man” or “Tomatoes in the Rain.” “Elevator Man” tracks a manic depressive middle-aged man as he travels to the world’s capitals, riding the elevators in their tallest buildings. He discovers he has an ear infection in Taipei and has to stay in Taipei and take drops to heal them. After two weeks his ears begin to smell and his ear drums blow out the sides of his head. They look like veils hanging out of his ears. He lost his hearing, but he can feel his eardrums tickling his jaws when a breeze blows.

“Tomatoes in the Rain” focuses on a small urban garden planted solely in tomatoes. The song focuses on the different qualities of rain and their interaction with the tomatoes’ skin. The song is very sensual and it is banned in 38 countries. There are wanted posters of the singer Mick Bagger in airports throughout the world. Personally, I hope he never gets arrested and that “Tomatoes in the Rain” becomes free to play. It’s line “My tomato is wet” should become a catchphrase for the redeeming qualities of moisture—whether drizzle or downpour.

I am selling t-shirts with dangling eardrums pictured on them. They say “One Man’s Symbol is Another Man’s Drum.” It bears witness to Elevator Man’s persistence riding elevators and abusing his ears. He had acdream, and it came true for him. Bless him,

Well, I’m going to take an elevator ride and eat this wet tomato. I will slice it and salt it. I have a slight ringing in my ears that I’m hoping will fester and become a serous infection. Wish me luck!

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

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

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Cataphasis

Posted on May 22, 2024 | Leave a comment

Cataphasis (kat-af’-a-sis): A kind of paralipsis in which one explicitly affirms the negative qualities that one then passes over.

Joey: Your interior decorating skills have made your home look like a nouveaux rest stop. The only thing missing are the urinals and the antiseptic smell. But I don’t have the time to rant and rave about your decor. Let’s take a swim in your pool.

What the hell is that in your pool? What? A friggin’ manatee!

Barbara: I got it at the pool supply store Swim! for $600. I licks the algae off the side of the pool and make chirping sound when intruders enter the yard. Last week we caught a feral poodle that had to be put down by animal control. He was wearing a collar that said Pierre on it.

Joey: But the manatee takes up half the pool! And the manatee poop sort of disgusting. It looks like floating potatoes.

Barbara: That’s true. I hired Wes from Swim! To keep things clean and keep me focused with poolside exercises. He’s a genius. My favorite is “put the ice cream in the cone.” I sit on a traffic cone while he spins me around.

Joey: That’s disgusting. I think Wes has made you into some kind of pervert.

Barbara: That may be true but his “Perversion” has made me into a more relaxed, open and fearless person. I can handle just about anything. With Wes behind me I don’t feel pushed or shoved. Rather, I feel like a pony delivering mail on the the Pony Express. I surprise my neighbors plucking their mail from their mailboxes and delivering it to their doors in my mouth with a celebratory whinny. Wes comes along to explain. I don’t know what he says because he goes in my neighbors’ houses and spends about an hour with women, and five minutes if it is only a men are home. Anyway, as you can see it’s all above board.

Joey: I don’t know what hoard you’re talking about. Pallet board? I thought your home decor was a horror. But it is eclipsed by your Wes escapades. I’m guessing he was recently released from someplace— like maybe a mental facility.

Barbara: Yes! He recently got out of “Left-Handed Studies Institute—about five years ago. They study left-handed people for criminal tendencies. Wes was left-handed and took pleasure in choking chickens with it when he was a boy. After choking 226 chickens his mother sent him to the Left-Handed Studies Institute, where he lived for thirty-two years being presented with a chicken every day until he lost interest in them and took up an interest in marine biology and obtained a degree from UC Santa Cruz. Hence, his interest in pool maintenance. Alice (my manatee) was his senior project at Santa Cruz.

So, don’t worry about Wes. He’s on the up and up.

Joey: Up what? It is clear to me that he’s a nutcase. Some day he’s going to confuse you with a giant leghorn and send you to the big nesting box in the sky. I say, tell him to take a hike. Buy him a plane ticket if you have to.

Barbara: Don’t be silly Joey. We’re getting married and he’s moving in with me. The only difficulty is that he insists that my manatee come to the wedding as a bridesmaid. We’re working it out.

Joey: You better work it out or things might get dicey.

POSTSCRIPT

The first responders found Alice dressed as a bridesmaid, lying on top of Barbara, suffocating her. Wes was nowhere to be found, but he left a note that was gibberish: “wa ooh, wa ohh gropple we Ho.” It was determined that it was written in porpoise, but in a dialect nobody understood.

Joey sent flowers.

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

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

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Cataplexis

Posted on May 21, 2024 | Leave a comment

Cataplexis (kat-a-pleex’-is): Threatening or prophesying payback for ill doing.

Husband: You have done me wrong. I am on fire with anger. You ignited my matchbook collection. They traced my travels through the 70s. The 100s of bars I hit, slowly building my collection of East Coast matchbooks, sometimes going to a bar just to get a matchbook.

My collection won first prize in ‘78 in the National Assemblers Sweepstakes. All you cared about was the giant wine glass I kept them in and how “ugly” it looked as a centerpiece on the dining room table. It was an icon—a token of excellence from a time gone by, along with my disco suit folded in the chest up in the attic waiting to be resurrected as time reaches back to the past and time returns us to the good times when bell bottoms flapped and the top three buttons of our shirts were unbuttoned revealing our manly chests. It is people like you who want to obliterate my past, to make me a living anomaly—a doorway to nowhere, a highway to hell. A living landfill.

Well baby, we know we all collect something. We gather together objects that are the same in some way—like matchbook! My beloved matchbooks! Damn you! Well, have you seen your thimble collection lately? I know, your answer is “No.” That’s because I have—that damn tray with your carefully arranged thimbles—metal, wood, ceramic, rubber, plastic—antique to contemporary. I’m especially going to enjoy crushing the Mary Todd Lincoln thimble she used to repair the seat of Abraham’s pants because he insisted on wearing cheap suits for at least four-score and seven years. Then I’m going to grind up the Winston Churchill thimble—made of rubber and used by his doctor to examine Churchill’s prostate. It saved Churchill’s life when it was discovered he had an enlarged prostate and stopped eating fish and chips. Then, there’s the John Glenn thimble he carried to moon in case his spacesuit got a leak, he could sew it shut. Part of his training involved sewing classes. He was supposed to embroider a lunar landscape, but was unable to do so because of “issues” with the lunar lander. I can’t wait to turn the John Glenn thimble into dust, along with commie dictator Kennedy’s portrait on the tip.

Wife: Where are my thimbles you loon?

Husband: At the divorce lawyer’s. I’m holding them hostage until you beg for my forgiveness for destroying the greatest matchbook cover collection ever.

Wife: If you must know, I staged their demise—I burned random matchbooks to account for the collection’s absence from the dining room table, I had a crystal chalice made for it for your birthday. It was a bad decision, but all’s well that ends well. Right?

Husband: Well umm . . .

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

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

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