Tag Archives: example

Eucharistia

Posted on March 31, 2024 | Leave a comment

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

“My life is a long and convoluted adventure in making decisions, most of them bad. Well truthfully, most of them have been catastrophic, ruining peoples’ lives almost with a snap of my fingers. But finally, after all the destruction I’ve caused, this decision is bound to go right and it’s all because of you. I never believed I could kidnap 50 people and hold them hostage in my late father’s beautifully built warehouse. There are drains built into the floor that will come in handy if I need to hose down the floor, if loved ones don’t come through with the ransom.”

“I hope this doesn’t make you mad, but children are being ransomed at a higher rate than adults, with ransoms receding the older the hostages get, to the point that people over 80 are being ransomed for $5.00. I’m sorry, but this is just the way of the world—the older you get, the less valuable you are. End of story. So, please let my colleagues examine your driver’s licenses so we can determine what your price tag will say. Also fill out the name tag and hang it around your neck. My colleagues will take care of the children’s tags.”

“Now, we’re going to play ‘Don’t Fear the Reaper,’ and you’re going to sing along.”

(After the song)

“There! Don’t you feel good? Fearing death could really make this kidnap experience a real bummer. Oh—we’re starting to get some phone queries. Ed Jones—your wife called and told us she’s not paying Jack Shit—that we can go ahead and blow you away. But before that, we are letting all the children go. Their whining is driving me crazy. We’re going to load them up in a truck and drop them off ten miles away from here.“

“Ok Ed, come on up! Anything to say?” Ed: “This is crazy. My wife’s bullshit shouldn’t determine my fate. I am Manager of ‘Tidy Fries’ at the mall. I . . .”

“BLAM!” Ed flopped to the floor. The Kidnapper-in-Chief kicked Ed’s lifeless body and started crying. Then he started singing Roy Orbison’s song “Crying.” He put his pistol to his head and pulled the trigger.

The police arrived and streamed into the warehouse, guns drawn. After things settled down a bit, one of them said, “He had a good idea, but he didn’t have the class to pull it off.” The cop standing next to him said, “Are you fu*king crazy?” And shot him in the head. All hell broke loose. Nobody knew who to trust. Gunfire was erupting throughout the warehouse. Ed came back to life, picked up a gun and yelled “I’m better off dead. No more mortgage and car payments, no more feeding and clothing my ungrateful kid, no more wife from hell, no more income taxes.”

“BLAM!”

It was a mess. None of it made any sense. It was so incomprehensible it wasn’t reported in the news. In fact, nobody believed it really happened. Except this guy: “My name is Ed, I was there, and it really happened. I have two holes in my head to prove it.”

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

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

Euche

Posted on March 30, 2024 | Leave a comment

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

“I swear to God I didn’t do it—I might’ve made a promise, but I never intended to follow through on that one. I never promised a family trip to Italy. I was crazy! But now, I’m going to make a promise I intend to keep. I promise to take us on a hike in the Great Swamp National Wildlife Refuge in Green Village—one of the cutest little towns in New Jersey. When I was a kid it was just a swamp. My anscestors hunted raccoons there—at night with hound dogs. When Uncle Howard finally invited me to go along, it was some of the best fun I aver had in my life. Howard sold the carcasses and fur, which at that time was worth $35. That was a lot of money back then.”

We got up early and headed to the swamp. The dirt road was still there, but it ended abruptly at a foot bridge. There was a little trail at the end of the bridge that ended at a shore. The swamp had been flooded! There was a big sign that said “Do Not Enter.” We were going swimming later on in the afternoon at Lake Hoptacong so we had our bathing suits. I was determined to have our hike. The mosquitoes were starting to get wind of us, so we sprayed up knowing that it would wash off in the water. We suited up and crossed the footbridge and stepped into the water. We walked about five feet and the bottom dropped off about four feet deep. Our daughter was up to her neck and screaming. I put her on my shoulders and we forged ahead. We came to a hillock. It rose above the water and had trees growing on it. I got out the insect repellent and spayed us all up again. The mosquitoes formed a thick cloud around us. Their whining sounded like little race cars racing around a track. It was starting to drive me crazy.

I saw a black ball in the crotch of a tree. I was curious. I got really close and touched it before I realized it was a tick nest! The second I touched the nest, all the ticks disappeared. Then, I felt a crawly sensation inside my shirt. I tore open my shirt and my chest was covered with ticks. They had latched onto me and were sucking my blood. There was so many of them, I could hear a slurping sound. I thought if I stood up to my chest in the swamp water that they would drown. They didn’t. The only option was Morristown Memorial Hospital emergency room.

As we rode to the hospital, the slurping got louder and I started to feel weak. When we got to the hospital, the ER nurse told me to open my shirt. She yelled “Holy shit” and people crowded into the examination room taking pictures with their cellphones and asking politely if they could pose with me. Ten Candy Stripers were assigned to work on me with Tick Tordaes, pulling out the ticks without leaving the heads behind.

I wrote a book about the incident titled “Tick Tick: Deadly Encounter.” I take some poetic license in the book, like the tick nest is overseen by an evil spirit—a Tick God. Another example of poetic license is the hospital duty nurse falling in love we me, drugging me, and trying to abduct me.

If you’re thinking of taking a family outing to the Great Swamp, bring a lot of bug spray and don’t touch anything that you’re clueless about.

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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Eulogia

Posted on March 29, 2024 | Leave a comment

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

I had spent a week at Presbyterian Bible camp. We read the New Testament, said prayers, and sang hymns. It was all very boring, especially the Bible. It was like Shakespeare without the wild turns of phrase and poetic nuances. The story of Christ’s cruxifixction had some drama to it, but nothing coming close to Romeo and Juliet or Richard the Third—“my Kingdom for a horse.” That’s something worth listening to. Think about it. It’s like saying “my back yard for a skateboard.”: the drama of desperation drips from King Richard’s lips. Whereas Christ’s cruxifixction is a sad tale of this guy who got screwed who was forced to drag the implement of his own execution uphill. He was already a bloody mess when he got up the hill and was nailed up on the cross he dragged. The he asked God to forgive everybody who played a role in his demise. This story, for example, does not hold a candle to “Romeo and Juliet.” It runs a straight line from betrayal to execution. “Romeo and Juliet’s” plot is, on the other hand, convoluted, layered and anti-papist.

Even though Presbyterian Bible camp made me into a non-believer, I wasn’t hostile to its tenets, like joining a country club, hiring a reliable stockbroker, going to a reputable private school and insincerely giving God credit for everything.

After Bible camp, I figured I should make it look like I got something out of it. So, when anybody I knew did something I considered good, I would say “God bless you” or “All glory to God.” Most of the time I would yell it so people would pay attention to God’s benevolence. I was very liberal in my bestowal of praise—for example: my sister’s chocolate chip cookies: “God bless you.” Or, my father got out of his chair to change the TV channel: “God bless you.”

Dr. Willap, the head of the local Presbyterian church heard about what I was doing. He came to our house to “counsel” me. I would hear none of it. He started yelling and threw a punch at me and missed. I knocked him out with my football trophy. When he regained consciousness, he apologized as he went out the door. I said “All glory to God.” He turned and lunged toward the door. I slammed the door in his face. He pounded on it for a few minutes and left.

I felt like a martyr. I didn’t like it. Maybe if I switched to the Episcopalian church, I’d have better luck with my spiritual stylings.

God bless you for reading this. May your walk in faith be filled with drama, suspense, and pathos, like a Shakespeare play.

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

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Eustathia

Posted on March 28, 2024 | Leave a comment

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

I can’t tell you how many times I’ve fallen n love. It is the easiest thing in the world to do. If you have this flaming desire in your gut, you’re in love. When you were little it was for your hamster (creepy but true), next, your third grade teacher, then, your best friend’s sister, next the hooker from Philadelphia, and finally, your wife. I guess this isn’t actually about you. Rather, it’s about me and there are way more “loves” than I can possibly list here.

Let’s focus on my wife. When we got married we did the promising thing. As I took the vows I felt like I was forging chains. When I said “I do” I started thinking about divorce. it was like a switch flipped deep in my soul and my love turned off. It wasn’t her, it was me.

We’ve been married ten years. I pretend I love her. I’d hate to see her upset over such a thing. It would tear her apart. We have two beautiful children—Linda and Pete—they would be devastated if Mommy and Daddy broke up. So, I am a pretender. My life is an act.

Without realizing what I was doing, I fell in love with with the checker at the grocery store. My wife was attractive, but Carmella was beautiful. I started doing all the grocery shopping, to my wife’s great delight. I was exploding with desire. I spoke to her when she finished ringing me up. I asked her if she wanted to go for a drink. She sad sho couldn’t because she wasn’t old enough—she was 20. 10 years younger than me! She said she’d like to go to Baskin Robbins if I wanted to. We made a date. My head was spinning. What had I done?

Date night came. I picked her up at the grocery store. I told a lie to my wife—that I had to go to the library. We had some ice cream and she asked me if I wanted to go to a motel and have some “real fun.” When we pulled into parking lot of the “Sand Trap Motel,” I felt sick. I couldn’t go through with it. Carmella didn’t care and I took her back to her car at the grocery store.

When I got home, my wife was crying. She had fallen in love with one of the check-out men at the grocery store. She told me that she stopped loving me on the day we were married. She and Carl were going to get married and he was going to move into our house and I was going to move out. I was so disappointed that I hadn’t followed through with Carmella. Damn! What a missed opportunity.

I said, “Ok, I’ll leave.” I went outside and called Carmella and asked her if she wanted to live together. She said “Yes.” So now, I’m looking for an apartment in a complex with a swimming and jacuzzi. I am so lucky.

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

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Martyria

Posted on March 4, 2024 | Leave a comment

Martyria (mar-tir’-i-a): Confirming something by referring to one’s own experience.

What gave me my ideas? My experience! Where else could they come from? We can’t be born with them or we’d all think alike. We’d all like Elvis. We’d all like ice cream. But, we don’t, and we may be considered crazy as a consequence. What is experience? It is anything you’re conscious of, and then, think about, which is a kind of experience too. So, you can’t be wrong just because your experience isn’t the same as somebody else’s: I look at the sunset and have a fit and start running around in circles. You look at the so-called same sunset and you take a picture and write a bullshit poem. Same sunset, different experiences. This is a problem with eyewitnesses, but it is too complicated to discuss here.

I used to spend a lot of time crushing insects with my hammer. I carried my hammer in my backpack. When I saw an insect, say an ant, I would stop and pull out my hammer and slam slam the ant. It’s crushed and gooey carcass made me happy, like a hug from my mother or a piece of chocolate cake. I would carefully clean off my hammer, preparing it for its next slam. It didn’t take much courage to kill insects, just viciousness and a lack of remorse.

But, it did take courage to kill the black widow in the wood pile. The surface was uneven and the Black Widow was suspended in a web with about 2” between it and woodpile. If my blow landed unevenly, there was a chance that the spider would fall on my naked leg (I was wearing shorts) and get me. As I swung my hammer, the spider jumped and landed on my wrist. I brushed it off before it could bite me. I stomped it under my Birkenstock, put my hammer away and ran home.

I still felt the Black Widow on my wrist. I opened my bedroom door and my bedroom was filled with spiders. They formed into a phalanx and came toward me. I ran outside screaming and locked myself in the family car. My mother unlocked it. I was slapping myself and yelling gibberish. An ambulance was summoned to take me to “Crystal Ribbon Sanatorium” for one week’s “observation.” After a week of being hosed down, taking hot baths, electric shocks, and wearing pajamas 24/7, I was released. I couldn’t remember anything and I drooled a lot and drew pictures of crushed insects. I asked for my hammer and my mother gave me a rubber one from a child’s toy tool set.

It’s been ten years since the black widow incident. I still hardly remember it, but I got a big black widow tattooed on the back of my neck. I still enjoy crushing insects and discover that the rubber hammer my mother gave me works quite well. It doesn’t mar surfaces. When I smash an insect and hear its exoskeleton crunch, I feel free. Sometimes I say the “Pledge of Allegiance” after a kill, with my hand over my heart.

This is but one example of how “experiences” have structured my life. Some other time we can discuss my performance art—shooting myself in the arm with a .22 caliber pistol, or windshield diving—colliding with trees not wearing a seatbelt. I also might talk about cockroach ranching. My apartment is my lone prarie.

Currently, I’m full time at “Crystal Ribbon.” I’m in the criminally insane wing. I became known as “Hammer Man” before I turned myself in. I didn’t kill anybody, but I tried. The rubber jammer didn’t do the job. It just left lumps and bruises.

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

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Maxim

Posted on March 3, 2024 | Leave a comment

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

“A wise man is not a wise guy.” I live by this basic ancient truth. It is noted, that Neanderthals lived by the maxim too. There is a Neanderthal painting on a cave wall in France of a man in a playful pose being beaten over the head with a jawbone. It would seem that wisdom was not valued—that wise guys ran the caves and routinely murdered smart people by beating them on the head with jawbones. Some people claim the Biblical story of Samson is derived from Neanderthal cave paintings. But this can’t be true. The Bible is a much more reliable source of holy stories with powerful symbolism that is true because holy people say so to give you a chance to exercise your faith, which enables belief in otherwise unbelievable things, like Samson slewing 1,000 Philistines with a donkey’s jawbone. I don’t believe it, So it must be true. At least, that’s what I think.

As a boy, I lived on a quiet street in New Jersey. Beautiful maple trees, and flower gardens and close cropped lawns. There was a Philistine family that lived up the street from us. I delivered the newspaper to them and collected on Mondays. I had little envelopes to put the collection in and put under the doormat. Mr. Mitini would put troubling notes in my collection envelopes along with the money, like, “There’s blood on your hands.” I told my Dad and he told me not to worry, as long as I got paid. Then, one Monday, Mr. Mitini came to the door when I was dropping off the collection envelope. He had on a striped bathrobe and had a jawbone in his hand. He asked, “What did we do wrong?” I ran away and stopped delivering the paper to the Mitinis for two weeks. When I resumed delivery, Mr. Mitini apologized and looked normal. Everything was fine after that.

This experience motivated me to become an archeologist, studying the Philistines. Theirs is a tangled history, just like all the other cultures I study in the period I study. For a pretty exhaustive introductory account of the Philistines, see: https://library.biblicalarchaeology.org/article/what-we-know-about-the-philistines/

I haven’t read all of it yet. As a scholar, I’m pretty lazy, but I managed to get tenure here at Roy Orbison University. Our school song is “Crying.” It fits because we’re chronically short of funding. Talking about funding, I ‘m trying to get funding for a research project in Las Vegas. Most people would agree that visitors to Las Vegas are Philistines. I am interested in determining the accuracy of the appellation in light of the overarching truth of my other studies. I need $500,000. I am certain I will double it and pay every penny back to Roy Orbison U. I’m meeting with the grants committee tomorrow. I think if I offer each member $1,000 if they finance me, I’ll get the grant.

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

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Merismus

Posted on February 29, 2024 | Leave a comment

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

Mrs. Rogers, my fourth grade teacher, told us to think of a whole and then divide it into its parts. She called on me. “Johnny?” I was a wise guy, a class clown, and a pain in the ass all rolled into one. I said, “You can’t divide a hole into parts because there’s nothing there.” I gave Mrs. Rogers my wise guy smile and looked around the classroom. My joke hadn’t registered. Ms. Rogers said “Give me a straight answer or you’re going to visit Principal Lamron’s office. I was pals with the principal, so going to his office was no big deal. He was my mother’s brother—aka my uncle. I’d have my favorite grape soda, and he’d show me his latest magic tricks. Then we’d play a couple of hands of draw poker and I’d go back to class acting like I’d been admonished. I would rub my eyes making them red so it looked like I might’ve been crying.

I went back to class and dutifully made up a part-whole narrative: The car was black. It had 100s of parts. I will enumerate a few major parts, giving only their names. Here we go: hood, trunk, tires, doors, muffler, seats, speedometer, windshield, gas tank, radio, air conditioner, heater, seat warmers, tail lights, blinkers, and more.” Mrs. Rogers complimented me. I said “Cool. Maybe you can take me for a ride some night out to Lasagna Lake to look at the stars.” I did it again. I was remanded to my uncle’s office, but I kept going out the door. It was a perfect warm spring afternoon.

I headed for the playground. The sliding board was my favorite, climbing up the ladder and whooshing down the slide. I solid down and blew a slice of wind that sounded like a musical instrument—maybe a trumpet. Somebody yelled, “That was disgusting. What an oaf!” The voice sounded familiar. I turned around, and looked, and it was me! I was older, but it was me. I said to me, “What are you doing here?” I answered: “I am here to tell you to stop the bullshit. You weren’t born to be funny. It will only get you in trouble. Your destiny is to be a landscape gardener.” I said, “Now, that’s actually funny, asshole.” I/he got an angry look on his face and evaporated with a humorous squeaking sound.

I went back to class. I kept cracking jokes and hanging out with my uncle. I kept on through middle school. high school and college where I started a comedy club: “Bonkers.” In all those years I had become consistently hilarious. Eventually, I hit Las Vegas. Then, I was performing in Tahoe. I looked out at the audience, and there I was with a sign that said “Landscape Gardener.” It rattled me, but it didn’t affect my performance.

In my next show, I dressed like a landscape gardener, pushing a lawnmower out on stage. I told a few grass cutting and trimming jokes and groundhog, Japanese beetle, and rabbit jokes. Then, I did my usual routine. I got a standing ovation. Now I understood my destiny.

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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Mesarchia

Posted on February 28, 2024 | Leave a comment

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

“Love is to love without question. Affection gives endless affection without expectation.” These qualities of experience wreaked of silliness. In the cruel battle of life I thought they made weak. They made me a loser, a jerk, a stain on the carpet of life. I tried living in accord with the golden rule—but I thought I would become a golden fool.

I had a girlfriend. Her name was Nelly. She wanted to “do it” every night. I would say “Whoah Nelly.” She would get up and leave. On average, she’d be gone for 2 days. I wanted to be understanding, an endless source of caring and a peaceful man. I was certain she was seeing other men, so I never asked her what she was doing when she left home in the middle of the night. I tried and tried not to get angry, but I was cracking. So, against my will, I followed Nellie one night. I had a bad idea of what I was going to see: Nelly picked up on a street corner by a rich guy in a limousine. I followed her to a non-descript dimly lit building: “Clarksville Home for the Maimed.” I looked in the window and Nelly was reading a book to a man with no hands. One look at his eyes and you could tell he was blind—probably the victim of some kind of explosion. Nelly saw me and smiled and motioned me over. She said, “This is Mike. He was blown up in a July 4th accident. His wife threw him out after the accident and he’s been living here ever since.” “Wow.” My pity meter went through the roof. I almost started crying.

So this is what Nelly did when she disappeared. Then I noticed Mike’s fly was unzipped. I asked him how he could do that with no hands. He told me that when Nelly was there she unzipped and aimed him at the urinal, otherwise a nurse would do it. I was starting to crack again.

I threw Nelly out when she came home the next morning. Eight months later, I ran into her in line at the Post Office,

She was massively pregnant. She pointed at her stomach and said “Yours.” In the light of her smile, my paranoia faded. We went to my house, and we talked. She told me her sexual needs are normal, and I agreed. I had Googled it months ago and determined it was me who had the problem. As far as maimed Mike went, she told me her father was an amputee and blinded from the Vietnam War and she would go to the VA hospital and read to him. When he died of cancer, she started going to the Clarksville Home for the Maimed when I refused to offer her the warmth and comfort she desperately needed.

“But what about Mike’s penis?” I asked. She stood up, grabbed the clock from the mantle, and threw it at me with both hands. It hit me in the head and drove the demons out. It’s ten been years since that day when I learned how to trust. Our daughter Ella looks just like me. That’s good.

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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Mesodiplosis

Posted on February 27, 2024 | Leave a comment

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

This is a new chapter in my life. I’ve had my fill of St. Louis. Panera Bread had gotten inside my head. I smelled like yeast and was dusted with flour, like a poltergeist pizza. I had grown up in St. Louis, graduated from high school in St. Louis, and was arrested in St. Lewis for stealing a garden gnome when I was 19. I was sentenced to 3 months community service. That’s where I met my dog, a stray Coyote-Poo. I named him Jocka after the dog in the French song about oversleeping. But now I was moving out. At 27 it was time to go. I will be unfettered, foot-loose, a free bird. Drivin’ and arrivan’.

So, where am I going?

I’m goin’ to Kansas City. I think it’s in Kansas somewhere. I think Kansas City is my destination. Maybe I’ll pack some meat when I get there. I flicked on the GPS and found out Kansas City is in Missouri. I was delighted that the drive would be shorter.

I was singing “I’m goin’ to Kansas City, Kansas City Here I Come” when my Hyundai was hit by a toilet iceberg discharged by a jet flying overhead. I lost control of my car. I hit a guard rail and bounced off. The car blew up and started burning. I was able to drive it to the Kansas City line before the smoke got to me and I pulled over choking. I rolled down my window and Jocka made his escape. My seatbelt wouldn’t come unlatched. I pulled out my knife specially designed for seatbelt cutting—and breaking glass too! I got it online at “Jay’s Blades.” My eyes were burning as I flipped open the knife and started cutting. Suddenly the car door flew open and there was a firefighter standing there. He reached in the car and pulled on my seatbelt. This caused me to stab myself in the stomach. The knife was protruding from my stomach—I was afraid to pull it out. I had seem countless doctor shows on TV where pulling a knife out was fatal. Next, an EMT person showed up at the car door. She said, “We’ve got to get you out of here.” She grabbed me by the shoulders and started pulling me out of my car. The knife got stuck in the steering wheel and popped out. “This is an emergency” she said. I felt my life leaking away. I hadn’t made it to Kansas City. I was about five feet from the city limits. I could smell the barbecue over the smoke coming out from under my hood. Despite the fact that I was dying, I had hunger pangs. The EMT said, if you don’t get to a hospital in a half-hour, you’re dead. That was disheartening.

We were speeding along in a Kansas City ambulance when we passed a big red sign titled “Piggy’s” with a flashing neon pig in a bun. I took off the oxygen mask and yelled “Turn around, I want a barbecue sandwich!” The driver turned and smiled, his silver front tooth gleaming in the streetlights. He pulled the emergency brake and did a full 360. The EMT ran into Piggy’s and came out with a steaming barbecue sandwich. She threw it to me as we continued on to the hospital. It hit me in the face and splattered on my stretcher. I scooped up what I could and stuffed it in my mouth.

I passed out just as we pulled in to “KC General.” I woke up when I fell off the gurney because one of the wheels fell off. I passed out again. I woke up in my hospital bed feeling pretty good. I looked at my stomach wound and it was stitched up with florescent orange fishing line, with a hookless fishing lure dangling from it. I asked my nurse what the hell it was about. She said, “It celebrates the centrality of urban fishing to KC’s cultural heritage—before there were cows, there were bass. We decorate nearly everything with fishing lures. Christmas is a very special time here.” I felt like I was hallucinating or dreaming. All of a sudden, I felt like I’d been hooked up to a car battery. Somebody yelled “Clear” and I felt myself starting up again. I looked at my stomach and it was held together with normal stitches. I stayed in the hospital for two weeks, and then, I walked to Kansas City.

I didn’t take a train. I didn’t take a plane. My car blew up, but I got there just the same. I got to Kansas City, Kansas City here I am. I sued the fire department and EMTs for worsening my knife wound and almost killing me. I was awarded $12,000,000. I bought Piggy’s, a luxury condo, and a new car—not a Hyundai. I hired a PI to find Jocka. He had gotten a job modeling flea shampoo and acting as a watchdog at a dog salon named “Royal Woofers.” When he saw me, he went crazy dancing around in circles and howling. Now, we’re living happily ever after, but we’re think of moving. We’re looking at New York, El Paso, Surf City, San Jose, Las Vegas, Chicago, or Galveston.

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

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Mesozeugma

Posted on February 26, 2024 | Leave a comment

Mesozeugma (me’-so-zyoog’-ma): A zeugma in which one places a common verb for many subjects in the middle of a construction.

“Life is too boring to reclaim from the pits, my downward plunge, or life’s tragic rodeo.” I actually had these thoughts at one point in my life before I turned into the North Star and guided everybody home. I made a giant blue wing and sent it forth throughout the land. Soaring along, picking up passengers one by one, setting the tone for the future—wolves and lambs hanging out, the wolves turning into vegetarians by the magical power of B. Good. He played the guitar like the spirit in the sky blessing Heartbreak Hotel on Tuesday afternoon, giving everybody a little red Corvette for their special day.

Somebody said “It’s raining crabs in Disneyland.” This must be true at some level or it never would’ve been said, even if it’s a lie. If it is a poetic configuration we can retrieve its significance from the swamp of literalism. We must ask ourselves if there in fact any such thing as literalism—isn’t it just a deep rut in poetry’s road, so we’ll-travelled that it has become a road in its own right distinguishable from the poetic road, but as we know, not different, only observable, like a stain on a sweater or a floor. Nothing new here. Time to fire up the grill.

We’re having big fat wieners imported from Germany via jet. We have big fat buns. We have big fat mustard. We have thin sauerkraut to challenge our sense of continuity, to teach the first lesson of fracture’s ubiquity—how the world goes 1, 2, 4, thwarting our expectations, dashing our hopes and dreams. But, tomorrow is never today unless you have severe jet lag, like you flew nonstop lower class from Sydney, Australia to Newark, USA with diarrhea and shingles. That’s bad. Think about it. If you can’t think about it, you haven’t read it: to read is to think. Of course you can think without reading. You can listen. But the most important things can’t be read or listened to. Thinking entails taking what’s there and thinking about it. As soon as that happens, it’s like you’re pole dancing with what is. But that’s the best we can do if we want to “share” with others, to socialize and overcome our isolation. We are willing to sacrifice the unsharable for the shareable, by communicating.

Well, that took us nowhere—not like a bus or a subway conveying us to a well-imagined destination—even if we’ve never been there we can go map in hand, GPS in front of the face—pulled into time by a well charged Apple device—playing music, leaving messages, staying in touch, but not actually touching.

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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Metalepsis

Posted on February 24, 2024 | Leave a comment

Metalepsis (me-ta-lep’-sis): Reference to something by means of another thing that is remotely related to it, either through a farfetched causal relationship, or through an implied intermediate substitution of terms. Often used for comic effect through its preposterous exaggeration. A metonymical substitution of one word for another which is itself figurative.

Now there was a canyon in my garage. It wasn’t grand, but it was bigger than my foot. The block and tackle had snapped. The ‘57 T-Bird motor had crashed-landed on the concrete floor. The oil pan was destroyed, but there was a dim light shining out of the crank case. It was eerie, spooky, and scary, and more. I yelled into the motor, but there was no answer. The light just kept on shining.

I was all alone in the garage. My wife had gone to visit her mother and my daughter was away at college in her junior year at Reed College. She was studying anthropology—but that was beside the point right now! Then I thought—Anthropology—hmmm—maybe we could excavate the T-Bird’s engine and treat the light as a natural phenomenon to be scientifically studied instead of a supernatural phenomenon—a ghost in the motor. I called my daughter. It was 2.00 am in New York, but only 11.00 pm in Oregon. She picked up the phone. Quicksilver Messenger Service was playing in the background—“Take Another Hit.” Typical.

I explained what had happened. My daughter told me the only way to “really find out” what’s going on in there is to go inside and find it. She told me she had a professor who was an ethnoherbalist. He had just returned from an expedition to an undisclosed location in Iceland, where he had unearthed a trove of Viking “Altitude” potions—medicines that could make them shrink for concealment, or grow for battle. We could use a “shrinker” to get inside the engine and look around. My daughter said she would talk to him. I was skeptical. It sounded like a nutty professor story from the “Twilight Zone.” She called in the morning and told me it was ok, but on one condition: he would accompany me into the engine. I agreed. He was flying out to New York that afternoon and would meet me at the airport. I was still skeptical.

I picked him up and we drove to my house. He was at least seven feet tall and had huge feet. He had only one eye. I asked him how he lost it and he said “None of your fu*kin’ business.” So, I left it alone. We went out into the garage and took the “get little” pills. We had one hour to get in and out of the engine. If we failed, we’d be crushed as we grew back to our normal sizes. We shrunk to about 1” tall. We climbed in through the oil pan and over the crank shaft. We could see the light shining from one of the pistons. He climbed up the piston rod to check out the light. He yelled down to me that it was some kind of phosphorescent material and he would scrape it off and put it in his specimen bag, and we could examinine it when we got back out of the engine.

He had a tool like a small putty knife. He started to scrape and there was an explosion that blew me back out onto the garage floor. I climbed back into the engine to look for him, but he had disappeared without a trace. I called, no answer. Time was running out, so I had to get out of the motor. Right on schedule, I got big again. After nearly endless inquiries, it was determined that the professor was missing. I never told anybody about out trip into the engine. My daughter knew what we had done, and she kept it quiet for our sake.

I restored the T-Bird to its original condition. The strangest thing though: when it idles in neutral the engine sounds like it is saying “None of your fu*kin’ business. None of your fu*kin’ business.”

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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Metaphor

Posted on February 22, 2024 | Leave a comment

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

“Time is a doorknob. Life is a laundromat. Truth is a pedicure. Candy is dandy. All aboard the ham-hock express. Smile out the window. We’re all being watched. By God. By the Conductor. By CCTV. The seat is hard, so I stand: baby buggy bumpers bobbing beneath by my blouse.”

She sat down. She had read her metaphor assignment with such power and conviction that I was still on my knees holding my hands in a prayerful position—like clapping, but not moving—pressed together, worshiping her reading. How did she discover these words in her brain’s synapses—all gemlike in their resplendence?

Now I knew why I was taking Creative Writing. It was Francine—the Francine of my dreams. The tower of words. The stronghold of poetic rigor. The bejeweled tongue. The golden lips. The smooth fingerless hand injured in a farming accident. I did not look at it. Instead, I listened to her words. They covered over her scars.

Prof. Roman told me to get “the hell” off the floor and stop acting like a fool. I thought of talking back, but I was a grown up now. I was in college. The rest of the class was looking at me with their mouths open—like they were stunned by my behavior. I’d show them! I was next in line to read. Prof. Roman looked at me like I smelled and said “Ok Milton, it’s your turn.” I was related to John Milton, so Mrs. Roman expected too much from me. I turned out the classroom lights and began;

“I like Piña coladas—they are the dreams of my days, my lost shakers of salt, my stolen hound dogs. My bank account is a bundle of worms, the crow of the roost, a bicycle pump with a hose that is loose.” I finished and sat down. My fellow students were laughing and booing. Prof. Roman said calmly, “Get out.” Francine said from the back of the room, “If he goes, I go.” All the students said “Ooooh!” Prof. Roman relented. Me and Francine were the alpha and omega of the Creative Writing class. When I read my assignments everybody but Francine would leave the classroom. Prof. Roman encouraged them to leave.

Our last assignment was to write about our favorite pet. I never had a pet, so I made one up. It was a rabbit with 7 legs that ran the 50-yard dash in competitions around New Jersey. He never lost a single race and he died of a heart attack comfortably in his hutch when he was 9. My father had him stuffed and he rides on the dashboard everywhere my father goes. His name is “Hoppy” after Hopalong Cassidy the famous 1950s TV cowboy. Prof. Roman said my story “paralleled” “My Friend Flicka” too closely and gave me an “F”. I didn’t even know what My Friend Flicka was. I was angry. REALLY angry.

I swore I would get her—I was innocent. She just didn’t like me. I Googled her for three days straight! Nothing! I decided to stalk her—it was risky, but I had to do it. I discovered she was the flasher lady who stood outside the school, on a hill, giving everybody a peek. Faculty, staff and students enjoyed it, and nobody complained. She had perfected her “reveal” so it looked like an accident—usually the wind blowing up her skirt. Every once in awhile, her blouse would blow open. Now that I knew her “accidental” reveal was a carefully orchestrated ruse, I could threaten to reveal the truth. I told her I would squeal on her if she didn’t change my grade to an “A” and write me letters of recommendation for MFA programs. She agreed and I was set.

POSTSCRIPT

The story of my fake racing rabbit was made into a movie entitled “My Friend Flick: Vampire Racing Rabbit.” A sequel is under production right now entitled “Flick 2.” Francine has written a book entitled “My Special Jerk.” It is about our college days together. It is selling well. Prof. Roman has been promoted to Dean of College and bought an expensive fast car that she takes drag racing in Pennsylvania on the weekends wearing fireproof red shorts and a Pink Floyd t-shirt.

Francine and I are still together. I was hired into Prof. Roman’s position. Francine is teaching at the community college and comes up for tenure next year.

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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Metaplasm

Posted on February 21, 2024 | Leave a comment

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

He was fallened, flat as a pancake—never knew what hit ‘em, boom time on to the next incarnation. His walker was a little mangled, but I grabbed it thinking I could hang my underwear on it to dry. I hoisted it over my head and started walking home. My husband “Lousy Joe” was sure to ask me where I got it from. I was going tell him it was in a trash pile out in front of somebody’s house. I’d tell him the pile had a “free” sign stuck in it.

When I got home Lousy Joe was standing on the sidewalk waiting for me. “What the hell is that?” He asked. “I found it in a trash pile—it’s an old-fashioned laundry hanger,” I told hm. “Oh no you don’t. I’m going to use it as a step ladder, Hand it over.” We could share it, but he never would. He confiscated everything I brought home. Last week it was a tennis ball. He grabbed it and threw it at the living room wall and put a dent in the wall. Once I found a rubber boot by the creek. He took it from me and pulled it on one foot although it was way too small. He wore it on one foot until his foot got really sore and started to smell. His foot was so swollen we had to cut the boot off and go to the emergency room. He had to have is toes amputated. It was pitiful. He cried like a baby and actually thought I would try to comfort him. Instead, I went out side and smoked a half-pack of cigarettes and met a guy whose wife had fallen down the stairs during an argument and fractured her skull. I told him why I was there and he thought it was funny—my husband limping around in one boot with his foot rotting. I told him I thought it was pretty funny too. Since we shared so much in common, I asked if he wanted to go for a drink. He said, “No. I’ve got to get out of here. I think my wife is going to die.” I said, “Oh, that’s a shame.” He mumbled, “I planned it. I had a mannequin that I practiced with for a month when my wife was at work. I got really good at pushing it down the stairs, until finally I could make it land on its head every time.” All of a sudden a woman walked out of the hospital and told hm she was cleared to go home. It was his wife. He was really angry. His plan had been thwarted.

He told her to wait by the curb. An old pickup truck came roaring toward her. Her husband was driving. He barely missed her. You could him swearing in the truck. Her turned around and came back, and missed again. The third time was not charmed. He missed again, drove up on the sidewalk and hit a concrete barrier. He flew through the truck’s front windshield. There was hole in the windshield where he had flow through. He was lying on his face, still alive.

I was completely shocked, but I envied her. There was a good chance her husband would die, and she didn’t have to kill him. I wasn’t so lucky. So, I bought a mannequin, and hid it in the basement.

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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Metastasis

Posted on February 20, 2024 | Leave a comment

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

“Why were you looking through my dresser? Pervert. Creep. You need help!” My sister yelled. Another accusation. Every day she accused me of something new. Last week, it was using her toothbrush. Before that, “ransacking” her closet. In every case it was the other way around—she was doing what she accused me of doing, and I told her: “You’ve got it all wrong Ginger—it is you who’re doing all these things to me! Let’s look at our dressers and see which one’s been gone through!” We looked hers—all the drawers were tidy. Clearly, nobody had gone through dresser. Then, we looked at mine. Things were pushed all over the place and hanging out of the drawers. What was alarming was my lock-blade gravity knife was missing. It had a 10” blade and was made for killing. I had inherited it from Uncle Chuck who had been shot in the back when he was robbing a bicycle repair shop in Huntsville. They found him with a bicycle chain around his neck, strung up, dripping blood from the bullet hole in his back. Nobody knew who shot him or hung him up. There were 11 witnesses, but none of them saw anything. He was buried with honors by the Boy Scouts who he had faithfully served in various capacities for 27 years.

Anyway, my sister yelled, “I didn’t do this, you did! I straightened my dresser back up early this morning. Creep. Pervert!” “I know you did it and I know you’re not going to admit it,” I said. “I just want my knife back. Uncle Chuck wanted me to have it. It’s dangerous. You could get hurt playing with it.” She had the knife. She had it tucked in the waistband of her pants, in the back. She pulled it out and flicked it open and laughed: “Hurt myself? It’s more likely that I’ll hurt you! Creep. Pervert.”

I grabbed her wrist and shook it hard. The open knife came out of her hand, cut through my cheap flannel slipper and stabbed me in the foot. The knife had pinned my foot to the floor. I couldn’t move. My foot was soaking the varnished floor with blood. My sister yelled, “You’re in big trouble now. A knife is not a toy, you idiot.”

I reached down with two hands and yanked the knife out of the floor. I pointed it at Ginger. She ran downstairs yelling “Mama he tried to kill me with Uncle Chuck’s knife.” My mother came running up the stairs yelling “What did you try to do to Ginger?” She got upstairs, looked at my foot, gasped, and asked me what had happened. I told her everything, especially about the false accusations. The police were called. My mother told them I had tried to murder my sister, but she had fought me off, knocking the murder weapon from my hand, where it fell and stabbed me in the foot. Dad just sat there nodding his head. I was arrested, handcuffed, taken to jail, tried and convicted of attempted 2nd degree murder. I professed my innocence throughout my trial. I received a three-year sentence.

Three days after my conviction, my sister murdered both of our parents and burned our house down. I was immediately acquitted. I went and visited Ginger in jail. I asked her why she did it. Against her attorney’s advice, she told me: “The roller skate living under my bed would wake me up in the middle of the night by singing “Brand New Key” and skating up and down my body. It would park on my forehead. It would stick its key in my ear, open my brain, and give me orders. When it was done, it would close my brain and roll back under my bed. I had to obey the roller skate because it was a certified dictator, as I learned from ‘Dirty Sock’ on the floor next to my bed. I never told anybody about this for fear Roller Skate wouldn’t give me the bucket of gold he promised as a reward for obeying orders.”

All those years, my sister had been completely insane. I should’ve seen the signs: wearing her dress backwards, getting a tattoo of a handgun when she was 11, burning up our ant farm with a magnifying glass, and, of course, the barrage of false accusations that landed me in jail.

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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Metonymy

Posted on February 19, 2024 | Leave a comment

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

“Hey Fatty!” Yes, that was my nickname. I grew up in a small town and I had always been called “Fatty.” It had been going on for so long it was “normal.” It did not strike me as a taunt any more. It had become my name. I had my own business called “Fattiy’s,” It was a dessert bar in the mall. I sold ice cream sundaes and Buster Bombs—my own invention. They were round-shaped ice cream pops—vanilla ice cream, chocolate coating and rolled in peanuts. They also contained an ounce of Vivarn, and you had to be 18 to purchase them. They were quite popular. I had a steady stream of return customers who would inevitably comment on how good the Buster Bombs made them feel—better even than Coca Cola.

My most popular sundae was called the “Monday”. It had caffeinated coffee ice cream, walnuts and powdered coffee beans that were made to be snorted—laid out in a line on a napkin with a straw. Patrons would be lined up at the door when I opened the door at 7.00 am, They’d yell “Monday!” I’d work like crazy making Mondays until around 10.00 am. Then, Fatty’s would empty out.

At around 3.30 the kids would arrive. They loved their sugar. I fed the kids “fortified” sundaes with 10-times the sugar as in normal sundaes and just enough caffeine to affect the quality of their lives. The favorite sundae among the kids was the “Naughty.” Our all-county football star drank 3 Naughties every day. He would tackle two or three kids before running out the door and running to practice imitating a police car’s whooping siren..

The kids would clear out of Fatty’s around 4.30. I would close until nine, when some adults would trickle in. The late-night menu consisted of “calming” sundaes to prepare them for a good night’s sleep. The most popular sundae was the “Snore.” It was made of Melatonin ice cream topped with whipped cream and three cherries soaked in “ZZZ NyQuil.” Most of the adults would come and go via Uber. I also offered the “Stiffy” for men with marital issues. It consisted of ingredients shipped directly from “Hoo Doo Ltd.” in New Orleans. I really don’t know what the ingredients are. I just sprinkle them on two scoops of vanilla ice cream with a banana on top, garnished with two cherry sour balls.

I am retiring next week. I have written a sundae “cook book” that will be published by Harvard University Press. Harvard believes it is important to finally publish something other than boring academic mumbo-jumbo. The title of the book is “Drink, Drink and Be Merry: Sundaes for All Your Needs.” I’ll be going on a book signing tour. My first stop is Miami, FL where my book is required reading for government employees and all middle school students.

Well, I’m going to drink a “Snooze” and go to bed now. Good night.

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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Onedismus

Posted on February 17, 2024 | Leave a comment

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

What is this about? Where is this going? Last week you were composing a song about what a great partner I’ve been. This week you’ve stripped down the Ten Commandments to thou shalt lie, cheat, steal, commit adultery, punch out your neighbors, and have as many gods as you want—the more the merrier. What happened?

WHAT HAPPENED

Nancy put a white bag with eyeholes over her head. She began: “Do you remember the street vendor on Times Square, selling genuine Voodoo food? We laughed and so did the guy cooking and selling it. He had no teeth and his clothes were filthy. His stand was called ‘Zombie Mambo.’ Remember?” A bloodstain started forming where her mouth would’ve been on the white bag. I told her I remembered. We both had the Zombie Disco Chicken—it was delicious—I could’ve eaten ten servings.

I was becoming mildly terrified. Nancy started producing an irresistible sweet perfume smell—like jasmine and orange blossoms blended together, sailing toward me through the air, and she was gliding toward me too—slowly, almost imperceptibly. Despite the bloodstain over her mouth, I was overcome. I started moving toward her and she pulled off the bag.

There was a ball of mating garden snakes writhing where her head should’ve been. The ball had a mouth and eyes. The eyes were yellow and the mouth was still dripping blood. Strangely, I wasn’t overcome by terror.

The next thing I knew, Nancy and I were dancing to “Night Fever” by The Bee Gees streaming from the stereo. I was in another dimension feeling more alive than I ever have—focusing on Nancy’s snake ball head my heart was pulsing to the rhythm of the snakes. Nancy was making a protracted moaning sound, filling the living room with lust—but we couldn’t succumb. All we could do was dance, dance, dance. The Bees Gees played on. Nancy’s head slowly turned into a disco ball. It spun faster and faster. The mirrored reflections became streaks on the walls. We had been dancing for three hours. Exhausted, I passed out and flopped to the floor. When I awoke, Nancy was sitting on the couch looking at me affectionately. She was back to her normal beautiful self. I asked her: “What happened?” She told me she thought it was the “Zombie Disco Chicken” we had gotten from the street vendor in Times Square.

We went back to Times Square to see if we could find the vendor. We could not find him. We Googled “Zombie Disco Chicken.” Nothing. We stumbled on a fortune-teller on First Avenue who also sold charms made of stone, bone, shells, and feathers. We asked her about Zombie Disco Chicken and she shuddered. “You have done the Zombie Disco Night Fever?” We described what had happened and told her the vendor’s name—“Voodoo Mambo Chicken.” She said, “Yes you have done it. The Zombie Disco Chicken motivated it. The Zombie Disco Night Fever maintains the right relationship between life and death, as the disco ball simulates procreation, and, as Eros is excreted through its rotations, it obscures its opposite with the sacred veil of the ‘busted’ dance move.”

POSTSCRIPT

We bought tickets to Haiti. We wanted a reprise of what we had experienced. In fact, we wanted it to become an ongoing part of our lives. We wanted the “thrill” of the dance. We listened to “Night Fever” whenever we could on the flight to Port au Prince. We looked high and low for somebody who knew about Zombie Disco Chicken. No luck. It was disappointing. I looked back over my shoulder as we prepared to board the plane and there was the vendor! We turned around and went back. Together with Bob’s assistance, we worked out a nightclub act. Nancy and I would eat a helping of Zombie Disco Chicken and then dance for the punters, who thought it was all an act. It wasn’t.

After 2 years we got tired of putting on the show. It’s hard to believe, but it’s true. We went back to the US, to our normal lives, and never ate street food again.

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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Oxymoron

Posted on February 16, 2024 | Leave a comment

Oxymoron (ox-y-mo’-ron): Placing two ordinarily opposing terms adjacent to one another. A compressed paradox.

He was wildly calm. He was openly closed. He covered for evil—he was like a blanket from hell—or more like a quilt with cryptic designs—toilet seats, bacon, weeds and scotch whiskey bottles with Johnny Walker on their label dressed as a priest giving a sermon. What would it be about? Most likely, the benefits of drunkenness for family, friends, and work.

But anyway, “he” was off the rails. He did every bad thing you can imagine. For example, he stole a whole carton of Sticky Notes from Staples. He stuck one on each stop sign in the city. Each note said “scratching your crotch.” He was playing on painting “war” on stop signs like they did in the 60s: “Stop War.” His message was “Stop scratching your crotch.” The campaign was completely ineffective. One rainstorm and the sticky note washed away. Not only that, “stop scratching your crotch” was a message of irrelevant interest to most people. First, most peoples’ crotches did not itch, hence they didn’t scratch them. Second, if they did scratch their crotch, it was so rare that it did not make a difference. Third: there were people who chronically scratched, but with proper medication, the itching would abate and didn’t need scratching after one or two days.

This is just one of hundreds of examples. He was so far off the rails that the train was headed to Topeka sideways. This went on for years, he was bad and he failed, failed, failed. I’ll never know how he evaded jail, but he did. Then, it happened,

THE INVENTION

There is no accounting for it. I always believed he was willing to kill somebody for their idea. I gave up trying to figure out where the ideas came from. Bottom line: they all failed. In my view, the invention was so stupid and unnecessary, that it should’ve been rejected by any responsible manufacturer, and it was, until he brought the idea to Japan—the land of quirky crazy shit. “Shaper Image Ltd.” took it on. The product was a hand-held electric tuna salad maker. The condiments were stored in the handle. It was called “Tuna Wand” giving it a magical quality. The Tuna Wand opened the can of tuna fish, lifted the tuna from the can and started mixing it when the operator squeezed the handle. When they hit the market in Japan, they sold out immediately, becoming a fad— a secondary market emerged: Tuna Wand holsters, so people could display their tuna wands on their hips, and also, to free up their hands in the kitchen. He made millions from his invention.

Why am I telling you this story? Because, I am him. That’s right. I am trying to inspire you with my story of persistence, hope, and vulnerability, and make sure you know that I did not murder the guy they found dead that had some papers in his hand that looked a lot like plans for the Tuna Wand. I’ve been bad, but not that bad. Sure, I’ve confessed to stealing Sticky Notes from Staples. But the statute of limitations has passed. Thank-you for your support.

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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Onomatopoeia

Posted on February 15, 2024 | Leave a comment

Onomatopoeia (on-o-mat-o-pee’-a): Using or inventing a word whose sound imitates that which it names (the union of phonetics and semantics).

My head sounded like a seashell: I could hear the ocean in it: k-shooosh, k-shooosh, k-shooosh. The tide was going in and out all the time. I believed if my head was cut in half it would be full of surfboards and beach umbrellas and fishing boats offshore. I often imagined I was inside my head, relaxing at the beach. But inevitably there would be a storm with high winds, and I would have to leave.

Getting inside my head was easy, but getting out was hard. To get into my head I just wished I was there, and zoom, there I was. Getting out, the storm in my head would make it totally dark. I would keep sliding down the side of my brain until I exploded with rage and yelled “Get me out of here Jim.” Jim was the lifeguard who sat in a chair-tower waiting to rescue people. All the girls were in love with him. It was no wonder: he looked like a Greek statue of Adonis. Unlike me—nobody paid attention to me. I just put in my earbuds and listened to Bobby Vinton, Dion, and the Janey and the Peckers—an under-appreciated rock band from the 60s.

Anyway, inevitably I would feel Jim’s arms around me as we scaled the side of my cranium to its soft spot where I would exit through my scalp. It was tedious and scary getting out, but I loved my head-beach, especially in the winter when it was 20 degrees. I’d look out my eyeball window and see all the people in their goose down coats, shivering.

At some point my forays into my head started to annoy people. I was told I was completely unresponsive when I went into my head. I thought that was stupid. I was responsive—running around the beach, talking to Jim, eating a hot dog, etc.

One day when I was inside my head, without me knowing, I was taken to the hospital. When we got there, Jim suddenly threw me out of my head, and apologized, saying it was part of his job. I didn’t understand. I looked around and didn’t like what I saw. I tried to get back into my head, but no matter how hard I imagined I was there, Jim blocked the way. Suddenly things like earphones were put on my head, and a rubber thing was shoved into my mouth.. Then, I felt like the inside of my head was being destroyed. I passed out,

When I awoke, I immediately climbed into my head. Jim was lying dead at the bottom of his watchtower. The ocean had turned into brown goo. The sand had turned hard, like concrete. I realized that without Jim’s help, I couldn’t get out of my head. I was stuck, and angry too. About two hours later, a silver probe descended into my head. It found Jim and poked his chest. He came to life. He was weak, but he struggled to carry me up the side of my cranium. As I climbed out of my head, I heard a zapping sound and Jim screaming in pain.

It’s such a mess inside my head, I don’t ever want to go back ever again. I miss the refuge it afforded me, but more than anything, I miss Jim.

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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Paenismus

Posted on February 12, 2024 | Leave a comment

Paenismus (pai-nis’-mus): Expressing joy for blessings obtained or an evil avoided.

The floodwaters were rising. Weird crap was floating past my house—a tree trunk, a hot water heater, a dining room table, a mattress, a rubber boot. Suddenly it looked like the food was subsiding. I felt like Noah—I was filled with glee—the flood had passed me by. As the water went down I noticed a silver globe embedded in the mud that used to be my front lawn. It was wiggling and rolling around like there was something alive inside it. I’d seen toy balls that did that, but they were much smaller. I picked it up and twisted it open. There was a little man inside. He was sopping wet. He said “Goddamnit, I nearly drowned.“ I was so shocked I dropped the two halves of the ball. He looked up at me and said “What the hell are you going to do now? You saved my life, so now I owe you the cliched three wishes. What do want? Remember, they have to be for things and sentient beings, no countries, piles of money, or mountains, etc.” We went inside my house. He had miraculously dried off already. His suit was amazing. It flashed pale green and gray when he moved. He said, “Ok, go for it Mr. Savior.”

I was ready. As the king of loneliness, I knew what I needed, and wanted too. “I want somebody to love me.” There was a screeching sound, like worn out brakes, a puff of fog and another noise I had never heard before before, sort of like a cross between a banjo and a rusty hinge. The fog cleared, and there was a big mutt sitting there with a black and white striped coat, and floppy ears. The little man said the dog’s name was Moobert. “He loves you,” said the little man. I told him I wanted a woman, not a dog. “Why didn’t you say so. The Three Wishes Rulebook clearly states ‘that in the event of a vague wish, the Little Man may choose from among the possible wishes.’ You said somebody, and clearly, Moobert is a somebody.” Moobert sat on my foot and looked me in the eye. I liked Moobert.

“Ok, I’m ready for my next wish. I want ten more wishes.” There was a blinding flash of light, and a deep voice said: “You have broken the cardinal rule of wishing. Wishing for wishes is like chopping off your foot to spite your face—totally stupid and without merit.” The little man waved his hand and the Keeper of Wishes withdrew.

“Boy, you nearly got us killed. Let’s move on to wish number three and hope you get it right. I’m too old for this crap—ask for a car, or a house, or a pay parking lot. I was ready. “I wish for the Organic Food Emporium.” I had been in love with the girl behind the counter for 10 years. Her name was Dali Na-Na. The Little Man said “Looks like you finally hit it. Be prepared.” He tucked himself in his silver ball and took off. The “be prepared” made me nervous.

I walked into the store and Dali Na-Na jumped over the counter. She was licking my face and wagging her butt. It was like she was channeling Moobert. I decided then and there that I would accept her behavior that I knew it was instigated by the Little Man.

That night, the three of us sat in the living room by the fire. I read my newspaper while the two of them sat at my feet. When it came time to go to bed, Moobert stayed downstairs playing the role of watch dog. Dali Na-Na and I went upstairs. I was looking forward to making love to her. When we got into bed she said “I am your best friend, I will be faithful until the end of time. You can always count on me.” These would become our marriage vows. The promises are so much more meaningful than sex—at least that’s what I told myself.

I could hear the Little Man laughing downstairs and playing with Moobert. I don’t know why he did it. I’ll never know why he did it. I’m still not sure what he did.

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

Paramythia

Posted on February 11, 2024 | Leave a comment

Paramythia (pa-ra-mee’-thi-a): An expression of consolation and encouragement.

He was crawling through broken glass. “Go Zack!” I yelled, encouraging him to keep going and cross the line. Billy yelled: “You’ll be ok. You can make it!” Ed yelled: “You’ll feel great when it’s over and you’re all healed up.” Zack looked at him and said: “That’s easy for you to say, standing there watching like a vulture.” Zack was wearing no pants and his knees were slashed and bleeding, leaving a trail across the floor. Zach collapsed two feet short of the line. He was carried outside to the curb and an ambulance was called to pick him up.

What was going on here? I was new to the neighborhood, so I didn’t have a clue. I asked Ed, “What the hell is up with this?” Ed looked at me like I was really stupid. “We dare,” he said with a solemn look on his face. “We give and take dares. Nobody knows when and why it started. A dare is sent out each week to the group, and if it is taken by somebody, we work out the logistics for documenting whether it was successfully completed. Depending on the ‘severity’of the dare, you achieve a rank in the group from ‘Player’ to ‘God.’ Zack was going for God by crawling naked through broken glass. He failed. He can use his parents’ health insurance to get sewn up and will earn the rank of Angel as a consolation.”

That night I got a dare text message and immediately responded. I got a message back telling me I had successfully taken the dare. It was to go barefoot to school the next day.. The next morning, I took my shoes off on the front porch and headed out to school. The “Dares”were gathered around the front entrance of San Luis Obispo Middle School. I opened the door and the hallway was covered with thumbtacks.

I thought fast—the dare had been to walk to school; not go inside. My technicality was a winner. Every body cheered and I was picked up and carried to my home room. That’s when I decided I did not want to have anything to do with the “Dares.” Instead, I started my own group, “The Little Ponies.” We were modeled after the My Little Pony—we dyed our hair pastel colors and did good deeds. We had four members, but had a resounding impact. For example, we had our principal fired for taking bribes from parents. The four of us were transferred to another school where we busted the chemistry teacher’s ecstasy lab. The four of us were transferred to another school, where we decided to disband. When we returned to San Luis Obispo Middle School, it had become a dystopian educapalypse. Lightbulbs had been smashed and the hallways were like dark caves, lined with smoldering piles of books. Faculty had become fascists and drunks. The student body had become a behavioral sink—it was rat vs. rat for control of the school. The “Ponies” wanted to have nothing to do with it and we transferred to the local private school: “Immaculate Perfection.” It was wonderful. In my senior year, San Luis Obispo Middle School burned to the ground. Some people said it was done on a dare.

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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Pareuresis

Posted on February 10, 2024 | Leave a comment

Pareuresis (par-yur-ee’-sis): To put forward a convincing excuse. [Shifting the blame.]

It started when I was a kid. I blamed my little brother for every bad thing I did. I was an excuse mill, and he was my grist. The best part was, no matter what it was, I could convince him that he did it. For example, one day I was playing “Track Star” in the living room. It was x-country. I jumped over furniture and swung from the fireplace mantle. My second time around the living room, when I went to grab the mantle, I knocked Grandma’s urn off the mantle and her ashes spilled onto the floor. I immediately turned to my brother, who was watching. I said, “What a mess! Why did you do this? Do you hate Grandma you little creep.” My little brother said: “I hate grandma, that’s why I did it. I should have done it sooner, right, big brother?” Of course, I said “Right! I won’t tell unless I have to.” I told on him and he had to eat his dinner in the basement for one week. He didn’t crack, and was proud of that. He just liked me too much, and I exploited it to cover my ass.

As I’ve gone through life, I’ve sought out people like my brother and use their loyalty as a shield for my misdeeds. I had a small gang specializing in stealing tires from parked cars. I had replaced three of the five, who took the hit for me out of loyalty. In one instance, there was CCTV of me helping one of my gang members remove a tire. When the case went to court, he testified that I was a “Good Samaritan” who offered to help him out. He got 1 year in prison. I walked. After the tire stealing business was exposed, I started a new scam. I was selling stolen shoes at the weekly flea market. The shoes were stolen from fitness centers where they were frequently left on the floor instead of being put in a locker. Our men and women would sweep through the locker rooms, and stuff pairs of shoes into their giant gym bags. Depending on the condition, I paid my crew by the pair. It was interesting how many people wore Blundstones.

One day we were raided after somebody had seen their shoes for sale. I knew this would happen sooner or later. As the crew was being arrested, Sandy pointed at me and said: “Don’t arrest him. He was here looking for his own stolen shoes.” The rest of the crew nodded their heads. The police took my name, address, and phone number and let me go. My crew got 1 year for selling stolen goods.

It all came tumbling down when I reconnected with my little brother. We met at Dad’s funeral & we became “Purse Cutters.” I would engage a woman in conversation and my brother would sneak up behind her and cut her purse’s shoulder strap, grab the purse and run away. I would feign shock and run after the “thief.” We were nailing a half-dozen purses per day. But that couldn’t last forever. One day, I saw the shock of recognition on the women’s face when I was doing my pre-robbery chat. We had robbed her before. She spun around, and slammed by brother in the head with her purse, knocking him unconscious. “Lead bars,” she said smiling at me as she dialed 911 on her phone. I winked at her and took off running after the bad guy, and was grabbed by policemen who had been alerted. We went to court. My brother testified that he had taken the blame for me all his life, but not this time. He testified that I was his accomplice and was equally guilty. But, I had hit the jackpot!

The woman we were robbing testified that I was friends with her and I had alerted her to what was happening behind her back. And that my brother was a jealous fool, who followed me around making trouble. I couldn’t believe my luck. All I had done was wink at her and she became my instant loyal minion. It was incredible and somewhat frightening. What a great front she would be! Not only was she attractive, but she came from a wealthy family. We were married. Thereafter, she took the blame for everything I did wrong and we lived happily ever after.

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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Paroemia

Posted on February 9, 2024 | Leave a comment

Paroemia (pa-ri’-mi-a): One of several terms describing short, pithy sayings. Others include adage, apothegm, gnome, maxim, proverb, and sententia.

“When your pants fall down, pretend it didn’t happen.” This saying comes from the book, “Sayings to Say.” I had memorized 600 of its sayings. I am a therapist. I have found the quotations give me an air of wisdom without actually giving advice that can be used. This keeps my malpractice insurance low and my reputation high. I am known as “The Mystic Psychologist” and “Swami Counselami.”

I have a steady flow of clients, all insured, all mentally unstable, all ready for the Swami’s advice. Two day ago a young man, Forenell, came in for counseling who had so many problems, it took him a whole hour to tell me about them. For example, he had been slicing a bagel and accidentally slit his wrist. He called 911 and got it stitched up. Or, he was driving and closed his eyes. He hit a bridge abutment, totaled the car, and walked away with a broken arm and a concussion. Or, he wanted to “clean out” so he drank a bottle of “Your Move.” He had intended to sit on a toilet all day at work. He got really hungry at lunch time and went to the cafeteria, where he felt a flood of poop coming and pulled down his pants so they wouldn’t get soiled. He turned around to look at the clock and exploded and pooped in his boss’s face, who just turned away from his lunch to see what was going on behind him. Forenell reached down to his pants for the half-used roll of toilet paper. When he bent over, a second wave blew out landing on the boss’s burrito. Forenell was frog marched out of the building by two burly members of the company’s wrestling team. Forenell’s pants were still down as he made his way to the parking garage. He was arrested, tried, and convicted of indecent exposure. He was fined $200 and spent one month in jail, where the other inmates kept pulling down his pants.

After he told me his stories, I knew what I had to do. I pulled my copy of “Sayings to Say” down from my bookshelf, looking very solemn. I closed my eyes, opened the book, and stuck my finger on the random page, landing on a saying. I read it out loud to Forenell: “The window will open if you don’t look down.” Forenell was excited when he left my office. He called me later to tell me he had fallen out of his living room window.

Luckily, it was on the first floor. He had fallen around three feet and landed in the vinca growing around his house’s foundation. When he hit the vinca, everything became clear. He was going to California to become a professional bungee jumper. I didn’t bother to tell him there was no such thing. I took his money and took a cab to my favorite bar.

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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Paroemion

Posted on February 8, 2024 | Leave a comment

Paroemion (par-mi’-on): Alliteration taken to an extreme where nearly every word in a sentence begins with the same consonant. Sometimes, simply a synonym for alliteration or for homoeoprophoron [a stylistic vice].

“Pork pies placate peoples’ pride.” This saying is attributed to Arnie Baker, the philosopher cook, restauranteur, and specialist in alliteration, and is quoted from his ground-breaking book titled “Gory, Glory, Gopher Gonads.” He was from Sterling, Massachusetts, known as the home of “Mary’s Little Lamb.” On the day the lamb followed Mary to school, Arnie cornered it at the entrance to Mary’s classroom. He had given a presentation on “home slaughtering” and saw an opportunity to play out his presentation’s central tenet. So, he slit the lamb’s throat with the metal protractor he had picked up off the floor earlier.

The resulting blood bath closed the school for one week and made Arnie into a national celebrity. Two days later, in an attempt to atone, Arnie fed the entire student body of Paul Revere Elementary School a “divine” lamb stew, seasoned like “never before.” While everybody was eating their stew, Mary stood up, demanded quiet, and said:

“I had a lamb that followed me to school one day. Mr. Baker slit its throat in the school hallway. My lamb fell over, was dragged away and became the stew we eat today. I made a rug from my lamb’s coat. If Mr. Baker wants to run for Mayor, he’s got my vote.”

Mary was applauded for her magnanimity and had her picture taken with Mr. Baker. Everybody finished their stew and went home at 3:00 pm. As Mary walked home, she kept looking over her shoulder for her lamb. Her psychiatrist had told her that this kind of behavior was unhealthy: she had to accept her little lamb’s slaughter and stewing as a turn in the cycle of life. Mary couldn’t accept this prognosis. Her psychiatrist gave Mary a prescription for clozapine, potentially fatal when mixed with alcohol.

Mary started hanging out at Mr. Baker’s restaurant: “Tipping Turkey Troughs.” She got special permission from the Employment Board to work 5 hours per week as a receptionist, greeting people at the restaurant’s entrance. Then her opportunity came.

Mr. Baker came out of the kitchen to greet some very important patrons: the Chief of Police and his bipolar girlfriend, Canoe Slapshot. The Chief had been cheating on his wife for over 5 years, so no eyebrows were raised. Mr. Baker put down his glass of wine to give Canoe a hug. Mary saw her opportunity and poured the whole bottle of clozapine into Mr. Baker’s wine glass. About 10 minutes later, there was tumult n the kitchen. Mary smiled and ran to the kitchen. True to his reputation as an alliterationist, Mr. Baker was writhing on the floor blabbering. He said: “Dirty dogs did deathly deeds designed to dock my doom. Death’s door dips, dressing my diaphragm with my dying dilemma: should I stay or should I go?” With that, Arnie Baker passed away. Mr. Baker’s autopsy was botched and the clozapine went undetected. The Coroner joked that Mr. Baker had choked on his own words. It was rumored that Mr. Baker was fooling around with Canoe and the Chief of Police had killed him with a secret deadly handshake at the restaurant’s door that took ten minutes to take effect. But again, nobody considered Mary a suspect. After all, she was just a “kid.”

So, everything went back to normal. Time passed. Mary went to Concord College for a degree in Chemistry, and then went on to Mayflower University for an MS in Forensic Chemistry.

NOTE:

This story is excerpted from Mary’s memoir “I Killed the Bastard Who Killed My Lamb” published on the day of her death from an ibuprofen overdose, April 1, 2018. She was 25.

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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Paromoiosis

Posted on February 7, 2024 | Leave a comment

Paromoiosis (par-o-moy-o’-sis): Parallelism of sound between the words of adjacent clauses whose lengths are equal or approximate to one another. The combination of isocolon and assonance.

It was torn and rusted and ran fine. Ir roared to life most of the time. When I got behind the wheel, I settled into a universe of magic and glee, of jubilance, hilarity and soul quenching adventure along the outside edges of reality—where there are no white lines and the GPS’s screen becomes a seething swirl of color, pointing nowhere and everywhere at the same time.

I drive a 1951 Hudson Hornet. I spent $45,000 restoring it from the pile of rusted junk—from its torn and rusted state with a motor that roared. When I sat in the torn and dirty front seat, I felt happy—the sky brightened—it was like magic. Like I said, it started right up. I would’ve driven it home but the tires were flat. But how did I find it?

I saw it on my way to work. It was sitting in the parking lot next to a gas station. I pulled in to have a look. The Attendant/salesman walked up to me. He said, “This baby’s worth its weight in gold. I can feel. It just showed up on the lot one morning and this rare machine has been here ever since. I’d love to sell her.” “How much,” I asked. He said $1,000. I bought it without a second thought. For starters, I had him replace the tires so I could drive it to the body shop, where I would eventually spend my life savings. It was called “Any Bodies” and was run/owned by Bosnian twin brothers. When I pulled in to their parking lot, they came running out and started caressing my car and said things like “You’re so sweet,” “I would marry you,” “Oh my God.,” and “Let me sit on your fender.”

It was really loony, but the brothers assured me they were sane. They found they did a better job if they took the time to bond with a car when they first met it. Their assurances calmed me down, but I still thought they were crazy. I told them to restore the Hudson, gave a deposit, and told them to call me when they were through.

It took a year of waiting, checking in, and spending money. The phone call from Every Bodies finally came. I took an Uber to pick up the car. There was the Hudson, sitting on the side of the lot. What I saw was breath taking. I almost cried. The car was beautiful—better than new! I paid the balance and got behind wheel, started the car, and drove off. It was magic. I spent almost all of my time driving around my little town. One day, I noticed a button on the dash that I had noticed before. Like the idiot I am, I pressed it and I was transported to a neighborhood street in a small town. I didn’t know what to do. I saw a convenience store named Grant’s and pulled in to find out where I was. I was shaking all over, thinking I was having a psychotic episode or a heart attack. I started to ask the man behind the counter where I was, but when he turned around it was Abraham Lincoln! I totally freaked out and ran out the door. My heart was beating so hard I almost fainted. I got in the Hornet and pulled out of the parking lot. As I did so, I saw J. Edgar Hoover cleaning up a gasoline spill by one of the pumps. As I pulled out of the lot, I realized if I pressed the button again, I would probably return home. I pushed it and I was transported back to my driveway. I ran inside and called my friend Ed and told him everything. He was skeptical, and told me he’d come over and have a look.

When he got to my house we immediately looked inside the car. The button had disappeared. Ed immediately concluded that I was full of shit and left. I thought maybe I could get some answers from the guys I bought the car from. I drove to the gas station and it was gone. There was a wooded park where it used to be.

So, I’ve gone on with my life carrying the burden of a story nobody believes. I keep waiting for the button to pop out of the dashboard again. When it does, I’ll be ready.

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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Paromologia

Posted on February 6, 2024 | Leave a comment

Paromologia (par-o-mo-lo’-gi-a): Conceding an argument, either jestingly and contemptuously, or to prove a more important point. A synonym for concessio.

All right, you’re right smart ass. You made me contradict myself again. You claim it is either day or not day, I realized after I asked “What about the Twilight Zone?” that I was wrong. I thought that was an example of something between day and not day manifest by an expanded view of time—sort of an other-worldly time ticking out an expanded understanding hours, minutes, and seconds. Rod Serling would say at the start of each episode The Twilight. tZone:

“You’re traveling through another dimension, a dimension not only of sight and sound but of mind. A journey into a wondrous land whose boundaries are that of imagination. That’s the signpost up ahead – your next stop, the Twilight Zone! Narrator : You unlock this door with the key of imagination.”

There is something about truth that isn’t liberating—it does not set you free, rather it enslaves you to its pronouncements. This is another stupid idea of mine, maybe at the top of the list. So much insanity is premised by “It’s true that. . .” Anybody who tries to refute the ”truth” Is bad, sometimes worthy of execution. But we know the actual truth is bereft of feeling, unless it is tangled up with sincerity— with being truthful. And so, we come to belief. It is a choice to do something with truth that makes it true. Then, there is faith—maybe just a willingness to act on something because it is grounded in, or consistent with, a social institution’s keynote as a voice in the wilderness.

I could write a pretty bad book about all this. I really don’t know what I’m talking about. But, when I was twelve, I was chasing fireflies in the field behind my house. The field grass was tall, and Dad had mowed several trails. There was a fire pit where I sat down after I got bored with the fireflies. Suddenly a man in a red suit emerged from the grass. He pointed at me and I rose around three feet off the ground. He turned and started walking and I followed him three feet off the ground. A patch of woods off the field had been cleared and a Suburban Propane delivery truck was sitting there.A staircase descended from the side of the truck’s storage tank. Floated up the stairs and landed on my feet as the door closed. The interior of the rank was huge. There were rows of seats like an airliner. The man told me not worry—that no harm would come to me. There was a little test he would give to me. He started asking questions. First: How many fingers do you have? I said 10. He said “Wrong: You have 8 fingers and 2 thumbs.” It went on like this for 15-20 minutes. Then, he said “Thank you for your cooperation and the door opened, and I floated out. I woke up at the fire pit to the roar of the propane truck taking off.

I told my mother what happened and she told me to shut up, or I’d end up with Aunt Lucy at the State Hospital. I said, “But Ma, it is true. It really happened.” She picked up the phone and I recanted.

I am 43 now. I have noticed there is a man in a red suit that hangs out across the street from my apartment. The other day he pointed at me and started laughing.

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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