Tag Archives: examples

Oxymoron

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


“Jumbo shrimp.” We’ve all heard it before. But what about “jumbo molecules?” Never! No! Uh huh! Why not ? Because it is stupid—brilliantly stupid! Maybe, flawlessly stupid. Can something be brilliantly stupid? Yes, if I say so. What about combat hamster? No. It may capture the ethos of a fighting hamster—but it doesn’t have the faraway ring like rubber ducky or honest hoax or nutty whistle. How about “tough love.” Oh yeah, it puzzled the hell out of me when my parents practiced it on me. The only part that seemed tough was having to tie my own shoes. The love part was beyond me. I guessed it was because they yelled at me softer at night so they wouldn’t wake up my sister, who was a model human being except for stealing money from mom’s wallet. It was hard to live with, but she was my sister. To get back at her I put fire ants in her pants when she was asleep one night.

I could tell when she put her pants on: she screamed and stomped her feet and came running down the stairs with no pants on, and jumped in the back yard swimming pool. Of course, she blamed me. I was ready. I had a counterfeit article titled “Fire Ants Invade Homes, Inhabit Pants.” Siri wrote it for me so it seemed real—it was really fake, perfect for my needs. My parents bought it and told my sister to shut up or leave home.

My sister shut up, but she made a plan for revenge. She had recruited her boyfriend Lloyd to knock me out with some kind of illegal drug and tattoo a pile of shit on my forehead. Lloyd was ready, but he had last-minute doubts about doing something so obviously evil. Instead, he tattooed a picture of the Dali Llama on my ass. I was extremely grateful. It was captioned “It’s All In Your Head.” The caption’s written backward and forward so I can read it when I look at my ass in the mirror. My girlfriend loves it and pets the Dali Llama whenever she has a chance.

My sister and I have mended all our fences. We get along so well, we can’t go wrong. We fence stolen goods and sell them at the flea market each week. Selling stolen goods is a little risky, but my sister’s new boyfriend is a policeman–a Captain in the Bolder Police Force. He keeps the “snoops” away from our operation and we’re flourishing. Our business motto’s “Good Fences Make Good Neighbors.” It’s a little risky, but we like it.

We’re headed to Florida for a winter break. We’ll be eating tons of “jumbo shrimp” and downing many, many beers. I hope I’ll meet a hot cool girl.


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

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

Parabola

Parabola (par-ab’-o-la): The explicit drawing of a parallel between two essentially dissimilar things, especially with a moral or didactic purpose. A parable.


Prepositions mark contrasts that bring meanings to our lives. They are representative of the myriad oppositions that stand together, complete, yet incomplete, without each other. Where is up without down? Where is in without out? Where is over, without under? And even Moe important, without contraries and contradictories where would we be?

They cause pain, embarrassment, and insight and more. If it’s hot, it’s not cold. If it’s right, it’s not wrong. What else could it be? Sort of not wrong? But how do you assure it’s right? I don’t know. Just because everybody thinks it’s right, doesn’t make it right. Right? Wrong? Maybe? Oh, sweet sweet maybe.

That’s where I live: Maybe City. It is in the United States of Uncertainty, in the state of Possibility, the town of What?. We never do anything with any resolve. It is all tentative with reservations slowing all decision making. It took me 2 hours to decide what I wanted for breakfast. For example, I had deep concerns about the cereal—whether it was too crunchy and may damage my teeth. The eggs were too flexible—I might bite my tongue while chewing. I ended up having a glass of water. Then, getting dressed, I tried on 9 pairs of black socks with different degrees elasticity. I ended up going without socks. I couldn’t decide whether to wear boxers or jockey shorts so I wore my wife’s undies. What the hell! Comfy! This went on until I was clothed. 2 hours! But, in the end I’m inevitably satisfied with my decision making. I’m wearing clothes! Better than yesterday. I wore a poncho made out of a tablecloth. It had a floral pattern.

So, I get what I want. I’m pretty sure I do. Not certain. Well maybe. Very strong likelihood. No way of knowing. Call me stultified. No wait . . . .


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

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

Parrhesia

Parrhesia (par-rez’-i-a): Either to speak candidly or to ask forgiveness for so speaking. Sometimes considered a vice.


“Sometimes the truth hurts Earl. You’re a fu*king idiot and I’m ashamed to be your father.” These two sentences changed the course of my life—like a shoal tearing out the bottom of my boat. I was only nine years old and my father had pulled me out of school to work as stern man on his lobster boat. I baited the traps and sent them overboard, I also hauled traps and checked them for keeper lobsters. Dad’s nickname was “Shorty” for all the short lobsters he’d been cited for keeping. He drank Peils beer and smoked cigars while he skippered “Bang Bang Betty,” our lobster boat.

Mom was mysteriously “lost at sea” when she fell overboard from Bang Bang Betty by the bell buoy off Ram’s Head. Mom and Dad never got along. I predicted he would kill mom when I was in the fifth grade in my diorama “Person Overboard.” It won a blue ribbon in the Town Fair in the “local color” category. People kept asking me how I made the tiny cigar and can of beer. I told them I made the cigar out of a lollipop stick and the beer can from a piece of tubing stuffed with plastic wood. I had painted the cigar with brown paint and the beer can with blue paint. I used my felt tip pen to write “Peils Beer” on it. The “person overboard” had black hair like my mother, heavy chains around her neck, and her arms raised. She had a speech bubble pasted to her hair that said “You dirty dog!”

I brought my diorama home with the blue ribbon dangling from it. That’s when my dad began calling me “Idiot.” About a year later the police came to visit. They wanted to have a look at my “famous” diorama. I told them my dad had burned it in the fireplace because I was an idiot. Just then, dad came home. The police handcuffed him and charged him with the murder of mom. He yelled “You fu*king idiot!” as they led him out the front door.

Now, I’m the youngest lobsterman on the east coast. When I’m hauling traps, I play Pink Floyd on my lobster boat’s Bluetooth speakers. My boat is named MAMA as a tribute to my mother.

I live with my aunt Fidget who takes real good care of me. Dad writes to me from state prison every once-in-awhile. The letters are all the same: “Dear Earl, you’re a fu*king idiot.”


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

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

Period

Period: The periodic sentence, characterized by the suspension of the completion of sense until its end. This has been more possible and favored in Greek and Latin, languages already favoring the end position for the verb, but has been approximated in uninflected languages such as English. [This figure may also engender surprise or suspense–consequences of what Kenneth Burke views as ‘appeals’ of information.


There were hundreds of ways to the difficult question’s answer: false. It was false. People were not predictable, they were unpredictable. If you did make a prediction and it came true, it was random luck. Ok ok—some times you could predict—like if somebody had to pee, they’d pee. That’s about as far as it goes—bodily functions. That’s it,

I wasted half my life making unfulfilled predictions. It was frustrating and debilitating. The worst was my prediction that I’d marry Mary Beth. We were engaged for 5 years. I thought that was a sure sign that we’d be married. I told her that five years was long enough to be engaged. She told me she agreed. I heard wedding bells. Then, I heard her say: “You’re right. I’m leaving.” I was so thrown off by what she said that I vowed to never bank on prediction as a basis for my hopes and dreams, and faith in the future ever again.

My motto became “You never know.” That was it. I just flung myself into the future. Each step I took was a potential step to nowhere—over the abyss falling through the vicissitudes of life, never reaching the end. I became a fatalist. I had no agency. I was a floating leaf in the gutter after a heavy rain. Everything depended on something else—there was no straight line connecting what I wanted to do with what I did. I lost my sense of guilt, What I did was not mine—it came from the inscrutable void of fate: prepackaged, predetermined, inevitable.

Given that I was now a fatalist, I felt pretty good, not having to own up for my failures. Of course, I couldn’t own up for my success either. It didn’t matter—I’d given up personal responsibility: You never know. Or, everything was meant to be. Living life “off the hook” has made me a worse person, but I’m happier than I was. This opens up a question about morality. I would call myself “amoral.” I’m not immoral and I’m not moral. I’m amoral. It’s not that I don’t care. Rather, I can’t care, insofar as my trajectory through life is propelled by fate. There’s nothing I can do about that, even though we have the illusion that we can. “What will be will be.”

Tonight, I’m going out with Mary Beth. I have no idea what will happen, but I know what I would like to have happen. Fate will steer my actions: you never know, “There’s nowhere you can be that isn’t where you’re meant to be,” John Lennon. “Love Your Fate”, which is in fact your life.”― Friedrich Nietzsche. I can only hope.


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

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

Prozeugma

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

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

Restrictio

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

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

Sententia

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


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

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

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


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

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

Simile

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


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

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

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

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

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

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


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

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

Allusion

Allusion (ə-ˈlü-zhən):[1] A reference/representation of/to a well-known person, place, event, literary work, or work of art . . . “a brief reference, explicit or indirect, to a person, place or event, or to another literary work or passage”. It is left to the reader or hearer to make the connection . . . ; an overt allusion is a misnomer for what is simply a reference.[2]


The answer was blowin’ the wind. My cat boat was out front. I was going to win my 5th race since I started doing this two years ago. This was the big one! If I won, I’d get the job driving the tourist tram around the harbor loaded with summer pukes “oohing and aahing” at the beauty of it all. My favorite stop was going to be the “Help the Animals Thrift Shop.” They took all kinds of donations to help animals stuck in shelters—mainly dogs and cats, but there was a turtle and a rabbit too.

I loved to look at their inventory. There were two left rubber boots with fish scales all over them. There was a lobster buoy with a love poem carved on it: “Lobsters are red, bluefish are blue, I love you.” I always wondered how it ended up there until I met Bluefin Bill. He was ninety-seven years old and had only one eye. He lost his eye when a swordfish jumped into his lobster boat. He picked it up to throw it back. It slipped in his hand and its “sword” stuck in his eye and blinded it. Bleeding, he beat the swordfish to death and invited some friends over that night to eat it. Cleaning it, he sliced it up the belly. A snail shell necklace fell out that had a mermaid pendant attached to it. Although he had been blinded in one eye, he believed it was a sign. He thought maybe if he carved a love poem on one of his lobster buoys the mermaid would see it and fall in love with him. It was a stretch, but she did! She lived in a big tank in his living room until she died of old age two years ago. What a shame.

This was the best story ever. I was saving my money to buy the love poem buoy. In the meantime I could marvel at the rest of the inventory. There was a tea set with pictures of different insects in the cups. I liked the grasshopper the best. Then, there was a hat made out of a horseshoe crab painted turquoise blue. One more thing: a locked treasure chest. It was not for sale. For $10 you could hit it once with a length of pipe. If you broke it open, it was yours. It had been there 50 years. It was dented, but it was never broken open.

I almost lost the race. I took a shortcut through “The Devil’s Darning Needle” off of Ocean Point and ran aground. A large wave came along and lifted me off the ledge, and I sailed away and won the race. I couldn’t account for it, but the wave looked like it was smiling at me.

I started my tram-driving job on Monday. The Smiling Crow souvenier shop was our first stop. It had little lobster buoy necklaces strung on fishing line and hung on a rack. They were inscribed with the blind lobsterman’s love poem: “Lobsters are red, Bluefish are blue, I love you.” You read it and look at it and it’s like you better find somebody to love and that’s amore all rolled in to one. I bought a buoy and vowed to wear it all the time.


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

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

Anastrophe

Anastrophe (an-as’-tro-phee): Departure from normal word order for the sake of emphasis. Anastrophe is most often a synonym for hyperbaton, but is occasionally referred to as a more specific instance of hyperbaton: the changing of the position of only a single word.


“Flying through time—flying over dawn’s horizon like a fat bird struggling to stay aloft—measuring the moments, the minutes, the seconds, the hours, the days, the years, the weeks, stopping never, rushing into the future, fleeing from the past, painting the illusion of the present on the surface of nothing—no now, only a stream, a river invisible swirling into yesterday bereft of now. Nothing stops, it only goes until your consciousness dies and you are turned into ashes and scattered on water or earth.”

I was having crazy thoughts. I was driving to Elizabeth, NJ from Toronto, Canada. I was bringing my mother’s ashes “home.” She had gown up in Elizabeth in the 1950s. She grew up in the Polish section of the city. Her dad ran a deli that had sawdust on the floor and a giant pickle barrel.

Her urn started rattling as we neared the Delaware Water Gap. At first I thought there was something loose in the back of my SUV.

Mom moved to Canada when I was eight. She worked in a snowshoe factory. She took care of all phases of gut manufacture and the production of snowshoe webbing. She hated New Jersey—hated it enough to leave me, her toddler, behind.

She left me with Aunt Katrina. Aunt Katrina was very protective. I had to take a bath every night and change my underwear every day. I had to tuck a napkin in my collar when I ate dinner. She accompanied me to school until I graduated so I wouldn’t get “killed” by the members of “Hell’s Kielbasa,” an adolescent banana-seat bicycle gang that picked on smaller people in our neighborhood. They never actually killed anybody.

Suddenly I heard a voice say “Katrina is an asshole. New Jersey sucks.” I heard it clearly from the back seat where mom’s urn was. The voice said, “Stop here!” The voice said, “Dump me in the Delaware River! Do it or I’ll blow up you and you your stupid car!” It was my dead mother, so I complied with her wishes. I carried the urn down to the river and dumped it in—the ashes floated away like time passing into the future until it sunk.

When I got home to New Jersey, I filled the urn with ashes from my barbecue grill—a clever ruse. I felt like a good son. After her funeral, we scattered the ashes in the Elizabeth River. My Uncle Chuck said they smelled like hot dogs, but he didn’t push it. That’s the closest I came to being busted. Mom was on her way to the Delaware Bay, ending her voyage in the Atlantic Ocean.

R.I.P. Mom!


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

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

Auxesis

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.


His feet were as long as Long Island. Size 22–22” long! His shoes were custom made in England where a lot of people had oversized feet. For example, Oliver Cromwell wore a size 19 UK. His feet were to some extent responsible for the Roundheads winning the English Revolution. When he marched with his troops he stamped his jumbo feet. They made a loud thudding sound like a group of troops twice as big as they actually were, routing the Royalists and sending them running for the hills. Cromwell had six cousins and uncles marching with him who had large feet too—one of them, Nigel, had a size 22 UK. Before the Revolution he worked as a grape squisher in Northumberland. Together, the Cromwells were a formidable presence on the battlefield. Not only could they stomp, but they could kick. Natty Cromwell was known far and wide for lofting a Royalist 30 feet and breaking his neck, killing him. Prince Trembler’s entire Royalist company retreated at the sight of the booted trooper, giving Natty an unprecedented victory with his foot.

Now that Oliver’s head rested on a pike outside Parliament, his feet went missing.

They had been delivered to the Spanish Armada to be displayed from a ship’s mast in grieving for his death. Unfortunately, they were struck by lightning and broiled, shoes and all. This turn of events induced the Spanish to believe they were cursed and they sailed away, throwing the remains of Cromwell’s feet overboard where they were devoured by crabs.

The Royalists rejoiced when their spy, Del Fuego, reported the events and how the lackluster superstitious Spaniards had fled to their colonies in Florida where they have managed to build alligator-proof castles and marketplaces with ladders that can be climbed to evade attacking alligators. They were called “Alligator Escapes” and were later adapted for use in hovels and were eventually modeled into “Fire Escapes” that residents could climb down to escape fires, unfortunately to waiting Alligators. This problem has never been remedied where, in contemporary Florida, many Floridians are torn to pieces and eaten by Alligators at the bottom of their fire escapes. As long as there are Alligators in Florida, this problem will persist. Blame it on the Spaniards.

You may have guessed—I am a bearer of lengthy feet. They are 22” US. I have remedied my gun boat feet with Mexican Tribaleros—a very fashionable shoe with curled up toes that can be made as long as 50” as a fashion statement. I had a pair made that conceals my foot size and I’m good to go. The women love them. I dance the night away.


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

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

Diaskeue

Diaskeue (di-as-keu’-ee): Graphic peristasis (description of circumstances) intended to arouse the emotions.


I was wondering where I was, when suddenly I was run over by a camper van. At that instant I realized I was in the middle of the street at the entrance to Yellowstone National Park.

I was pretty badly injured so it was no surprise that a huge brown bear started dragging me toward the woods. My brand new hiking boots were getting scuffed all to hell. I had paid $200 for them two days before. The salesperson told me I could scale hills like a mountain goat looking for a mate. I believed him, but now I would never get a chance to find out if my faith was well-founded.

The bear was dragging me by my left arm. That wasn’t too bad given that I’m right-handed. If he tore off my arm, I’d still be good to go. Arm-wrestling would still be a possibility, and hygienic wiping and eating with a fork too.

The Rangers were closing in. One of them had a gallon container labeled “XXX-Bear Spray, Jackson Hole Hardware.” That filled me with optimism. A whole gallon in the bear’s face would make it drop me and send it packing to Idaho. Suddenly the bear said “Only you can prevent forest fires.” It came from a little solar-powered black plastic box hanging from around its neck. The astonishment pushed back my terror. For at least two minutes I was laying in a warm soft bed with a fresh loaf of bread. Suddenly, I awoke from my revery and realized the “warmth” of my revery bed was my blood. A Ranger yelled “The bear spray didn’t work. Make yapping tourist sounds. Bears hate that.” I said “Get away from there Timmy,” “Stop it right now!” “No! I will not buy you a Smokey the Bear T-shirt!” “Give the Ranger back his gun!” “Wait until I tell your father!” “Is that mud or dog pop?” I kept spewing them out. The bear put his paws up to his ears and began shaking his head back and forth violently.

He dropped my arm and ran into the woods making a whining sound. It sounded like a cranky baby crying. Then, he was gone. I was free! The ambulance ride to the hospital was uneventful, except at one point I thought there was a bear driving, wearing a white coat. It had to be some kind of hallucination, so I forgot about it until I met my doctor, Dr. Bear. He was gruff and had a really thick beard. He was tall and plump and wore brown Birkenstocks. He was a really good doctor. He advised me to eat fruit and nuts and the occasional salmon. I lost 25 pounds on what he called the “Ursine Diet.”

What did I learn from all this? I learned how to grunt like a bear and accept my fate.


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

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

Homoioptoton

Homoioptoton (ho-mee-op-to’-ton): The repetition of similar case endings in adjacent words or in words in parallel position.

Note: Since this figure only works with inflected languages, it has often been conflated with homoioteleuton and (at least in English) has sometimes become equivalent to simple rhyme: “To no avail, I ate a snail.”


I had applied for the job 3 months ago. I wanted to be a cod chucker at the local fish market. I had been a pitcher on my high school’s regional championship baseball team. I was 59-5 for my career. I figured I could unerringly pitch dead cod to customers and hit the mark every time. I could even throw knuckle- and curve-fish. It would be fun and I was sure to get a reputation and become famous in South Bristol.

My family had settled in South Bristol in 1698, fought in the Revolutionary War and built boats there since the late 1700s. We were planted and rooted, and buried all over the local cemetery.

The next day I got a text message from “Tuna Tails.” They wanted to interview me for the chucker job. Since I would be working closely with 4 other chuckers, they thought it was best that I take a test to see if I was the right kind of person to chuck “in harmony.” I was to show up the next morning at 6.00 a.m. Chuckers started early.

When I got there, there were 8 other people there to take the test. We went in a room one at a time and took the test orally from Mrs. Tail, the wife of the owner of the fish market. It was a personality test called “Briggs and Patton.” It sounded a lot like “Briggs and Stratton” the small-engine manufacturers that power everybody’s lawn mowers. The questions were unusual. For example:

1. The chucker next to you squeezes your ass. What do you do?

2. You chuck a cod and the chucker next you distracts you by tickling you under your arm. What do you do?

3.The chucker next to you grabs your cod and chucks it. What do you do?

4. The chucker next to you hits you in the back of the head with a cod. What do you do?

There were 200 questions like this. It took about an hour-and-a-half to complete the test. I did not get the job because I gave the same answer to all 200 questions: “Tell the boss.” They said I sounded like a whiny squealer and didn’t want their employees to come running to them every time a fellow employee bothered them.

After that, my dad bought the fish market and got rid of the Tails. Now they have a car wash with a lame name. It’s called “Spray Day.” We renamed the fish market “Sea Hunt” in memory of Lloyd Bridges.


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

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

Paregmenon

Paregmenon (pa-reg’-men-on): A general term for the repetition of a word or its cognates in a short sentence. Often, but not always, polyptoton.


I was crazy, crazy or a fox, or was I crazy as a loon? Sometimes I would dress up like a used car salesman and talk used car salesman lingo. I’d say things like Leather seats,” or “Low mileage, or “No rust,” or “it’s your color baby!” I had a lot more sayings, but I found out the woman went crazy when they heard them, and we’d often end up in the back seat making a red hot bargain. Coupled with my windowpane plaid sports coat, Swisher Sweet cigar, and white shoes and belt, I was like a mountain of cocaine waiting to be snorted. Sometimes I’d take a carload of babes to Ratchet Lake for a skinny dipping session. I would tell them I could only “do” one of them and they would fight for me, throwing mud at each other and swearing until somebody won. Then I would tell them I was just kidding and we’d go wild together until I was exhausted and had to be carried to the car on their shoulders.

But my favorite was my gold cap I put on my tooth. Along with my eyepatch, I looked like a sophisticated pirate. The babes loved my outfit. I had a 10-foot rowboat down at Ratchet Lake. I’d meet a babe at the mall, check into Wendy’s for a Coke, and talk about my boat down at the lake. Inevitably, the babe would want to go for a boat ride in Cap’n Crispy—my boat. They loved it.

We would row out to Jumbo Island where I had built a “Love lean-to“ with a mattress, a candle, and bug spray. It was rustic and classic. It was secluded and there was never any danger of being discovered. The married women found this very appealing and I would mention it when we met at the mall.

Sadly, Cap’n Crispy came to end. He capsized when I had three babes aboard on our way out to the island. One of them was a little over weight and tipsy and thought it was funny to rock the boat. When the boat flipped over, she went down like a rock. She drowned. She was the Mayor’s wife, so I had hell to pay. I was banned for one year from the library and all the town parks—no more Ratchet Lake.

Now I’m working on a new “thing.” I’m the Laundryman at the gym—the women’s side. I wear a spa towel with no underwear. I jump in the big laundry hamper and sing love songs. The babes are attracted. When I hear them moaning outside the hamper, I stand up and lift up my spa towel. They jump into the hamper and I close the lid for privacy.

My seduction moves have been unconventional. I’m writing a book: You Can Always Get What You Want.


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

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

Pareuresis

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


I learned when I was a little boy that nothing went farther getting me off the hook than a good excuse.

My Uncle Corbert was a trouble machine. He had poor eyesight—chronic double vision. He suffered from vertigo and would fall down at least three times a day. To top it off, he had a case of nasty farts—they were loud and exceedingly smelly. As you can imagine, he lived alone. He tried to find a woman on a dating site for flatulent women called “Farting Tarts.” Uncle Corbert was even too much for the women of “Farting Tarts” and was never able to land a second date. Often a date would be terminated around Uncle Corbert’s first toot of the night. One of his dates told him he sounded like he had bagpipes in his pants that smelled like they were woven out of cabbage soaked in fish sauce.

These experiences nearly destroyed him as a human being. He would say to people calling him out on his farting: “He who smelt it dealt it” to no avail. Denying that he ran into a door, or fell down in the street, gave him no solace. People would just laugh at him—they saw it happen! Here he was with a bloody nose standing in front of the door, or lying in a puddle in the gutter.

Then, one day he met a retired politician at the library. They were sitting at a reading table when Uncle Corbert farted. It was one of his worst. The retired politician waved his hand to dissipate the stench and said, “You need an excuse for that. When I was Mayor, I spent at least half of every day making excuses—mostly for failing to keep promises.” Uncle Corbert asked hm what an excuse is. He told him that most of the time it had to do with shifting the blame. For example, when he didn’t get a promise fulfilled he would say “Be patient, it’s not me, it’s the economy.” It worked every time. In fact, he blamed everything on the economy for nearly five years.

“Shifting blame” became Uncle Corbert’s go to excuse for his maladies. Why he didn’t do that sooner was beyond him. Denial just didn’t work for his maladies, but shifting the blame to them worked like a charm. “I can’t help it” released him from the reponsibility, but the malady remained as the excuse’s foundation.

I’ve taken Uncle Corbert’s strategy one step farther. Anything that goes wrong in my life, I have an excuse for. I haven’t taken the blame for anything since I caught on to Uncle Corbert’s tactic. I have shifted the blame from everything from a crack in the sidewalk to my mother’s perfume.

Enjoy life. Make excuses!


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

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

Paroemia

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


I said to my wife Mags, “It’s better to be a beggar than a chooser.” she looked at me like I was crazy and I realized I sounded crazy. But, I was not going to admit it. I would go through my usual lying justification for the stupid things I said and did. What I had actually meant to say was “Beggars can’t be choosers.” I could’ve just corrected myself and be done with it, but I couldn’t do that—it was too sane, too normal, too right to be wrong. So, I let the bullshit fly.

I told Mags to stop looking at me “that” way. My fallback was Great Uncle Mark, an old, broken down, semi-demented Catholic Priest who was retired from the Priesthood and lived in the “Corinthian Home for Unhinged Priests.” No matter where they drifted, retired Priests were under the care of the Church until they died. Father Mark believed he is Jesus’ cousin, and together they went fishing and performing miracles together every day. The Sea of Galilee was too far, so they went fishing in the fountain out in front of Corinthian Home, where they never caught a fish, but sometimes they would turn the fountain’s water into wine (that only they could see).

Great Uncle Mark made up the saying “It’s better to be a beggar than a chooser.” It has a religious connotation.

When Great Uncle Mark took his vow of poverty when he entered the priesthood, he came to realize that a simple life of poverty relieves stress and enables you to focus more clearly on the gates of Heaven instead of the entrance to the mall, burning up your days making choices—of being selfish, always trying to have it your way. The Gates of Heaven start to glimmer when you begin to depend on the charity of others, giving them the opportunity to express their Christian love.

This all looks great until you find out that Great Uncle Mark ran the car lottery, and love boat cruise lottery every year. But, he was selling, not buying, so in a way he was begging.

I told Mags that when I said “It is better to be a beggar than a chooser“ I was thinking about our upcoming yard sale where we will get some spiritual purchase on our lives by selling most of what we own, and we don’t have much of a choice about it—we have to pay off our credit cards. Do you understand now?” Mags said “No. Why don’t we just sell our wedding rings? They are really gold, right?”

I said “All that glitters isn’t gold” and prepared for the worst.


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

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

Paroemion

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].


Tomato trees towered tremendously tall. It was part of a fabled garden that was hidden away somewhere in South Jersey, where the “Garden State” got its name from. Somewhere near the Pine Barrens, but where the soil is rich and fertile—probably the best dirt in the USA.

My uncle Sal told me he had seen the tomato trees. He was drunk and had lost his shoes. He was crawling along fearing he would die and become a pile of dirt. Then, he lost his pants, panicked, and started screaming, still crawling along faster. Suddenly, a fairy princess with a perfectly red round ripe tomato abdomen popped out of the bushes.

Uncle Sal was terrified. He begged her to have mercy on him. She said “I will do better than that. I will show you the giant tomato trees.” Uncle Sal thought he was delirious until the Fairy Princess gave him a giant grocery bag with arm holes and a hole for his head to wear in place of his lost pants.

They started their trek. Uncle Sal was barefoot. He complained to the Fairy Princess and she pulled two gigantic bell peppers from her bag, and put a slit in each one, and shoved them on Sal’s feet. He was relieved. Then, she tied a vine around his neck like a leash and told him to close his eyes and open them when she told him to. He followed her instructions because she told him she would turn him into a slug if he didn’t.

She told him to open his eyes and there were the tomato trees! They were as tall of redwood trees. The tomatoes were gigantic—the size of hot air balloons. Then, the Fairy Princess waved her wand at Uncle Sal and he woke up on a park bench hugging an empty bottle of Mr. Boston. His pepper shoes and paper-bag suit were gone. He was cold lying there in his underpants. He was arrested and spent the night in the Chatsworth Town Jail where he was given a pair of used tuxedo pants and a pair of well-worn pleather loafers.

Nobody believed Uncle Sal’s story—nobody, not one person, not one single bit.


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

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

Paromoiosis

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.


I was hungry. Life was crappy. This was too much to bear. I was torn like a paper towel. Some gears had come loose. They were rattling in my head—off their pins and shafts, scratching inside my skull like hamsters stuck behind a wall.

Suddenly the mayhem stopped. Everything quieted down. There was a little blood dripping from my nose, but that was normal. I got dressed and went out in public. I went to the park. It was filled with people eating sandwiches and throwing different-colored frisbees. One man had a rifle and he was shooting swans. Nobody paid any attention. They just wanted to eat their sandwiches and throw their frisbees. After the man shot all the swans he shoved his rifle in his scabbard and rode away on his very nice red electric bike. It was picturesque. It probably didn’t happen.

I didn’t have a sandwich or a frisbee, so I left the park and went to the restaurant named “Exotica” across the street where I could buy my lunch. “Exotica” specialized in meat dishes made from exotic animals, mostly in the form of meatball sandwiches with cheese on top. The other way they prepare the “exotica” is chicken-fried—batter dipped and crispy. I ordered a wolverine meatball special and a glass of tap water. I also got a basket of fried woods voles on the side. It was a lot of food, but I was hungry. I ate my lunch quickly and hurried back home to watch “Mint Man” on TV.

It was a great show. Mint Man was a serial killer who made friends with his victims and would date them. Eventually, he would kill them. When he was ready to kill them he would eat a Tic-Tac breath mint—chewing it until it was gone. Then, he’d put a plastic bag over his victim’s head and suffocate her. When he was done, he’d eat another Tic-Tac and go home to his unsuspecting wife and two children. The next day he would go back to work at the sawmill like nothing happened, working his peavey hook on the logs and looking forward to his next murder of some innocent woman who he had developed a relationship with—cheating on his wonderful loving wife, feeling no guilt.

My head was starting to hurt again and my gears were coming loose again. My poor wife and kids. I leaned my peavey in a corner and ate a Tic-Tac. I was coming apart. Worlds were starting to collide. I grabbed three plastic bags from my jacket pocket and headed for the kitchen.


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

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

Paromologia

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.


Her: Oh. the hell with it. You’re right. I’m wrong. Same old song. “Oh, say can you see by the dawn’s early light—you’re always right.” What’s it like being right all the time? I guess I’ll never know. After two years of this crap, I’m heading out. I don’t know what else to do. Maybe if I was allowed to be right just once when have a disagreement, I might stay

He: You’re not always wrong, that’s wrong! What about last week when I capitulated?

Her: You didn’t tell me I was right. You just said “I give up” and left. I don’t call “giving up” like that capitulating. It’s more like writing off a point of view as if it wasn’t worth advocating.

I’m going to Maine to live with my brother. I’ve always liked it there . I spent my summers up there until I graduated from college. I love collecting beach glass.

He: What a waste time, breaking your back collecting broken pieces of glass and keeping them hidden away in a sandwhich bag somewhere. Why not just collect sheets of toilet paper off a public restroom floor? You have no sense of class—you were born to money but you live like a bag lady. What the hell is wrong with you?

She: You’re what’s wrong with me. I never should’ve gotten tangled up with you. You did a pretty good job of being nice when we first met—you even helped me with my coat. At first, I thought you were being patronizing, treating me like a “woman.” Then, I bought it, and it stopped, and that was around when you quit with the coat and stopped with the dinners out. Sadly, this signified that you ”had me” and you could drop the facade, and treat me like I was yours—I cooked, I did the laundry. I cleaned the house. Washed the car. Mowed the lawn. Did the grocery shopping. Drove your mother to her endless doctor’s appointment. What a bunch of bullshit—you lived the good life while I became a college-educated charwoman. So, fu*k you, you self-absorbed little prick.

He: I’m not going to argue with you. I just have to say, my mother will miss you. Goodbye.


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

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

Paronomasia

Paronomasia (pa-ro-no-ma’-si-a): Using words that sound alike but that differ in meaning (punning).


“I took a shot, but I missed and it ran down my chin.” This is one of those once in a life time puns that come to you like a lightning strike—BLAM! Everybody laughs so hard they cry, they pee their pants, they faint, they tear their hair out. The women regret being married because you’re single and you’re probably the funniest person on planet earth

Ever since you made your first pun there’s been a small herd of women who chase you from place to place like you’re a wild buffalo or some kind of feral cat.

You’re in. You’re on top. You’re “A” number one and the celebrity parking spot at “Boinky’s Restaurant” is all yours. You go where the wild goose goes. You know the way to Jose. Your life is littered with hope. You can do no wrong. It’s all good!

This is how it seems— to the outside world—the world outside my head—the laughter, the giggles, the hardy-har-hars, the guffaws. the snickers, the hoo-hahs. But I’m lost in a sinkhole the size of Nebraska, spread out around me as far as I can see. My big confession: some 12 year old kid from Queens writes my puns.

The kid’s a genius. He speaks in puns, he sings in puns, and someday I’m gonna get caught and smeared all over the place, like a bribe-prone politician or a fat bug on the floor. I’m just waiting for the day when my fans push me into a landfill and say “Goodbye fu*ker.” But, until then, I’ll keep faking it. Like this: “She had a hump on her back, and then her husband went to work.”

I should have known better when I became a punster. I stole my first ten puns and enjoyed the adulation so much that I hired the boy. I’ve made him rich. All he has to do is rattle off puns with his god-given gift. I have started to look for a replacement for him though—a woman my age or younger that will marry me—preferably an idiot savant punster. I started looking around the state’s mental institutions for my match.

I found my match at “St. Norbert’s Rest.” Her name is Zinnia and she is a lightening punster—80 per minute, 24/7. There are technicalities in my state that allow sane people to marry insane people. It takes a burden off the state and gives insane people a chance. Zinnia and I went through a relationship seminar called “Apples and Oranges.” Then, we got married at St. Norbert’s with all the trimmings, even rice-throwing.

We now live in a one-bedroom ranch house by the railroad tracks. We painted it baby-blue. I have set Zinnia up in a big cushy BarcaLounger. She wears a headset and records her puns 24/7 on her laptop, except when she’s eating, sleeping, or bathing. It is paradise. The little weasel who used to write my puns was taken out by a hit and run driver when he was walking to school. Now, nobody will ever know he wrote for me. It happened right after I got married.

“She put a bow on her head and shot a bullseye.”

This is where Zinnia is taking me. I’m king. There’s no turning back.

“The man had a mole on his face. It dug a hole through his forehead.”


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

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

Parrhesia

Parrhesia (par-rez’-i-a): Either to speak candidly or to ask forgiveness for so speaking. Sometimes considered a vice.


I’m sorry, but you smell like a circus animal. Maybe a monkey who needs a bath. Can’t you do something about it like take a shower or a bath? Tricia told me, due to an embarrassing family incident, she is half monkey and her smell is natural. She was a little hairy, had huge brown eyes and wore a dress and sneakers all time. She loved banana smoothies and made a cute little chirping sound whenever I kissed her or patted her butt.

Her father had accidentally had sex with his pet spider monkey when they lived in Africa—in Botswana. He came home from a wild night at the playing darts and drinking warm lager. He was drunk and called for mom for a tumble on the mattress with him. She was down in the basement labeling preserves for Christmas gifts. However, Lola (the monkey) heard him and made the very seductive sound that female monkeys make when they want to mate. In his drunken state he thought it was his wife. It was dark in the room and he jumped on Lola. His wife came in the room and climbed in bed after they were asleep. Lola was between them like usual and nobody was the wiser. However, Lola got pregnant and everybody thought we were going to have a cute little baby monkey around the house.

She didn’t have a monkey.

Tricia was born, the child of Tricia’s father and Lola the monkey. When she was a baby Lola took good care of care of Tricia. But, as Tricia grew to human size, Lola rejected her and got violent and had to be caged and eventually put in a zoo.

Tricia is the only monkey cross-breed in the world and I love her. Sometimes I will peel a banana for her and she’ll give me a hug and a kiss and squeeze my crotch and lick her lips and make her little chirping sound. Sometimes, she’ll stick her tongue in my ear. When she’s really excited she goes “Uh-huh, Uh-huh, Uh-huh” over and over again. That makes me wild!

Since Lola got put in the zoo, Tricia is lonely. Her father comes by once a week, but Tricia just yells at him. Someday things will settle down. When Tricia and I settle down and get married and have a child, everything’s going to be alright.


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

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

Allegory

Allegory (al’-le-go-ry): A sustained metaphor continued through whole sentences or even through a whole discourse.


The gym’s exercises contorted my life. I was squatting—a frog of help. I was doing handstands of love. Jumping jacks of joy. Push-ups of popularity. Squat-thrusts of hope. Cartwheels of fear. All complicated moves, and easily screwed up. Once I did a chin-up of friendship and was ridiculed for ten repetitions, and pushed off my exercise mat, and made into a joke.

I’ve started drinking excessively and did the drunk— staggering, slurring words, falling down and puking—all easily mastered poses. Easily induced by the effects of alcohol’s chemical motive that only needs to be imbibed. The performance of everyday life takes care of itself—drunks don’t do push-ups of popularity. No more going to the gym looking for love and longevity—doing all the exercises required of the good life.

I have run my jockstrap down my sink’s garbage disposal. I don’t need its chafing or support. I let my balls swing free. I am outside the gym—I have left it behind. Now, I walk, I talk. There are no set moves, poses, or displays. There’s just me comporting with others like me at an AA meeting every week. In some respects, I’ve cast off the burden of “trying.” I just “am,” I am sober and I practice good hygiene—the only aspect of my life stemming from the gym that I still perform..

I don’t care if I measure up. I don’t care if I make the grade. All I want to do is stay sober and brush my teeth twice a day.


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

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

Antisagoge

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


“You’re lost in New Jersey, panic stricken and almost out of gas: You keep turning right because you think you’ll eventually come to Pennsylvania and be saved, or you could plug in your GPS and actually be saved. The choice is yours to make: ride around in circles or actually find your way to Redding, where you live with your wife and two children and your pet rabbits Bugs and Mugs.”

I thought for a few minutes. This choice-making seminar was grueling, mentally demanding, and almost impossible to deal with. We were constantly bombarded with hypothetical situations by the seminar leader Mr. Jules Aloney. His nickname was “Either Or” and he had a fork in the road tattooed on his chest that said “Take It” underneath it. We met on the beach, so he could go shirtless. We wore bathing suits and cheap sunglasses to hide our shame.

The seminar members came from all walks of life. There wasn’t a soldier or sailor, but here was a a tailor who had trouble deciding where to put the next stitch. It took him a year to make a pair of pants. Another member had trouble deciding whether to stop or go. She had a number of near fatal accidents at traffic intersections. Then, there’s the guy who has trouble deciding whether to unzip or pull down his pants when he pees. The procrastination often lead to pants-wetting. There’s more, but making bad decisions is a common thread.

I work for an insurance company. The last three people I insured had their houses burn down before making a premium payment. The company lost close to $2,000,000. My boss thought I wasn’t doing a good job of vetting them with good questions before I decided to make them a policy-holder. But I thought that the kinds of questions I asked were right on target, like “Are you planning on burning your house down?” To save time, that was the only question I asked. I found out that people lied. It’s not my fault that people lie. Anyway, the boss said that the choice-making seminar would make me better at vetting clients by asking them decision-making questions designed to ascertain their level of risk as clients. But he had an ulterior motive.

My boss wanted to fire me. He had sent me to the seminar because he didn’t want to fire me without a solid reason. He was sure the seminar wouldn’t help me, so he could cite it as a good faith effort he made to “turn me around” before letting me go.

So, Mr. Aloney’s New Jersey question was intended as a step in the direction of my “rehabilitation” and developing the hypothetical situation-making skill. Putting people in hypothetical situations gives you a glimpse of their decision-making skills. For example: “If you just got fired from an insurance company, what would you do?” Ha ha, I know what I would do.

But, getting back to the lost in New Jersey scenario, I said I would keep turning right. I don’t care if I ever see my family and pet rabbits ever again. My wife is having an affair with the school crossing guard, my two daughters treat me like an ATM, and the rabbits crap on the floor and chew on the baseboards. I told Mr. Aloney that I would throw my GPS out the car window and drive around in circles until I found a new life.

I was ejected from the seminar. But I was lucky. My boss was going through the same “shit” as me and could empathize with my preference for driving in circles. He promoted me to “Office Monitor.” I make sure that most everybody who’s in the office is facing their computer. My vetting days are over. It was the right decision,


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.

Antitheton

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]).


There was a time in my life when I was reckless—not careful or caring about anything. I jumped off cliffs. I crawled across deserts. I didn’t plan anything, I just went my merry way through death’s door and out the death’s back door unscathed. It was like magic, but I didn’t believe in magic. I just believed that one day I would die, and I did not care which day it was.

This was a great benefit in the the war. My reckless actions were construed as courage. My demeanor made me a soldier’s soldier. I felt none of it. My valor stemmed from a reckless disregard for my own life and the thrill of risking it.

When I got home, I went to work for the NYC Bomb Squad, finding bombs, blowing up bombs, dismantling bombs. Every mission was an opportunity to knock on death’s door, going through, and coming out the other side unscathed—clean as a whistle, still kicking. I got to know one of my colleagues fairly well. His name was Joe and he had a wife and two kids. He shouldn’t have been in the bomb squad business. His hands would shake when we disarmed a bomb. He was always last on the scene apparently hoping the bomb was safely disposed of. I didn’t care. I really liked him. He had great bomb jokes: “A man put a bomb in his hat. It blew his mind.” That’s pretty damn funny.

One day we were on a call at Grand Central Station. the bomb started buzzing and whirring. I was standing about two feet away. Joe jumped on the bomb and it blew him to pieces. His protective suit did him no good. He was shredded. He could’ve run away, but he chose to save me at the cost of his own life. It was sad seeing the steaming pieces of Joe scattered around on the floor and walls. It would take awhile to clean it up.

At his funeral he was valorized as a hero and his wife got up and told us what a loving family man he was. I was heartbroken. Something snapped in my head. Now I work in the public library shelving books. My risk-taking is a thing of the past—safety first is my motto. When I’m not at the library, I’m watching TV or making potholders in my basement workshop.


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.

Articulus

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


It had snowed for four days. I had left my snow shovel outside and I couldn’t find it—it was buried somewhere between the garage and the house. The snow was cold, wet, hard to walk through, slippery, murderous.

I waded through three feet of snow the ten feet to my garage. I had one of those hand-held Benzomatic soldering torches out there. While I was sitting inside lamenting the loss of my snow shovel, I had gotten a brilliant idea: I could use the Benzomatic torch to melt a path to my house!

Damn. There were no matches in the garage, but then I saw my wife’s lighter sitting on the little table in front of the mower. I went outside and lit up the torch. It made a beautiful hissing sound pushing the blue flame. I waved it over the snow and it cut a path about 1/4”. At this rate it would take a week and at least ten Benzomatic torch loads of propane to clear a path to the house. I threw the torch out toward the garden, and waded back to the house.

I took off my boots and headed for the liquor cabinet. I was cold and needed a glass of whiskey to warm me up. I stretched out on my couch and drank down the whiskey in three gulps. I started feeling pretty good. I laid back and closed my eyes, thinking about the snow shovel thing. I got an idea! A big idea! A bigger fire!

I could douse the snow with gasoline! I got up and put on my coat, boots, gloves, hat, scarf. I waded through the snow again, I got the gas can by my mower. I went outside, opened the spout and poured gasoline where I thought the path would be. I pulled out my wife’s lighter and set the snow on fire.

Holy shit! The flames were five feet high! I had spilled some gasoline on my pants around the cuffs. They went up in flames. I rolled around in the snow and they went out almost immediately. I felt something sharp under my back. It was my snow shovel! I pulled it out and used it to beat and extinguish the flaming path to my house.

The fire thing was a bad idea, but it got the job done.


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.