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Kategoria

Kategoria (ka-te-go’-ri-a): Opening the secret wickedness of one’s adversary before his [or her] face.


“You can’t judge a book by its cover.” To some extent you can judge a book by its cover—like if it says “Cook Book“ it is probably a cook book. But, it could be a meth lab manual. However, 99% of the time a book’s cover will give you a fair idea of what’s inside, unless it’s coded in some way like “Of Mice and Men.” That book’s not about mice and men, literally. It is not a book about how mice and men have shared living spaces since the beginning of time. If it was that, it might be titled “Of Mice, and Men, and Cats.” In the end, I guess you take a risk solely judging the quality of a book’s contents by its cover. We all know this is a cautionary note. Kind of like “what you see isn’t always what you get.”

If I think of the book cover as the exterior you, and your real character as the book’s content, I can say with confidence that I am an idiot—or maybe socially illiterate. If I had bothered to scan your table of contents, I never would’ve gotten hooked up with you, and eventually, married to you. The tile of the book? “I am Your Special Angel: I’ll Never Hurt You, I’ll Never Desert You, I’ll Never Let You Down.” Wow! What more could a guy ask for? But, you ended up doing all three of those things and more.

If I had just taken a peek at Chapter One’s title: “Extramarital Frolics,” I would have had an inkling that something was wrong. But, I paid no attention—I was captivated by your cover. It made you seem perfect. The last chapter, Chapter Five, it is titled: “Cleaning Out the Joint Account and Disappearing.” You didn’t get a chance to live this one out. The bank’s VP clued me in that something was up. You told him we were going on vacation and needed the cash. The joint account had $150,000 in it. That’s an awful lot of cash for a vacation. When he questioned you, you got angry and stalked out of the bank. I think what you tried to do was a bit like stealing.

What a sucker I was. I have filed for divorce and my so-called wife has moved in with her boyfriend, a 40-year-old shelf-stocker at the local Hannaford’s. I had a “meeting” with him at the grocery store. I asked why he had ruined my marriage, and he said “No, you ruined your marriage.” I thought about what he has said for about 5 seconds and then slammed him on the head with a can of “Pringles” fake potato chips: fake, like my marriage turned out.

So, to you, my soon to be former wife: adultery and robbery, and a bunch of other things are the contents of the book of you. If only I hadn’t been spellbound by your cover, I might’ve saved myself a lot of heartache and pain. So, now, the first thing I do is hire a private investigator and run a background check on every women I might have anything to do with. The investigator’s report is like Dating Spark Notes—the report saves time and covers the territory.

I’ve made the new title of the book of me “I Won’t Be Fooled Again. No, No.” It makes me seem a little paranoid, and it is off-putting to most of the women I’ve met since my divorce. Maybe I should give up the book metaphor thing and run my romantic life like a Philosopher, like my brother Eddie. I’m thinking: “In the valley of the blind, the sound of one hand clapping is like a cell phone with a broken volume control, like an auctioneer on speed, like a piece of Camembert softening on a piece of bark.” This reflects the incomprehensibility, the mystery, and the absurdity of the so-called “human condition.” I went to high school with Hannah Arendt. I asked her out every day for four years. She would see me coming and just say “No!” and turn and run before I even opened my mouth. Hannah graduated at the top of our class and went to college in some other country, where she drove a taxi until she graduated. I, on the other hand, barely graduated and went to work as a rag boy at the local car wash: “Suds n’ Fenders.” There you have it! The human condition. We’ll never know what it is, or, even if it exists at all. Maybe it was Derrida who said we can’t know a system in its totality, so we really don’t know anything at all. But, “I think, therefore I am.” That’s good enough for me as I negotiate the world’s wicked ways, neither wasting nor wanting—just seeking, with no map or GPS. I am the Seeker, you are the Sought—not you specifically, but rather, the Global You. I want our spheres to synthesize like a flock of ducks.


Definition courtesy of “Silva Rhetoricae” (rhetoric.byu.edu). Bracketed text added by Gorgias.

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Kategoria

Kategoria (ka-te-go’-ri-a): Opening the secret wickedness of one’s adversary before his [or her] face.


We’ve had a lot of fun over the years—Atlantic City, Las Vegas, I never asked you for a penny—I gave you a free ride, Aqueduct, Disney World, the cruise to the Bahamas, and more. All these years it was a free ride for you. The latest fashions, gold jewelry, Gucci. Now I find out that you and my brother Eddy have been bunk buddies for the past 8 years. I don’t know the depths of stupid I descended to not to see it before now. Thank God for Father Barboil. He told me the truth.

Please remove yourself from my life before I do something crazy. But before you go, dump all the jewelry I gave you into the $400.00 blender I gave you to make Margaritas with. Later, I’ll crank it up and grind some gold and jewels.

You are a back-stabbing piece of garbage. I don’t think even a rat would take a bite out of you if you were dead on the pavement for a week. I hope you and Eddy have a great time—maybe you can ride the coin-operated pony outside the grocery store, if you can afford it. Goodbye! I wish you all the bad luck in the world. I hope to read your obituary soon.


Definition courtesy of “Silva Rhetoricae” (rhetoric.byu.edu). Bracketed text added by Gorgias.

Buy a print edition of The Daily Trope! The print edition is entitled The Book of Tropes and is available on Amazon for $9.99. A Kindle edition is available for $5.99.

Kategoria

Kategoria (ka-te-go’-ri-a): Opening the secret wickedness of one’s adversary before his [or her] face.

I guess it’s hard to call it “secret wickedness.” Everybody knows that you are a liar.  You’ve told so many lies since you’ve been elected President that here may not be enough room in the history books for recounting them. From Australia to Russia, you’ve lied. From Mexico to Sweden, you’ve lied.  From nearly any Point A to any Point B on the map, you’ve lied.

What’s the point of all the lying? You haven’t gotten away with a single lie yet!

Try the truth and see what happens! Jail time? Massive fine? Impeachment?

Definition courtesy of “Silva Rhetoricae” (rhetoric.byu.edu). Bracketed text added by Gorgias.

Buy a print edition of The Daily Trope! The print edition is entitled The Book of Tropes and is available on Amazon for $9.99. A Kindle edition is available for $5.99.

Kategoria

Kategoria (ka-te-go’-ri-a): Opening the secret wickedness of one’s adversary before his [or her] face.

The battery was dead on my calculator. I should’ve bought the solar powered one that I saw for sale on E-Bay.

I opened the battery door on the back of the calculator. No wonder it wasn’t working. SOMEBODY had removed the battery and left a note on a little strip of paper that looked like it came from a fortune cookie!

The note said: “There’s another note in your Bose noise-cancelling headphones.”

I dropped the calculator. I ran upstairs and popped open the battery flap on my headphones.  There was a rolled-up piece of paper where the battery should’ve been. I couldn’t get it out, so I got my little tweezers from the butt of my Swiss Army Knife, pinched the paper, and out came the note.

The note said: “The guy across the street is feeding your cat.”

Damn! No wonder Sydney was starting to look like a black and white watermelon with four legs and a tail. Not only that, he had stopped rubbing his head on my ankles. He had stopped purring. He had stopped scratching the inside of his cardboard box. He had stopped following me around the yard. In short, he had stopped being MY cat! He had been ‘stolen’ by the guy across the street.

I was furious. I put on my wooden shoes, picked up my DeWit Junior Double Handhoe, and clomped out of the garage to confront the guy across the street. I was going to put a furrow down the middle of his forehead!

Just as I got to the end of my driveway, he came out on his front porch. He was shirtless and I could see the tattoos plastered all over his upper torso. He was wearing filthy sweatpants and bright orange CROCS. He was waving a Brooklyn Smasher over his head with his right hand and shaking a nearly empty bag of kitty treats with his left hand. The kitty treats made a rattling sound.

“It isn’t a secret any more!” I yelled. “You’ve been feeding MY Sydney! You’ve made him into a kitty treat junkie. Now . . .”

Before I could finish my sentence Sydney came waddling past me.  I could hear him wheezing. His tail was sticking straight up in the air. Furry belly sweeping the asphalt, my poor junkie cat waddled out into the street and laid down to catch his breath.

He lay there panting for about a second when I heard (and mostly smelled) the liquid manure sprayer truck downshift. There it was, heading down the hill to douse a cornfield–headed right at Sydney!

Holding my nose I ran toward Sydney, scooped him off the pavement with my free hand, and threw him out of the way. I turned to face the stinking tanker. I closed my eyes. I was ready to die!

I woke up to the distant rumble and lingering stink of the truck. I was alive! I was laying on my back. One of my wooden shoes was missing. I tried to sit up, but my shirt was stuck to the poop on the pavement. I was too weak t0 break the bond.

Uh oh! My neighbor was coming toward me–Brooklyn Smasher in one hand and Sydney tucked under his arm. I struggled to stand, but I just couldn’t break free.  In my weakened state, the poop held me to the road like Gorilla Glue.

Sydney was flailing, trying to free himself from my neighbor! Claws extended and yowling, he tore at the guy across the street. He tore at his hand, his wrist and his forearm. He drew blood!

In a rage, the guy across the street dropped Syndey in his driveway. Swinging his Brooklyn Smasher at the panting pile of fur running full waddle down the driveway he yelled “You ungrateful blob! I’m going crush your greedy skull and then I’m going to club your butt-face owner.”

I struggled and tore my shirt off. I was on my feet! I lunged for the guy across the street. I fell. I twisted my ankle. That was it for me.

The “Smasher” was swinging toward Sydney’s helpless little head. In wide-eyed terror, I screamed “Sydney, get out of the way!”

The wind began to howl. Two riders were approaching.  They pulled up and shut shut off their engines. The wind died down and I heard Sydney growl. Distracted, the guy across the street had turned turned to look. Sydney was going to escape!

The two men on Harleyback were frackers! Frackers–I had seen them before. They were known throughout upstate New York as the “Two Riders of the Frack-o-lypse.” Day and night they patrolled the rural roads of upstate New York looking for ponds and freshets to suck dry. The water was smuggled south to Pennsylvania in tanker trucks.

A New York State Trooper had captured one of the clandestine tankers two days ago. The tanker was cynically disguised as a yellow school bus. With tinted windows and a pink marching rabbit drummer wearing sunglasses emblazoned on its sides and rear emergency door, it appeared to be one of the small fleet of experimental battery-powered UV-blocking school buses under development by 3M™ and Energizer™ batteries.

The diligent Trooper was riding the rural roads with his windows down. He pulled up behind the bunny emblazoned ‘school bus’ and something just didn’t smell right.  He muttered to himself, “Diesel” and flipped on the cruiser’s siren.

The bogus bus sped up–40 miles per hour, 50 miles per hour, 60 miles per hour. The Trooper was in hot pursuit and was about to radio for back-up when the bus’s rear emergency door flew open and a tsunami of stolen H2O spilled out cracking the cruiser’s windshield and sweeping the emergency lights off its roof. Filled with water, the cruiser’s siren began making loud gargling noises–it sounded like a drowning turkey!

Suddenly, the bogus bus went out of control, flipped over twice and came to rest in a spreading puddle of mud.

Alerted by the gargling siren, a flock of 20-25 turkeys feeding in the field adjacent to the road raised their tiny heads in unison. Hackles up, they flocked up and began running and half-flying toward what sounded like a fellow meleagris gallopavo in deep distress–possibly dying.

Meanwhile, the drenched trooper’s out-of-control cruiser skidded sideways and safely came to rest on the road shoulder. The Trooper looked up and saw the crazed turkeys storming toward him. He heard a loud ka-blam from the other side of the road.  Feathers flew, 6 turkeys went down and the rest of the flock scattered and fled. The Trooper heard a deep voice ask in Danish, “Hvordan går det?”  He looked up and saw a red-bearded giant broad-shouldered man clad in cammo sheepskins smiling and reloading his shotgun.

The Trooper had seen the Norseman somewhere before. Without thinking, he grabbed his laptop and began trying to log into the USA.gov most wanted criminals website. The Norseman reached in the window, grabbed the laptop, threw it into the air, and blasted it to pieces with his shotgun. He smiled and laughed and and asked again, “Hvordan går det?

The Trooper had trained for this. He reached for his gun. The tearing sound of Velcro™ . . .

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Definition courtesy of “Silva Rhetoricae” (rhetoric.byu.edu). Bracketed text added by Gorgias.

Kategoria

Kategoria (ka-te-go’-ri-a): Opening the secret wickedness of one’s adversary before his [or her] face.

I had you followed last night. You weren’t at your office until 2:00 a.m. You were at Motel California with our next door neighbor. I can’t live with a cheating liar. I hired an attorney this morning. I’m moving out. I’m taking the cat with me.  I’m divorcing you. Give my regards to Sleazo.

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Definition courtesy of “Silva Rhetoricae” (rhetoric.byu.edu). Bracketed text added by Gorgias.

Kategoria

Kategoria (ka-te-go’-ri-a): Opening the secret wickedness of one’s adversary before his [or her] face.

Do you deny that you cherry picked statistics to make things look a whole lot better than they really are–that you hid an army of pertinent facts with charts and graphs that, as we have come to find out, simply ignore the whole truth? Do you expect us to believe that these two or three dim points of light, in what we now clearly see as the middle of the night, ever heralded a new dawn?

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Definition courtesy of “Silva Rhetoricae” (rhetoric.byu.edu). Bracketed text added by Gorgias.