Tag Archives: metastasis

Metastasis

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


I was always a good boy. I would play with my plastic cowboys in the sandbox. They weren’t allowed shoot each other or use swear words. I washed them each week in the dishwasher and then let them air dry, for their health and welfare. I think they were grateful because none of them ever ran away, including their horses. I made my bed every morning, with hospital corners and my bedspread was always perfectly parallel to my headboard. I put my dirty clothes in the basket in my closet to make it easier for Mom to manage them on washday. I also folded my own laundry. I’d go down into the basement and retrieve my laundry from the dryer, carry it to my room, and fold it. One Saturday morning, when I was getting my stuff in the basement, I noticed there was a pair of my mother’s underpants mixed in with my laundry. I put them on my head and started doing “The Pony,” a dance made popular by Chubby Checker. Everybody was doing it, and I thought I looked pretty cool “pulling the reins” in my Captain Kangaroo bathrobe: “Boogety, boogety, boogety, shoo,” I sang as I ponied around the basement. I had found a piece of clothesline rope, and I was swinging it around my head like a cowboy lariat. “Yee haa!” I yelled.

Suddenly, I was galloping across the prairie with Chubby. we were being chased by a posse. I heard one posse member yell, “You low life sidewinder. You slop bucket full a’ human poop! What in tarnation makes you think you can wear your mother’s underpants on your head like that? Pervert!” I yelled back: “You butt-faced hombre! I can wear what I want on my head! Back-off!” He fired a shot at me. I felt it zip through my mother’s underpants, barely missing my skull. We had ridden into a box canyon—no exit. We were doomed. Since they weren’t after him, Chubby reined in his horse, and got him down to a slow trot. I roared past him right into the canyon wall.

I woke up on the basement floor, still wearing my mother’s underpants on my head—they were getting tight, making my forehead itch. My ears were ringing and my nose was dripping blood. My father was leaning over me. “You slipped in the little puddle the washing machine makes—which I was going to fix someday soon, but I forgot. Obviously, you hit the wall head-first and knocked yourself out. You should be more careful.” I was mad. “I should be more careful? You lazy-ass sidewinder!” I couldn’t believe I called my father a “lazy-ass sidewinder,” but he was partially to blame. Then I yelled, flat on my back, “And I’ll wear Mom’s underpants on my head whenever and wherever I want!” He tried to rip Mom’s underpants off my head, but I held on tight despite my injuries. I heard sirens. I new I’d soon be on my way to the hospital.

They washed me up and x-rayed my head and put me in bed with a tube in my arm. Aside from the ringing ears, I felt pretty good. But, they told me I had a medium-bad concussion and to rest at the hospital for a week in case there were any complications. The next day, Mom showed up and she wanted her underpants back. She told me the last time her underpants went “traveling” was in her freshman year of college when she dated a Frat boy who collected girls’ underpants as a hobby. After their date, he shoved Mom’s underpants under the front seat of his car and drove away, leaving her to walk back to her dorm. She had to walk a mile along the side of the dark and deserted highway. She knew her underpants would be tagged and displayed in the Frat house, but she didn’t care because of all the famous underpants displayed there belonging to her university’s famous female graduates. I asked for names. She curtly said “No” and that was that. I suspected it was Dad. They had gone the same college and that’s where they had met. Plus, Dad had been in a fraternity. I had a back-up pair of underpants, so I gave them to Mom and kept the other ones for future adventures.

After that episode I my life, I never wore Mom’s underpants on my head again, except at her funeral ten years later. At that point in my life, I was a glutton for attention. Instead of throwing a handful of dirt into her open grave, I threw her underpants—the very same pair that I was wearing on my head when I was injured so many years ago. Some relatives screamed when I made my move, and my uncle Bill, who was standing alongside me, turned and punched me in the face at least five times. The undertaker retrieved the underpants and gave them to my father. Now, I would be going back to “Tranquil Roads” where I’d been living ever since the accident in the basement.


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

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

Metastasis

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


You say I shot a hole in your front door. Ha ha, that’s crazy. I’m out on parole for throwing rocks at kids on their way to school. I live on the edge of incarceration and would never do anything to land me back in jail again. You say my moral resolve is weak, but it’s your moral resolve that’s weak, starting with lying about me having anything to do with your front door. You know damn well that I was traveling out of town when it happened and there’s no way I could have done it. I wouldn’t be surprised if you did it as a gambit to get me back in jail. Ever since me a Maggie hooked up, you’ve been out to get me. Get over it. You’re not married any more. I have everything. You have nothing, and you did it to yourself. What did you think would happen when you ran off with the high school senior class President— sure she was 18—but God, you’re 38. Thank God the poor kid came to her senses and went home, but not before she had twins. You just about destroyed Maggie.

Anyway, you’re the most disgusting excuse for a human being I’ve ever known. Next time you want to shoot a hole in your front door and blame it on me, make sure I’m home first. And by the way, I don’t own a gun, so you’ll have to loan me yours and show me how to shoot it.


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

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.

Metastasismeta

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

You say I lied about colluding with my dentist. Well, let me tell you: you wouldn’t have these ideas unless you had something to do with it. That goes for the Russians too!! You’re the one who’s done the colluding & that’s a fact. Just ask Putin–he’ll tell the truth.

Remember: I’m the President and Presidents don’t lie.

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

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.

Metastasis

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

The so-called bipartisan report states that I should’ve been better prepared to deal with what was the likelihood of an almost certain attack on our outpost in Benghazi–that we shouldn’t have had high-level assets stationed at such a high-risk location.

All I can say at this point is, as a consequence of Congressional cutbacks to funding of on-the-ground intelligence and expenditures on defensive fortifications of US Government outposts during my time as Secretary of State, I would’ve been surprised to have had any solid information whatsoever as to impending attacks, or anything else for that matter. Moreover, I repeatedly petitioned Congress to fill the intelligence and equipment gaps so I could more effectively do my job and ensure, as much as humanly possible, the safety of our personnel stationed in Libya.

Given the resources I was provided with, I exercised due diligence in my decisions to keep Ambassador Stevens and the CIA Contractors in place.

You may criticize me all day long, but you might as well be criticizing yourselves. When you want to know who is to blame for Benghazi, look at each other and hang your heads.

  • Post your own metastasis on the “Comments” page!

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

Metastasis

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

You say I’m evil because I eat meat. From alligator to zebra, from zorilla to agouti, I’ll never be a vegetarian! You say you’re a vegetarian and that’s what gives you the right to condemn me. I don’t know about the logic of that claim, but since when is rabbit a vegetable?

Here’s a picture of you taken yesterday inhaling braised honey mustard bunny at Chez Bonaparte! Come on Mr. Beet-head get down off your high hors d’oeuvre! Come out from behind that lettuce and let us know the truth: You are an omnivore!

You can criticize me all day long, but don’t vest your credibility in a lie!

I have one last thing to say to you: You’re BAAhhhhhhd!

  • Post your own metastasis on the “Comments” page!

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

Metastasis

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

You say I asserted that Richard Nixon was the twentieth century’s greatest President. That is simply untrue. Watch the interview–it’s on MSNBC’s website. But you, on the other hand, in your book, said exactly what you’re accusing me of saying.  Look it up–page 126.

  • Post your own metastasis on the “Comments” page!

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