Tag Archives: rhetoric

Isocolon

Posted on January 29, 2026 | Leave a comment

Isocolon (i-so-co’-lon): A series of similarly structured elements having the same length. A kind of parallelism.

I had made a mistake. I had screwed up bad. I was going to die. I had betrayed my psychotic brother. If he got wind of it he’d make me into cube steak and cook me medium rare on his new gas grill. He was like that.

I was scared of him and that’s why I got involved in what he called “our endeavors.” Basically, our endeavors spanned the sum of crime.

Our first crime was receiving “tribute” from the town’s paperboys. It was a per-paper tax we charged them. The more customers they had, the more they paid. We had an enforcer named Moby who helped us collect. Moby carried a length of lead pipe and waved it, making growling sounds. This usually did the trick, but every once in a while there was a wise-ass who refused to pay. Moby would break their knuckles on their paper-throwing hand, putting them out of business. We didn’t mind because the injury put out the word: we didn’t take any shit.

The whole time I’ve been involved in crime with my brother, I wanted to quit. I couldn’t sleep or eat. I had nightmares. I had colds all time and I started stuttering. but I couldn’t quit. I was afraid to.

Over the years we’ve worked our way up to arson. Mainly, we torch small business and take a cut of the insurance payout. It provides a good income. I’m putting my daughter through Harvard with no financial aid, or loans. I’m paying full-tariff and can easily afford it. My wife gets whatever she wants. Last week I bought her a beach house down at the shore for $2,500,000 and a Gucci hat for $12,000. I’m beyond plush.

Then it happened: We got a “contract” to torch a residence. The Tindles live on my block: a happily married husband and wife, a daughter nicknamed Bitsy, and a cat named Clapper. They are really nice people. In fact we exchange Christmas gifts every year. Last year, Chris and his wife gave me a cashmere bathrobe and I gave them seasons tickets to the Yankees, with limo transportation to and from Yankee Stadium.

Why would anybody want to burn their house down with them in it? My brother told me that Chris had “Stepped on somebody’s toes.” I asked for more detail and he wouldn’t give it. So, I got really mad and turned my brother in. I betrayed him to the police. They found him parked outside the Tindles with a trunk load of gasoline, rags, and a pocketful of Bic lighters.

He was arrested and convicted of arson and hundreds of other crimes I disclosed for immunity from prosecution. He is serving 125 years in Northern State Prison. My family abandoned me when I squealed on my brother and the money ran out. Now, I operate the produce stand at Hannaford’s.

Some days, I go bananas. Ha! Ha!

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.

Leave a comment

Posted in isocolon

Tagged , , , , , ,

Kategoria

Posted on January 28, 2026 | Leave a comment

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

I had been trying for years to make something of myself. It had to do with landing a prestigious job—maybe working for “Dilly’s Doilies” running a doily press. I had interviewed there and failed. The interview was my downfall. When they asked me in my interview what doilies are made of, I panicked. I wasn’t sure, I had never thought about it. I didn’t even know what a doily was—yes—that’s true. In my smug self-confidence, I thought if I was asked what a doily is made of, the answer would somehow magically come to me. So, when I was actually asked, I flubbed the answer big time. So, I said “toilet paper? ‘Doily’ and ‘toilet’ have the same ‘oi’ sound, so there must be some kind of connection.” Boy, was I wrong. They threw me out and told me to get therapy. I was devastated.

I had gone to doily interview because I was starting to think I was destined for greatness. I had enrolled in the local community college. My adviser had told me if it wasn’t for open admissions, I’d be sitting on a blanket on the sidewalk holding out a styrofoam cup asking for spare change. I didn’t know what to say, but I agreed with her. I kept a blanket and a styrofoam cup in the trunk of my car, just in case the community college changed its admission requirements.

Anyway, as I was leaving Dilly’s Doilies the day of my interview, I was looking for Human Resources so I could punch the Director. I was that kind of guy. If things didn’t go my way, I punched somebody. Often, I punched my little brother. But this time I knew who to go after: the Director of Human Resources who had set me up with the doily question. I was going to punch him. I was going to sneak into his office, hide under his desk, and spring out and punch him.

But I noticed something when I got into hi office. I ransacked his desk and found a half-smoked joint in a cough-drop tin in his middle desk drawer. It was 1959 and this was serious business. He could go to prison for 10 years. He thought he was made of Teflon, but now I had him. This would stick! The half-smoked joint was my job ticket! When he came back I waved the joint at him and said in a taunting voice “Now it doesn’t matter what doilies are made of! You’re going to give me a job!” He said, “When hell freezes over! That’s not mine. Get out of here or I’ll call the police!” I said “Not so fast” and held up the one- pound bag of weed I had found in his desk.

He started begging and I punched him. He offered me the job, and I took it.

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.

Leave a comment

Posted in kategoria

Tagged , , , , , ,

Litotes

Posted on January 27, 2026 | Leave a comment

Litotes (li-to’-tees): Deliberate understatement, especially when expressing a thought by denying its opposite. The Ad Herennium author suggests litotes as a means of expressing modesty (downplaying one’s accomplishments) in order to gain the audience’s favor (establishing ethos).

I never thought when I invented flavored Magic Marker ink that anything would come of it, and nothing did except for the whole world was filled with people with colored teeth making the smile into a whole new thing. That’s not much when you think about it. The whole world isn’t that big a place—Jupiter is bigger.

My prowess as an inventor leaves a lot to be desired. What about the “Everything Vaccine” that immunizes people against every disease, even cancer? How great can it be? It only took me two days to perfect, and so far, it’s only saved 500 million lives. So what. That’s not even half the world’s population, for God’s sake.

Talking about God’s sake, it reminds me of the Cathedral I built that can hold the entire population of Baltimore. So, what’s that worth? While the whole town’s at church, nobody’s shopping. If I had thought of that I would’ve put a dozen or so small stores in the Church—definitely including a Dollar General. But, I didn’t have the foresight. I was too focused on building the world’s largest church. I apologize.

At least it’s not as big a blunder as the free university. So many people have enrolled that we have to build additions to all the university’s buildings and expand the surrounding grounds. Now, we’re stuck with a baseball stadium bigger than Yankee Stadium—it’s ludicrous. The university is exploring an offer of a major league team. Can you believe it? What a joke! Major league team?

Now, I’m working on a longevity drug. It is made of a blend of crushed Christmas tree ornaments, Spam, Nutella, and furniture polish. It seems like an unlikely blend to induce longevity, but with the government’s approval, we’ve been testing it at nursing homes. The typical 78 year-old on the edge of death bounces back to 40 after one week taking the drug. We were hoping for 25, so we’re a little disappointed. But you can’t win ‘em all. I’ll probably be awarded another Nobel Prize anyway. That’s life.

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.

Leave a comment

Posted in litotes

Tagged , , , , , ,

Martyria

Posted on January 26, 2026 | Leave a comment

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

“Been there, done that.” No matter what you told her, Annie’s response was “Been there, done that.” And then she’d tell an anecdote backing it up. At first, it was really interesting, but it got old after around 100 “been theres.” I started dreading talking to her. The first thing I would hear from her after “Been there, done that” would be “that reminds me of the time. . .”

I decided to start making up crazy stuff to see what she’d say. Maybe things would get interesting again. I told her I had flown to school yesterday. I landed in the parking lot and was early for school for the first time in my life. Annie said, “Been there, done that. It reminds me of the time I flew to Toronto.” She grabbed my hand and we took off and flew over Rochester and then Lake Ontario—it was frozen over and lake effect snow was pouring down. I felt like Scrooge being hauled through sky by one of the spirits of Christmas. We got to Toronto and circled the CN Tower. It was awesome, even though I was scared to death. We got back the Brighton, to my house, and landed softly. I was weak-kneed and almost fell down. I said “Wow! That was like finding a pot of gold at the end of a rainbow.” Annie said “Been there, done that. That reminds me of the time. . .” Woosh! The end of a rainbow came through my bedroom window, followed by a pot of gold. I cowered in the corner and croaked “Help.”

Annie said, “Don’t worry, I’m your genie. You paid attention to me. You listened to my stories without making fun of me. You are so nice. I may look like a high school senior, but I’m actually thousands of years old. I will invest the gold for you in a hedge fund, you will make billions of dollars, but you won’t remember where it came from, and, nobody will believe you when you tell them about me. I will disappear tonight. You have one wish left. I told Annie I loved her and wanted to be with her forever. She said “Ok.” If she had said, “Been there, done that” I would’ve been heartbroken.

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.

Leave a comment

Posted in martyria

Tagged , , , , , ,

Maxim

Posted on January 25, 2026 | Leave a comment

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

“If the cookie doesn’t crumble, it’s stale.” I learned this saying in day care. Ms. Mingle tried to instill us with wisdom to make us able to deal with what she called “the vicissitudes of life.” She tried to adjust her wisdom to our age-bound sensibilities. One day, she asked “Is your juice box half-full or half-empty?” Mine was neither—I had just barely poked the straw through the tin foil when she asked. I told her that my juice-box was full. She threw her juice-box to the floor and yelled “Too many cooks spoil the broth” and told me to put my juice-box on the floor. I set it down. She walked up to it and stomped on it. She said calmly “The poor need respect, and it begins with cleanliness.” I had to clean up the floor.

I was on a scholarship to “Little Winners” daycare. I was from the poorest family in town. I won my scholarship by walking to the mailbox in my socks through snow for one week. My mother had sold my shoes so she could buy beer and lotto tickets at Cliff’s. She got drunk and didn’t win anything.

I had to walk to school in my socks. Two days later, Ms. Mingle showed up with my shoes and put them on her desk. She said “Somebody might want these shoes, but I’m not sure who it is. ‘Find your sole mate’ and you will find your destiny.” She picked up the shoes and threw them at me yelling “Take a hike! You pants-wetting pony brain. They’re your shoes, aren’t they you little wart?”

I quickly put on the shoes. They felt so good—flexible and soft, like I wanted to be. My shoes were telling me to dance. I twirled and tapped my feet. My classmates clapped their hands in harmony. I felt like I was in heaven until Ms. Mingle started swatting me with a flyswatter yelling “I wouldn’t hurt a fly, but you’re not a fly.” She made a barking sound while she swung the fly swatter. I thought fast and tripped her as she came at me. The handle of her flyswatter plunged into her eye when she hit the floor. She pulled the flyswatter out of her eye. She rolled around moaning and crying in pain. I said “No pain, no gain” and stuck my red colored pencil in her other eye as she got up and came at me with her hole punch yelling “I’m going to make you into Swiss cheese, you low-class scholarship student! ‘The money you make is a symbol of the value you create’ you worthless prig!” She had been blinded, so she couldn’t find me to punch Swiss-cheese holes in me.

The mayhem settled and Ms. Mingle was taken to the hospital’s mental health ward for eye surgery and “counseling.” Ms. Mingle taught me that “Actions speak louder than words.”

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.

Leave a comment

Posted in maxim

Tagged , , , , , ,

Medela

Posted on January 24, 2026 | Leave a comment

Medela (me-de’-la): When you can’t deny or defend friends’ faults and seek to heal them with good words.

Here we go again! I’m such a sucker, especially when it comes to Jacky. It seems like we’ve been friends since birth. Our mothers were friends and they would dump us in a crib together while they sat by the pool. Teddy would make noises, wave his hands around, shake his head and then stop and point his finger. Today he was pointing at the tube of suntan lotion my mother had dropped by the crib.

I reached for it and grabbed it. The cap fell off and the lotion started oozing out. I squirted some in my mouth and handed it to Jacky. He took a slug too. It started to burn our mouths and we both started howling. My mother came running, saw the tube in the crib and the white cream on my lips and called 911. An ambulance quickly arrived and took us to the hospital. Our stomachs were pumped and we had to stay overnight for “observation.”

Now, it’s 15 years later and Jacky has a plan. He wants to charge a fee to scrape gum off of movie theatre floors. Then he wants to recycle the gum, repackage it, and sell it as “Jacky’s Blended Gum.” I let my guard down again for the hundredth time. Although he was insane, he was harmless and he was my friend. He had saved my life twice and I owed him. Once, I had put a couple of wires in a wall outlet and put the wires in my mouth to see what electricity tastes like. Just when my tongue started to smoke, he pulled out the wires and saved my life. The other time we were hiking and we saw a bear. I ran up to it to pet it and Jacky threw a rock at it and chased it away. That bear could’ve eaten me. Enough said. He saved my life.

Now, I was ready to make “blended” gum with Jacky. We collected five garbage bags of scraped gum. It was hard work, but it was time to blend the gum. We filled my bathtub with piping hot water and dumped in the gum. We figured the hot water would melt/blend the gum together.

When we drained the tub, we had a giant lump of gum. It was so big we couldn’t lift it out of the tub. Then, I got my hand stuck in the gum when I was trying to pick it up. So did Jacky. He was able to get ahold of his cellphone with his free hand. He called the police. Almost immediately, we heard sirens. The police broke down our front door and scaled the stairs to the upstairs bathroom. The three police officers started laughing when they saw what had happened. They cut us out of the gum with their tactical knives.

The five of us couldn’t lift the gum. Part of it had gone down the drain and that was what had gotten stuck. My parents had to pay a plumber and an excavator to get the gum out of the tub. The plumber freed the tub and it was carried to the front lawn and a gas-powered ditch-digger mowed the gum out of the tub. The plumber reinstalled the tub, and all was well, except for my life.

Having gotten sucked in by Teddy cost me $2,500 that I have to repay my parents with monthly installments. With my job at “Golden Burgers” it’ll take at least a year. Jacky is an idiot, but so am I. We are best friends. He makes my life exciting.

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.

Leave a comment

Posted in medela

Tagged , , , , , ,

Meiosis

Posted on January 23, 2026 | Leave a comment

Meiosis (mei-o’-sis): Reference to something with a name disproportionately lesser than its nature (a kind of litotes). This term is equivalent to tapinosis.

Gold is dirt. Silver is mold. Nothing is better than anything else. You say your cleanliness is next to Godliness, implying that my filthiest isn’t. I’m just as next to Godliness as you are. Have you ever seen God taking a bath in the tub upstairs? Have you ever seen him buying a bar of Dial soap at Kinney’s? Have you ever seen him cleaning his ears with a washcloth? What about between his toes? The answer is No! No! No! Never!

Maybe God’s a slob! Maybe his big white beard is stained with gravy or red kool aid. His Divine B.O. would stink up public restrooms, slaughter houses, and dog kennels. And of course, His butt would leave a strong smell of cheddar wherever her went. Some people say he lives in Wisconsin. I don’t know if that’s true, but I’m even more not sure that He’s spotless.

But you—you think God takes three showers a day. In your case, it’s to wash away your sinful romps with Mr. Carlisle. He’s 40 and you’re 19. I hear you grunting up in your room, right after he comes over and you go up to your room. How long is Mom going to buy your lies about why he’s up there? Helping you find a lost sock has just about had its day. Next, you’ll probably tell Mom he’s helping you make your bed. Mom may be mildly retarded, but there’s only so far you can stretch it, even with her. I’d rat you out, but Mr. Carlisle pays me $10 each visit to keep my mouth shut.

I’m saving the money. I’m saving the money to buy a Craftsman tool set, a cordless electric drill, a hammer, and a rubber mallet. I intend to go into the business of fixing things—from cars to bicycles. In the repair business, being dirty is a necessity—dirty fingernails especially. I’m studying repair at BOCES. So far, I’ve learned how to change a tire and replace windshield wipers. Next, we’re moving on to sewing machines. When I graduate, I will be able to fix anything—even a Minuteman ICBM! You’ll be in the shower washing away your regrets, while I’m in my garage, with grease under my fingernails, saving the world, one guided missile at a time, or ‘68 Ford, or kitchen appliance, or snow blower. I will be “Johnny Fix-It.” I will put the “R” back in in repair!

So, who’s more Godly? Squeaky clean soap-smelling you, or greasy, sweat-smelling me? I think we can both agree: “Cleanliness” is not a criterion of Godliness. Godliness is more complicated than taking a shower.

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.

Leave a comment

Posted in meiosis

Tagged , , , , , ,

Mempsis

Posted on January 22, 2026 | Leave a comment

Mempsis (memp’-sis): Expressing complaint and seeking help.

It was my high school graduation party. “Which one of you goddamn lazy bastards are going to save me?” I was drowning in our above-ground back yard swimming pool. The pool was only 4 feet deep, but I had slipped on the algae slime coating the bottom. The water was a little green, but we didn’t mind. I was going down for the third time, struggling to hold my Tequila Sunrise above water. My friend Vitor was videoing the whole thing, yelling “Choke! Choke! I need you to choke for TikTok.”

I went down for the fourth time and dropped my drink in the pool. I was going to die! Suddenly, I was dragged from the pool. It was my neighbor’s wife Chicky. She gave me mouth to mouth. She stuck her tongue way into my mouth and twirled it around. And whispered in my ear “There’s more where this came from baby. Come and visit me when Sal’s at work.”

I was shocked. Chicky was beautiful—she looked like a brand-new Barby Doll, except she had black hair and wasn’t anorexic.. Clearly, she ate three meals a day and they went to all the right places. She was way out of my league age-wise and looks-wise. I didn’t get it. The only thing I could think of that would make me attractive to her was that I had won $500 on a scratch-off lotto ticket. I had the told everybody. I had cashed it at Cliff’s. I had five 100-dollar bills in my wallet—they were ready to rock.

I told Chicky I’d come by on Tuesday at 1:00. The day came. I shaved my chest and dumped Canoe cologne on my underpants. Chicky answered the door wearing nothing at all. I tore open my shirt to show her my shaved chest. She pulled me into her house. She started singing “I got you babe,” Sonny and Cher’s first big hit. I started singing along and pulling off my pants. The smell of Canoe cologne filled the air. She picked up my pants, folded them, and put them on the bed.

Then, suddenly, Chicky told me to get dressed and go home. She was adamant. I begged. She yelled “Get out!” I went home. When I got home, Mom asked me why my pants smelled like perfume. I couldn’t give her an honest answer.

All I can think of is Chicky—Chicky, Chicky, Chicky. What happened? Then I checked my wallet. The $500 was gone! She had stolen my lotto winnings when she had picked up my pants and folded them! She knew I couldn’t say anything to anybody about the theft. Given the circumstances, her prison guard husband would kill me. I was stuck.

I’ve been trying to figure out the lesson I learned from this sordid episode in my life. So far, nothing.

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.

Leave a comment

Posted in mempsis

Tagged , , , , , ,

Merismus

Posted on January 21, 2026 | Leave a comment

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

It was making me sad to divide my family into parts. As a whole, we are a family. As parts, we are related—father, mother, brother, sister—relatives drifting through life wondering how we were born and where we’re headed—alone and dependent for our identities at the same time. But there are cultural magnets that bring us together—holidays, birthdays, anniversaries, and lawsuits. On these occasions, we are family.

Holidays, birthdays and anniversaries are a joy—singing happy birthday to Dad for the 78th time was moving. My 50th Christmas with the family was a memorable. I got everything I wanted! Mom and Dad’s 60th anniversary was a treasure to behold. Dad got Mom a new washing machine. I got her a magnifying glass so she could read her cookbook and keep on cooking for us all. I got Dad a subscription to HULU. He hasn’t stopped watching it!

It’s too bad, but our family is being sued. “The Copyright Corps of America” has filed a lawsuit against “every and all” members of our family, demanding $5,000 which would wipe out Dad’s retirement fund, making him work until he drops dead from old age, or a heart attack, or pneumonia.

What did we do to deserve being sued? I’ll tell you: we sang a song together and posted it on Facebook without paying royalties. Whoever thought that singing Depeche Mode’s “Just Can’t Get Enough” would cost us $5.000?

I did some research and found out “The Copyright Corps of America” was located in Canada. It consisted of Canadian malcontents who had been “screwed” by America. Their manifesto page said “in progress” which meant they were having trouble thinking up specific gripes.

I wrote them a scathing letter, pointing out how irresponsible it was for them to be filing cross-border lawsuits. They could damage Canada’s well-deserved reputation as a polite and honest country.

I received an almost instant apology along with two bottles of maple syrup and a deer antler.

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.

Leave a comment

Posted in merismus

Tagged , , , , , ,

Mesarchia

Posted on January 20, 2026 | Leave a comment

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

Trouble doubles when you try too hard. Trouble looks at you as you try something new. Trouble is a knot you try to unravel with clumsy fingers.

Trouble besets us everywhere—on a doorstep, in the bathroom, on the highway, at the movies, on the dance floor, and around. This was how Billie Jean dealt with her unwanted pregnancy, nagging Michael Jackson, troubling him to write a song about it and share the song’s revenues with her.

I was no stranger to trouble. It started with having a tooth pulled when I was 12 years old. As a reward for not crying or screaming, the dentist gave me a silver dollar. I tried to buy some strawberry shoe strings with it at “Matola’s Atomic Candy.” It was the fifties and everything was atomic—atomic pizza, atomic socks, atomic lima beans, atomic cigarettes, etc. etc.

Anyway, Mr. Matola frowned when I handed him my silver dollar. He tapped on the counter and told me it was fake—he could tell by the sound. I went back to the dentist and told him the silver dollar he had given me was fake. He denied ever giving me anything, let alone, a silver dollar. He told me to get out of his office and come back when I had a cavity or something.

I reported him to the police, but I was the one who got in trouble for trying to pay for candy with counterfeit money. I was convicted of passing counterfeit money, fined $50.00 and received a suspended six-month sentence at juvenile hall. I had two months to pay the fine, and then, I’d be remanded to juvenile hall anyway.

I was big—six-foot three. Even though I was only 12, I got a job as a bouncer at “Pokey’s Hole.” It was the sleaziest bar for 500 miles around. The things that went on there are unmentionable. I had almost accumulated $50 when the police raided Pokey’s. I was arrested, and for an array of reasons, was sent off to juvenile hall to serve my counterfeiting sentence.

Trouble is my middle name. I don’t know how to stay out of it. When I get out of juvenile hall, I plan on becoming a stick-up man. I’ve ordered a balaclava from L.L Bean.

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.

Leave a comment

Posted in mesarchia

Tagged , , , , , ,

Mesodiplosis

Posted on January 19, 2026 | Leave a comment

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

I was bumping, bumping along. Mt father was pulling me in my wagon bumping, bumping over the sidewalk. My wagon had no springs—it was a hard ride. In fact, my butt was getting sore. I wanted to say something like “Daddy my behind hurts.” But, I knew he would become angry, pull the wagon faster, and prolong our trip to cause me more pain. He carried a Ruger .357 stuck in the back of his pants. He said he would only use it on dogs that attacked us.

I had to get out of the wagon! So, when we went over a big bump I pretended to fall out. I hit the pavement pretty hard. My ears were ringing. Dad pulled the pistol, spun around, and aimed it at my head. I was terrified. He said, “I know what you’re up to, you little shit.!” I knew too: I just wanted to get out of the wagon before my bottom started bleeding.” I said, “Oh yeah? Tell me what I’m up to.” He said, “You need a drink. If you get out of the wagon you’ll go straight to “Willie’s Bar. You’ll get drunk and your mother will kill me.”

First, I was only six years old—Willie’s was not an option. Second,,Mom had disappeared last week. That’s why Dad had come to take care of me. His idea of taking care of me was having a Dairy Queen swirl for breakfast and dinner every day. We didn’t eat lunch because “it makes you fat.”

Next:

Two things happened: 1. They found Mom tied up in an abandoned warehouse on the outskirts of town; 2. Mom implicated Dad in her abduction. 3. Dad had recently escaped from a facility for the criminally insane where he had been incarcerated for stealing chocolate bars and feeding them to dogs. The ASPCA had offered a reward of $500 for his capture and imprisonment. It looked like maybe Mom was due the $500 for ratting out dad. She was already planning a weekend in Miami with the reward money. She was concerned that her rope burns were not very attractive.

For my part, I had gotten my hands on Dad’s .357 and I was really anxious to shoot something. There was a squirrel that irritated the hell out of me with its chattering all day long. It lived in the tree right outside my bedroom window. Easy shot! I put up my window and raised the gun. Holy shit! It was my father sitting there on the limb. He had escaped! He told me to give him the gun. I said “Bullshit” and threw the gun out the window. The gun went off when it hit the ground and shot my father in the foot. He screamed while I called 911. He was handcuffed and driven away in an ambulance while Mom yelled at him from the front porch.

I turned the gun in anonymously. At the age of 6 I had been through a lot. Now that I’m sixteen, I look back and thank God I got through it all. My only regret is that I wasn’t able to kill the damn irritating squirrel. It’s still going strong.

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.

Leave a comment

Posted in mesodiplosis

Tagged , , , , , , ,

Mesozeugma

Posted on January 18, 2026 | Leave a comment

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

The parade of trucks, cars, motorcycles, skateboards, bicycles, scooters, steam rollers, baby carriages, lawn mowers, wagons, and many, many more wheeled conveyances rolled past my door on their way to the fairgrounds. It was the “200th Annual Things on Wheels Festival.” The “200th” was a really big deal.

Ely Marticks had been run over and killed by a hay wagon 200 years ago. The Fair honors him. He was what back then they called “slow” or “different.” He was a troublemaker—he drooled on his money before he paid for something at the general store. He would light things on fire just to watch them burn—nothing big, but little things like knitting needles and girls’ baby dolls. He would pee on peoples’ front doors and run away. He slept in the kennels at the dog pound, at dog food, and transmitted fleas to anybody he got close to.

Ely’s antics were tolerated because of his difference. The townspeople were God-fearing church-going people. They worshipped every Sunday, singing hymns, abiding by charity and forgiving Ely for his troublesome ways. However, there was one person who lived in town who was an atheist and believed it was a dog eat dog world: Barney Pinkston. He hated Ely and started a campaign to tar and feather him and run him out of town on a rail.

Nobody joined Barney’s campaign. Barney drove the hay wagon for Mister Bell’s farm. He planned to lure Ely in front of the wagon and roll over him and kill him. The day came. Ely was standing by the side of the road. Barney threw a candy bar in front of the wagon. Ely jumped for it and the wagon rolled over his neck and killed him. When people heard about Ely’s death, a cheer went up.

The town was typical. It was filled with hypocrites—ungodly, uncharitable, intolerant people who faked their religiosity because they were too cowardly to kill Ely themselves. Barney was hailed as a hero, got off the murder charge on a technicality, and was elected mayor.

Now, the Festival continues. Its origins as a celebration of Ely Martick’s murder have been forgotten. It has become a celebration of Ely’s heroism, for running in front of a hay wagon and sacrificing his life to save a kitten.

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.

Leave a comment

Posted in mesozeugma

Tagged , , , , , , , ,

Metabasis

Posted on January 17, 2026 | Leave a comment

Metabasis (me-ta’-ba-sis): A transitional statement in which one explains what has been and what will be said.

“So far, I’ve told you about my secret life. I’m pretty sure I can’t trust you to keep your mouth shut, but I had to tell you about it so our relationship can be based on truth. Next, I’m going to review a few of the horrible things I’ll do to you if you tell anybody what I’ve told you: 1. Burn you alive, 2. Throw you off a cliff, 3. Cut you up with my chain saw, 4. Throw you out of a helicopter, 5.Electrocute you, 6. Freeze you to death in a walk-in freezer, 7. Put you in a tub full of battery acid.

There are five is six more things I could do to you, but these seven are the best. They inflict the most suffering and they’re all lethal. If you can think of any more, let me know and I’ll add them to the list!

Why at are you crying? You’re tied to a big comfy chair and you haven’t had an opportunity to disclose my secret life to anybody. You’re as safe as a little bird in a cage, for the time being I guess.

Oh —pain in the ass. Somebody’s ringing my door bell. I guess I’ll go answer it.

It was your mother. She had the nerve to accuse me of kidnapping you. I invited her in and pushed her down basement stairs. So much for her accusations. I apologize for killing your mother, but what other choice did I have? My pet crocodile that lives in the basement will take care of her—he’ll even eat her clothes!

Ok, now that you are aware of ‘consequences’ I’m going to turn you loose. Make sure to add to the list of unmentionables my murder of your mother.”

“Oh Carl. You are the treasure of my heart, the crown of my love, the icing on my cake!” said Penny. “Oh Penny! This is looking pretty good. You may be the first woman willing to honor my wishes and stay alive.” Penny got ahold of Carl’s chainsaw. Her father had shown he how to use a chainsaw when she was 12. Carls was shaking all over and peed his pants as Penny approached him. He begged and cowered . while she cranked up the saw. She took off his head with one quick swipe. It thudded when it hit the floor. She threw his headless corpse down the basement stairs where the crocodiles would take care of him.

Then she thought of all the ridiculous things Carl threatened to do to her. They did scare the hell out of her, but she was going to tell people about Carl’s secret life anyway. Most of the “secrets” were laughable and signs of Carl’s madness. For example, he liked smelling his dirty socks, eating his boogers, grabbing woman’s asses at the mall, peeping into his neighbor’s windows, sticking Crisco-coated writing implements and Tonka trucks up his ass, and when his dog pees on the carpet Carls rubs his own nose in it.

Taken together, these activities add up to lunacy. Penny was right to cut off Carl’s head.

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.

Leave a comment

Posted in metabasis

Tagged , , , , ,

Metalepsis

Posted on January 16, 2026 | Leave a comment

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

“Hey, snow tire face.” There it was! I could not escape the moniker. I was famous as the “boy who was run over by a snow plow.” It was December, 1967. I had hollowed out a snowbank by the side of my street. It was my snow fort when I was ringed by snowball-throwing friends. It was sturdy. I had dumped buckets of water on it that froze, giving it a shell of ice. I called it Ft. Frosty.

I even went out in Ft. Frosty at night. I lit a candle and pretended I was an Eskimo—Nanuck—who we learned about in geography class. I asked our butcher when he was getting some blubber and he would laugh at me and throw me a slice of boiled ham.

So, one night I was out in Fort Frosty listening to Cousin Brucy on my little transistor radio. I was bobbing my head to “Leader of the Pack” when suddenly I heard roaring and saw flashing lights. I had an idea of what it was. It had been snowing all day and, in addition to the roaring, I could hear metal scraping the street. “It’s a friggin’ snowplow!” I yelled “And it’s coming right at Fort Frosty. I’m gonna’ die!” I broke my head through the roof of Fort Frosty and started yelling at the snowplow. The driver heard me and veered away just in time, but not far enough. The metal plow blade missed me. Not so for the rest of the plow. It ran over my head and flattened it, leaving the imprint of one of the plow’s snow tires on what was left of my my face.

I am a miracle modern medicine. I am grateful to be alive, but I’m one of the greatest oddities in the world. I travel around displaying my squashed head and the snow-tire track on my face. I sell t-shirts and sell tickets to make a living. Last week, I was in Japan and was offered a role in an upcoming Godzilla movie. My head gets stepped on by Godzilla as he rampages through Tokyo. Then, we make friends and I ride on Godzilla suggesting things for him to destroy. I am like Godzilla’s mentor. We start production in July. I looking forward to it!

In the meantime, I just finished my tour of Canada. The Canadians are very polite. For example.one Canadian psychologist offered me 100 counseling sessions for free to help me cope with my squashed head. That’s kindness! Also, a Canadian Mountie pushed me around in a wheelchair the whole time I was in Toronto. I told him I didn’t need it and she told me not to “fret.” I almost cried. Canada is so different from the United States where they taunt me with “Snow Tire Face” and “Pancake Head.” These kinds of names are very hurtful—they remind me of the two permanent tragedies of my life. A plastic surgeon has told me he can re-spherisize my head and remove the tire tracks from my face. But, if I did that, I’d lose my livelihood.

I’m thinking of moving to Canada where I feel almost normal. I would call myself “Rudder” after my flat head or “Tracky” after my face’s scar, or maybe “Shoe.”

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.

Leave a comment

Posted in metalepsis

Tagged , , , , ,

Metallage

Posted on January 15, 2026 | Leave a comment

Metallage (me-tal’-la-gee): When a word or phrase is treated as an object within another expression.

“Ferryboats from hell.” It was splashed across a billboard. If I saw another “ferry boats from hell” I knew I’d go crazy. Ferryboats from hell was a secret curse used by demented sea captains to confuse average everyday people, making them more susceptible to being shanghaied and enslaved on ferryboats in harbors throughout the world. Just the other day I saw 5 people on the deck of the Staten Island Ferry wearing life preservers and waving their arms. I couldn’t hear what they were yelling, but two of them pulled down their pants and mooned me—a sure sign of distress.

After I told the police about my experience with “Ferryboats from hell,” I ended up strapped to a bed in a mental hospital. I kept crying out for a cigar until a kind nurse brought me rubber one. It has embers and ashes painted on the tip and squeaks when I bite into it. As a joke, I stuck it in my ass and made it squeak with my sphincter muscle. When they heard about what I’d done, doctors and nurses crowded around my bed, talking on their cellphones, taking pictures, writing notes and asking me questions: “Do you know where you are?” “What did you have for lunch?” “Why are you here?” “Do you hate your mother?” “Do you know anything about woodchucks chucking wood?” “How did you get that cigar up your ass with your arms tied down.” I told them it was the nurse. She blushed when they all turned and looked at her. Then it happened: “It looks like you have an erection.” That was not a question. It infuriated me and I struggled with my restraints, rocking the bed back and forth. Unfortunately, the cigar started coming loose, but foolish me, I kept struggling. The doctors and nurses stood there with their mouths hanging open, like they were looking at a zoo animal gone rogue.

I got loose and ran out of the hospital with the rubber cigar sticking out of my ass, from my open-backed hospital gown. The cigar fell out of my ass as I exited the hospital and ran down the front steps. It rolled down the stairs after me. I stopped to pick it up to stick back in later. That’s when I was grabbed by two burly orderlies and hauled back to my room.

POSTSCRIPT

I’ve been lying here watching “Love Boat” and “Carol Burnett” reruns for two weeks. I think Gopher is really cool. I am trying to act like him so I can get out of this place.

They say I’m getting better and will be discharged as soon as my insurance runs out.

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.

Leave a comment

Posted in metallage

Tagged , , , , ,

Metaphor

Posted on January 14, 2026 | Leave a comment

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

I had a purée of nuts and bolts resting in a bucket in my garage. I had been running them through the bolt grinder I had invented two days ago. Although they were metal they are smooth as silk. I don’t know why I invented the bolt grinder. I think I was off my nut. I go off and on my nut, sometimes on a daily basis—off my nut drifting in a sea of uncertainty, a leaky barge following the tide toward the rocks. But then, I recover, repaired and whole wearing my nut like a life preserver.

I am a professional inventor, and this how it goes. When I invented the tinsel bird nest, I went so far off my nut I almost never came back! I went bananas! That’s right! Bananas! I was surrounded by bananas wearing condoms line dancing to Dolly Parton singing a song about lonely weasels playing corn hole on a rooftop in Texas. It scared the total shit out of me, but I continued on. The tinsel bird nest was huge hit. People put hard-boiled eggs in them and used them to decorate their Christmas trees. I became “the my tinsel bird nest guy” and did fairs and conventions with “the my pillow guy.” We parted ways when he tried to smother one of my bird nests with one of his pillows. I also found out that they weren’t “his” pillows. They were manufactured in Venezuela and often filled with cocaine smuggled into America. I turned him in, He was arrested and is serving 5 years in a federal penitentiary.

After the nuts and bolts, my next project is edible clothing. Just think: it’s dinner time. You take off your shirt, roll it into a ball, dampen it in the sink, and microwave it on high for a couple of minutes. You smell roast chicken. You pull your shirt out of the microwave, cut it into equal portions, add mashed potatoes, stove top stuffing, and gravy and eat! The shirts will come in an array of delicious meals and will be so cheap you can eat them every night if you wish. Also, there will be underpants that make cakes and pies! Just think, pumpkin underpants pie for Thanksgiving!

My first invention was a fermented shark filter. Fermented sharks stinks more than any edible substance in the world, but it tastes very very good. The fermented shark filter is u-shaped and fits in the nostrils. It has foam rubber inserts permeated with lavender juice. If the stench becomes too great while you’re eating the shark, you give the nose plugs a light squeeze. Easy and effective!

My biggest failure was a kind of glue to hold up peoples’ pants in lieu of a belt, elastic, or suspenders. The glue was really strong and it tore off pieces of flesh when people pulled their pants down. I had so many lawsuits that I had to declare bankruptcy. But now I’m back! I think things through and anticipate pitfalls. It’ll take me awhile to figure out what to do with the puréed nuts and bolts, but I’m tending toward filling capsules with it and selling it as a supplement, as “Iron Gates.” Otherwise, I’ll just stay off my nut—toasted and cracked. Ha ha!

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.

Leave a comment

Posted in metaphor

Tagged , , , , ,

Metaplasm

Posted on January 13, 2026 | Leave a comment

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

The wa-wa tumbled over the cliff making a beautiful wa-wa fall. It crashed on the rocks 100 feet below. When I was a toddler my mother taught me to call water “wa-wa.” She would say “Drink your wa-wa Johnny so you can be big and strong.” I’m 28 and I’m not big and strong and I routinely embarrass myself by calling water wa-wa. For example, in a bar ordering a whiskey and wa-wa. Or, “more wa-wa” in a restaurant, or a bottled wa-wa at Cliff’s. I always thought of George Harrison’s “wah-wah” pedal when I was drinking a glass of wa-wa and wished I could play the guitar like him. I tried. I started saying “It’s me the wah-wah bloke.” It didn’t work. People just looked at me and shook their heads.

Then, I found out I was suffering from “Baby Speak;” the fixation on baby talk. For example sufferers would say “potty” instead of toilet, or “tootyburger” instead of poop, or “choo choo” instead of train, or “ba ba” instead of bottle. When I looked at the list of words, I realized I said choo-choo and ba-ba all the time. Wa-wa wasn’t my only vice. I needed help!

I Googled my malady and found a doctor in North Carolina. Almost immediately, I took a choo-choo to Raleigh. I was greeted by Doctor Ima Bigboy at the choo-choo station. My therapy consisted in living in a hospital maternity ward for one month. Dr. Bigboy called it “aversion therapy.” I would get so sick of hearing baby talk that I would stop using it. After a month, I was clear.

Dr. Bigboy charged Mr $10,000, but it was worth it. My life is completely different. I have friends and a girlfriend named Barbara. I call her “Ba-Ba” for short.

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.

Leave a comment

Posted in metaplasm

Tagged , , , , ,

Metastasis

Posted on January 12, 2026 | Leave a comment

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

I yelled: “You tell me I stepped on your model airplane! What a load of shit. YOU stepped on it last night when you were sleepwalking.” It was time to put an end to Manny’s wandering around the apartment like a zombie at night. Stepping on his model airplane was a real tragedy. I might’ve knocked it off the mantle when I was dancing with my pillow in front of the fireplace entranced by the crackling rhythm of the flames. But, I was fully awake. I just hadn’t noticed what I had done. A simple accident, but not for Manny. The model airplane had gotten him elected President of Model Airplane Club in high school and inspired him to become and aeronautical engineer, designing things that fly—from the new Hypersonic-Frisbee to the Flying Cellphone: say “Here phone” and it flies to you from where you misplaced it. Many’s goal in life is to make everything fly. Currently, he’s working on a drone to backlight nighttime barbecues with different colored lights, lasers, play music, and also project what’s cooking on the grill onto a hovering screen. If I didn’t know better, I would’ve thought Manny was sleep flying! But that wasn’t so.

I had to get Manny cured before he did any more damage—not only to things, but to himself. I had heard about a doctor who specialized in curing sleepwalking. His name was Dr. Zzzz. He had come to the US from Panama where he had almost single-handedly cured the entire country of sleep walking. Only a handful of Panamanians still sleepwalked, and that was because they enjoyed it and wanted to.

Dr. Zzzz met with Manny and told him the sleepwalking cure went in three phases.: 1. Duct taped to the bed, 2. Remove duct tape and wear roller skates to bed, 3. Remove roller skates and take two blue pills before going to bed. Manny was uncomfortable with the regime: two blue pills were not a cure—they were barbiturates! However, after he had injured himself rollerskating to the bathroom at night, Manny vowed to see the cure through—but the pills were too much. I talked him into taking them, just to finish things off and send Dr. Zzzz on his way. So, Manny took the pills and slept like a baby.

The next day Dr. Zzzz told us the pills were made of Sommulous Beetle wings. An ancient Panamanian remedy, they alter the sleepwalking center of the brain, making it permanently lay down. So, the blue pills cure sleepwalking. Manny was officially “cured,” but, sleepwalking incidences continued to occur—things knocked off the mantle, orange juice left on the kitchen counter, clothes pulled off the hangers in the front hall closet, laundry from the dryer scattered on the floor, etc.

We got a couple of security video cameras and set them up in the apartment. We discovered it was me who was sleepwalking. I was so ashamed. We hired Dr. Zzzz to cure me. It worked and now the apartment is sleepwalker-free.

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.

Leave a comment

Posted in metastasis

Tagged , , , , ,

Metonymy

Posted on January 11, 2026 | Leave a comment

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

I was inked from head to toe. On my forehead I had the Yankees scoreboard tattooed. On my toe I had a domino tattooed. I had over 600 tattoos on my body. They were random and unconnected. In a way they symbolized how screwy I am. Now, I had my eye on a new tattoo. I’m no brain, but I think I have chosen the right image to finish inking myself up. I had met a girl at Duncan Donuts. She looked as covered in ink as me. I picked her up and we went back to my place to show off our tattoos to each other. Her head wasn’t tattooed, but the rest of her was. One was a line of guys standing outside a Porta-Potty captioned “Whole lotta love” after the Led Zeppelin song. I thought the tribute to Zed Zeppelin was really amazing. One of her ass cheeks was tattooed like a watermelon and the other was tattooed like a soufflé. I thought those two tattoos were creative and classy. Then, she had a tattoo of a dagger stuck in hey heart. It was captioned “Betrayal.” I almost cried. My tattoos were inane pieces of shit compared to hers.

I told her I loved her. She told me she loved me too. We agreed to get tattoos commemorating our love. I thought, and thought, and thought. I only had about a three-inch patch of unlinked skin left on my body. It was my penis. I hadn’t got it inked because I thought it might render me impotent, but this was an emergency: I promised Annabelle that I’d do it. I went to Inky’s where I always went for my tattoos. I was ready. I told Inky to make my pecker into a rocket ship. He complied. It took four hours of buzzing and grimacing. The rocket ship said “Annabelle” on one side and “Davy” (me) on the other. Inky smeared my wang with bacitracin and wrapped a bandage around it. It hurt like hell.

I invited Annabelle over to check it out. She rang the bell in 15 minutes. I opened the door and waved my wang at her. When I showed her our names on it, she clapped her hands and said she loved it. I asked her if she had had her tat done yet. She said “No” and that she had a confession to make: she had no tattoos. The ones she had shown me were from her MFA project: “Washable Ink: No Commitment.”

We loved each other anyway and got married.

As part of her MFA project, she had developed a spray jet that drew as effectively on skin as a tattoo needle, but used special washable ink and caused no pain. We opened a tattoo parlor called “Ink in the Sink.” We specialize in washable tattoos. In addition to our shop, we travel to fairs and expositions “tattooing” people.

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.

Leave a comment

Posted in metonymy

Tagged , , , , ,

Ominatio

Posted on January 10, 2026 | Leave a comment

Ominatio (o-mi-na’-ti-o): A prophecy of evil.

I felt the gas bubble moving through my intestines. Soon, there would be a foul smelling stench permeating the elevator. I felt blessed. I hated these people and any evil that befell them delighted me. I would announce that I was the fart’s perpetrator. I would say “Please excuse me” as if I cared. Like I said, I didn’t care. I hoped they all fainted on the elevator’s floor, overcome by my fart’s gas.

These were my co-workers. I was 22 and going bald. They made fun of me whenever they could. “How’s shiny mountain?” “Hey chrome dome.” “Hair today, gone tomorrow.” “You’re getting really thin.” There were 50 or 60 more insults regularly hurled my way. Suffice it to say they all hurt me. My colleagues would laugh a cheerful laugh when they insulted me, like we were somehow having fun together. I hated it. My hatred had led me to eat only fart food and hold my farts for the elevator ride to the 40th floor. Some days I was luckier than others, today’s fart fest netted an elevator almost solely filled with co-workers. It was beautiful. But now, they were calling me “Farting Baldy.”

I couldn’t take it any more. On our next ride up in the elevator, I said, “I predict you’re all going to die a horrible death.” They all laughed. One of them said “You’re farting up the wrong tree amigo.” Little did he know I had hatched a plan to kill an elevator-load of the goddamn bastards—including him (if he was aboard).

I started monitoring the elevator, seeing who boarded it. When it was packed with colleagues, I would jump aboard. When we got to the 39th floor, I would press the emergency stop button, which would keep the elevator stopped in place for 15 minutes. I would talk them into letting me climb out of the elevator’s top hatch to see if maybe I could fix the elevator. I had a pair of bolt cutters hidden in my trench coat. I was going to cut the elevator’s cable and dangle there while the elevator plunged 40 stories and killed everybody. I would escape and nobody would be the wiser.

It happened!

I cut the cable and enjoyed hearing everybody scream as they plunged 40 stories to their (well-deserved) deaths. Then there was a loud boinging sound at the bottom of the shaft. There were safety springs that absorbed the elevator’s fall!

There were a few minor injuries, but nobody died. I got away. A couple of my colleagues suspected me, but their suspicions went nowhere.

I stopped eating fart food and was fitted with a Neil Young toupee last week. Everything has quieted down. I’m learning how to play the harmonica.

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.

Leave a comment

Posted in ominatio

Tagged , , , , ,

Onedismus

Posted on January 9, 2026 | Leave a comment

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

“When you cross a bridge, you’re supposed to cross yourself and thank God for the bridge not collapsing” Janey told me as we crossed the bridge. I had never crossed myself and thanked God, and my bridge crossings always went well. Janey considered herself religious. I told her I thought she was an impious, superstitious, blaspheming God scoffer. She told me she’d light a candle for me the next time she went to church. I told her sarcastically I’d go along with her to watch the magic. She went to church every night.

We got inside the church and went up to the candle rack. She put twenty-five cents in the little metal box, and then, lit a candle for me and said a little prayer: “Please God, don’t collapse the bridge under Johnny the next time he crosses it. He does not deserve to die yet. He is good to his mother and feeds Mr. Torchy, the family cat, Spare him!” I laughed. When Janey turned around for a second, I blew out the candle. When she turned back around and saw that the candle was out, she started crying and hugged me and told me I was going to die. God was going to take me away, probably to heaven, but away anyway. She said it was probably because I made fun of her religiosity. I told her it wasn’t religiosity, it was superstition. Praying while going over a bridge was actually impious—calling on God for such a bizarre intervention—it was like praying not to get a gravy stain on your sweater, then feeling blessed when you don’t. It was loony. You’re supposed to pray for things like world peace or the end of world hunger.

Janey was convinced I was going to die the next time I went over the bridge without praying for a safe crossing. She made me look at urns on the web and almost convinced me to buy one. I changed my mind at the last minute. She was driving me crazy. On Monday, I had to go to Elizabeth to pick up my new leather jacket at the Mafia outlet in “somebody’s” basement. I had phoned in my order and was supposed to pick the jacket up at 2:00. All transactions were cash, so I had to stop at an ATM before I crossed the Goethals Bridge into Jersey.

I was scared crossing the bridge, I almost prayed, but nothing happened, nothing, that is, until my car exploded and burst into flames on the Jersey side as I exited the bridge. I bailed out and watched my piece of shit car burn. It smelled like candle wax.

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.

Leave a comment

Posted in onedismus

Tagged , , , , ,

Optatio

Posted on January 8, 2026 | Leave a comment

Optatio (op-ta’-ti-o): Expressing a wish, often ardently.

“When you wish upon a star
Makes no difference who you are
Anything your heart desires
Will come to you.”

I would sing this in the shower, when I was walking to school, and when I was tucked in at night to go to sleep. I wished on a star every night—usually out my bedroom window. There are so many stars, I couldn’t seem to find the right one. Maybe Jiminy Cricket was full of shit.

To no avail, it seemed like I had been wishing for my own color TV since I was born: Hi definition, 50” screen, surround sound. I would stream anything I wanted. I was especially keen on “Monk” and “Stranger Things.” But no, my wishes went unheeded. Why couldn’t I get a wish through to what I called “The Cosmic Grantors?” I decided to check out “Esau’s Voodoo Shop.” It was crazy, but he came highly recommended by my Gym teacher for helping him settle some marital problems. He made my gym teacher’s wife literally disappear. That’s some pretty powerful voodoo.

Esau charged me $5.00. He told me to buy a bull horn and use it to make my wish so I would be heard. And also, to sing my wish, not say it. I was singing my wish out my widow through my bull horn when the doorbell rang. My father yelled up the stairs “The door’s for you idiot.”

The man passing by had heard me singing and was deeply impressed by my voice. He had been scouting for talent around the country and offered me a role in a Hollywood remake of “Pinocchio.” After my first paycheck, I bought my TV

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.

Leave a comment

Posted in optatio

Tagged , , , , , ,

Onomatopoeia

Posted on January 8, 2026 | Leave a comment

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

My little brother was slurping his tomato soup. It was our lunch. On a cold winter day it warmed us up a little to go out and earn some money shoveling snow. But my little brother’s slurping was making me crazy. I yelled “Cut out the slurping dipshit.” My mother put her hand over her mouth and ran out of the kitchen.

My little brother laughed a kept slurping. I lost it. I threw my bowl of soup at him hoping to fracture his skull. I missed, but it shut him up. It hit our cat Manny pretty hard when it landed on the floor. He was unconscious for 2 or 3 seconds and woke up and started licking the soup off his fur. The bowl was broken. I put the pieces in a paper bag. I would dump them somewhere when we were snow shoveling.

We got bundled up and went out to the garage to get our shovels. We shoveled our walk and then went off to make our fortune. Our first stop was going to be Mr. Bringle’s. He was really old and had trouble just walking to his mailbox. We would do our usual scam—shovel the walk first and then go to the door and ask for money. It never failed to bring in the bucks. So, we started to shovel Mr. Bringle’s walk. It had snowed around five inches so it was heavy lifting. My little brother was shoveling the porch. I was doing the sidewalk. I got halfway up the walk and hit something like a rock. I brushed off the snow. It was Mr. Bingle! He was frozen solid to the sidewalk in his pajamas. He had a scratch-off lotto ticket in his hand. I “retrieved” it.

It had been scratched off. It had won $5,555.00. I stuck the ticket into my coat pocket and called 911 on my cellphone. We waited for the ambulance and then went “Larry’s Liquors” where lotto tickets are sold and redeemed. When I showed the ticket to Larry he said “Wow. I can’t redeem that—it’s too much money. You have to take it to the Lotto Commission in Albany.”

My mom drove me to Albany. I had my choice of a check or cash. I took cash and was almost out the door when the cashier asked me if I was 18. I said “No. I found the ticket. Finders keepers.” He said “Losers weepers. Ha ha!” Mom laughed too. On the ride home, she said she wanted $2,500.00 to keep her mouth shut.

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.

Leave a comment

Posted in onomatopoeia

Tagged , , , , ,

Orcos

Posted on January 7, 2026 | Leave a comment

Orcos (or’-kos): Swearing that a statement is true.

“I swear I didn’t add the second head to what you say is a hedgehog.” When I said this it may have confirmed my mental “issues” for everybody present. There was no hedgehog and no second head. In addition, I didn’t know what a hedgehog is. I imagined it was a kind of hog that lived in a hedge. My mother was actually holding our cat Lucy. She was calling it a hedgehog, but it only had one head.

I had just gotten out of bed and hadn’t had my coffee and two donuts yet. I wasn’t prepared to be accused adding a head to a hedgehog. In my mental state, I saw it as plain as day, but it wasn’t my doing. My surgery skills weren’t that advanced, and besides it was an extra head on our cat, which I figured out when she meowed pitifully and scratched at her stitches.

I was pretty sure I knew what was going on. My family was doing one of its random “interventions” testing my sanity. It was my job to pay the bills, so I had to be sane. Visa and AMEX don’t like errors, and crazy people make errors. Dad did the bills until he mistook $14.30 for $143,000. He almost wiped us out, but Visa gave us a refund. That was the end of it for Dad. He hasn’t paid a single bill since. So, after the “Dad experience” the bill payer needs to be checked out periodically. That’s what this two-headed hedgehog thing is about. But I saw through it (more or less) after three cups of coffee.

Now, it was time for stage two. My mother asked me: “Have you ever wanted to be an Oscar Meyer Weiner?”

I thought this might be a trick question. But, I figured I couldn’t go wrong with “No.” So, I said “I swear to God I never wanted to be an Oscar Meyer Weiner.” She grimaced and said “Are you sure?” I said “Yes” and she handed me the checkbook.

I had passed the test! One more year (at least) of managing the family’s bill paying. As long as I take my medication regularly, and abstain from alcohol and pot, I’ll be good to go. Otherwise, God only knows what will happen. Last week, I forgot to take my medication for two days and saw Carmen Miranda dancing with a bear in my back yard. I enjoyed it, but I swear I’m going to remember to take my medication every day.

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.

Leave a comment

Posted in orcos

Tagged , , , , ,

Oxymoron

Posted on January 6, 2026 | Leave a comment

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.

Leave a comment

Posted in oxymoron

Tagged , , , , , , , ,