Tag Archives: rhetoric

Bomphiologia

Posted on March 5, 2023 | Leave a comment

Bomphiologia (bom-phi-o-lo’-gi-a): Exaggeration done in a self-aggrandizing manner, as a braggart.

I was born on a beach in New Jersey, the craziest state in the land of the free, I hung in the park so I knew every tree, and I killed me a skunk with my car when I was twenty-three: Mickey, Mickey Ramapo, King of Seaside Heights.

I’m 6’9” and I am more handsome then Bruce Springsteen. I got thick black hair and bright blue eyes. It’s not my fault, but every night at least one girl is gonna cry because I won’t take her home at closin’ time from “Marla’s Food & Drink.” Down in Texas, I got 50 oil wells pumpin’ out dollar bills day and night. I got a 20-room mansion in Mahwah, a beach house down at the shore, and a secret hideout up north, I can’t tell you any more.

I am 71 and my latest wife is 23. She keeps me feeling young. My second biggest thrill is to watch Baby run on the treadmill. My children think she’s great. They go skiing in the winter and down to the place at the shore every other season. I’ve got so much money I can never spend it all. I have 9 cars. Every one’s worth over $60,000. My chauffeur Barb takes me anywhere I want to go. We have fun inspecting motel rooms, pretending we work for the Department of Sanitation. We have fake I.D. Cards. It’s a blast.

You should know that I graduated at the top of my class at Rutgers—I tied with some kid from China—a refugee. His father was a Red Guard and despised him for his Western learning. Too bad! My family was there at graduation eating a pepperoni pizza down in the from row, with super-size Cokes. They briefly took “Little Mao” under their wing. My dad got him a job driving a bakery truck until he heard back on his grad school applications. He got into MIT and disappeared. We thought he was kidnapped. I guess it was confirmed when we saw a newspaper picture of him beating up an old man in a street brawl somewhere in China. But of course, that did not deter me.

I opened a turtle oil factory in Linden. We squeezed it out of Sea Turtle muscles and genitals. The slogan for our turtle oil was: “It wins the race.” It is an allusion to the story of the tortoise and the hare—in our case the “race” is the race against time, or aging. Anyway I was shut down by the “Fish and Game Commission” but not before I’d made seven-billion dollars and could retire in style.

Behind Rocco Commisso, I am the richest man in New Jersey. Did you get that? Second richest man in New Jersey! It might be hard to believe I made all that money selling turtle oil in the Sixties. You don’t believe it? Fu*ck you. And oh, don’t forget my oil wells.

Definition courtesy of “Silva Rhetoricae”

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Brachylogia

Posted on March 4, 2023 | Leave a comment

Brachylogia (brach-y-lo’-gi-a): The absence of conjunctions between single words. Compare asyndeton. The effect of brachylogia is a broken, hurried delivery.

Up, down, over, under, sideways, backwards, forward, in between. Directions—all different ways of going, but straight. Straight is the boring way, the legal way. But, I am crooked, a “bent copper” as they say in the UK. I’ve been on the force for 20 years, and I manage to do a bad deed nearly every month. This month, I did traffic tickets for pay. The rubes paid the fine on the spot, or from an ATM, avoiding getting a ticket. The rubes love it—it keeps their insurance rates down, and keeps them out of court. A favorite of mine is picking stuff up from loading docks that’s been left for me. In exchange, I keep quiet about their fencing stolen goods. Last week I snagged a 72” flat screen! But this might change.

I have been assigned a partner. Clarence is 22 and just graduated from the police academy. His head is full of bullshit about being a moral and vigilant cop. He is slowing me down. Yesterday, I was supposed to pick up ransom in exchange for the cat I had kidnapped. Clarence got in the car and starts sneezing his ass off. Guess what? I had to take the cat home and skip the ransom pick up. I told Clarence I would take the cat home and reschedule the visit to the vet. He told me he knew what I was up to: I loved spending quality time with my cat and that he was like that too. What a goddamn dork. I had to get rid of him: get him relieved of duty as my partner, or kill him.

So, I peed on the driver’s seat of our patrol car. Clarence jumped in and landed in the warm puddle. He squirmed around and started the car. I said, “Wait! What’s that smell? Did you pee yourself?” “I think so,” he said. “I need to change my pants.” I did this for a week and Clarence was eventually relieved of duty for incontinence. I went back to “work” accenting my police work with crime.

I bumped into Clarence in a topless bar where I’d gone to collect my weekly take. Clarence waved at me and hoisted up a beer in my direction. He motioned at me to come over. I was ready for him to curse me out for what I had done. Instead, he had a big smile and shook my hand saying “Thank-you, thank-you, thank-you!” All I could think was “WTF?” Clarence told me: “I knew what your were up to. I heard about the cat napping. When there was pee on the seat, I knew it was you, trying to get rid of me. I played along and was indefinitely suspended on medical leave with full pay. What a deal! So, thanks! I owe you. I will never tell your bent secrets. You’re my role model!”

God, now I did have to kill him. He knew too damn much about my corrupt policing practices.. On the other hand, he idolized me. I still had the kidnapped cat. I would test him by having him return it , even though he was on medical leave, and collect the ransom money for me. The next day the headlines read: “Rookie Patrolman Recovers Missing Cat.” This could be a problem. I loaded my .45 and went to pay Clarence a surprise visit.

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

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Cacozelia

Posted on March 3, 2023 | Leave a comment

Cacozelia (ka-ko-zeel’-i-a): 1. A stylistic affectation of diction, such as throwing in foreign words to appear learned. 2. Bad taste in words or selection of metaphor, either to make the facts appear worse or to disgust the auditors.

My cat made me nervous. His utilization of his food bowl as a litter box made me reticent to be around him. I wanted to incentivize him to do the right thing, so I started putting his food in his litter box and switched the food dish for the litter box, putting the litter box in the kitchen for him to eat from. But then he started looking at me—sitting on his haunches, unblinking yellow eyes, grooming his whiskers. I had heard of cats eating their owners—chewing off their faces and escaping through their cat flap, blood dripping from their whiskers to ingratiate themselves to an unsuspecting widow or a little girl or boy, or any lonely person in need of a modicum of affection and company.

Every night would begin with Sidney jumping up on my bed. He would dig his well-honed claws into my chest as he purred, sounding like an idling motorcycle. After I’ve fallen asleep, he jumps off the bed and wakes me up with a loud thump on the floor. I go back to sleep. He jumps back on the bed and wakes me up. He starts kneading me, claws pricking my chest. He stops. Purrs. We both go to sleep. He wakes up, jumps off the bed, wakes me up, etc., etc. I have been sleep deprived for 4 years. I would send Sydney to the animal shelter if he did not have a redeeming behavior.

Each year the manufacturer of “Silver Stench” canned cat food hosts the “Cat Flap Classic.” The “Cat Flap Classic” consists of a 10-foot dash through a cat flap. The cat with the fastest time for the 10-foot dash wins the prize which is $20,000, a year’s supply of “Silver Stench,” plus a series of “Silver Stench” endorsements. Sidney has won the “Cat Flap Classic” for the past 3 years. I take the prize money and leave Sydney staying with the Vet. I travel to the Arizona desert, where it is quiet and there’s no cat to keep me awake. Ahhhh.

When I got back this year, the Vet told me Sydney was suffering from arthritis and his running days are over. It was hard to believe—he was 100% healthy when I left for Arizona. But it was true—Sydney could hardly walk. Our racing days were over. So, I invented “The Cat-a-Vator.” It is a battery-powered lift mounted on a small hand truck. When a cat steps on the lift’s platform, it slowly goes up, and they can walk onto the bed without having to jump. Likewise, stepping on it when it was up would make it go down.

I made millions off “The Cat-a-Vator.” Our mansion has fifteen cat flaps. Sydney enjoys walking through them. But, Sydney still kept me awake. There was nothing I could do—Sydney would not shut up. So, I came up with the idea of using noise cancelling ear buds to deaden the purring sound. It worked! Now, I am working with “Silver Stench” to hold a “Cat Flap Classic” for elderly and disabled cats. I think Sydney is looking forward to competing.

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

An edited version of The Daily Trope is available on Amazon in paper and Kindle formats under the title Book of Tropes.

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Catachresis

Posted on March 2, 2023 | Leave a comment

Catachresis (kat-a-kree’-sis): The use of a word in a context that differs from its proper application. This figure is generally considered a vice; however, Quintilian defends its use as a way by which one adapts existing terms to applications where a proper term does not exist.

I biked a racket, like a horse, in my living room. I stuck it between my legs, with the grip sticking out the back like a tail. Then, I run in place like I’m pedaling a bicycle, it’s a great way to repurpose a tennis racket when you’ve quit playing tennis.

I’ve written a book titled “14 Carat Crap.” It contains projects centering on transforming garbage to gold. We become fixated on seeing things the way they are, instead of the way they could be. Everything I look at, in my mind I think of ways of transforming it. Does this make me a visionary? Yes! What if you could make your home into something else? Have you ever heard of a “crack den?” Buy my book and you’ll find out how to make your home into one for fun and profit. It’s simple, easy, and low maintenance. You’ll learn how to bribe the police, cleanly dispose of bodies, expand into prostitution, launder money, and cultivate international business relationships with Colombian and Peruvian colleagues.

What about that pool table down in the basement gathering dust? With a few nails, and a roulette wheel easily purchased on Amazon.com along with a layout to cover the pool table with, you can blow that dust away! What could be easier? Guess what? You’re on your way to running and illegal gambling casino. In my book I explain how to rig the wheel so you can control your cash flow! What could be better? People will flock to our casino. You can cleverly name it after your street, like “Casino on Elm Street.” What a deal!

One more teaser, then you’ll have buy my book. Is your refrigerator running? You better catch it! Ha! Ha! This one is so simple a child could could do it. I’m going to be blunt. You mount a hasp on the refrigerator’s side and door so the door can be padlocked shut. Clear out all the shelves. Here’s the rationale: Many people have elderly parents that they can’t afford to put in a nursing home. The “Lockable Fridge” is a perfect solution. For you, six or seven refitted fridges in your house will generate a huge return. Your customers will be required to dispose of their loved ones. Winter is the best time to run your fridge business, especially in the North, Winter climatic conditions will provide a cause of death. Perfect!

Well, there you have a taste of “14 Carat Crap.” The book contains over 100 transformations of common things, most of which turn a hefty profit.

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

Print and Kindle editions of The Daily Trope are available on Amazon under the title The Book of Tropes.

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Catacosmesis

Posted on March 1, 2023 | Leave a comment

Catacosmesis (kat-a-kos-mees’-is): Ordering words from greatest to least in dignity, or in correct order of time.

Links in a chain. We are all links in a chain. There’s royalty, millionaires, half-a-millionaires, middle class, lower middle class, lower class, and me—the bottom of the barrel. My best friend is a rat named Billy. We’ve been friends for five years. I have taught him several tricks. He performs on the orange crate I found in a dumpster a couple of years ago. I was using it to dine on. But, when I met Billy, I knew it would be his stage.

Rats are pretty smart, but it was a challenge inculcating Billy with an entire repertoire. Billy’s favorite was “find the cockroach.” I had a jar full of live roaches that I had trapped in my kitchen. It was ridiculously easy. I put a cherry-flavored sour ball in the jar, and ten minutes later, slapped the lid on and trapped 10-15 roaches. I would put three Dixie cups upside down on the orange crate, put a roach under one and switch them around while Billy watched intently. Then, I’d yell “Find the roach Billy!” Billy would spring to life, sniffing up and down the row of upturned cups with his pointy little rat nose. He would find the roach with his nose, and use his nose to flip the cup. The roach would scurry across the orange crate and Billy would grab it, making a crunching noise in his jaws. Then, sitting on his haunches and holding the roach between his paws, Billy would bite off its head and swallow it. The punters would go wild, sometimes filling my cigar box with hundreds of dollars.

One day a punter was in the audience who looked like Willie Wonka—dressed in 19th-century finery with a top hat and a gold watch fob. He looked like something out of a children’s storybook. After the other punters left, he came up to me and handed me his card. Billy squealed his disapproval. The strange man’s name was Dr. Dressing. He represented an aristocrat—Duke Flatbutt—who liked to be privately entertained at his manor house outside the village. Dr, Dressing offered us $2,000 for one performance of find the roach. We couldn’t say no. He paid us up front.

We rode with Dr. Dressing to the manor house. It was crumbling, but it was still beautiful. Duke Flatbutt met us at the door. He said, “Greetings. Do your act.” We set up and ran the act. Duke Flatbutt applauded like a fiend, and ran behind a dressing screen at the end of the room. There was thumping and bumping behind the screen. Duke Flatbutt yelled “Set up the show again!” Accordingly I put a big fat roach under one of the upturned cups. I yelled “Ready!”

The dressing screen fell over and Duke Flatbutt was standing there dressed like a giant rat. Billy squealed and ran up my pant leg and into my coat pocket. Duke Flatbutt came lurching toward me squealing, passed me, and started nosing the cups. He quickly caught the roach, sat on the floor, bit off the roach’s head, chewed it up, and swallowed it.

Dr. Dressing said, “You may go now.” And we did! I grabbed my orange crate and we ran toward the door. When we got outside, the sun was setting. As I jogged along the road to the village I tried to fathom what Billy and I had witnessed. I couldn’t. I have nightmares, but Billy and I still do our act, and he still balances a ball on nose like a seal, does the “rat fit” rolling around with severe tremors, and writes “Billy” with his tail—with a taped-on marker on an old piece of white board I found in the high school dumpster and lean against the orange crate.

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

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

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Cataphasis

Posted on February 28, 2023 | Leave a comment

Cataphasis (kat-af’-a-sis): A kind of paralipsis in which one explicitly affirms the negative qualities that one then passes over.

Lars: I am making a rowboat in my garage. I never built one before. I have no plans. I don’t know how to row a boat. There’s no place to launch it for 300 miles.

You know my name is Lars Stockholm. I am descended from Vikings. When I die I want to go to Valhalla in a burning boat. I want to wear a Viking hat with cow horns on it, a shaggy fur suit and carry this wooden sword and metal garbage can lid to shield me from danger, although I will be dead and it won’t matter. Nevertheless, it pays to plan ahead—there might be danger lurking in the afterlife, especially for people of Viking heritage. Maybe I should just wear a nice suit and have a traditional burial, or be cremated, like my uncle Sven. No! I’m going full Viking. I don’t care what terror I meet with. Heimdall will protect me. I am sure of it. Why have a protector god if he does not protect you? Haha!

Me: Are you working on a deadline with your boat? That’s a joke. Anyway, you’ve done some stupid things in your life, but this tops them all. It is against the law to launch burning boat. The fine is $10,000 and 2 years in jail for the illegal disposal of human remains. One thing you can do, is have your boat doused with gasoline, launch in your in your back yard in-ground pool, and throw a match on it. Poof! Your body’s in flames. Your friends can observe from your comfy pool furniture—drinking wine and beer—two preferred Viking beverages. When it’s done, the pool can filled in by a bulldozer and a pile of dirt. Your loved ones can plant grass and put up a marker.

Lars: Wow! You are still the genius! Now, I almost can’t wait to die. I think with such and plan, the gods and goddesses will smile on me and sanctify my grave. You can’t be too careful about these things.

POSTSCRIPT

Lars was 58 when all this happened. He lived to be 108. He had moved three times since his burning boat in the pool idea took shape. He died in Arizona, near the desert, one of the driest places in the USA. Lars’s funeral took place in his backyard. The lawn sprinklers had been left running for seven hours. In a body bag, Lars was laid in the giant puddle that had formed. The Minister finished his eulogy and Lars was transported to the cemetery. A full bathtub had been prepared for him in his gravesite. As he was lowered into the tub, it would simulate being buried at sea. A lid was dropped onto the tub, dirt was pushed on top of it, and Lars had his Viking burial.

By now, I was no kid. I was of Scottish heritage. I couldn’t bear the idea of bagpipes at my funeral. Haggis hurling I could support—my great-grandfather was a national champion hurler. My plan was shaping up.

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

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

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Cataplexis

Posted on February 27, 2023 | Leave a comment

Cataplexis (kat-a-pleex’-is): Threatening or prophesying payback for ill doing.

“You broke my heart. You made me cry. Ain’t that a shame? My tears fell like rain.” Fats Domino, sometime in the 1950s. Fats needed a champion. Somebody to hit his faithless girlfriend with payback for what she did. Ain’t that a shame? Hell no. It’s the right thing to do.

I hired a private detective to find her. He told me her name was Nadine, she’s 84, and she lives in the Vieux Carre in New Orleans. I flew to New Orleans. It was the height of Mardi Gras. I bought a devil costume and put it on. It made me feel suitably evil to wreak revenge on behalf of Fats. Then, I realized it! She was the Nadine that Chuck Berry sang about—a cheating tart riding around in a Cadillac with her paramour. Chuck had to risk his life in an epic car chase to bring Nadine home.

Nadine lived in a tiny apartment over a topless place on Bourbon Street, where tourists go to get drunk and soak up the risqué nightlife. I knocked on her door. An elderly women with a walker opened the door. “Hello there,” she said when she opened the door. I looked over her shoulder and saw an autographed photograph of Chuck Berry with “Nadine why can’t you be true?” written across it. Then, I knew I was right about her being the Nadine in the song. I asked, “Were you the one who destroyed Fats Domino’s life too?” She said: “Fats and Chuck were the loves of my life, but I couldn’t choose between them—when Chuck did his duck walk across the stage, and Fats pounded on his piano, I was in ecstasy. They wanted the three of us to move in together, but my religious faith kept me from doing so. It was the worst decision I ever had to make: I couldn’t have both of them, so I would have neither of them. Chuck went into denial, believing I was cheating on him. Fats handled it better, crying and realizing it was a genuine shame—that I hadn’t betrayed him. I never married or had children. I was a topless dancer until my boobs gave out when I turned 50. Chuck and Fats would visit every now and then. Sometimes we’d go out to dinner—the three of us. When Chuck and Fats passed, they left me $1,000,000 between them, but I haven’t moved. All I did was buy a titanium walker, a pair of orthopedic shoes, and a bidet.”

As she spoke, my anger and desire for revenge evaporated. I understood the painful decision she had to make to uphold her faith. I looked at the switchblade in my hand, and though for a second that I should stab myself for being such an idiot.

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

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

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Charientismus

Posted on February 26, 2023 | Leave a comment

Charientismus (kar-i-en-tia’-mus): Mollifying harsh words by answering them with a smooth and appeasing mock.

A: You smell like a dog.

B: That’s the price you pay for having a best friend. Get it? Haha!

A: I said smell like a dog, not act like a dog.

B: Haha. Let’s shake hands and forget about it. Get it? Haha.

A: I’m not interested in your dog tricks—shaking hands is at the bottom of the hierarchy of dog tricks. Oh, maybe “sit” is lower. Can you sit?

B: Can’t you see? I’m sitting on the couch, curled up. I can roll over too. Look! There you have it!

A: Go home and take a shower and wash away your dog smell. And what the hell are you doing talking?

B: I am home. I live here. See that dog dish over there, it’s mine! What is wrong with you? You knew I was a Venetian Talker when you got me from the shelter. Maybe you should take a cold shower and come back to reality. Do you even remember my name? Just in case you don’t, it’s Strabo.

A: Strabo? Hmmm. Shelter? Talker? What?

I’m pretty sure it’s Wednesday and it’s noon, I’m sitting here in my pajamas, drinking a martini, and I’m talking to a dog. I must be losing my mind.

B: I’ll help you find your mind if you give me a biscuit— my favorite pizza flavored please.

A: Look, I’m going to bed. If you’re still here when I wake up we can play fetch. Can you sing? Maybe we could be a duet. I play the guitar. I can do acoustic versions of heavy metal music. I’ve got “Master of Puppets” down. I can play it with my eyes closed!

B: Sounds good to me. See you later.

POSTSCRIPT

As soon as he heard snoring coming from the bedroom, Strabo unzipped and tore off his dog-suit. Using it as a sack, he burglarized A’s house, stealing everything of value that he could see. He tiptoed to the door, carefully opened it, went down the front steps, got on his motorcycle, and took off. Before he got to the end of the street, he was burned by remorse, turned around, and returned everything to its rightful owner. He put his dog-suit back on and prepared to play fetch and sing some songs. Strabo enjoyed being a dog, even if he was fake. It had been five years since he moved in.

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

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

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Chiasmus

Posted on February 25, 2023 | Leave a comment

Chiasmus (ki-az’-mus): 1. Repetition of ideas in inverted order. 2. Repetition of grammatical structures in inverted order (not to be mistaken with antimetabole, in which identical words are repeated and inverted).

Truths are lies. Lies are truths. Good is evil. Evil is good. I could go on and on with every word paired with its dialectical other. We are caught in a cultural trance. The inversion of goods is a consequence of years of unbridled free speech. When anybody can say whatever they want to say into the internet to be circulated repetitively and globally without the citation of it source, in the guise of reporting a conspiracy, it passes the truth test among masses of people, and motivates collective action among them to act out of fear and anger to put the conspirators down.

The internet is a garbage bump. It is not a clear and rippling reservoir. It may harbor more lies than Hell. Whenever you dip your brain into it, you run the risk of filling it with toxic waste. But how do you distinguish the poison from the cure? Many actual insights garner ridicule and even banishment to their proponents. The Earth is round? Ha ha! Lunatic! Lock him up. Burn him at the stake! What did it take to get “round” certified as the shape of the earth? I’m sure the story is told somewhere, but I don’t know where. Do you? The roundness certified by the view from a spaceship? That’s my point of reference, but who knows for sure? Is it a Hollywood stunt? Some people think so. Are they a paradigm case of healthy doubt, or totally nuts, or both?

Now we come to flat-out lying. Almost daily, some politician is caught lying. When I was a kid, lying politicians would be censured, appear crying on TV, apologize, and tearfully resign. Now, they just tell more, and usually bigger, lies. Or, they admit everything, and don’t resign, and are not censured by their political party. Lies don’t seem to register in public consciousness like they used to. Why? I don’t know.

The right is dominated by zealotry, and frequently engages in righteous indignation. The left has little zeal, even though it avows an interest in resolving significant social issues freighted with moral import. Liberals need to weigh in with more exuberance and less smugness. They need to elect a greater number of liberal yellers—enraged actors, with their own brand of righteous indignation, and an unwillingness to capitulate under any circumstances.

Who are the liberal firebrands? I don’t know. Since nobody readily springs to mind, I conclude there are none. I am probably wrong. Am I irresponsible? Ill-informed? A crypto-conservative? A nit-wit?

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

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Climax

Posted on February 23, 2023 | Leave a comment

Climax (cli’-max): Generally, the arrangement of words, phrases, or clauses in an order of increasing importance, often in parallel structure.

Me: My foot. My leg. My God! My eye! What about my hand? My ear? What about one of my testicles! Here I am strapped to a table. Here you are laughing and waving a scalpel and a meat cleaver. I never should’ve agreed to come over here and show you how to make beef stew. Why are you wearing that stupid hockey mask? You look like a fiend from a horror movie. I don’t get it. I know who you are, why cover your face?

Answer me!

Fiend: Oh, come on. We both know you can’t be a proper fiend without a gimmick. I know the hockey mask isn’t a new idea, but it gives me a horrific aura based on the intertextuality of the original and my co-optation of its bloody project. Between the two there is an aura of suspense gesturing toward dismembering you, making you into a stew and eating you with French fries, buttered bread, and deep-fried Almond Joy. I had that at the state fair last year, and really enjoyed it. In order to be tidy about this, I will feed the table scraps to my pet pig Melania, named after my Savior’s saintly wife.

Me: What the hell happened to you? And why me? Why am I your victim?

Fiend: What happened to me? Who’re you trying to kid? You know damn well. I was studying to be a priest at St. Plagarismus Seminary in in Rhode Island when I had the vision. I saw myself driving to heaven in a Land Rover packed with naked angels. We were somewhere in North Carolina when I swore at some guy who was going under the speed limit in front of me. I tried to pass, but I couldn’t. One of the angels called God on her cellphone and reported me for swearing. I was “raptured” out of Land Rover and returned to the seminary. When I awoke, there was a naked angel hovering in the corner of my chambers. She was real. She told me that my behavior had earned my expulsion from St. Plagarismus. I was devastated, all I ever wanted to be was a minion. Now, I was nothing, less than nothing, less than less than nothing. So, I decided to become a fiend, and here we are.

Me: I don’t follow you. Your story doesn’t hang together. It’s narrative fidelity is lacking. It characters are undeveloped. From a literary standpoint it is shallow, illogical, vague, and slightly insane. I think you should rethink your story’s trajectory. I think you should free me and we should go to the mall. This would be a more credible consequence of all that’s happened. We can hang out at Starbucks and further discuss your so-called story.

Fiend: Hmmm. Ok. But I’m going to hang onto my meat cleaver just in case.

Me: Ok. Sounds like a plan. Let’s go.

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

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

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Coenotes

Posted on February 22, 2023 | Leave a comment

Coenotes (cee’-no-tees): Repetition of two different phrases: one at the beginning and the other at the end of successive paragraphs. Note: Composed of anaphora and epistrophe, coenotes is simply a more specific kind of symploce (the repetition of phrases, not merely words).

I was going grocery shopping damnit. I got a cart. I looked at my shopping list. I started to roll. First stop, produce. A bunch of bananas. Iceberg lettuce. Carrots. Potatoes. Baby spinach. There was one avocado left. I turned my cart and headed for it. I felt somebody coming up behind me. I turned around and there was a middle-aged woman rushing toward me. She yelled: “Get back shithead, that’s my avocado. You touch it and you’ll have my shopping cart up your ass!” “Sorry, my avocado!” I yelled. The woman yelled obscenities at me as I took off, almost running, toward breakfast cereals. I’d let nothing deter me.

I was going grocery shopping, damnit. I was not going to let the avocado incident affect my resolve. I’d made it to breakfast cereals. There was a whole aisle stocked with cereal—from Alpine Muesli to Zebra Grunts. Unbelievable! I started looking for my brand: “Uncle Joe’s Organic Grass Clippings.” I looked for fifteen minutes and couldn’t find them. So, I pressed the help button. A teen aged boy came around the corner. He looked at me and said, “We here at Roscoe’s Horn of Plenty are dedicated to feeding you what you like and making sure your cleaning products are where you need them, when you need them..” I asked him where the “Uncle Joe’” was. He told me they had discontinued stocking it because it was determined only one customer was purchasing it. He gave me a gift certificate for “Mover” bran flakes. I tore it up and threw it at him, I grabbed a box of “Organic Sugar Bombs’ and headed for the fresh fish counter. I’d let nothing deter me.

I was going grocery shopping, damnit. “I’ll have a side of cod.” The fish monger said, “There’s no such thing. A cod is a fish, not a cow.” All the fish mongers behind the counter stated laughing and making mooing sounds. I pressed the help button and the same teenager showed up and started spouting the “Horn of Plenty” credo. I jumped over the counter, grabbed a salmon, and slammed it across the wise ass monger’s face. I ran out of the grocery store, taking the avocado with me. I’d let nothing deter me.

I was going grocery shopping damnit. I was on line. Everything was there. It would be delivered to my door. “E-Food” was my new grocery store. I’d let nothing deter me!

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

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Colon

Posted on February 21, 2023 | Leave a comment

Colon (ko’-lon): Roughly equivalent to “clause” in English, except that the emphasis is on seeing this part of a sentence as needing completion, either with a second colon (or membrum) or with two others (forming a tricolon). When cola (or membra) are of equal length, they form isocolon.

Me: I am obliged, obliged to tell you. Somebody spray painted their anger on your dog. A snow-white American Eskimo makes a perfect blank canvas for a painted display of ire.

You: My God! What did the miscreant paint on my little Pandora? I can’t imagine what the motive would be. She’s never seriously injured anyone. I muzzle her when we go for walks. She growls and yips, but to no avail, I keep a tight rein. Oh, but she managed to slip her collar yesterday for a few hours when I couldn’t find her. I should’ve mentioned that.

Me: Well, somebody else found her, and they paid for it, I think. Surely, the frank messages on her sides indicate there was an unpleasant encounter, and when she was netted, I am told she growled and wouldn’t let go of the piece of bloody denim in her mouth. On her right side it says “Please euthanize me!” On her left side it says “Beware, I will tear you to shreds!” I was told you may pick her up at the dog pound.

You: I don’t believe it. This a cruel prank impugning my little Pandora’s character. She is a purebred! She bathes every week. She eats gourmet dog biscuits. She is groomed once a month. There are genuine Swarovski crystals mounted on her eel skin collar. Her nails are painted red and she wears a black bow on her head. How could anything so royally treated and beautifully arrayed be such a biting ripping monster?

Me: Wake up! I don’t suppose you remember the time she bit me on the hand when I reached down to pet her. They had to sew my hand back together in the emergency room. It looked like Chucky Doll’s face for a month. I still can’t make a tight fist. I probably should’ve reported Pandora.

You: What? I can’t believe you really said that. Pandora is a happy little fluff ball.

Me: I don’t think so. I think it’s high time you considered putting her to sleep.

At that moment Pandora pranced into the living room, returned from the dog pound. She jumped up, and sat on the couch directly across from me. She was staring at me. She wasn’t wearing her muzzle. The painted slogans were still on her sides.

You: That’s insane—you are no friend of mine. Pandora! Eat him!

Me: Pandora flew off the couch like fighter jet. She was heading straight for my face. I didn’t know what else to do. I pulled out my tactical pen and stabbed her in the throat just as she was going to tear my face off. She gasped and landed in a heap on my lap.

POSTSCRIPT

The police took my used-to-be friend away in handcuffs. Pandora recovered and is currently in a rehab center for homicidal dogs. I have visited her a couple of times. She wags her tail and licks my face—a far cry from tearing it off. My never-again-friend is serving 7 years for attempted murder-by-dog. I don’t visit him.

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

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

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Commoratio

Posted on February 20, 2023 | Leave a comment

Commoratio (kom-mor-a’-ti-o): Dwelling on or returning to one’s strongest argument. Latin equivalent for epimone.

Who else is trying to figure out what is happening in American politics, or maybe in American culture in general? We want to be galvanized by truth, instead we are doused with lies, up to our knees in lies that we know are lies and seemingly unable censure their purveyors. People who deserve respect are disrespected. People who deserve disrespect are respected. Racists, misogynists, xenophobes, adulterers, tax cheats, epic liars. They stand in line at the Republican Trough. They wait for their share of the spoils—their loyalty earns them power, and their power makes a difference. What has happened? It has always been this way? What about Civil Rights legislation? The truth prevailed. What about Women’s Suffrage? Truth prevailed. What about Social Security? Truth prevailed. Vietnam? We withdrew.

Now: 2023

Right to abortion? Gone. 70 (or more) people shot dead in public places since January 1. Assault weapons banned? No. Censorship in public schools? Yes. Student loan forgiveness? No. Never.

Blah, blah, blah. Same old crap, right? No. I was there when segregation fell. I saw truth and goodness prevail. Evil’s veil can be lifted and evil put in full view of people of good will; and there are people of good will.

But, you know, one person’s hope is another person’s fear (Stanley Fish). We make choices because we think they’re good. It is good to rob Cliff’s. So reasons the robber. So, the backdrop for all that’s happening consists of conflicted concepts of what’s good and the dialectic of hope and fear. I guess I this isn’t big news. The big news is that change is inevitable. Somebody will win. Divide and conquer.

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

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

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Comparatio

Posted on February 19, 2023 | Leave a comment

Comparatio (com-pa-ra’-ti-o): A general term for a comparison, either as a figure of speech or as an argument. More specific terms are generally employed, such as metaphor, simile, allegory, etc.

He: I don’t want to be your patent leather dress shoe. Do you know what I mean? Ever since I’ve read Metaphors We Live By I’ve been spewing metaphors to live by. Think about it: “patent leather dress shoe.” It is too complex to consider now. Perhaps we can consider it the next time you’re treating my like a mouse with cognitive difficulties. Why do you call me your “scallion stallion?” I know I like onions on everything, but I don’t know where “stallion” comes from. It’s a male horse. In that vein, I’m more like Mr. Ed.—like a wise-cracking palomino with a really deep voice.

She: “Stallion.” My college English professor told me it is a metaphor for sexual prowess. Regarding you, it’s not true of you anyway—you’re more like a timid turtle. Many of the girls called my English professor “Popeye.” I don’t know why. Maybe he ate a lot of spinach.

I’ve never read Metaphors We Live By, so, generally speaking, I don’t know what you’re talking about. Would it be like “You’re as dull as a butter knife?” Or, “Hey melon head, why do I waste my time with you?” Oh! Wait! I think I’ve got one: “My boyfriend is a bird brain.”

He: That’s right! The explicit comparison of two unlike things. You compare a bird’s brain to me. You’re talking about a very smart bird—probably a parrot or a magpie.

She: No. You’ve got it backwards: I’m comparing your brain to a bird’s brain—even if it’s a parrot or magpie, you’re supposed to be smarter. Basically, I’ve insulted you, and you’re too stupid to get it; proving my point. is this “living by a metaphor?”

He: Oh. I guess so. What am I supposed to do now? Put on my ramblin’ shoes? Take a hike? Fly away? Pack it in? Get shit-faced and crash? Follow the yellow brick road?

She: Get out of my apartment. That’s not a metaphor. Come back when you’re not such a dripping stalactite. Maybe we can watch a movie.

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

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

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Comprobatio

Posted on February 18, 2023 | Leave a comment

Comprobatio (com-pro-ba’-ti-o): Approving and commending a virtue, especially in the hearers.

Life is always more complicated than we want it to be. You are my sheep. My flock. My ensemble of groveling dupes, perfectly situated for exploitation—even as I say it, I know you don’t know what it means, and you’ll do anything I tell you to do. If I had enough red Kool-Aid I could prove it right now. I would put on my special Jimmy J. Sunglasses, tell you to drink, and you’d flop down on the floor, gone to meet your maker.

But we’re not here to test your loyalty to me and your faith in the Big Guy upstairs, rather, we are here to exploit your virtuous desire to do my will in other aspects of our lives. Your pliancy is admirable. Your collective idolization of me is surely the will of God. As long as you take these little pink pills, you will follow, enlightened zombies stumbling along the path to salvation. Please, keep your robes on! Today, we have more important thing to do.

Tomorrow, collectively, by our power and glory, and in the fullness of time provided by Sunday morning, together, all 205 of us will swarm Wal-Mart! We shall remove Satan’s playthings, load them on the trucks waiting outside, and bring them back here to be sorted and sold to sinners on EBay. We will have a modest triumph over Satan, temporarily depriving him of income. You may rightfully ask:

“What will we do with the proceeds gathered from the swarming to further our collective journey on our spiritual path?” Yea, I say unto thee, I have heard the lord’s voice, and he has said: “Build a giant hot tub in the basement Pastor Blotch, and fill it with love.”

Upon hearing this command, I prostrated myself on the floor and sister Louise joined me, and together, we showed our passionate desire to comply, as we rolled about uttering cries of thanksgiving, truly possessed by the divine spirit.

As we swarm WalMart tomorrow, fill your shopping carts and dump them outside by the waiting trucks as fast as you can. Think of the hot tub and the sustenance it will provide here on earth to your carnal body and how it will teach your soul patience as it awaits eternal life. May your virtue prompt you as you do his will. Be compliant. Be unquestioning. Be dutiful. Be swift. Now, go and prepare yourselves to meet Satan’s imps at WalMart and vanquish them with faith-based robbery. May your shopping carts overflow and your harvest be abundant.

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

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Conduplicatio

Posted on February 17, 2023 | Leave a comment

Conduplicatio (con-du-pli-ca’-ti-o): The repetition of a word or words. A general term for repetition sometimes carrying the more specific meaning of repetition of words in adjacent phrases or clauses. Sometimes used to name either ploce or epizeuxis.

Row, row, row your boat somewhere else! This is a private dock. Time to go sailing, sailing, over the bounding main to the other side of the lake—to your home, home on the shore, where you belong, along with your piece of crap pickup truck. Hurry, before I light your flimsy rowboat on fire and send you to the bottom on the lake like some kind of Viking looser.

My family built this camp in 1779. They had sided with the Redcoats. As known Royalists, they were harassed everywhere they went. So, they built this camp as a getaway. They named it “King George’s Rest” and fished for Walleye, and made Walleye pies, and put on disguises and sold them in the nearby village of Constantia. The men dressed and spoke as women, and the women dressed and spoke as men. If they were caught, they would be hanged. One of my ancestors refused to shave off his beard. He was caught, but the magistrate spared his life after he convinced the magistrate he was an unfortunate sufferer of “Pandora’s Hair,” a malady she picked up working with Tory women when serving them meals in a Continental prison camp. What luck!

My ancestors also made fishing lures and would sell them to punters out on the lake. They made the lures out of small tree branches, sawn straight at either end, and painted to resemble frogs or minnows. The women would paint the lures and attach the hooks. The hooks were made of sewing needles, curved with pounded tips making barbs. My ancestors also invented what has come to be known as the “spinning reel,” a device allowing longer casts, out to where the fish are. The first spinning reel was a was a sawed off musket. The fishing line would be coiled loosely, around the end of the musket’s barrel, the musket would be lifted back over the shoulder and then, holding on, flung forward toward the water, almost like bringing it down like a rake, but not putting it in the water.

Ok, rowboat man, it’s time to turn, turn, turn, or it’s gonna be boom, boom, boom followed by smoke on the water and fire in the sky. Git.

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

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Congeries

Posted on February 16, 2023 | Leave a comment

Congeries (con’ger-eez): Piling up words of differing meaning but for a similar emotional effect [(akin to climax)].

Me: Liar! Selfish! Deceptive! Bastard! Prince of prevarication! What else can I say? I know you took my puppy Fontana. Give Fontana back now! If I can’t have Fontana, I don’t want to live. This may look like a bundle of dog biscuits, but it’s a bomb. Hand over the puppy you heinous anus.

Ed: You have truly flipped out. I always wondered when it would happen, but I never imagined your stupid puppy would play a role.

Me: Bullshit. Stay close while I search this dump. What’s this in the cabinet under your sink?

Ed: I don’t know what it is.

Me: There you go Mr. Liar! It’s “Purina Puppy Chow”—Fontana’s favorite. Come on, what’s going on here? My BIC is itching to light the biscuit bomb. Tell me what hell is going on, or you’re coming with me to my next incarnation.

Ed: You’re scaring the hell out of me. Today, I don’t want to be blown up. Maybe tomorrow. Ha ha? We’ve been friends since our sandbox days. You’ve always been a bit unstable, but this takes the cake.

Me (lighter lit): 10, 9, 8 . . .

Ed: Ok ok. Look in my bedroom.

I opened the door. There was Fontana with a bow on her head, beautifully groomed, wearing a new rhinestone studded collar, curled up in a new doggie bed, gleefully wagging her tail. My girlfriend Stella was sitting alongside her. I asked Stella what this was all about as I put the BIC back in my pocket.

Stella: It was Fontana’s first birthday and you were supposed to be at work. I have a key to your house. You weren’t there, so Ed and I picked up Fontana and took her to the groomer for her birthday grooming, and then, we went gift shopping at the adjacent pet store. We wanted to surprise you at home. We stopped here on our way back to your house, you came home early, and you showed up here unexpectedly and “caught” us. I’m not sure what Ed wanted to do at his place, although he squeezed my butt cheek yesterday. I thought he was just kidding around—he went “honk honk” when he squeezed it. Anyway, don’t you just love the way Fontana looks?

Me: I wasn’t listening. I was thinking about the bag of puppy chow under Ed’s sink. I felt my BIC in my pocket and looked at the biscuit bomb in my hand.

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

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Consonance

Posted on February 15, 2023 | Leave a comment

Consonance: The repetition of consonants in words stressed in the same place (but whose vowels differ). Also, a kind of inverted alliteration, in which final consonants, rather than initial or medial ones, repeat in nearby words. Consonance is more properly a term associated with modern poetics than with historical rhetorical terminology.

Dog. Hog. Log. Blog. Fog. Bog. Jog. Duck. Deli. Drawing. Dolphin. Dread. Dare. Drop. Dodge. Ah! The beauty of random words collected together solely for their sound. Somehow, they may provide a platform for creative writing or thought, which of course can be combined, not to mentioned being said out loud.

The dog and hog held a party by the log, lugged up from the beach. I entered this observation in my blog, bowled over by their cooperation. I wondered if they could communicate with each other clearing the fog floating between them there on the bog, beautiful in its own right. I knew there would be something in this to jog joy and circulate happiness around my brain. I picked up my duck David and headed to the deli, defamed and cursed by the vegetarians, who had spray painted a drawing, driven by their anger, of a submarine sandwich holding a dolphin drowning in mayonnaise on a split baguette, with tears in its eyes. I was feeling dread driven by the vandalism, but I had to dare, driven by my hunger, to enter the deli. I was ready to drop down and thank Mr. Mangle for keeping “Meat Masters” open in the face of the protests. Then, I asked if he could make a Dolphin on white with mayo. I was joking. He didn’t get it. He threw a handful of pickles at me. I never had to dodge dill pickles before!

I apologized profusely and paid for the pickles. He made me a Reuben that tasted like it had fallen from heaven. All was well.

There you have it. A really meaningful little story, driven by identical consonants generated before the story’s writing. It helps me a lot to write this way. I have no very good ideas of my own, so the words write me, after I’ve generated them. I read somewhere that James Joyce used this technique when he wrote “Moby Dick”—the story about the giant ape living on an island who was captured and taken to New York City and got involved in the extortion rackets with James Cagney. The ape would punch holes in buildings to force tenants to give him and Cagney all their money. I remember reading it back in ‘68 when I was totally stoned, before I became a medical doctor. I lost my license for gross malpractice, transplanting a mouse’s kidney by mistake. The size of the kidney should’ve been a tip off, but I had lost my glasses and could hardly see. When I dropped the mouse kidney on the floor, it came into focus and I realized what I had done, it was all about my daughter’s school science project, but I shouldn’t have brought the kidney to work where I mixed it up with a human kidney. I told this to my staff and they laughed like it was the funniest thing they ever heard. Luckily, the patient survived. Now, as I said, I’m a writer and part-time laundromat monitor (which I didn’t mention).

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

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Correctio

Posted on February 14, 2023 | Leave a comment

Correctio (cor-rec’-ti-o): The amending of a term or phrase just employed; or, a further specifying of meaning, especially by indicating what something is not (which may occur either before or after the term or phrase used). A kind of redefinition, often employed as a parenthesis (an interruption) or as a climax.

Him: Let’s get this straight before we get married (not after) and take it as seriously as humanly possible: your crazy mother will be unwelcome in our home. Her looney ideas are dangerous. Even if you don’t think so, her constant references to love, peace and happiness belong at Woodstock (where she spent “three days of peace and love” back in the sixties), or at a Buddhist commune sitting in a weird position on the stone floor, eating cold rice, chanting, and drinking water. There’s no place for any of this in our lives. Not in our living room or at our dinner table. She keeps trying to make us into Hippie vegetarian renegades—turning our backs on our heritage. Don’t forget, I am an officer in a Militia—Paul Revere’s Night Reapers. We stand for everything right! Intimidation of Minorities! Injustice! Eating meat! Smoking cigarettes, and more!

In addition to everything else, your mother’s wealth is also a corrupting influence. She’s got so much money she can’t count that high. Her hobby seems to be to try to persuade us out of our well considered beliefs—beliefs that are distinctly Conservative and project our absolute right to stand up for the Right and it’s well-considered rejection of tax-payer funded social programs and its regard for the marginalization of educational funding and censorship. We believe in increasing military spending and building more jails. We believe that illegal immigrants should be put to work on chain gangs. We also believe the Christian faith should become the official religion of the United States. Your mother just wants to sing “Puff the Magic Dragon” and love everybody—to condemn our basic beliefs and will probably try to turn our kids into bomb-throwing Commie dupes. We don’t want that, honey.

And last, the way your mother dresses (no matter where she’s going) is totally inappropriate. Although she’s a billionaire, she shops at the Salvation Army Thrift Store. When she goes out, her clothing choices look like a puzzle where somebody pushed pieces together that don’t fit. Like, the other day she was wearing a tiger print blouse, a turquoise square dance skirt, yellow tights with a carpenter ant pattern, and fluorescent orange running shoes. It’s like she’s trying get people to make fun her in some sort of masochistic quest.

So honey, I hope you can see what a lost soul your mother is, and how far off the tracks she’s strayed. We need to figure out how to keep hew away and still have access to her wealth—a real challenge. What do you think?

Her: I can’t believe I ever agreed to marry you. It’s like you concealed your beliefs until you thought I was at the point of no return. Well, I’m not—what I am, is shocked and angry beyond belief.

I think what you just said about money sums it up. You must’ve forgotten that she is my mother. She raised me. She loves me. She has a beautiful soul. And what gives you the right to espouse your crackpot and cruel ideas as if I share them? I can’t believe I ever wanted to marry you, you pompous closed-minded ass. Mom used to sing me to sleep every night with “Puff the Magic Dragon.” I love that song.

So, after your stupid monologue, I’m done with you. There will be no wedding—you are banned from my life you worthless twerp. Please leave.

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

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

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Deesis

Posted on February 13, 2023 | Leave a comment

Deesis (de’-e-sis): An adjuration (solemn oath) or calling to witness; or, the vehement expression of desire put in terms of “for someone’s sake” or “for God’s sake.”

For God’s sake, can’t you just tell me where my chrome-plated paper clips are? I got them in Japan on our last trip. It was also her last trip anywhere. I told her not to eat the pufferfish, but she was an adventurer—the kind that end up dead before their time. God, what a catastrophe that was! Especially getting her through airport security. I had to take everything out of my suitcase to to fit her in. You remember the ruckus when she showed up on the luggage screener.

The security person said, “I see you have a dead body in there.” He called his supervisor over and a crowd started to gather. “How did she die?” he asked. I told him she was my wife and she died from eating a pufferfish. He said, “Oh your wife. How tragic and sad. Tell us the name of the restaurant where she ate this illegal dish and you may go ahead.” I told him it was called Fish Bar. He made me pose with you and Mom for his Facebook page. It was gruesome, but we got out of there. Our arrival at Kennedy was uneventful. God only knows why. So please, for the love of God, where are those paperclips? Today’s what would’ve our 26th anniversary. I was going to set a place for her at dinner and decorate her empty plate with the paperclips. Sometimes, she would rather string her paperclips together than eat. Her pride was the hula skirt she made. Boy! Could she hula! Her big joke when we were alone was “Come on I wanna lay you, the grass hut open.” It was in poor taste, but what the hell. When she did the hula, I felt like my life was complete.

May god be my witness, I warned her about the pufferfish possibly being poison. She said, “Honey, if it was poison it wouldn’t be on the menu.”

We’re going to start our anniversary with her two favorite songs: “Tiny Bubbles” by Don Ho and “Crazy Train,” by Ozzie Osborne. At that point my daughter started crying. She said, “I was such a bad daughter. I never told her I loved her.” I reminded her that she was six months old when went to Japan and she couldn’t talk yet, so she shouldn’t feel bad. I told her that at least she didn’t cry during the funeral. I think I’m going to put mom’s urn in the middle of the paperclip circle. It is so pretty with the angels playing accordions on it and the orange flames around the bottom.

We are having a special dinner in Mom’s memory. I got two pufferfish that were prepared to eat by a guy named Stew at the fish market. He said jokingly, if we died, he’d give me a refund. So, I don’t think there’s any risk. My daughter said I was “insane” and she wouldn’t touch “that shit.”

Well, I had a wonderful memorial dinner of pufferfish. My daughter had Raison Bran. I got sick and became paralyzed. I survived and I ‘m perfectly ok now.

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

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Dehortatio

Posted on February 12, 2023 | Leave a comment

Dehortatio (de-hor-ta’-ti-o): Dissuasion.

Me: “You’ve got to stop with the cannolis. You make me eat two every day at fork point. I know you’d never kill me, but the look on your face says you might. Just because you found out your great-great grandfather was Sicilian there’s really no reason to pump out cannolis every day and make your husband, aka me, eat two every day. The first ones were delicious, and they still are, but they’re making me fat. I’m starting to look pregnant. I’ve got a cannoli bump and it isn’t funny. Don’t worry, I’m not going to give birth to a cannoli.”

“I’m all stopped up too. I haven’t pooped right for two weeks, even though I’m taking Miralax every night and setting off a toilet bowl explosion in the morning, I long for the old non-laxative mornings—I can hardly remember. For my sake, can you quit with the cannolis?”

“Wait! I have an idea! There’s a woman who just opened a store front offering seances! Let’s if we can summon your great great grandfather and ask him what to do.

Wife: “Sure stupido! I’d try anything if you’d just shut up and eat your cannolis.”

We arrived at Madam Stoli’s Friend of the Dead around 9.00 pm. We were ready to get a yes or no from Vincenzo, my wife’s great great grandfather. We gave madam Stoli the required $200 cash and the lights went out. We heard accordion music moving around the room. We were scared half to death. Madam Stoli asked “Are you Vincenzo?” The music got louder, clearly, a yes. Then Madam Stoli set things up: “Vincenzo, your great great granddaughter is here (the music rose). Since she found she is of Sicilian heritage, she started making cannolis and making her husband eat two per day.” The music’s volume dropped substantially, clearly signifying disapproval. “How about 1 every two months?” my wife asked. The volume of the music increased, with added exuberance, clearly signifying strong approval. I felt so relieved!

As we left Madam Stoli’s, I slipped her a hundred-dollar bill and thanked her. Our ruse had worked. I told her I thought the accordion was a brilliant touch, and asked how she did it.

Madam Stoli told me: “I don’t have an accordion or an accordion player, or even a recording of accordion music. Tonight, Vincenzo was here, and he was very helpful.”

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

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

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Dehortatio

Posted on February 12, 2023 | Leave a comment

Dehortatio (de-hor-ta’-ti-o): Dissuasion.

Me: “You’ve got to stop with the cannolis. You make me eat two every day at fork point. I know you’d never kill me, but the look on your face says you might. Just because you found out your great-great grandfather was Sicilian there’s really no reason to pump out cannolis every day and make your husband, aka me, eat two every day. The first ones were delicious, and they still are, but they’re making me fat. I’m starting to look pregnant. I’ve got a cannoli bump and it isn’t funny. Don’t worry, I’m not going to give birth to a cannoli.”

“I’m all stopped up too. I haven’t pooped right for two weeks, even though I’m taking Miralax every night and setting off a toilet bowl explosion in the morning, I long for the old non-laxative mornings—I can hardly remember. For my sake, can you quit with the cannolis?”

“Wait! I have an idea! There’s a woman who just opened a store front offering seances! Let’s if we can summon your great great grandfather and ask him what to do.

Wife: “Sure stupido! I’d try anything if you’d just shut up and eat your cannolis.”

We arrived at Madam Stoli’s Friend of the Dead around 9.00 pm. We were ready to get a yes or no from Vincenzo, my wife’s great great grandfather. We gave madam Stoli the required $200 cash and the lights went out. We heard accordion music moving around the room. We were scared half to death. Madam Stoli asked “Are you Vincenzo?” The music got louder, clearly, a yes. Then Madam Stoli set things up: “Vincenzo, your great great granddaughter is here (the music rose). Since she found she is of Sicilian heritage, she started making cannolis and making her husband eat two per day.” The music’s volume dropped substantially, clearly signifying disapproval. “How about 1 every two months?” my wife asked. The volume of the music increased, with added exuberance, clearly signifying strong approval. I felt so relieved!

As we left Madam Stoli’s, I slipped her a hundred-dollar bill and thanked her. Our ruse had worked. I told her I thought the accordion was a brilliant touch, and asked how she did it.

Madam Stoli told me: “I don’t have an accordion or an accordion player, or even a recording of accordion music. Tonight, Vincenzo was here, and he was very helpful.”

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

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

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Dendrographia

Posted on February 11, 2023 | Leave a comment

Dendrographia (den-dro-graf’-ia): Creating an illusion of reality through vivid description of a tree.

When my wife and daughter, and I moved into our newly built home around 20 years ago, we had a lot of treeless land. The property where the house was built was an old cow pasture—not a tree-friendly use of the land. Although surrounded by forest consisting of maple, linden, white pine, aspen, and tamarack, the field looked treeless. But, there were some tiny trees that had started to grow, since the field hadn’t been plowed for years. They were mostly pig nut hickory born from the giant trees across the road, planted by squirrels and forgotten, and swamp maple with its pretty saw-tooth leaves that turn dark red, almost maroon, in fall. There was also a walnut tree. The deer loved to eat the saplings, but I was determined that they grow.

I found out about deer repellent at Lowe’s. It comes in a gallon jug with a hand-squeeze pump. It’s primary ingredient is rotten eggs. Deer definitely don’t like it. So, I diligently sprayed my little trees. Some of them didn’t make it, but must of them did. Now, they are around 20 ft. Tall. The hickory are the first to change colors in the fall—a nice yellow color. They are still a little spindly, but their ancestors across the road are massive. They’ll get there!

The wnd here blows hard from the west, causing deep snowdrifts in our driveway, making our already difficult winter worse. So, my wife and I planted 20 white pines on the Western border of the property. There were around six inches tall and we got them from the New York State Department of Conservation, as I recall, for hardly any money. In addition we planted a sugar maple, 5 oak trees and 4 hawthorns. Now they are mostly 20 feet tall. They’ve made a micro forest that deer like to sleep in, and at least once, give bath in. The driveway drifts are pretty well remedied, but the trees have provided so much more—like the smell of the pines, the muffling effect of their needles on the ground, the blazing autumn colors, the perching birds—from grosbeaks to hawks, to kingbirds and more.

We have kept planting trees. We have a small apple orchard that yields a few gallons of cider and quarts of applesauce per year—a father-daughter activity that has no parallel in the universe! Trying out different recipes for applesauce is special fun. There is nothing better than an apple tree laden with red ripe apples—truly ornaments: visible signs of the trees’ fulfillment of their end. In addition, we’ve planted birch trees, red bud, balsam, and magnolia, and this summer we planted paw-paw, catalpa, peaches, and chestnuts.

In addition to everything else, our trees mark time. I look out the window, or walk among them feeling the 20 or so years that have passed since we first brought them home, or received them in the mail. So much has happened as they’ve quietly grown, transforming a field into a forest. They’re in no hurry. Neither am I.

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

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

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Diacope

Posted on February 10, 2023 | Leave a comment

Diacope (di-a’-co-pee): Repetition of a word with one or more between, usually to express deep feeling.

I am lonely—too lonely—abysmally lonely. I feel like a cactus with ten-foot spines. I wonder how I got this way, surrounded by idiots, fools, and nitwits. Take Allen, for example. He hadn’t shined his shoes for weeks. I called him irresponsible and told him if he didn’t have them shined by the next time I saw him, I would kick his ass up and down the street. Shoe hygiene is at the top of the pyramid of Maslow’s hierarchy of needs, alongside self-actualization. I never saw Allen again. He’s probably wearing his disgustingly scuffed shoes and shaking his styrofoam cup for quarters on a street corner somewhere. Bye bye Allen the stain.

Then, there’s my former girlfriend Shiela. I told her if she got another tattoo, I’d throw her out on her ass. She got another tattoo, so I threw her out on her ass. It was a picture of me that she got off my Facebook page. I didn’t care. Enough is enough. She didn’t do what I told her to do—she didn’t do what’s right. How do you have a relationship with a disobedient little twit. She called me and told me we were going to have a baby. I told her “Good. Get my picture tattooed on it.” She started crying. I hung up.

My latest “friend” Arnold wanted to eat at “Lobo’s Steak House.” He really irked me “I’m a vegetarian you cretan!” He replied “We’ve just met. Sorry, I didn’t know.” Then I gave him what he deserved: “You should’ve asked you piece of crap. Get the hell out of here—go eat your damn meat with some other blood-stained creep.” He slammed the door as he left.

You can see from the examples that I have principles and take a zero-tolerance approach to their employment. Maintaining my integrity trumps everything. It is paramount. Being alone and lonely are tributes to my moral authority, no matter how miserable I am. I don’t think Socrates had any friends and he is a pillar of Western morality. Do you think he was happy? Ha ha! He drank hemlock—a poison that killed him. I’m no Socrates, but I can smell a rat, the the rats that keep coming into my life are just that, rats—big rats, stupid rats, shifty rats, rats.

Loneliness is the price I pay to be me. Always right. Never wrong. A pillar of perfection unsullied by unworthy human beings. Some day I will connect with somebody just like me. We will mesh. My “Yes” will be their yes. My “No” will be their no. We will be parts of the same string on a violin. We will both say “potato.”

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

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

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Dialogismus

Posted on February 9, 2023 | Leave a comment

Dialogismus (di-a-lo-giz’-mus): Speaking as someone else, either to bring in others’ points of view into one’s own speech, or to conduct a pseudo-dialog through taking up an opposing position with oneself.

Me1: Me me me. Ha ha! How do I address you, Me? I’ll just give you a number—you can be Me2, I will be Me1. We better not do this out loud. It could appear like a symptom of something. We are clearly divided into 1 and 2, but I don’t think that’s a problem. The basic idea is for you, aka Me2, to disagree with me, Me1.

Me 2: Why do I have to disagree with you?

M1: Because your disagreement tests what I think, forcing me to find good reasons to back up what I think. There may be something hidden that Me1 can’t see, but Me2 can see. This isn’t a simple literary device as dialogue was for Plato, where his Me2 is set up as an idiot to further his purposes. Look at Polus in Gorgias! Total idiot who Plato authored to strengthen his own case. Yet, for a time these dialogues passed for transcriptions of actual conversations! In some circles they still do. Most people who believe that rhetoric is “mere” and plays on the emotions, is some kind of linguistic seduction that “sweetens” speech’ so the sweetness is gobbled up—so the speech is swallowed with no regard for its truthfulness, affect the concept of rhetoric Plato presents in the Gorgias. This idea has been operative in Western thought since it first became Western. But, no matter the outcome, under a more expansive idea of rhetoric, all of Plato’s dialogues are rhetorical—they want to persuade you. What do you think M2?

M2: Bullshit. Plato is pursuing truth using dialectical hair-splitting to knock his opponents down and make them look like fools. It does not matter that the “characters” he presents are his own creations. They are representative of “types” we are all too familiar with—especially, the wannabe tyrants haunting contemporary politics.

And, you know—I’m getting bored with this asinine dialogue thing, and especially being designated as Me2–like Me Too, and as the Grateful Dead sang, “set up like a bowling pin.” I mean, this is all taking place in a single head. At best, it’s wondering, at worst it’s you making a learned display of yourself, but solely in your own head. There’s at least another 50 Me’s you could conjure to play this dumb-ass game. When you’ve satisfied your hope and Me1 is through, having arrived at insights worthy of a philosopher, what are you going to do with them? How will you wind them around your soul and ensure your actions accord with truth, justice and all the rest? Is it knowledge that will make you straight? Or, is it belief? You may know something is wrong, yet you’ll do it. On the other hand, belief mobilizes caritas—affections: hope, fear and a pointed sense of the future and it’s contingency. It may invite decisions drawn around consequences that are uncertain, unlike knowledge that stops at certainty, bereft of consequences, vested in being right as a substitute for being good.

Me1: Your wig has flipped Me2. It is time to shut this auto-conversation down. it frightens me that there is such incoherent drivel resident in my head. In fact, you frighten me, especially if you aspire to trade places with me!

Me2: Maybe I should. Here we are working at the “Golden Bubbles” car wash in Reno, Nevada. Remember, you were dismissed from the University of Maine for padding your travel expenses and selling counterfeit parking permits to undergraduate students. We have been hitch-hiking ever since. All this academic navel gazing is going to get us nowhere.

Me1: Maybe we could become a pimp! Prostitution is legal here and I think we could make a good living.

Me2: You are hopeless. Whatever it is, I’ll ride it out with you, but I’m done conversing. Don’t talk to me. I won’t answer. Why don’t you find an actual human being to talk to, or check into the Washoe County Mental Health Treatment Center, or both?

Me1 (yelling out loud): Traitor! Sophist trickster! What will mother say? Where the hell are you? Those parking permits were planted in my briefcase! Damn you Me2!

Postscript: Former Professor Wilde was led away from the car wash in handcuffs, yelling at an imaginary person. He was admitted to the Washoe County Mental Health Treatment Center.

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

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