Tag Archives: schemes

Periphrasis

Periphrasis (per-if’-ra-sis): The substitution of a descriptive word or phrase for a proper name (a species of circumlocution); or, conversely, the use of a proper name as a shorthand to stand for qualities associated with it. (Circumlocutions are rhetorically useful as euphemisms, as a method of amplification, or to hint at something without stating it.)


I was “Iron Jug.” It was my code name used to complicate searches for my true identity. I was a door-to-door dildo salesman, and concealing my true identity was a necessity. My services were available solely to women by private appointments only. I thumbtacked my business cards on laundromats’, nail salons’, hairdressers’, and day spas’ bulletin boards. They were coded and offered “Dreams cum true with my magic wands.” My business was called “Good Vibrations.”

My sales strategy was like Tupperware’s. A woman would contact me and we would put together a “Magic Wand Party” with all of her friends at her home. I had two suitcases filled with dildos. I had a female assistant who travelled with me. when requested, she would demonstrate different products. It was rather risqué, but it was an integral part of the sales pitch. After years of marriage, Silky could fake an orgasm with her husband like a pro.

I had a vast array of dildos for sale. But, by far, the highest selling dildo was the “Towering Tornado,” 9” long with three vibration settings: balmy buzz, bumble bee, and God’s cicada. These almost sold themselves, especially when Silky showed it off, going through the speeds and hitting “God’s Cicada.” When she hit GC (God’s Cicada), she went berserk with orgasmic passion, rolling around on the floor and moaning loudly. It was all faked, but it convinced many women to buy a “Towering Tornado” for $50.00.

Second to the “Tornado,” was the “Double Dealer.” It was a two-person dildo for world-rocking two-person pleasure. It had all the electronics—variable speed vibration, multi-level warmer, multi-flashing led lights (optional), and thruster—all operated with Blue Tooth.

The most interesting dildo was the old fashioned “Boom Stick.” Made of non-splintering olive tree wood, it is modeled after a dildo found in the ruins of Pompeii, and seen being used, painted on the bedroom wall of a villa. It had “Pax Romana” engraved on it—probably the brand name. It has no electronics. It is old school all the way. For its simple design, Silky tells me it is remarkably efficient.

Well, that’s what I do. One huge downside is parent visits to my kid’s classroom to tell their fellow Sixth Graders what I do for a living. The difficulty s doubled by the fact that their teacher is one of my clients, and I’ve never told anybody in my family how I earn a living.

I meet the challenge by lying.


Personification

Personification: Reference to abstractions or inanimate objects as though they had human qualities or abilities. The English term for prosopopeia (pro-so-po-pe’-i-a) or ethopoeia (e-tho-po’-ia): the description and portrayal of a character (natural propensities, manners and affections, etc.).


I was in day 26 of acid tripping, raising money for my charity “Happy Trails.” The charity does research on restoring visual, aural, and olfactory hallucinations to LSD-impaired trippers.

I had committed to 30 days on acid, being paid $1,000 per day by an anonymous donor from Kazakstan. I also worked as an “acid model” dancing to “Inscense and Peppermint” playing on my boom box at the entrance to the “Sloop Wagon Mall.” I picked up another $100 or so daily from people going into, and leaving, the mall.

I took a half-hour break every hour and browsed around the store and shops in the mall. Sometimes, I’d score a smoothie and ride the Merry-go-Round. It was great fun. Everything blended together when I rode in a circle—changing colors and playing what sounded like Deep Purple’s “Highway Star” on the calliope. The poles holding the horses turned into golden snakes going up and down, the horses came to life. The whole setup said to me: “Ride, baby, ride,” and I would yell “Rawhide!” holding up my smoothie like a torch.

I had some time left on my break so I headed for “Gil’s Gadget Shop.” Gil sold gadgets. I went in and picked up a tool he sold to loosen your laundry load and make easier to lift from the washer tub. I looked at it and it said to me “You need me,” so I bought it. The hard-boiled egg peeler was a work of art! I picked up and it said: “Buy me. You need me.” How did it know I couldn’t peel a hard-boiled egg to save my ass? It was $200, but I bought it anyway. Then, something shiny caught my eye. It was a mixing bowl with built-in solar-powered propellers for mixing what was dumped in it. Clever!. It was inhaling and exhaling and whispering: “You need me. I need you. Buy me now.” I put it in my cart.

I had to check out before I started spending donor money. I went up to the counter & Gil looked a little stiff while he rang up my purchases. He said, “I am the Gil Gadget, please tap your credit card.” I looked over the Gil Gadget’s shoulder and saw Gil gagged and duct-taped to a chair. I knew what to do. I clapped my hands and Gil Gadget turned off and fell down.

I freed Mel, who looked like a duct tape mummy. As a reward, he gave me a free “Ant-vac” used to vacuum up ants that have invaded your home. It is the size of a lipstick tube and is solar powered and holds 135 dead ants! Pretty cool. It said to me “I won’t vacuum your aunts, but I will vacuum your ants.” Clever little devil—a punning Ant-vac.

Time to go back to work. As I waded knee deep in vibrantly glowing lollipops back to the mall entrance, as I went back outside, the Sloop Wagon Mall said: “You don’t need any of that shit you bought—well maybe you need the mixing bowl, it will make a good helmet.” I laughed and put the mixing bowl on my head and stepped outside. The propellers were uncomfortable so I tore them out and gave them to a kid.

The cars in the parking lot turned into piles of diamonds.


Polyptoton

Polyptoton (po-lyp-to’-ton): Repeating a word, but in a different form. Using a cognate of a given word in close proximity.


There were only two gummies left. The bag was soon to be emptied and I’d be in the bag—saying “Wow” too much, eating cups of strawberry yogurt, and wondering about things that bought me wasted time:

*How much wood could a woodchuck chuck if a woodchuck could chuck wood?

*Why is the sky blue?

*Who is John Gault?

*Is that thing really alive?

This was nearly the last question I ever asked. I was in the jungle in Vietnam, stoned on my ass, smoking “Ho Chi Red,” the strongest pot in the world. It turned your brain inside out and squeezed all the reason out of it.

I had come to Vietnam to study a rare snail, accurately named the “Nixon Snail” by Vietnamese malacologists due markings on its shell that looked like Nixon’s face. It fed on an orchid known as “Dầy tớ của nhân” (Servants of the People). Their roots ran deep and ensured that the underground waters of Vietnam ran their courses smoothly, providing ample water for farming, drinking, cooking, and sanitation. The Nixon Snail, if left unchecked would seriously disrupt the water supply.

I was there to figure out a way to control and eliminate the depredation of the Nixon Snails. I was down on my hands and knees crawling around on the jungle floor, all gummyfied, looking for Nixon snails to take back to my lab. Given my condition, I was struggling with reality when I saw what I thought was movement out of the corner of my eye. Holy shit! It was a goddamned Banded Krait, affectionately known as the “Two-Step” snake, because that’s how far you’d get after you were bitten. This isn’t true—10 Step is more accurate. If you were bitten by a Krait, it was likely you’ll travel home in a crate. Even though it is deadly, with its alternating black and yellow bands, it is quite beautiful.

I clapped my hands and it slithered away. I was relieved. Now I could return my attention to the snails munching away on a lily in front of me.

Without going into detail, I discovered if you yelled “Watergate” at the Nixon snails, they died instantly and fell the ground. Now, they weere harvested by peasants, baked in nước mắm, garlic sauce, and fatalii peppers. The snail meat is picked with bamboo toothpicks, served with rice, and washed down with 33 Beer.

This is what the angels eat in heaven. The “Servants of the People” lilies are saved. The waters flow, and the beer is great, all by one word: Watergate.”

C-130s fly over the jungles daily with loudspeakers blaring “Watergate” and killing millions of snails. Older Vietnamese have always known how toxic Nixon was. He was an enemy of the people, with no soul, shame, or sense of Justice just like the snail that bears his name.

Watergate!


Polysyndeton

Polysyndeton (pol-y-syn’-de-ton): Employing many conjunctions between clauses, often slowing the tempo or rhythm. (Asyndeton is the opposite of polysyndeton: an absence of conjunctions.)


Your breath stinks, and your farts art like death knells, and you grunt all night long, and worst, you lick your balls in the living room while I’m trying to watch “Green Acres” on TV. You could be a contortionist in a porno carnival. But, you’re my brother, and I take care of you, and I’m sick of it. Either move out or change your habits. Go get a fu*in’ job!

The next morning, he farted his way out the door to look for work. Somehow, he got a job as a bookkeeper at the local Dairy Queen. He wasn’t unintelligent, he was just totally annoying.

Free ice cream came with the job, so we started eating breakfast, and lunch, and dinner there every day. My brother sprinkled some kind of dust he made on his ice cream and the combination cleared up his breath problem! He claimed that the secret herb he added to the ice cream brought out the bad-breath killing reaction. He went into negotiations with Dairy Queen. They closed a deal for $6,000,000.00. Now we were rich.

Meanwhile I had fallen in love with Carmen, one of the cone makers at the Dairy Queen. Every time I saw her pull the lever and make the ribbon of ice cream twist it’s way out, I thought maybe someday we could be two twists melting together on a king size waffle cone.

Unbeknownst to me, my brother paid Carmen $50,000.00 to propose to me. She took the money and proposed to me the next day. I accepted. We were going to be married on Friday. It was Monday—we had some planning to do.

Our wedding cake would be a chocolate ice cream cake, and it would be 12 feet tall, and it would be covered with red, white, and turquoise jimmie’s, and it would be topped with statues of the bride and groom, and they would be dipped in chocolate and wearing waffle cones on their heads.

Choco-Frosted Blizzards will be served as beverages (unlimited refills), and healthy Banana Splits will be served as the celebratory dinner, and Buster Bars will be served for dessert. Revelers can wave their Buster Bars around like tambourines while they dance—“one arm waving free.”

My future wife told me what she had done. We got married any, but revenge was written all over my heart. Then, two years later, after a lot of procrastination, I killed her.

I drowned her in a Chocolate-Frosted Blizzard. I dumped the Blizzard in a bowl and stuck her face in it. In court, I claimed it was an accident—that Carmen used Choco-Frosted Blizzards for her facial treatments, and unfortunately she drowned when a box of canned milk fell on her, and pushed her face down into the Blizzards.

She liked being handcuffed to her chair when she did her facials, and couldn’t push the box off, and I had stepped outside for a smoke. I had fastened the handcuffs like I had done countless times before. I deeply regret stepping outside for a smoke. There were no witnesses, so I was exonerated.

Now, I work for my brother making “Come Here!” Chocolate-flavored breath cleanser. I print the bottle labels.

I probably should’ve killed him instead of Carmen.

Procatalepsis

Procatalepsis (pro-cat-a-lep’-sis): Refuting anticipated objections.


I’m a what? Don’t say it. They call me “Pin” because I’m as neat as a pin. They call you “Marks” because of the skid marks on your underpants. But that’s beside the point. The point is: I’m not a slob.

Even thought you can’t properly wipe your ass, your standards for neatness are from the Moon, where everything stays the same and nothing moves. Your concept of neatness follows the rationale of a display—everything posed outside of time, just right: Do not touch!

We live in a world of change. We change our clothes. We hurry. Imperfection and malleable dreams make happiness possible—but happiness too is touched by time’s hand.

I get up. I have breakfast. I shower. I brush my teeth. I put my toothbrush in a convenient place on the sink. You tell me it doesn’t go there. It doesn’t belong there. It belongs out of sight in the medicine cabinet. You call me the “S” word, pick up my toothbrush and put it “where it belongs.” Sacrificing convenience for the medicine cabinet does not make it for me. We should make “convenience” the rationale of where things go. I admit they have to go somewhere, but “out of sight” is not always the right place.

Now you know where I’m coming from. If your anal soul urges you to “put things away,” go ahead. Don’t expect me to do the same. Look! I dropped my underpants on the floor. Do you want me to put them in the hamper all the way down the hall in the bathroom, or jump into bed together for some fun RIGHT NOW?

POSTSCRIPT

She made me crazy, but she reformed me. I’m so neat. I even clip my nails once a week and made myself a cubby and bought a dresser. She’s worth it. The one thing I don’t like is the spanking I get when my neatness score drops on the tote board in the living room. The spanking is brief and painless, so it’s no big deal. Also, I have to admit I never was as neat as a pin. I was called “Pin” because of my obsession with bowling.


Proecthesis

Proecthesis (pro-ek’-the-sis): When, in conclusion, a justifying reason is provided.


I went to the bank. I didn’t have any money but I enjoyed going there and seeing all the solvent people busy with their money. I was sort of practicing for when my ship came in. Now, only my shit came in. My apartment had bad plumbing. Things returned that should’ve gone down to the river to feed the fish. Let’s just say, I’m poor.

I had a job, so I had some money, but not enough to bank. I worked at Pinelli’s Dry Cleaners. Some days I’d make good tips. At my job pressing pants, I would rifle pants pockets and keep whatever I found. In a way it was a gold mine. One time I found an unopened bag of peanuts. Another time I found a lighter. Another time I found a twenty-dollar bill. I bought my wife a fake Rolex. She cried and had sex with me every night for a week. But, the truly unbelievable thing I found was a severed finger with a ring on it with a huge diamond mounted on it.

I couldn’t get the ring off the finger, so my wife boiled it and the ring slipped right off. I took it to the pawn shop. When I passed it over the counter, alarms went off and police flooded the shop. They asked the usual questions, but when I told them I found it in Sal Tanelli’s pants pocket on a severed finger, they all started cheering and jumping up and down, and yelling “whooo hoo!” The ring belonged to Sal’s grandmother. She was wearing it at a recent wedding. So, using their sharp reasoning skills, they deduced that, since her ring was on the finger, the finger was hers too!

Sal was a criminal’s criminal. He dressed the part. He talked the part. He walked the part. He was the whole damn thing. His main enterprise was making slugs—fake coins that would trick vending machines into delivering their goods He could trick the whole range of machines, from tampon dispensers to laundromats, and car washes too. Sal charged $5.00 for $20.00 worth of slugs.

Slugs are a dream come true for people suffering from inflation and the high cost of gasoline. Sal’s was a noble enterprise.

So, why were the cops so elated?

Sal had taken a six week break at Mar-a-Lago & left his customers in the dark. Since he was on vacation, he suspended slug production. They were elated that he might be found now that his grandmother’s finger was missing and he was probably looking for it. He would start making and selling slugs again, and they could resume their cut-rate vending scam and live fairly decent lives.

Sal’s 92 year old grandmother was increasingly erratic in her behavior as she faded into dementia. She cut off her finger while thinly slicing some veal with a straight razor. She was holding it perpendicular to her fingers. She picked up a 20 lb zucchini and yelled “Bona cannoli!” and slammed it down on the razor and cut off her pinky and ring finger. They wrapped a towel around grandma’s finger stubs. Sal’s “doctor,” Chicky Cerillo, stitched her up and she’s was as good as new, minus two fingers.

The cops were so grateful, I got to pawn the diamond. I got $160,000.00 for it. Sal has since gone into Bitcoins, although he still does slugs. He’s sort of like Robin Hood. He’s a real hero to all the people who struggle financially every day. Now they can eat. They can keep a roof over their head. They can wear clean clothes.

The finger got into Sal’s pocket when he went to “Stiletto” Mosconi’s butcher shop to have the ring taken off. He got distracted along the way and went Swan boating in the town park. He never got to the butcher’s and the finger remained in the pants pocket until I found it—a little smelly, with the diamond ring still on it. Sal had run the pinky down the garbage disposal, but was embarrassed by of losing his grandmother’s finger and ring. So, he bought her a replacement ring and two replacement fingers from a Canadian firm that sells “well preserved” severed body parts. The two fingers that Sal purchased were severed in a beaver trapping accident, frozen, and shipped t New York. Of course, Dr. Cerillo sewed them back onto grandma. They looked light-years better than her stubs.

My ship had come in. I went to the bank and bought a stack of CDs.


Prolepsis

Prolepsis (pro-lep’-sis): (1) A synonym for procatalepsis [refuting anticipated objections]; (2) speaking of something future as though already done or existing. A figure of anticipatio.


Although unfinished, my ballroom is a shining beacon of wasteful spending, I am proud to say, casting shadows of fiscal irresponsibility across the White House lawn. It symbolizes my power and recklessness, starting construction without asking for funding, making a mess that needed to be cleaned up at any cost—by “cleaned up” we mean ballroom built, mission accomplished—displaying my wisdom and taste, modeling it after the renowned “Mara Lago MacDonalds.”

Flashing lights greet you as you come through the door. There is the heavy smell of beef patties in the air. As revealers dance to “YMCA” played over and over on a continuous loop cassette tape, to thrill their souls and work off the milkshakes. We play Celine Dion too, to bring the romancers on the floor to glory. Clearly, a noble move.

There are five cloakrooms reserved for “caucusing” with whoever the guests can get their hands on. There will be some incredible men and women on the floor to caucus with: Blondie, Mel Gibson, Joni Mitchell, Sylvester Stallone, Cher, sting, etc. It will be awesome.

You say I’m building a house of “woe.” I say I’m building a house of “WOAH!,” unique to the White House lawn, where my associates can let their hair down, and their pants down, without resulting in a Senate Hearing.

“The Ballroom,” is named after Marie Antonette’s ballroom/bakery (Salle de Bal/Boulangerie) where she practiced philanthropy, baking cakes for the poor. Our “Ballroom” will donate the proceeds from the redemption of all its recyclable cans and bottles to the “Save the Trump’s Foundation.”

“The Ballroom” will be completed some time in the future. Be there!


Protrope

Protrope (pro-tro’-pe): A call to action, often by using threats or promises.


Back in the 17th century wolves were a big problem in Europe. They were like flesh eating lawnmowers, mowing down whatever bled—men, women, children, dogs, cows, chickens, sheep, cats, and even wee little mice! The wolves would raid day or night.

Royalty had bowmen to take marauding wolves off the list of living things. The peasants had only hoes, and shovels, and rakes to beat them over the head with. One peasant in Rimsky had a scythe. He had stolen it from Duke Fancooken—a lazy irredeemable sloth who only thought of himself, and was privileged beyond measure by his Royal blood.

It was rumored that in close combat Dieter Weißwurst, the scythe thief, had decapitated 200 wolves. He provided a remedy for his small village, but no other peasant could afford a scythe, and no peasant was willing to risk the dungeon or death for stealing one.

This was a tragic scene, made doubly tragic by the boy Carl Steinbeller. He was the last of his line. In a way it was a good thing. When he died his malady-gene would die with him. He suffered from “Rückwärts Gesprochene Sprache.” He was fated to pronounce certain words backwards when he spoke. One of these words was “wolf.” Instead of wolf, he would say “flow.” Nobody knew what “flow” meant—it was Germany.

Carl had been adopted by Ma and Pa Pfluger, who enlisted Carl to work in their thriving potato stealing enterprise. They’d go to the fields at night and dig until dawn, sometimes depleting entire fields.

One night Carl wandered into the woods to pee. He was immediately encircled by a drooling pack of wolves. Carl climbed a tree and yelled “Flow, flow, flow, help me!” His co-plunderers heard Carl, scratched their heads, looked puzzled and then resumed digging potatoes. One yelled back, “What the f*ck are you yelling? What the hell is “flow?” Do you have the clap? Ha ha!” Carl responded, “Flow, Flow, Flow! Help me!” He was yelling a non-sequitur. He was scewed.

He fell out of the tree and was eaten. Unlike the story of “The Boy Who Cried Wolf,” the “The Boy Who Yelled Flow” died a brutal and bloody death. But at least it would never happen again. His genes had been eaten by the wolves, along with Carl himself. Now, Rrückwärts Gesprochene Sprache” would be a thing of the past. Thank dog! Also, given that they ingested Carl and his genetic material, the wolves no longer “heulen,” rather they cry nelueh. This is a non-sequitur, but it sounds Austrian and has led to several border incidents.

Of course, the moral of the story is “Don’t Dig Potatoes at Night.” It is a metaphor.


Synaloepha

Synaloepha (sin-a-lif’-a): Omitting one of two vowels which occur together at the end of one word and the beginning of another. A contraction of neighboring syllables. A kind of metaplasm.


Thechoes in my head wouldn’t stop. It was like I had a reverb generator embedded in my brain. Conversations got crazy. Everything said would overlap with everything else. I jokingly called my problem “Pink Floydosis” after the rock band who frequently used a reverb echo effect in their music.

People who knew me knew they needed to make a five second pause between words when they spoke to me. The five seconds let the reverb fade between words so I could understand them. This was a huge accommodation and I was extremely grateful.

I desperately wanted my impaired hearing fixed. I went to an audiologist who told me I should be happy I could hear anything at all. I shopped around and was pretty much told the same thing by all of them. So, I started seeing neurologists. I must’ve seen fifty of them. They told me they could not detect any abnormalities in my brain. Finally, I went see a neurologist who recommended a neurotologist—an ear surgeon, not an audiologist; a simple hearing tester. The neurotologist’s name was Dr. Drum and he was working with Thomas Edison’s Great, Great, Great Grandson, Watts.

They were trying to create a micro device capable of “dereverberating“ sounds. It would be implanted in the ear “just on the other side” of the eardrum. They had been experimenting by reading “Mary Had a Little Lamb” into a dummy ear with the device implanted in it. According to Watt, they were close to being successful in their trial runs. They had managed to find a way to keep the ear from catching on fire during dereverbration.

I volunteered to be their guinea pig. Two months later Dr. Drum summoned me to their laboratory for a test run of the “Devreverberater 1776.” They paid my way to Panama and picked me up at the Panama City Airport. We went directly to the laboratory they had set up in a storage shed with running water and electricity. There was an operating table set up under a bright floodlight.

I put on a white gown and laid down on the table. They prepped my left ear. We were only doing one ear in case the operation failed, so could save the other ear. I felt like an experimental rat. The anesthesia kicked in.

When I woke up, I had a giant tropical-patterned bandage on my ear—I couldn’t hear anything through it. The bandage was removed two weeks later. The reverb was gone! But there was a slight downside. Now, everybody sounded to me like they had been sucking helium. I didn’t care. The doctors operated on the other ear, and I flew back home.

Six months later a side effect emerged that nobody could’ve predicted. When I get excited, my voice becomes a helium voice! So, I’ve learned to be quiet until I calm down.


Timesis

Tmesis (tmee’-sis): Interjecting a word or phrase between parts of a compound word or between syllables of a word.


He had more medical malpractice suits than Canada has geese. Once he sewed his surgical gown to his patient’s leg. It’s weird that none of the attending nurses warned him. But, he’s a tyrant, and would’ve yelled at them, breaking the solemn spell of surgery. Besides, he was a joker. Why interrupt him?

Once, as a joke, he mailed a man’s heart that he’d removed during a transplant to San Fran-friggin’-sisco. The address and return address were bogus. He was trying to get the heart “lost in San Fransisco” like the song says. It is against the law to mail human organs without a special permit. He had risked his license to practice medicine. He didn’t get caught. He thought it was funny.

I think the height of his malpractice ingenuity came when he did a lung transplant. The patient had irked him in the run-up to the surgery. The doctor had a daughter who worked at the office’s reception desk. Whenever the patient came in, he would try to make a move on his daughter. He would lean over the counter and wheeze all over her asking if she wanted to go back to his place when she got off work. Of course, she told him no, but he persisted.

The doctor was incensed and told his daughter he would “take care of this guy.” On the day of the surgery, the patient was wheeled into the operating room and anesthetized. The doctor pulled a rubber ducky out of his surgical gown, squeezed and squeaked it a couple of times, and set it on the table. When the surgery was almost complete, the doctor picked up the rubber ducky and removed the squeaker, sterilized it, mounted it inside the new lung, and sewed everything up. Now, whenever the man bent over he would squeak like a rubber ducky. Also, if he breathed quickly in a state of excitement he would squeak like a rubber ducky.

Of course, the doctor was sued three ways to hell, but he didn’t lose his license to practice medicine because the state medical board thought what he had done was hilarious. In fact, he won the “Scappy Medal” from the Australian Union of Surgeons, a collective of renegade surgeons who want to “bring a degree of humour to the fair dinkum rubbish that passes in surgery as fun as footy.” The medal is sculpted as a laughing scalpel and says “Let’s hit the coast” with an Aussie accent if you press the button on the bottom.

So, the doctor goes on. Slicing, but not dicing, bringing levity to the operating table. We understand he’s operating on a convicted “Peeping Tom” next week. Can you see what he might be up to?


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.

Topographia

Topographia (top-o-graf’-i-a): Description of a place. A kind of enargia [: {en-ar’-gi-a} generic name for a group of figures aiming at vivid, lively description].


I live in a cave in Stanhope, New Jersey. It used to be an iron mine. It sheltered Revolutionary War soldiers from the British. In World War II it served as a bomb shelter for the mayor. Fugitives have hidden out there. The most famous was Chick Bultaco. He stole hubcaps for a living. He didn’t make much money, but he reigned supreme. You’d go to bed at night and wake up in the morning to see your Ford Pinto in the driveway, stripped of its hubcaps. He sold the stolen hubcaps to hippies who decorated their windows and bedrooms with them. He had the audacity to install them. That’s how he got caught. Two police officers disguised themselves as hippies and put the word out on the street that they needed some hubcaps to hang in their windows and bedrooms. The cops rented a house and Chick showed up with a boxful of Chevy Bel-Aire hubcaps to install and collect the money. He was arrested, tried and convicted and was sentenced to to three years. He was famous! After he served his sentence, he opened a junkyard in Morristown, NJ. He could pull and sell hubcaps legitimately. End of story,

It was difficult, but I’ve wallpapered the cave with horizontal striped green and blue wallpaper. There’s a mirror on the wall. I have a brown metal folding chair and a small white plastic end table. I have a green candle embedded in dripped wax on top of the table. It is my sole source of light. I’ve hung a table cloth over the cave entrance for privacy and to keep out the weather. I sleep on sandbags covered with a rubber tarp. It gets cold in the winter, but I don’t mind. Bathing is tricky.

I work delivering newspapers. They are dropped off every morning. I fold them up and deliver them. Sometimes, I wish I had graduated from high school.


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.

Alleotheta

Alleotheta (al-le-o-the’-ta): Substitution of one case, gender, mood, number, tense, or person for another. Synonymous with enallage. [Some rhetoricians claim that alleotheta is a] general category that includes antiptosis [(a type of enallage in which one grammatical case is substituted for another)] and all forms of enallage [(the substitution of grammatically different but semantically equivalent constructions)].


Me and my wife were sitting next to each other on the couch. I said, “As usual we is bored.” My wife would say “Yes” and squirm around a little. We sit there until 10 or 11 and then go to bed. Nothing happens. We go straight to sleep.

I am going to buy a dog to liven things up. But, it was like magic. A big brown dog showed up at our door. We went ahead and let him in. We named him Brown. He was the size of a pony and shook them windows over there when he barked. By scratchin’ he turned my easy chair into a pile of fluff in a pile on the floor. We were spendin’ $100 per week on his dog food. We could barely afford our rent, let alone the dog food. My job at the kite factory didn’t pay that good.

Then I got an idea: Brown could give dog rides in the front yard. After all, he was as big as a pony. I got him a pony saddle and put up a sign: Dog Rides $2.00. The neighborhood kids flocked to our yard to ride Brown. I kept a rope around his neck so he could only go in a circle. I was feedin’ him a dog treat one afternoon when he bit me on the hand. It was just a little nip, so I thought nothin’ of it.

Then, one day, I dropped my rope to tie my shoe and Brown got loose an’ run off with a kid ridin’ him. The kid’s parents were really angry. I took off after Brown hopin’ to find him quickly and return the kid. It didn’t happen. That was four months ago.

A few people have spotted Brown with the kid still ridin’ him. Most recently, it was at Burger King when Brown and the kid pushed through the doors. The kid ordered a Cheese Whopper and fries while Brown growled menacingly, scaring people away.

Also, they’ve been raiding grocery stores for 10 pound bags a’ dog food. They gallop into the grocery store and go straight to the pet food section. The kid grabs a bag a’ food and they gallop outta the grocery store, scaring the customers with Brown barkin’ his explosive bark.

The kid’s parents are suing me for $1,000,000. I’m just hoping Brown will bring the kid back. I don’t have no million dollars. With luck, they could squeeze $500.00 outta me and my wife, who has left me.


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.

Alliteration

Alliteration (al-lit’-er-a’-tion): Repetition of the same letter or sound within nearby words. Most often, repeated initial consonants. Taken to an extreme alliteration becomes the stylistic vice of paroemion where nearly every word in a sentence begins with the same consonant.


I was in the sixth grade. I was in the lunch line. I pushed the boy in front of me out of line and took his place. Earlier that day, I had pushed my sister off the toilet so I could pee. I chased her out of the bathroom. On my way to school I has pushed a third grader into a crossing guard causing him to fall down and nearly get run over by a school bus. I walked by a nursing home on my way home after school. I saw on old man in a wheel chair and gave him a push. He rolled away and ran over the nursing home’s comfort cat. That episode wasn’t very satisfying, but I couldn’t figure out why.

I was at the mall shopping with my mom for a new pair of shoes for me. I wanted loafers because I thought they would make me relax and “loaf” around. I saw a pair called “Ecological Elk Skin.” I knew it was just a sales ploy to call them ecological, but they were made out of real elk skin. But it wasn’t to be. My mother made me get brown lace-ups. They looked like cow shit with heels. My mom said “What sharp stylish shoes Jerry. You will enjoy stepping on insects when you wear them.” I knew my mother was crazy, but this was one of her best derailed ding-dong moments. I pushed some nerdy looking kid out of the way as I went out the door. I was going to step on him, but he wasn’t positioned properly—he was laying on his side crying, so I gave him a light kick. His mother asked me what I thought I was doing. I said, “Picking on your dumbass kid. You need to toughen him up mommy.” My mother had her fists raised. I calmed her down and we ran out the mall exit, found our car, and drove away.

As you may have noticed, pushing plays a major role in my life, even to the point of pushing the Mayor off Dead Man’s Cliff. I beat the rap for killing the Mayor because I was too young to be indicted. My pushing was so bad that I was known as “The Pusher.” People wouldn’t get within five feet of me for fear of being pushed. I couldn’t stop pushing. I went to a doctor. He told me that I had a genetic disease that I inherited from my Greek ancestor, Sisyphus.

Sisyphus is directly related to me. He is the archetypal pusher man—pushing a boulder around for all eternity. Once I realized I couldn’t be cured, I searched the world for something productive I could do with my “Pusher’s Syndrome.” I tried pushing baby carriages, but they were not people and it just didn’t seem right.

My travels took me to Tokyo, Japan. The subways were crowed during rush hour. I started pushing and stuffing people into subway cars. It was deeply satisfying and provided a service to Japanese commuters—what are called “salary men.” Now I have established a school that teaches people how to stuff people into subway cars.

I toyed with calling my school “Shove it Academy.” Everybody thought it was stupid, so I named it “Sisyphus Academy.” I am making a ton of money. Every once in awhile, I get the urge to push somebody down. I have an employee designated as “Faller Downer” standing by to take the push.


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.

Correctio

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.


Uncle Pearly

Uncle Pearly said: “We’re going to hell in a hand basket. No, actually, we’re goin’ to Cliff’s in my pickup.” Uncle Pearly is the funniest person I know. I laugh non-stop when mom leaves me with him for the day. The funniest thing we ever did was “borrow” cash from Cliff’s. I was only seven. My balaclava was way too big—we both laughed at it. The .357 Uncle Pearly gave me to wave around was way too heavy. I had to hold it with two hands! Uncle Pearly was carrying a gym bag and a Glock. He had shown them to me when he had handed me the 357–a family heirloom—a Ruger that had belonged to Pearly’s father, Gnarly. Gnarly had been convicted of fraud, imprisoned for 12 years, and stabbed to death in the prison kitchen when he was only 24. The rumor was that he had insulted the warden by waving a pair of warden’s wife’s underpants over his head in the prison exercise yard.

Everybody thought he was insane for waving the underpants. It was discovered that he had dug a tunnel from his cell to the warden’s house. He would crawl through the tunnel and “meet with” the warden’s wife. She was teaching him manners, and, also, how to read. Again, nobody could understand what motivated the underpants waving that had gotten him killed. Then, they found out.

The waving episode was the result of the warden’s and his wife’s breakup, which was partially due to the warden’s discovery of Gnarly’s tunnel. When Gnarly found out that the warden’s wife was going to live with her mother in Indiana, Gnarly went out into the prison yard to wave goodbye. He used a pair of her underpants because of the kindness that motivated her to give them to him as a reward. They symbolized their edifying friendship as teacher and student. It was all very sad, no, actually, it was deeply twisted. Who gives their underpants as a reward? Sick!

If Gnarly did particularly well on a reading assignment, the warden’s wife would reward him with a pair of her underpants. It was all she had and she believed that Gnarly would find something Crative to do with them. Gnarly was making the underpants into a quilt in accord with a Martha Stewart episode he had seen on his TV.

Anyway, me and Uncle Pearly got caught robbing Cliff’s. There was an off-duty state trooper standing at the counter when Uncle Pearly walked up and demanded all the cash. The state trooper pulled the .357 out of my hand and stuck it in the back of Pearly’s head. The end.

They let me go because I was “too little” to be a criminal. Uncle Pearly got 6 years. He works in the prison sewing shop making red-checkered tablecloths and matching napkins. He made a red-checkered suit that he is going to wear to his upcoming parole hearing.


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.

Dianoea

Dianoea (di-a-noe’-a): The use of animated questions and answers in developing an argument (sometimes simply the equivalent of anthypophora).


“How do you make pancakes? Don’t ask me! How do you do you jump through the eye of a needle? What’re you crazy? Don’t ask me! Why do leaves fall off trees? Don’t ask me! What kind of feather do pimps wear in their hats? What, are you crazy? Don’t ask me! Ask Google you little pains in the ass! Ask friggin’ Google goddamnit!”

I was sick of my two kids asking me questions all the damn time, especially when I was cleaning my gun. My dad had given me the gun—a single-shot .22–on my 10th birthday. Over the years, I had harvested 100s of squirrels with it, and a couple of cats by accident too. It was the only thing I owned that I felt attached to.

Anyway, this was the millionth time I tried to steer the kids to Google. For some reason they were Google resistant—Google phobes. They would say things like “You were in the Army Daddy. You know things.” I had no idea how that qualified me for anything beyond saying “Hut two three four.”

So, I instituted weekly meetings to remind my son and daughter that I didn’t know much and they shouldn’t depend on me for any kind of advice.

To some extent I was lying. I knew a lot, and probably, it wasn’t the kind of stuff they would ask me—like how to jam a cruise missile, the location of secret army bases around the world, the map coordinates of the White House Command Bunker, the location of Pat Nixon’s tattoo, and the secret ingredients in many ethnic foods—especially Indian. I gathered this information when I was spying for France during the 70s. I reported directly to Georges Pompidou and shared many secrets with him. I would fly to Paris once a month and share the intelligence I had gathered. Eventually he wanted me to learn French and wear a beret, blue-striped boatneck pullover, and red handkerchief around my neck. He also wanted me to start smoking Gauloises to prove my loyalty. That’s where I drew the line. I tried smoking one and it made my nose bleed. So I quit working for French Intelligence and briefly went to work for Finnish Intelligence.

It was unbelievably boring. I spent most of my time smoking a pipe packed with Kita and mending nets. These two activities were integral to my cover observing and hanging out with Russian cod fishermen. The Russians were allegedly abusing their Finnish work visas by smuggling nesting dolls (Matryoshka dolls) into Finland in their over-sized rubber boots. They were caught when I arranged to have a Russian translation of KC and the Sunshine Band’s “Shake your Booty” played very loud over their ship’s radio. The Russians started dancing to the music and shaking their oversized “booties,” making them fall off, and spilling the concealed nesting dolls on the ship’s deck. I was awarded the Finnish “Medal of Merit of Customs Service.” After this accomplishment, I gave up spying, moved back to the US, got married, started a family, and opened a used car lot “Seasoned Steel.” I buy cars at auction and resell them on my lot. I give a 3-day warranty on the power train, I leave the rest for God to sort out.

Anyway, I am committed to protecting my children by not answering their questions—not even if they ask me what time it is. I will yell “Google it!”

POSTSCRIPT

By the way, I have hidden this disclosure in my sock drawer and will destroy this copy. If you are reading it, I have screwed up.


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.

Diaporesis

Diaporesis: Deliberating with oneself as though in doubt over some matter; asking oneself (or rhetorically asking one’s hearers) what is the best or appropriate way to approach something [=aporia].


I wondered if I should go to the mall and hang out in the food court with the other seniors. Staying home has its advantages—my own toilet, my own TV, and my own cat, Cisco. My wife’s home during the day, so I’m not lonely. She spends her time knitting sweaters that she donates to the Salvation Army.

She works at night, though. Social Security isn’t enough to pay the bills. She works at “Rising Sun Bingo Hall” as an “elder-tute.” That’s a senior prostitute. She’s 68 and can still pull in the occasional 50 year old. A lot of older men play bingo and hang out at Rising Sun. My wife wears 70s-style clothes and hangs out by the exit. As potential clients go by she says “ELO?” and they stop to reminisce. She says: “I’ve got blue rockets dude.” They are the new ultra fast-acting erection makers. If it’s a go, they head for our Volvo station wagon out in the parking lot.

She charges $25 for her services and usually brings home $75 for the night. When she gets home around 10 o’clock, she takes a shower, brushes her teeth, and climbs into bed with me. It works well, but I’m afraid she’s going to have an affair.

There’s this one guy she talks about all the time. His name is Jackson Black. She’s fascinated with his perfectly circular bald spot and long fingernails. I’d try and track down my suspicions, but I’m too old. My knees are shot and I have memory problems. So, I recruited my niece Bella to do some investigating. She had lost all of her boyfriends due to her cheating, so I figured she was well-qualified to spot a cheater. I told her I would pay her $50 if she found my wife cheating with Jackson. I told her to hide behind a car near the Volvo and watch for a guy with a circular bald spot and long fingernails getting in the Volvo with my wife. She was to keep track of how long they spent in the Volvo. Fifteen minutes would signal an affair.

Bella reported that they got into the Volvo and immediately drove away. I was hurt and angry too. I went with Bella the next night. We followed them when they drove away. They went to Home Depot. They came out with three bags of water-softener salt. The bags are very heavy, and due to her age, my wife couldn’t lift them any more, and neither could I, but Jackson could. He loaded them in the back of the Volvo. My fears were unfounded. Jackson was a nice guy! I was ashamed of myself. I paid Bella the $50 anyway.

The next day I called my nephew Teddy to unload the car. I paid him $5 and all was well. I wondered if Jackson got a freebie from my wife for helping her out. Also, I wondered where they went the first time Bella saw them drive away. I remembered there were 3 bags of garden soil that had mysteriously appeared in the back yard the next day. Mystery solved! Jackson had come through again! I told my wife I needed a bag of Quikrete to patch the cracks in the sidewalk. It was “delivered” two days later.


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.

Hypozeuxis

Hypozeuxis (hyp-o-zook’-sis): Opposite of zeugma. Every clause has its own verb.


I went to the store. I walked through the door. I headed for aisle five. I picked up a loaf of bread. Then, I felt the dread—the roiling, boiling, swirling dread. It was induced by the bread—by the screaming white bread displaying its burly crust and biting my hand. I threw the bread to the floor. It’s wrapper split. Things had gotten really dangerous. Now that the bread had broken free due to my panicked hurling, slice by slice it would terrorize the grocery store. Already, I could feel the panic sweeping through aisle five. I could hear the jars of peanut butter and jelly rattling in aisle six—shivering with fear!

But then, things stood still for a couple of seconds while I tried to understand the reaction of the peanut butter and jelly. They had a strong partnership with bread. The sandwiches they made together were renowned throughout the Western Hemisphere. My first sandwich was a PBJ: crunchy peanut butter and grape jelly. It was exquisite. What happened?

I couldn’t get my head around it. It wasn’t working. My therapist was standing next to me. She had accompanied me to the grocery to directly observe my reaction to bread. She told me: “As far as I can see, you should probably check yourself into ‘Barking Cardigan,’ plug in, bite the rubber ball, and have your mind swept clean. Then, you can have lobotomy or get on some powerful mood-making medications and anti-hallucinogenics. Finally, stay away from bread. Although bread is generally considered ‘the staff of life,’ for you it is ‘the highway to hell.’ You must abstain from sandwiches—from tuna salad to grilled cheese to Fluffer-nutters. Never touch another submarine sandwich, meatball sandwich, taco, or muffuletta sandwich. When your sandwich days end and you are able to abstain from them forever, it is possible, but not likely, that your craziness will end.”

This came as a blow to my soul. Even though it repulsed me and made me crazy, I loved bread, like my mother who had the same effect on me. So, I followed my therapist’s regime. Now, I am comfortable with bread, and my mother too.


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.

Mesodiplosis

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.

Mesozeugma

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.

Optatio

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.

Oxymoron

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


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

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

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

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

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


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

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

Parabola

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


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

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

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

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


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

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

Pareuresis

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


My name is Ed. Whenever I screwed up, I told people I had worms—that they were squirming around inside me disrupting my digestion and thought processes. Whenever they squirmed more than usual they made me go really, really haywire—all tangled together and making a squeaking sound only I could hear. So, when I lost my wallet I blamed it on my squeaking worms—they were my go-to excuse. I said they made me throw my wallet away—I was like a robot under their control. I even talked like a robot, making whirring sounds between every third or fourth word.

I went to the police station to report my missing wallet. I told them the worm story and they handcuffed me to a chair. I told them I was lying—no worms were involved in my wallet’s disappearance. I had left it on my table at MacDonald’s when I went to pick up my order at the counter. It was gone when I got back. I told them, “The truth is a pretty good excuse, but it makes me look stupid. So, I told you the worms story—rather brilliant but not very credible unless you’re the Secretary of Health and Human Services. Ha. Ha. Get it? Worms. Ha. Ha.”

The police frisked me and found my wallet in my back pocket. Nothing was missing except for my photo of my girlfriend Aggie. She wasn’t particularly good looking. The picture was blurry. She was sitting on the beach holding her pet white rat Bulltaco. She was also holding a piece of paper with her phone number on it—I’d never paid much attention to it before.

The police unlocked my handcuffs and told me to get the hell out of their police station. When I got home, I called Aggie. Her line was busy. It was busy all afternoon. I drove over to her house. The front door was open. There was Aggie. She was sprawled naked, sleeping on the couch, snoring loudly. Then some guy came out of the bathroom wrapped in a towel with wet hair. He had probably been the one who had stolen the picture of Aggie with the phone number. He had been the one she had been talking to on the phone—probably making plans to hook up.

Startled and angry, I ran out the front door. The guy yelled “Come back we can have a drink!” I did not go back. I went back home and sat on my couch trying to think of an excuse for what had happened. Then, it dawned on me: Aggie is bad! Her badness put her at a moral disadvantage that had nothing to do with me. I did not treat her like shit. I did not lie to her all the time. I did not yell at her most of the time. I wasn’t unreliable, except maybe once in a while when she needed me. I didn’t make fun of her. Well, maybe I did once in a while, but it wasn’t serious—only the way she dressed or how she talked with a lisp.

This incident had nothing to do with me and the way I treated her. She was just plain bad, waiting for an opportunity to cheat. The guy in the towel had made it with her.

POSTSCRIPT

Aggie had been fed Roofies by the home invader Ed had met coming out of the bathroom—who had asked him to have a drink. It was terrible. If Ed had trusted Aggie more, he would’ve figured out what was going on and called the police. As it stood, Aggie went through hell. Ed’s need to make excuses inflicted pain on the woman he allegedly loved. It was a disgrace. Her counselor advised her to get rid of Ed and she did.


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

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

Parrhesia

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


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

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

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

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

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


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

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

Period

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


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

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

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

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

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


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

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