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Anamnesis

Posted on July 10, 2024 | Leave a comment

Anamnesis (an’-am-nee’-sis): Calling to memory past matters. More specifically, citing a past author [apparently] from memory. Anamnesis helps to establish ethos [credibility], since it conveys the idea that the speaker is knowledgeable of the received wisdom from the past.

“Back in the good old days.” What made them good? Like Plato said in his dialogue on interest free loans: “Daracmagoras,” “if it’s old it isn’t true.” He argues that truth is unchanging and timeless and can only exist in your head. Ironically, it makes you believe that it exists “out there.” It’s a lie, and so is our talk about it, which is more of an illusion than a lie. We are persuaded that things are true and we disagree about what is true—it’s all a dream, but it works.

The used car salesman told me: “It has a little rust on the body, but under the hood it’s like a new born baby.” It smelled like it needed its diaper change. I looked under the hood—it looked like it had been used as a kitty litter box. The salesman said he would knock $500 off the price and get it cleaned up, and also, it came with a five-day warranty covering the tires and trunk lock. That reminded me: I looked in the trunk. There was a homeless man eating a peanut butter sandwich and pan handling. I gave him a dollar and told him to go somewhere else. He shook his head and climbed out of the trunk. He thanked me. He had been stuck in the trunk for two days. He said “men with guns” had pushed him into the trunk when he skipped two car payments. The car salesman raised his hands and shook his head, “No, no, no, that’s not true! If it is true, they pushed him into the trunk of the wrong car. I’ll knock another $200 of the price, for all your trouble.” I heard a voice in paint saying “I’ll pay! I’ll pay” from behind the showroom, along with a rhythmic whacking sound.

So far, I had a $700 discount and a warranty on the table. I told the salesman he needed to knock another $200 off the price. He said he couldn’t do that, but he’d could clean the windshield with a special formula and make sure the horn worked properly at no extra cost. I told him it sounded like some kind of scam. He backed off and gave me another $100 discount and a lace-on steering wheel cover, and a toy black cat that went in the back window, and whose eyes were directional signals. That sealed the deal!

The car broke down as I drove it home. The blinking cat had short circuited and started a fire in the trunk. We didn’t have cell phones, but the fire department showed. By that time, the trunk was a blackened smoking mess. They sawed it off. As the sparks were flying from the saw blade, I thought, “It was the damn cat, not the car that caused all this mayhem.” That helped. AAA arrived and towed my car away to “Nutty Putty Collision Repair.” I was close enough to home to walk. As I walked along, I saw a black kitten sitting on the sidewalk. It meowed as I walked past. It looked like the blinker cat who had burned to a crisp in my car’s back window. It followed me home. I let it in and kept it. I named it “Smokey.” He changed my life. I believed I loved him—everywhere, all the time, the same.

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

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Anaphora

Posted on July 9, 2024 | Leave a comment

Anaphora (an-aph’-o-ra): Repetition of the same word or group of words at the beginning of successive clauses, sentences, or lines.

I am so embarrassed by my name. It relates back to 5th century Germany, when people were named by their occupations. There were Butchers, Farmers, Fishers and more. My family were the “Schrittwaschmaschines.” When they emigrated to the America, they had it translated to English: Crotchwasher. They were proud of the service they had provided to Prince Messerschmidt. The court Physician had discovered that washing the Prince’s crotch once every two weeks would make full-body bathing was necessary only once per year. My ancestor—my great 5X grandfather-–was employed by the Prince as court jester. The Prince thought it would be entertaining to have the jester wash his crotch. He was designated Royal Crotchwasher and was replaced as jester by the Prince’s brother who as a certified oaf was naturally funny just being himself. This enraged my ancestor—but the Prince was the Price. He became “Dieter Crotchwasher, Hygiene Promulgator to the Prince.” He got to travel with the Prince and wash his crotch all over the known world—He washed it in Rome. He washed it in Vienna. He washed it in London. He formulated and manufacture his own crotch soap he named “Bubble Crotch.” But more importantly, he developed a crotch balm that he named “Crotch Soother,” it helped eliminate cod-piece itch. Cod piece itch was unavoidable if one wanted to follow fashion. His “Crotch Soother” was incredibly popular and made him piles of gold. When the King confessed he used it, sales went through the roof. The admitted it help his codpiece itch, and also that it masked his crotch’s unpleasant smell—most predominantly the the foul odor generated by the sweating of his scrotum in the crevice where it met his legs. Sales went even farther through the roof! Dieter became a millionaire. Yet, he remained faithful to the Prince. He married the Prince’s duster, Freda, and had 7 children.

Years and years passed and the young Crotchwasher emigrated to America. He was wealthy, inheriting a good portion of his father’s considerable wealth. Still, it was America and people relentlessly made fun of his name, as they do mine. I have learned how to let it pass—ridicule happens only in government or credit card transactions, or contact payments, like a mortgage. I can’t legally change my name, or I will lose my inheritance. So, I have unofficially renamed myself Mr. Mustard after the “Clue” character.

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

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Anesis

Posted on July 6, 2024 | Leave a comment

Anesis (an’-e-sis): Adding a concluding sentence that diminishes the effect of what has been said previously. The opposite of epitasis.

There was nothing to worry about, I had blotted my “t’s” and crossed myself. I had all the bases colored and I was dauntless—like a steam roller with wheels. Like a litter of kittens curled up in a box. Well, maybe I had a little something to worry about. Once again, I had garbled my preparedness similes and metaphors. Let’s just say, I’m ready for spaghetti.

It’s my second anniversary. My wife’s pregnant, and I don’t love her anymore. I’m not sure whether I ever loved her. We met at a hog calling contest in Arkansas. She could make sounds come out of her lips that were hypnotic. The crowd went quiet when she started her call. She articulated her call for a full six minutes, blowing notes that had never been heard before—at the low end it sounded like a baritone frog with tuberculosis. At the high end she sounded like a canary starting to sound like a crow with digestion problems. It was my second contest and I didn’t know what was going on, but the audience sure did. Also, four random pigs came running toward her grunting and drooling.

I lost my mind that day, and have just begun to recover it. The more we spend time together, the more she seems like a pig. She wants to name our child Petunia if it’s a girl, and Porky if it’s a boy. The naming thing confirmed my fears. I started having a recurring nightmare where she was laying on the dining room table with an apple in her mouth. I should be ashamed, but I’m not. However, I did want to fix things. I asked my friend Brad what I should do. He is a leader in the “Pincher Cult.” He believes if he pinches himself in the right place, he will achieve Tornana. He has been pinching for 18 years and hasn’t found his pinch spot yet. However, he has friend, the Earl of Wow Man, that could possibly help out. I asked the Earl for help. He said he would, but my wife had to lay on a table with an apple in her mouth during the procedure. He came over that night. He was wearing pink Bermuda shorts and a white Izod golf shirt— quite different from the animal skins and chicken hat he was wearing when I met him.

He put dimes on my wife’s eyes and a big candle in her hands. He used my Bic to light the candle—it smelled like Old Spice. Then, he petted her and scratched her behind her ears, like she was a big dog. Then, the Earl started speaking tongues. Suddenly he screamed and his eyes started bleeding. He said very clearly “Oink” and collapsed on the floor. Then, he stood up and said “She is possessed by Ham, Maker of Bacon and linker of Smokey Links.” The Earl said we needed an exorcism. This would involve putting a piece of Pork Roll over her mouth and holding it there until Ham rose to her lips to eat the most delicious of all pork breakfast products in the whole world.

Everything went according to plan. Ham was caught and placed in a pickle jar. He was turned loose in a 24-hour diner where he hasn’t bothered anybody yet.

My relationship with my wife is slowly on the mend. In her pregnancy she’s developed a craving for Pork Roll. The Earl says this is “totally normal, man.”

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

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Antenantiosis

Posted on July 3, 2024 | Leave a comment

Antenantiosis (an’-ten-an’-ti-os’-is): See litotes. (Deliberate understatement, especially when expressing a thought by denying its opposite. The Ad Herennium author suggests litotes as a means of expressing modesty [downplaying one’s accompli

I am no genius. So what? You all know I am Jasper Magnesium and I finished the Rubic’s Cube faster than can be timed—there is no timepiece anywhere in the world up to the task—not even Switzerland’s famous “Jarlsberg Hydrogen Nano Blaster.” What’s a Rubic’s Cube in the grand scheme of life? Nothing, Less than nothing. If I had had an affair with Jimmy Carter’s wife, Rosalyn, that would be worthy of world wide acclaim. I gave her a stealthy goose at a White House cocktail party celebrating peanut butter’s 100th birthday. She reached behind her and gave me a squeeze and walked away. From this, I concluded the rumors were true. The First Lady liked to fool around. Although never proven, it is rumored that Henry Kissinger fathered Amy Carter during a wild romp at Gamp David.

But what have I REALLY done to actually earn the unreserved praise of my peers?

I have made a life-like animatron of myself. It attends boring events like this one, sits for interviews, cooks dinner, and manages my scams on the internet. In addition, he is a life coach, a race car driver and one of Google’s top three AI innovators. His most recent project was a facsimile Taj Mahal that could not be distinguished from the original. It was claimed that the Pakistanis were involved. But then the so-called “real” Taj Mahal went missing. Thank God they had aperfect facsimile or there would have been war. In sum, my animatron saved the world. That’s something to think about! And moreover, I am the animatron!

My name is Pedro Lasko and I am three years old. Jasper Magnesium has been missing for three years. He went to Cliff’s to buy ten scratch-off lotto tickets, a six pack of “Struggles” beer, and some cheap plastic-tipped menthol cigars. He never returned. He never made it to Cliff’s. Somebody said they saw him coming out of a bank with two pillowcases filled with $100 bills. That could be true. We found two empty pillowcases in his bedroom, a sure sign. We are fearful that Jasper Magnesium is dead.

“I think you hit the nail on the head Lasko.” It was a little man with dark hair wearing a dirty rumpled trench coat, “My name’s Columbus and I’m a homicide investigator with the metropolitan police.” All that Lasko could summon was a startled “Wah?” “We wondered why you never reported your boss missing. Today, we found out why. He’s hanging in the meat locker in the basement, as frozen as a pack of peas. I’m afraid I’m going to have to arrest you.” “Ha ha! Good luck” Lasko cackled as they led him out the door to a waiting police car.

POSTSCRIPT

Since Lasko was an animatron, he couldn’t stand trial. They had to let him go. Since he functioned autonomously, nobody could be blamed for what he had done. It was terrible. Columbus was devastated. There was “one more” question he wanted to ask. We’ll never know what it was. He was run over by a self-driven KIA.

Lasko has taken up a life of crime. He advertises his services on the dark web: “Robo Whacker will remove your woes.”

Legislation is pending to make animatron’s criminally liable.

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

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Anthimeria

Posted on July 2, 2024 | Leave a comment

Anthimeria (an-thi-mer’-i-a): Substitution of one part of speech for another (such as a noun used as a verb).

He was a goer—always tapping one foot and looking at the sky. My mother had dropped him on his head three times when he was a baby. The first time it happened she was trying to mix a gin and tonic. She blamed Sylvester for “moving” as if babies weren’t supposed to move. The second time she dropped Sylvester, she was trying to unlock and open the car door, which took two hands. The third time she was holding Sylvester’s hands while she spun around. Although, technically not a drop, she sneezed and let go of Sylvester and he landed in Dad’s prize rose bush. Sylvester was scratched by the bush, but didn’t bleed much.

Sylvester’s “falls” didn’t seem to affect him in any critical ways. Instead of a backpack, he wore a parachute. Instead of a ball cap, he wore a motorcycle helmet. He wore a first aid kit on his belt and kept his cellphone pre-dialed to 911 in case he fell and couldn’t get up. Lately, he’s started growling at things that are red. He had a fit over a radish, foaming at the mouth and scratching himself. Yesterday, he saw some strawberries in the refrigerator and went berserk. He growled and foamed and peed into the refrigerator. That did it,

We were sure his behavior was due to his head injuries. We took him to Dr. Grinder, a noteworthy psychologist specializing in people with mental difficulties. Sylvester was rolling in mental difficulties. After two years, Dr. Grinder determined that everything was my mother’s fault. She showed no remorse until the Doctor told her she should pay reparations for what she had done. She exploded with rage. She pushed Sylvester to the office’s forty-story window. “You wanna hit your head big time?” She yelled at Sylvester. “Yes” he quietly said. My mother shoved him out the window. You could hear him laughing, and then there was a popping sound—it was Sylvester’s parachute deploying! We also heard sirens—Sylvester had hit his pre-dialed 911 and the police were on the way.

My mother was remanded to the “Penal Home for the Criminally Insane.” She is not permitted to carry anything breakable. She has a rubber doll she calls “Sylvester” and throws on the floor repeatedly.

Sylvester is totally cured (of what we’re not sure). He has stopped growling and does not wear his “falling down” equipment any more. In fact, he met a woman who is a professional high-diver. He jokingly says they are making a big splash.

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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Apocope

Posted on June 17, 2024 | Leave a comment

Apocope (a-pok’-o-pe): Omitting a letter or syllable at the end of a word. A kind of metaplasm.

“Nothin’ says lovin’ like somethin’ from the oven.” Why do I remember this? I don’t remember what it’s a slogan for—maybe oven, or cake or a Thanksgiving turkey. I can see us now—huddled around the table—the table piled high with steaming food. My Grandfather would slip out his 2 foot carving knife—so dull it shouldn’t be called a knife. It was more like a tire iron. He’d slam it down on the turkey, and as he started to carve, the turkey would move around propelled by the dull blade

Uncle Carmine would yell “Chadrool” from across the table and pull out a ten inch switchblade knife, get up, and push my grandfather out of his chair. He had the turkey sliced and diced in about two minutes—he was like one of those Japanese chefs at Benihana. Aunt Candice told Carmine he should apologize to grandpa for pushing him. He told he to go “F” herself. Her husband, Uncle Buck didn’t like that one bit. He told Carmine “You apologize to Candice or I’ll cut off your nuts and put ‘em in the gravy.”

Carmine was ready to blow. Then Grandma chimed in: “Stop this bullshit right now—nobody’s going to cut off anybody’s nuts. This is Thanksgiving for God’s sake. Carmine! Apologize!” Carmine closed his switchblade and apologized.

Uncle Filbert started the prayer. He was a fake Catholic Bishop. He had no pull or influence as such. His primary motive was the vestments. He loved going to the mall in full dress and have people make the sign of the cross at him, and from time to time he would say “Bless you.” He began the prayer: “Father, thank-you for the bounty we are . . .”

Carmine yelled “Fuc*k you!” He grabbed his wife’s arm and headed for the door. Filbert yelled “You Goddamn hothead. Go! Leave! Get out of here. May your mother burn in hell!” Carmine pulled his knife and started climbing across the table. Filbert held up his cruxifix like he was trying to ward off a vampire. Grandpa hit Carmine over the head with a silver gravy boat. The gravy poured over Carmine’s face and he hit the floor out cold.

Thanksgiving dinner went on with unconscious Carine stretched out on the kitchen floor. It was peaceful. It was family like it ought to be. After we finished dessert, Grandma called an ambulance for Carmen. As they wheeled him out the front door we yelled “Asshole” in one familial voice. He heard us and started struggling on the gurney. Grandpa said “We shoulda’ killed him.” We all laughed, even Carmine’s wife and children.

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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Asphalia

Posted on June 5, 2024 | Leave a comment

Asphalia (as-fay’-li-a): Offering oneself as a guarantee, usually for another.

I was on my way to Canada—the whole big mysterious Canada. Land of stereotypes and dreams. This was a vacation I had planned and saved for a whole year. I planed to see a Mountie in a red suit, Santa Claus in his home town banging out Christmas gifts, lines of pancake flour, wild women, spawning fish and Grizzly bears.

I had managed to save $500 for my vacation, so I had to be careful with my spending. Gasoline came in imperial gallons—bigger than American gallons. That was enough right there. I didn’t have an imperial gas gauge. What was going to happen when I put an mperial gallon in my Ford’s American tank. I was afraid it would overflow and break some Canadian global warming law. But, this is a trip of a lifetime. So, I stopped for gas. I told the clerk I had an American gas tank. and I wasn’t sure if it would fit imperial gallons—that they would run all over the ground. She laughed and said “Don’t worry aboot that. Imperial gallons will fit any tank. They adjust to the prevailing size and rule the tank.” I thanked her for explaining and pointed out to her that she said “aboot.” “What does a boot have to do with anything?” If Canadians say a boot when they mean something else, they need to change their tune and speak English the way our ancestors did and use words like yonder and utilize. She told me to pump my gas and leave, and hopefully have an accident and die! Can you believe it? This episode just about ruined my trip, but I could tell she was different from most Canadians. What a boot that? Ha ha!

My next stop is Niagara Falls. I’m spending the night in the Moose Bellow Motel before I get there. It is moose themed. A moose bellow goes off every hour from 7:00am to 10pm. I think it is kind of romantic and regret not taking Mindy with me on the trip. She teaches voice at Pine Stick Community College. I am sure she could call back to the moose, even though it’s a recording. The bed is a Queen size moose with a moose antler headboard. The nightstand is a baby moose with a piece of glass on its back. The lamp is made of a leg with a pull chain off-on switch. Of course, the carpet is a moose skin with 3 bullet holes in it.

Around 3am I started sneezing, my eyes were watering and I had a bloody nose. I was allergic to moose—most likely the carpet. I went to the front desk and demanded my money back. The desk clerk told me “I’m sorry. I can’t do anything a boot that.” A boot! He was taunting me! I picked up the cash register and threw it to the floor. I jumped in my car and headed for Niagara Falls. Soon I was being chased by two men in red on horseback. The horses were wearing helmets with flashing red and blue lights. One of the men was holding a bull horn making a siren sound. I pulled over. they asked for my license and registration. One of the men said “We’re worried a boot you after what you did at the motel. We are going to deport you to the States. Here is some complimentary maple syrup to help you drown your disappointment.”

Suddenly, the girl from the gas station pulled up. She asked the Mounties to let me go, and she would keep an eye on me. My faith in Canada was restored, until the Mounties said no and followed me to Niagara border crossing.

I couldn’t believe it. Maybe being deported from Canada would earn me kudos somewhere. What a boot that?

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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Astrothesia

Posted on June 1, 2024 | Leave a comment

Astrothesia (as-tro-the’-si-a): A vivid description of stars. One type of enargia.

I was up in Maine for my 50th summer. It was a moonless night. There were almost more stars than sky. There were shooting stars zipping through the starry sky. I had never seen anything like it—they were criss crossing, making fiery patterns across the sky. This was a special night—one in a million. It was beautiful and scary at the same times me. I figured the time was right to wish on a star, for the 500h time the same wish. I focused on one star and made my same old wish: “Twinkle twinkle little star bring me a beautiful woman, a big house, millions of dollars, and an expensive car.”

The star I wished on went bight and then dim. It started slowly coming down from the sky—slowly like a snow flake. It landed about 10 feet from me. She sort of looked like she belonged on a Raisin Bran box. Her head was incredible—a gold star with a circle cut out and filled by a face. The face was beautiful—with bright red lipstick and greenish blue eyeshadow. Her body was toned and adorned in black tights. She came toward me. She kissed me with her ruby red lips and said “Congratulations! You wishes have come true. You are a very lucky man. Manage your good fortune wisely and prudently. And most importantly, do not tell enybody how you came to have such luck. If you do, you will lose everything.” She went back up into the sky.

A limo pulled up and a beautiful woman stepped out. She took one look at me and said “I love you. Marry me. I want your babies.” The limo disappeared and we walked back to the cottage as she planned the wedding. The next day, we went looking for a home. We found a 10,000 sq ft mansion up on a cliff overlooking the Atlantic Ocean, it was $3,000,000. I called my bank and told them what I was going to do and how much it was going to cost my banker told me it was no problem. I had more money than he thought it was possible for one person to have. When we woke up in the morning there were two Maseratis parked out front.

Marla was ecstatic. Her happiness was boundless, and infective. She became pregnant. We had a beautiful little girl we named Star.

It was all built upon a wish that came true. It was a testament to hope and believing the impossible. I will never tell anybody the secret of my success. You could say my life is built on a lie.

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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Bomphiologia

Posted on May 28, 2024 | Leave a comment

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

I’m a man. I can eat more Big Macs than anybody can. I can make a hound dog shut up. I have so many girlfriends I can’t remember who they are. I can drink a bottle of scotch and do my taxes. I gave myself a tattoo with a chainsaw. I drowned and came back to life.

These are just a few of the things I list on my resume. Strangely enough, there was a ad in the local muckraker for a man. It was next to the story about the duck who saved a whole town from drowning, lead the townspeople down a derelict canal that was last used in the 18th century to smuggle beaver pelts into the US from Canada. Unfortunately, it was called “Beaver Canal” and it inadvertently opened the door to the construction numerous brothel along it bank, serving the deviant smugglers and the not too intelligent dupes who worked for them. Beaver Canal also attracted saloons and gambling houses run by immoral greedy Canadians.

The man description in the ad fit me to a “T.” They wanted somebody physically strong but morally weak. I worked out four times per day and I did a lot of things that skate on the edge of legal, but don’t cross the line. Lying is my favorite—but not to break the law. Like, I told my mother that I’m married and my wife is in the Air Force stationed in Iraq. That got her off my back.

I was hired to be a man on Beaver Canal! It has fallen into total disrepair. Most of the buildings have fallen down, but the towpath is still in good shape. There is no passport control where the canal crosses the border. My job is to put Canadians into large canvas bags and drag them across the border one at a time. For this service my employers’ clients pay 1,000USD. The Canadians I drag are really desperate. Many of them are fans of rap music which is outlawed in Canada along with black lipstick and Sushi.

The company I work for is called “Freedom Drag.” It is owned by a Mexican drug cartel “Corriendo Muerta” (Running Dead). I’m starting to think that the canvas bags I drag are filled with drugs, not people. So, I flicked open my switchblade and jammed it into the bag I was pulling, which I hadn’t filled with a Canadian and which I was instructed to pull across the border. I was right! It was full of cocaine! I snorted some off the slit I’d made, and then some more, and some more, until fireworks were going off in my head. Now, I had a drug induced plan. I would drag the bag to Buffalo, Nw York and sell its illicit contents in little plastic bags. I fail to see that cocaine was leaking out the slit in the bag and leaving a white powdery trail. DEA had picked up my trail somewhere around Niagara Falls, and, wearing rubber knee pads, had been following on their hands and knees for hundreds of miles.

I was in my hotel bagging what was left of the cocaine, when the two Agents burst in guns drawn. I threw the bag at them and ran out the door. But, as I ran between them, they shot at me and missed and shot each other. They lay on the floor cursing at each other. I dumped what was left of the cocaine into a trash can liner. I tied a knot in it and stuck it under my hoodie and walked out of the hotel. I went back to Beaver Canal, but it had been abandoned.

I got a grant from the Canadian and US governments to “restore” Beaver Canal as a heritage site complete with gambling casinos, saloons, and pseudo brothels.

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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Brachylogia

Posted on May 26, 2024 | 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.

I make lists and use them to give my life an orderly appearance. Bell, butter, cow, jeans, gas, war, car ]ack. This is a typical list. It has content that is incoherent. What is it a list of? I take these items and lay them out on my garage floor in the order they appear on the list. Starting with “bell” I go down the line. But first we’ve got to check contextualize the bell—it is the little thumb ringer bell from my tricycle. When I was 3 I had a callous on my thumb from ringing that bell. I would ride up behind my neighbor 70-year-old Mrs. Pinko and ring my bike bell and startle her. She would say “Oh my” and pull her grocery cart up close to her and rummage for protection, usually a loaf of Italian bread, which she wielded as a club. Once she actually hit me with it. It broke in half and dented my NY Yankees hat. The den topped right out. No harm done, but I didn’t care.

I rode him as fast as I could and told my parents that Mrs. Pinko had hit me “really had” and it had hurt.my parents were law and order paranoids. They called the police two or three times per week. Most recently, somebody had “planted” a toad on the front lawn. The toad “sent a message” to everybody who walked past. Whoever put it there should be tracked down, arrested, and jailed. The police concluded that the toad found its way to the lawn on its own. My mother called the mayor and complained. A hazmat detail was subsequently sent to our yard to remove the toad.

Now, Mrs. Pinko was in mom’s sight. She was arrested for “clubbing a child.” She was convicted of attempted murder. She died in prison at the hands of her fellow inmates for “what she had done to the kid.”

Maybe I could make a list of all the things I could’ve said to save Mrs. Pinko. But that would be too tedious and would thwart my current list: things that clog or can clog toilets. This is a really challenging list. From apples to zebras—the arc of possibilities is huge. For example, a boa-constrictor. Can you image? A boa- -constrictor head gaping from your toilet, tongue flicking, maybe hissing. If you had it on your list, you would be less startled and better able to deal with it. Or what about a wet beaver? Hugging a small log, smiling, showing his orange beaver teeth’s? Think about it. Without the list, you’re shocked, and lost and frightened. Save yourself from this kind formidable peril, and possible PTSD for the rest of your life, medications and expensive therapy. Make lists and spare yourself the trauma and its aftereffects. But god forbid, there’s a Ninja Warrior clogging your toilet, holding a sword and glaring at you. You can’t speak Japanese so you can’t reason with him and you can’t risk the consequences of peeing in his face. If you had a list, you could’ve anticipated this a prepared yourself by learning how to say “Get out of my toiletries!” in Japanese. Problem solved.

I could go on forever. Remember, before Santa comes to town, he makes a list and checks it twice. Follow the wisdom of Santa—make a list and check it twice.

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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Tagged elocutio, example, figures of speech, rhetoric, schemes, trope

Catacosmesis

Posted on May 23, 2024 | Leave a comment

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

A gourmet meal. A pile of garbage. The peak. The trough. The spectrum makes life meaningful. The stretch from here to there is somewhere —the contrast makes meaning, and meaning is what we need more than anything, more than sunrise, more than a good sandwhich—good because of its difference, perhaps, from party dip—which can drip on the floor and make a mess. The intricacies of these discernments can actually lead to the composition of tunes like “Elevator Man” or “Tomatoes in the Rain.” “Elevator Man” tracks a manic depressive middle-aged man as he travels to the world’s capitals, riding the elevators in their tallest buildings. He discovers he has an ear infection in Taipei and has to stay in Taipei and take drops to heal them. After two weeks his ears begin to smell and his ear drums blow out the sides of his head. They look like veils hanging out of his ears. He lost his hearing, but he can feel his eardrums tickling his jaws when a breeze blows.

“Tomatoes in the Rain” focuses on a small urban garden planted solely in tomatoes. The song focuses on the different qualities of rain and their interaction with the tomatoes’ skin. The song is very sensual and it is banned in 38 countries. There are wanted posters of the singer Mick Bagger in airports throughout the world. Personally, I hope he never gets arrested and that “Tomatoes in the Rain” becomes free to play. It’s line “My tomato is wet” should become a catchphrase for the redeeming qualities of moisture—whether drizzle or downpour.

I am selling t-shirts with dangling eardrums pictured on them. They say “One Man’s Symbol is Another Man’s Drum.” It bears witness to Elevator Man’s persistence riding elevators and abusing his ears. He had acdream, and it came true for him. Bless him,

Well, I’m going to take an elevator ride and eat this wet tomato. I will slice it and salt it. I have a slight ringing in my ears that I’m hoping will fester and become a serous infection. Wish me luck!

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

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Cataphasis

Posted on May 22, 2024 | 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.

Joey: Your interior decorating skills have made your home look like a nouveaux rest stop. The only thing missing are the urinals and the antiseptic smell. But I don’t have the time to rant and rave about your decor. Let’s take a swim in your pool.

What the hell is that in your pool? What? A friggin’ manatee!

Barbara: I got it at the pool supply store Swim! for $600. I licks the algae off the side of the pool and make chirping sound when intruders enter the yard. Last week we caught a feral poodle that had to be put down by animal control. He was wearing a collar that said Pierre on it.

Joey: But the manatee takes up half the pool! And the manatee poop sort of disgusting. It looks like floating potatoes.

Barbara: That’s true. I hired Wes from Swim! To keep things clean and keep me focused with poolside exercises. He’s a genius. My favorite is “put the ice cream in the cone.” I sit on a traffic cone while he spins me around.

Joey: That’s disgusting. I think Wes has made you into some kind of pervert.

Barbara: That may be true but his “Perversion” has made me into a more relaxed, open and fearless person. I can handle just about anything. With Wes behind me I don’t feel pushed or shoved. Rather, I feel like a pony delivering mail on the the Pony Express. I surprise my neighbors plucking their mail from their mailboxes and delivering it to their doors in my mouth with a celebratory whinny. Wes comes along to explain. I don’t know what he says because he goes in my neighbors’ houses and spends about an hour with women, and five minutes if it is only a men are home. Anyway, as you can see it’s all above board.

Joey: I don’t know what hoard you’re talking about. Pallet board? I thought your home decor was a horror. But it is eclipsed by your Wes escapades. I’m guessing he was recently released from someplace— like maybe a mental facility.

Barbara: Yes! He recently got out of “Left-Handed Studies Institute—about five years ago. They study left-handed people for criminal tendencies. Wes was left-handed and took pleasure in choking chickens with it when he was a boy. After choking 226 chickens his mother sent him to the Left-Handed Studies Institute, where he lived for thirty-two years being presented with a chicken every day until he lost interest in them and took up an interest in marine biology and obtained a degree from UC Santa Cruz. Hence, his interest in pool maintenance. Alice (my manatee) was his senior project at Santa Cruz.

So, don’t worry about Wes. He’s on the up and up.

Joey: Up what? It is clear to me that he’s a nutcase. Some day he’s going to confuse you with a giant leghorn and send you to the big nesting box in the sky. I say, tell him to take a hike. Buy him a plane ticket if you have to.

Barbara: Don’t be silly Joey. We’re getting married and he’s moving in with me. The only difficulty is that he insists that my manatee come to the wedding as a bridesmaid. We’re working it out.

Joey: You better work it out or things might get dicey.

POSTSCRIPT

The first responders found Alice dressed as a bridesmaid, lying on top of Barbara, suffocating her. Wes was nowhere to be found, but he left a note that was gibberish: “wa ooh, wa ohh gropple we Ho.” It was determined that it was written in porpoise, but in a dialect nobody understood.

Joey sent flowers.

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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Chronographia

Posted on May 18, 2024 | Leave a comment

Chronographia (chro-no-graph’-i-a): Vivid representation of a certain historical or recurring time (such as a season) to create an illusion of reality. A kind of enargia:[the] generic name for a group of figures aiming at vivid, lively description.

All night long! It’s the right time for everything on the edge, like romance, armed robbery or hit and run. I can’t tell you how many times I fell in love in the back seat of my parent’s Subaru on a Saturday night. Maybe three times—ha, ha! My first liquor store I robbed was on a Wednesday night. I swooped in, cleared the cash register, and faded back into the night. It sounds pretty good, but I got caught and spent the next six months in county jail, where I met the worst people I ever met in my life. One guy had spray painted his landlord’s face. Another guy had stolen his mother’s washer and dryer and sold them to a family up the street. There’s more, but let’s get back to night time.

When we were kids we would play flashlight tag at night. If you got shined on you were out. It was usually over pretty quickly. If you got somebody in the back, they would call you a liar and stay in the game. Then, we’d go to the park and watch for shooting stars. They were beautiful. We would smoke and argue over whether they were shooting stars or falling stars. Then one night, we heard a woman yelling “No, no. Stop it!” It was coming from the woods ar the edge of the park. We decided to sneak across the park and check out the yelling.

It was Mr. and Mrs. Torbow. Mr. Torbow was wearing black underpants, black shoes and black socks. He was holding a fly swatter. Mrs. Torbow was wearing a wedding dress and was tied to tree. We watched them for about 15 minutes and went back to star gazing. We didn’t talk about it except to ask why they used the park for whatever the hell they were doing.

Then one night my father took us night crawler hunting behind our house. He had gotten plans for a worm shocker from “Popular Science” magazine. He stuck it in the ground—it was a metal rod with an electric extension chord hooked to it. we stood around it in anticipation of worms flying out of the ground. He plugged it in and electric current pulsed through our legs—started dancing and he pulled on the chord and unplugged it. Everybody went home without a word.

There’s a lot more I could say about nighttime as the best time: shooting out streetlights, stealing lawnmowers, hanging out.

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

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Coenotes

Posted on May 16, 2024 | 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 don’t know how I ended up in a field surrounded by a herd of circling deer—some the size of dump trucks. I don’t know why these things keep happening to me with things the size of dump trucks. I don’t work in construction or paving, but there they are circled around me, snorting and pawing the ground. The circle is starting to close. I am doomed. I try to scare them by clapping my hands. They rise on their hind legs and start to dance. I faintly hear “jingle Bells” and realize that one of them has a blue tooth speaker paired with a cellphone playlist consisting of pop Christmas music. I was completely weirded out. Where did they get deer-friendly electronics? It was bad enough I was in the middle of nowhere when spikes of light shot out of the ground, each one with a pole-dancing woman wearing a black spandex body suit. It was beautiful seeing them dancing with shafts of light. It was “Jingle Bell Rock” blaring out of the ground.

Then suddenly, it all disappeared and I was left alone in darkness. There was a full moon hanging on the horizon and billions of stars spread across the sky. I stood and raised my arms. Something grabbed them by the wrists. It lifted me off the ground and started swinging me back and forth, and eventually, in complete circles. Whatever it was lost its grip and I went flying across the field. I slammed into the front door of a little cottage that looked like a cartoon. A cartoon version of me opened the door and asked me what I wanted. I ask him “Who drew you?” He told me that I had drawn him in my Drawing class at the Community College 50 years ago. He told me I had drawn the cottage too. “No wonder!” I exclaimed. I never thought I was a very skilled artist. The guy standing there looked more like a road kill version of me than an artful rendering of my being in the world. I told him he depressed me. He changed into a stand-up comic and started telling art jokes to cheer me up.

He led off with: “What do you call a drawing of a cow? A moo-sterpiece.” It went on like this for five minutes, and then, I cut him off. At that minute, a sedan chair pulled up and carried me along the Garden State Parkway and dumped me out at the Union exit. It hurt. I got up and started walking. Two girls picked me up in a Land Rover. We went to a golf tournament at Bedminster. They were members of an environmental activist group targeting golf courses for the environmental damage they cause. We lit the golf carts on fire, headed for Newark Airport, and took off for Costa Rica. The girls had a condo there overlooking the ocean.

We’ve been planning our next mission for the past 6 years. I don’t think it’s going to happen. I miss New Jersey. I wonder what Jon Bon Jovi’s up to.

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

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Comparatio

Posted on May 13, 2024 | 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.

I was on my way to San Jose and I made a wrong turn and turned around and made my way to San Jose, but got a flat tire and couldn’t find my AAA card. I was a Platinum-gold member and could’ve had the AAA Safari Crew carry my car on their shoulders to a gas station. I was angry. It was like I had stabbed myself in the foot with a kitchen knife tied to a broomstick—primitive but effective, to a certain extent. Butter knives are kitchen knives, but their rounded tips make them poor candidates for stabbing. I might’ve been better served by a sharpened toothbrush handle, like in prison or a demented dentist’s office—like a toothless man wearing a tuxedo and drool bib with flashing lights saying “You’re a wanker. I’m a Yanker.” Not too creative textually, but the flashing lights are a nice touch: like candles on a birthday cake or a fake campfire or a fake campsite, in fake woods with fake bears and deer.

I feel like I’ve veered off the track. It’s like yesterday. I couldn’t find the bathroom at my friend’s house. He caught me peeing out his bedroom windrow. Embarrassment had done me in again, I was too embarrassed to ask where the bathroom was. It is like you’re crushing inside, making your self-esteem into crushed gravel or even crushed glass. It is like revealing a birthmark shaped like a red stain—like raspberry juice dribbled on your belly around your belly button. Or, having your pants fall down at your wedding. Embarrassment grabs you by the soul with walnut crackers. You can hear your self-esteem cracking as you want to disappear from the face of the earth. The closest you can come in the US is The Thorofare in Wyoming. You can commit every faux pas in the universe without fear of being observed, except maybe by a squirrel. Back in 2020 I spent a week there farting in place. Got all the fart-barrassment out of my system. It was like a faucet that had only been partially opened, and was opened for the first time, rapidly releasing pressure and making the faucet feel free.

So anyway, everything is like everything else in some way. At the very least, they are all existing. Wow! I need to go to the library if I ever get to San Jose. But, I discovered my GPS only speaks English. It’s like I’m looking for salvation in a language I can’t understand. I know the freeway outside San Jose is like the valley of the shadow of death. It is hard to drive with a rod and a staff resting on the steering wheel—ha, ha. That’s supposed to be funny.

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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Diaporesis

Posted on April 29, 2024 | Leave a comment

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 can’t find my car in the parking lot. The lot is one square mile and cartoon character coded. I am almost certain that I parked in sector Sylvester Cat. But no, it seems there is no Sylvester Cat sector. The closest is Baby Huey the unbelievably strong goose. I can see Baby Huey about a half mile away, bolted to a pole like Sylvester Cat should be.

The lot is nearly full, so I’m going to have the walk up and down the rows to find my car. “What is going on here?” I ask myself. “Is this some kind of cruel trick?” It seems like the rows and rows of cartoon characters are laughing at me.” My little VW Beetle is lost among the SUV’s and mammoth pickup trucks. I’m a lost cause. I’ll never find my little VW by walking up and down the rows of parked cars.

All of a sudden, I hear “Sufferin succotash.” That’s Sylvester Cat’s signature utterance! I look under the cars and see nothing but oil-stained pavement. I’m tired. I’m thirsty. I should go home and then come back around midnight when the lot has emptied out. I think that’s a good idea, so I call Uber. I hear “Sufferin succotash” again. I think some kind of delirium is settling in. I see a white patch of fur sticking out from under a black Lincoln Navigator. I run to the Lincoln and there’s nothing there. I start crying and rolling around on the ground. I yell “Sufferin succotash!” And my Uber pulls up. I notice the Sylvester Cat sign is sitting on the front seat. “What should I do?” And, oh no! I have to share my ride with a little man holding a shotgun. He says “Damn wabbit” as I get into the car. I ask the driver where he found the sign. He said, “Up here about a half-mile. We’re headed there now. Pay me $50 and we’ll be right there.” I was prepared t pay $500 to get my car back! I paid the $50 and the driver handed me the sign and the Uber sped off. Suddenly, I was swarmed by mall security guards: “Gotcha, sign thief! Right here at the scene of the crime!” They didn’t even let me explain and accused me of extortion. They summoned the police. I was arrested and denied bail because I posed a flight risk. How the hell was I supposed to go anywhere? I had not found my car yet. Will I ever find my car? Sufferin succotash!

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

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Distinctio

Posted on April 22, 2024 | Leave a comment

Distinctio (dis-tinc’-ti-o): Eliminating ambiguity surrounding a word by explicitly specifying each of its distinct meanings.

“Ouch” can register physical pan. It can also register emotional pain, little known is ts use to register surprise, as when you step on a big fat snake and it coils around your leg, looking at your eyes as it flicks its tongue and tightens its grip. As your leg swells and you start to feel dizzy, you may say “Ouch” even though there’s no pain.

The snake has got you. It was foolish to go hiking alone in tFlorida Everglades. Year after year people dump their exotic pets out their car window, or lave them by the side of the road: from Malaysian Bang Lang snakes (like one you’re wearing on your leg), to Spitting Weevils that can blind you with their beautiful sky-blue saliva.

By the way, I’m an omniscient narrator, so I’m not really here.

So, how do you get the snake off your leg? Just keep yelling “Help!” Eventually, a Park Ranger will show up and free you. Oh, it’s getting dark. Rangers usually go home at dark. What does that mean for you. Yes, nearly certain death. But, when the snake tries to eat you, he’s going to discover you’re too big for him to handle. You will have died from the tourniquet effect of the snake’s strangle hold. But don’t despair! An alligator is sure to drag your expired body off and feed on you somewhere nearby.

Oh! Do you hear that Rager calling for you? You are saved!

The Ranger found the man unconscious, laying on his back, with the snake strangling his leg. He pulled out his Ranger knife and cut the snake in half. he took the two bloody halves of the snake and swung them around his head laughing maniacally. The man regained consciousness and the Ranger started acting normally again.

They trekked out of the swamp to where the man had parked his car and the Ranger had parked his Jeep. The went their separate ways and the man never thanked the Ranger for saving his life. This bothered the Ranger—people always thanked him for helping out, from finding children’s toys, to saving somebody’s life like he had done today. The Ranger vowed, if he saw the man ever again, he’d make him say “Ouch.” Lo and behold! He saw him the next day. He was with his family. They walked along a bit together and came to a giant fire ant mound. The Ranger warned everybody. The man scoffed and ran to the mound and hugged it. He was swarmed by hundreds of fire ants stinging him into oblivion. He was writhing on the ground yelling “You didn’t warn me!” The Ranger looked at the man’s wife and shrugged his shoulders, called 911, and left.

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

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Distributio

Posted on April 21, 2024 | Leave a comment

Distributio (dis-tri-bu’-ti-o): (1) Assigning roles among or specifying the duties of a list of people, sometimes accompanied by a conclusion. (2) Sometimes this term is simply a synonym for diaeresis or merismus, which are more general figures involving division.

“Ok Eddie, go to the grocery store and get the stuff we need. Max, you make sure the car is ready to go. I’ll go the the liquor store and get four liters vodka & we’re off on our road trip.

I think we can ride across country in 3 days. I did it back in the 60s in a Volkswagen van. We can do it now in my Subaru.“

We took off from Summit, New Jersey the next morning around around 5 a.m. We each had a shot of vodka and swore we’d have a good time. We were driving like a bat out of hell. We made it to Arkansas around 10 p.m. and checked into a motel—Twilight Zone. The room smelled like garlic, the beds were saggy and there was a picture of Ronald Regan hanging crooked on the wall. It was very creepy. He had destroyed Social Security by taxing it and my grandparents hated him. I tried to take the picture off the wall but it wouldn’t budge. So, I hung my sweatshirt over it so I couldn’t see it. That made me feel better.

We all fell asleep around 11.00. I woke up around 2.00. I heard a dripping sound—it was coming from the bathroom. It sent chills down my spine, but it only lasted a couple of seconds. I looked in at the sink, and it was half-filled with blood. I screamed and ran out of the bathroom. I woke up Eddy and Max. They went into the bathroom to look. Max came out with blood dripping from his chin and told me to “shut the fu*k up” or he’d drain me. Eddie agreed. I went back in the bathroom and the sink was drained—no trace of blood. Then, I got the idea that Max was fooling around with our hot sauce, putting it on his chin. So I thought it was a joke. I went back to sleep. I woke up again around 3.30. Max was leaning over my bed, right up in my face. His breath smelled like rotting roadkill. Eddie was standing behind Max with bone saw in his hand. Between the bone saw and the stink of Max’s breath, I came to the conclusion something was wrong. Max and Eddie were drooling. Their teeth had all grown to canine teeth, filling their mouths with flesh rippers capable of tearing people apart.

I tried to scream for help, but nothing came out of my mouth—no sound, no words, no nothing. Then I tried to get out of my bed and I couldn’t move—I was paralyzed. The stink coming out of Max’s mouth was going to make throw up. Then, he said in a whisper: “Come with us.” I was levitated off my bed and floated behind them out the door. They walked and I floated across the road and we went into the woods. Dawn was breaking—maybe my “friends” would snap out and start acting normal. It didn’t happen.

My “friends” started eating me. Max took a bite out my upper arm and laughed and chewed while I screamed in pain. I was bleeding profusely. I was sure I was going to bleed to death. Eddie bit off one of my fingers and sucked on it like a popsicle. Ronald Regan suddenly appeared, He laughed, and yelled “Speak!” and all three of them disappeared. I yelled “Help!” and and the motel proprietor found me. He called 911. The ambulance got there quickly and I was taken to the hospital. I told them I had been mauled by a bear when I left the motel to watch the sunrise.

Two weeks later, I met Eddie and Max at “Booglin” our favorite club. We “got down” and had a great time swingin’ with the babes and drinkin’. I didn’t mention the Arkansas incident. They were such nice guys. I couldn’t figure out what had triggered their behavior. Then I realized that Ronald Regan was in the picture on the wall and had made an appearance in the woods. He had the power to make normal people into flesh eaters ripping apart their fellow humans. I remember now that the Twilight Zone motel had Tump campaign signs driven in the ground in front. Could there be a connection? Now, I thought Trump was going to urge his followers to eat his opponents, My guess is that widespread flesh eating will start to happen in early November, and culminate outside polling places on Election Day. I asked Eddie and Max what they thought. They laughed and wiped the the backs of their hands across their mouths.

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

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Enantiosis

Posted on April 16, 2024 | Leave a comment

Enantiosis (e-nan-ti-o’-sis): Using opposing or contrary descriptions together, typically in a somewhat paradoxical manner.

There was so much right about what was so wrong. Once again, I had worked my way into the ”two kinds” of good that are a major vexation in so many people’s lives. We have what feels good juxtaposed against what is good: sensual pleasure vs. some other kind of pleasure. I may ask, “Will I let my skin win” this Saturday night?

What is this impalpable concept of the good? Is there some quality of pleasure that attaches to it? What is that quality of pleasure that gives import to its revelation? Is it borne on the contradiction of intellectual pleasure—like the satisfaction of solving a riddle, the seeking of which can be as addictive as any illicit drug. People may use the metaphor of addiction to characterize their pursuit of puzzles’ solutions: “I’m addicted to Sudoko.”

As soon as abstract concepts comport with examples they lose their purity. They wrestle in the mud. They come down to earth. Ironically, to “know” them, the concepts must be embodied as projections of their definitions “proving” them at the troughs of truth where we stick our faces into their goo, trusting that what sticks is mystically threaded to what is.

Home on the range everything is contestable—even self-evident truth which may be a ruse concocted to achieve a purpose that has nothing to do with anything but desire—desire for a change, desire for a difference, a desire to be free. Free?

We are never free. There are always constraints requiring deliberation or well-considered habits to surmount and traverse. I think it was Plato who said that people do what they do because they think it’s good: bank robbers, for example, think that robbing banks is good. You name it: it gets done because it is thought to be good. But we know that thinking something is good, doesn’t make it good. The same goes for “bad.”

We could spin a tome consisting of spiral staircases and unchained melodies. But, it’s about persuasion. It’s abut belief. It’s about what could be wrong: incorrect, or impermissible, or right, or correct. Nobody knows, and those that claim they do are demagogues. So, where does it go? It goes to making choices based on reflection on a nonexistent future.

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

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Enigma

Posted on April 15, 2024 | Leave a comment

Enigma (e-nig’-ma): Obscuring one’s meaning by presenting it within a riddle or by means of metaphors that purposefully challenge the reader or hearer to understand.

“How much chuck could a Chuck chuck, if a Chuck chucked chuck over his shoulder.” It was cryptic. It was a riddle. It concealed its meaning under a veil of meat—a blanket of ground beef.

We were commodities traders. We followed beef products in the highly secretive, what we called, “Flesh Pit.” We watched all cuts that came onto the exchange, but ground chuck’s price was the benchmark for all beef products from knuckles to necks. The hamburger business is huge, along with meatballs (Italian and Swedish). Millions of tons are ground everywhere, every day. Any significant fluctuations in the price of ground chuck would set off alarm bells across the community of meat traders—possibly closing down the exchange.

It looked like there was a glut of frozen patties. What would we do with fresh patties still pouring unabated from the slaughter houses? Refrigerated delivery trucks were backing up three deep at MacDonalds, Burger King, Wendy’s, Jack ‘N The Box, and lesser known burger franchises. and mom ‘n pop operations. The only solution was to line the streets and fill the parks with barbecue grills and pay people to eat burgers. We knew there would be leftovers and had reserved spaces in landfills all around the US. We also set up meatball sandwhich stands—eat a meatball sandwich, get paid $10.00. Same for burgers—$10.00.

People tried to hijack the patty trucks. Since this was designated a national emergency, the National Guard was called up and was authorized to shoot looters and highjackers. When it was over, 108 people lay dead in local morgue 12,040 people were recuperating from gunshot wounds in local hospitals. A national guard spokesperson, acknowledged that they need to improve their shooting proficiency: “There should have been more fatalities, We apologize and will strive to do better next time.”

The major “meatsurrection” is over. However, the sidewalk grills persist. Now there are charcoal and bottled gas shortages. Raw patties are being sold as “beef tartare.” The raw patties are put on buns and slathered with ketchup. Incidences of food poisoning have gone up and the government is considering closing down the sidewalk grills. All over Americca the sidewalk grillers are equipping their grills with .30 caliber machinegun turrets and grenade launchers, and also, all-terrain wheels, and in some cases, diesel-powered tank treads. There is a man named “Double-Cheese” who is holding rallies at night pushing the idea that the government is corrupt and it’s up to the Grillers to help him do something about it.

Meanwhile, the government is “mulling over” what to do. Meanwhile, the Grillers are taking warning shots at the police.

How did we get here? I think it’s greed and envy. I’ve started trading in duck feathers. Alough they’ll always be down, that’s not a bad thing.

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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Tagged elocutio, example, figures of speech, rhetoric, schemes

Epanorthosis

Posted on April 11, 2024 | Leave a comment

Epanorthosis (ep-an-or-tho’-sis): Amending a first thought by altering it to make it stronger or more vehement.

My name is “Risky” Pelmore.

I was driving to DC from New York—actually I was speeding to DC from New York. I was going 95 and I didn’t give a damn. My SAAB would do 140. I said out loud “I’ve yet to begin to speed” and pumped my car up to 98. The faster I went, the faster I wanted to go—I hit 105 and started to slow down. What the hell was I doing going 105 on the interstate? I got the SAAB down to 70 and set the cruise control. It would keep me in check.

I was going to DC to March in a demonstration against government regulations, all of which had been proven to cause cancer in moles, which are very close to people in the food chain, according to Dr. Longjoint at Hoboken Community College. He claims to know more about everything than anybody. People call him a crackpot out of sheer jealousy no matter what says they call him an imbecile and burn his pamphlet “I Know Everything.” To retaliate, he burned copies of Newton’s “Philosophiae Naturalis Principia Mathematica (Mathematical Principles of Natural Philosophy,” which he claims has led Western Civilization astray by counting too much, and popularizing accounting. He firmly believes that “the answer is blowing in the wind, and that the growing prevalence of wind turbines is blocking the answer with their big propellers. If they aren’t outlawed soon, we will never find the answer and become even more stupid than we are now. I can feel the truth as a very faint breeze when I get near a wind turbine and get hit on the head by chopped up Crows and Chickadees that fly into the propellers. It is ghastly.

The demonstration in DC has been organized by “Citizens Against Safety” (CAS). We believe that if we keep making things safe, that we will become extinct as a species. “Survival of the Fittest” will no longer be operational. “Safety” will deprive us of our evolutionary maintenance. For example, wearing hard hats on construction sites is leading to thin skull syndrome. It used to be, being thick-skulled was a condition of employment on construction sites. With the mandate to wear hard hats, that is no longer the case. Construction workers may have paper thin skulls leading to accidents around the home, and they may frequently wear their hard hats at home—including in bed. Probably, the worst effect of safety is overpopulation. How are we going to deal with it? I think getting rid of seatbelts would help put a dent in the population, along with getting rid of smoke and carbon monoxide detectors too. Maybe traffic lights too? Anything we can do to increase the death rate will help with overpopulation.

CAS is agitating for the abolition of the Federal Department of Safety. We don’t want the government intervening in the lives of people who would otherwise be dead. Nobody stood in Ben Franklin’s way when he could’ve been electrocuted discovering electricity. But look at today. Dr. Longjoint was not allowed to fly his handmade rocket ship to the moon, because it didn’t meet so-called safety standards. For example, he was cited for building the fuselage out of tin foil held together with zippers. So what? He is a free man and he has a right to act like it. Get off his back Uncle Sam! He is not a pawn in your game! And oh, one more thing: life jackets. If you want to risk drowning that’s your business, not the US Coastguard’s. God! It makes me mad!

I hope to see the Scissors Brigade down in DC. They March carrying scissors with pointed ends up. They drive the “safers” crazy with the simplicity of their potentially fatal risk-taking.

Well—see you in DC. Until then, safety last,

POSTSCRIPT

Risky crashed into a bridge abutment before he got to DC. He wasn’t wearing his seat belt. He flew through the windshield, hit the abutment with his head and rolled onto the highway where a dump truck ran over his legs. He is in a coma now and his mangled legs had to be amputated. Friends from CAS sent him flowers with a note: “Way to go!”

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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Metalepsis

Posted on February 24, 2024 | Leave a comment

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

Now there was a canyon in my garage. It wasn’t grand, but it was bigger than my foot. The block and tackle had snapped. The ‘57 T-Bird motor had crashed-landed on the concrete floor. The oil pan was destroyed, but there was a dim light shining out of the crank case. It was eerie, spooky, and scary, and more. I yelled into the motor, but there was no answer. The light just kept on shining.

I was all alone in the garage. My wife had gone to visit her mother and my daughter was away at college in her junior year at Reed College. She was studying anthropology—but that was beside the point right now! Then I thought—Anthropology—hmmm—maybe we could excavate the T-Bird’s engine and treat the light as a natural phenomenon to be scientifically studied instead of a supernatural phenomenon—a ghost in the motor. I called my daughter. It was 2.00 am in New York, but only 11.00 pm in Oregon. She picked up the phone. Quicksilver Messenger Service was playing in the background—“Take Another Hit.” Typical.

I explained what had happened. My daughter told me the only way to “really find out” what’s going on in there is to go inside and find it. She told me she had a professor who was an ethnoherbalist. He had just returned from an expedition to an undisclosed location in Iceland, where he had unearthed a trove of Viking “Altitude” potions—medicines that could make them shrink for concealment, or grow for battle. We could use a “shrinker” to get inside the engine and look around. My daughter said she would talk to him. I was skeptical. It sounded like a nutty professor story from the “Twilight Zone.” She called in the morning and told me it was ok, but on one condition: he would accompany me into the engine. I agreed. He was flying out to New York that afternoon and would meet me at the airport. I was still skeptical.

I picked him up and we drove to my house. He was at least seven feet tall and had huge feet. He had only one eye. I asked him how he lost it and he said “None of your fu*kin’ business.” So, I left it alone. We went out into the garage and took the “get little” pills. We had one hour to get in and out of the engine. If we failed, we’d be crushed as we grew back to our normal sizes. We shrunk to about 1” tall. We climbed in through the oil pan and over the crank shaft. We could see the light shining from one of the pistons. He climbed up the piston rod to check out the light. He yelled down to me that it was some kind of phosphorescent material and he would scrape it off and put it in his specimen bag, and we could examinine it when we got back out of the engine.

He had a tool like a small putty knife. He started to scrape and there was an explosion that blew me back out onto the garage floor. I climbed back into the engine to look for him, but he had disappeared without a trace. I called, no answer. Time was running out, so I had to get out of the motor. Right on schedule, I got big again. After nearly endless inquiries, it was determined that the professor was missing. I never told anybody about out trip into the engine. My daughter knew what we had done, and she kept it quiet for our sake.

I restored the T-Bird to its original condition. The strangest thing though: when it idles in neutral the engine sounds like it is saying “None of your fu*kin’ business. None of your fu*kin’ business.”

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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Paenismus

Posted on February 12, 2024 | Leave a comment

Paenismus (pai-nis’-mus): Expressing joy for blessings obtained or an evil avoided.

The floodwaters were rising. Weird crap was floating past my house—a tree trunk, a hot water heater, a dining room table, a mattress, a rubber boot. Suddenly it looked like the food was subsiding. I felt like Noah—I was filled with glee—the flood had passed me by. As the water went down I noticed a silver globe embedded in the mud that used to be my front lawn. It was wiggling and rolling around like there was something alive inside it. I’d seen toy balls that did that, but they were much smaller. I picked it up and twisted it open. There was a little man inside. He was sopping wet. He said “Goddamnit, I nearly drowned.“ I was so shocked I dropped the two halves of the ball. He looked up at me and said “What the hell are you going to do now? You saved my life, so now I owe you the cliched three wishes. What do want? Remember, they have to be for things and sentient beings, no countries, piles of money, or mountains, etc.” We went inside my house. He had miraculously dried off already. His suit was amazing. It flashed pale green and gray when he moved. He said, “Ok, go for it Mr. Savior.”

I was ready. As the king of loneliness, I knew what I needed, and wanted too. “I want somebody to love me.” There was a screeching sound, like worn out brakes, a puff of fog and another noise I had never heard before before, sort of like a cross between a banjo and a rusty hinge. The fog cleared, and there was a big mutt sitting there with a black and white striped coat, and floppy ears. The little man said the dog’s name was Moobert. “He loves you,” said the little man. I told him I wanted a woman, not a dog. “Why didn’t you say so. The Three Wishes Rulebook clearly states ‘that in the event of a vague wish, the Little Man may choose from among the possible wishes.’ You said somebody, and clearly, Moobert is a somebody.” Moobert sat on my foot and looked me in the eye. I liked Moobert.

“Ok, I’m ready for my next wish. I want ten more wishes.” There was a blinding flash of light, and a deep voice said: “You have broken the cardinal rule of wishing. Wishing for wishes is like chopping off your foot to spite your face—totally stupid and without merit.” The little man waved his hand and the Keeper of Wishes withdrew.

“Boy, you nearly got us killed. Let’s move on to wish number three and hope you get it right. I’m too old for this crap—ask for a car, or a house, or a pay parking lot. I was ready. “I wish for the Organic Food Emporium.” I had been in love with the girl behind the counter for 10 years. Her name was Dali Na-Na. The Little Man said “Looks like you finally hit it. Be prepared.” He tucked himself in his silver ball and took off. The “be prepared” made me nervous.

I walked into the store and Dali Na-Na jumped over the counter. She was licking my face and wagging her butt. It was like she was channeling Moobert. I decided then and there that I would accept her behavior that I knew it was instigated by the Little Man.

That night, the three of us sat in the living room by the fire. I read my newspaper while the two of them sat at my feet. When it came time to go to bed, Moobert stayed downstairs playing the role of watch dog. Dali Na-Na and I went upstairs. I was looking forward to making love to her. When we got into bed she said “I am your best friend, I will be faithful until the end of time. You can always count on me.” These would become our marriage vows. The promises are so much more meaningful than sex—at least that’s what I told myself.

I could hear the Little Man laughing downstairs and playing with Moobert. I don’t know why he did it. I’ll never know why he did it. I’m still not sure what he did.

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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Tagged elocutio, example, examples, figures of speech, rhetoric, schemes, trope

Paramythia

Posted on February 11, 2024 | Leave a comment

Paramythia (pa-ra-mee’-thi-a): An expression of consolation and encouragement.

He was crawling through broken glass. “Go Zack!” I yelled, encouraging him to keep going and cross the line. Billy yelled: “You’ll be ok. You can make it!” Ed yelled: “You’ll feel great when it’s over and you’re all healed up.” Zack looked at him and said: “That’s easy for you to say, standing there watching like a vulture.” Zack was wearing no pants and his knees were slashed and bleeding, leaving a trail across the floor. Zach collapsed two feet short of the line. He was carried outside to the curb and an ambulance was called to pick him up.

What was going on here? I was new to the neighborhood, so I didn’t have a clue. I asked Ed, “What the hell is up with this?” Ed looked at me like I was really stupid. “We dare,” he said with a solemn look on his face. “We give and take dares. Nobody knows when and why it started. A dare is sent out each week to the group, and if it is taken by somebody, we work out the logistics for documenting whether it was successfully completed. Depending on the ‘severity’of the dare, you achieve a rank in the group from ‘Player’ to ‘God.’ Zack was going for God by crawling naked through broken glass. He failed. He can use his parents’ health insurance to get sewn up and will earn the rank of Angel as a consolation.”

That night I got a dare text message and immediately responded. I got a message back telling me I had successfully taken the dare. It was to go barefoot to school the next day.. The next morning, I took my shoes off on the front porch and headed out to school. The “Dares”were gathered around the front entrance of San Luis Obispo Middle School. I opened the door and the hallway was covered with thumbtacks.

I thought fast—the dare had been to walk to school; not go inside. My technicality was a winner. Every body cheered and I was picked up and carried to my home room. That’s when I decided I did not want to have anything to do with the “Dares.” Instead, I started my own group, “The Little Ponies.” We were modeled after the My Little Pony—we dyed our hair pastel colors and did good deeds. We had four members, but had a resounding impact. For example, we had our principal fired for taking bribes from parents. The four of us were transferred to another school where we busted the chemistry teacher’s ecstasy lab. The four of us were transferred to another school, where we decided to disband. When we returned to San Luis Obispo Middle School, it had become a dystopian educapalypse. Lightbulbs had been smashed and the hallways were like dark caves, lined with smoldering piles of books. Faculty had become fascists and drunks. The student body had become a behavioral sink—it was rat vs. rat for control of the school. The “Ponies” wanted to have nothing to do with it and we transferred to the local private school: “Immaculate Perfection.” It was wonderful. In my senior year, San Luis Obispo Middle School burned to the ground. Some people said it was done on a dare.

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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Pareuresis

Posted on February 10, 2024 | Leave a comment

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

It started when I was a kid. I blamed my little brother for every bad thing I did. I was an excuse mill, and he was my grist. The best part was, no matter what it was, I could convince him that he did it. For example, one day I was playing “Track Star” in the living room. It was x-country. I jumped over furniture and swung from the fireplace mantle. My second time around the living room, when I went to grab the mantle, I knocked Grandma’s urn off the mantle and her ashes spilled onto the floor. I immediately turned to my brother, who was watching. I said, “What a mess! Why did you do this? Do you hate Grandma you little creep.” My little brother said: “I hate grandma, that’s why I did it. I should have done it sooner, right, big brother?” Of course, I said “Right! I won’t tell unless I have to.” I told on him and he had to eat his dinner in the basement for one week. He didn’t crack, and was proud of that. He just liked me too much, and I exploited it to cover my ass.

As I’ve gone through life, I’ve sought out people like my brother and use their loyalty as a shield for my misdeeds. I had a small gang specializing in stealing tires from parked cars. I had replaced three of the five, who took the hit for me out of loyalty. In one instance, there was CCTV of me helping one of my gang members remove a tire. When the case went to court, he testified that I was a “Good Samaritan” who offered to help him out. He got 1 year in prison. I walked. After the tire stealing business was exposed, I started a new scam. I was selling stolen shoes at the weekly flea market. The shoes were stolen from fitness centers where they were frequently left on the floor instead of being put in a locker. Our men and women would sweep through the locker rooms, and stuff pairs of shoes into their giant gym bags. Depending on the condition, I paid my crew by the pair. It was interesting how many people wore Blundstones.

One day we were raided after somebody had seen their shoes for sale. I knew this would happen sooner or later. As the crew was being arrested, Sandy pointed at me and said: “Don’t arrest him. He was here looking for his own stolen shoes.” The rest of the crew nodded their heads. The police took my name, address, and phone number and let me go. My crew got 1 year for selling stolen goods.

It all came tumbling down when I reconnected with my little brother. We met at Dad’s funeral & we became “Purse Cutters.” I would engage a woman in conversation and my brother would sneak up behind her and cut her purse’s shoulder strap, grab the purse and run away. I would feign shock and run after the “thief.” We were nailing a half-dozen purses per day. But that couldn’t last forever. One day, I saw the shock of recognition on the women’s face when I was doing my pre-robbery chat. We had robbed her before. She spun around, and slammed by brother in the head with her purse, knocking him unconscious. “Lead bars,” she said smiling at me as she dialed 911 on her phone. I winked at her and took off running after the bad guy, and was grabbed by policemen who had been alerted. We went to court. My brother testified that he had taken the blame for me all his life, but not this time. He testified that I was his accomplice and was equally guilty. But, I had hit the jackpot!

The woman we were robbing testified that I was friends with her and I had alerted her to what was happening behind her back. And that my brother was a jealous fool, who followed me around making trouble. I couldn’t believe my luck. All I had done was wink at her and she became my instant loyal minion. It was incredible and somewhat frightening. What a great front she would be! Not only was she attractive, but she came from a wealthy family. We were married. Thereafter, she took the blame for everything I did wrong and we lived happily ever after.

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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