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Dendrographia

Posted on May 5, 2024 | Leave a comment

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

The eucalyptus trees carry me back in time—their pungent smell, waving leaves and smooth mottled bark. after a rain, the smell of the Gumnuts in puddles is especially strong— like Vick’s Vapor Rub. The eucalyptus’s trees are tall and storks nest at their tops.

What does this matter? I had returned unscathed from Vietnam and was going to the University of California at Santa Barbara. I was on the G.I. Bill. I was grateful. The Eucalytus trees were down by the lagoon. I would go there in the early evening and think. I was going to be the first person in my immediate family to graduate from college. All the courses I took filled my head with wonder—all but “Ancient Greek Philosophy” which made me crazy. It involved too much memorization. It was taught by a wise-ass TA who would not listen to any of my ideas. But anyway, that was only one course. Everything else was amazing, nurturing, enlightening, fulfilling. I’ll never forget: I was taking a course in California geography. Included in the day’s lecture was a segment on a type of rock formation. That afternoon when I was riding my bike back to my apartment, I saw the formation by the road. For me, it was a big deal. Now, the roadside was more than a roadside—it was a piece of California geology. That night there was a pretty good earthquake. The apartment parking lot looked like sloshing water. My neighbor ran out of her apartment in her nightgown, jumped in her car and drove away. My Pong fell off the bookcase and all the books fell off the library’s shelves. What a mess!

The campus was on the ocean. Although there is residue from an oil spill, generally the beach was sandy and nice. Some days, I would carry a beach chair to class and go to the beach afterwards. I never wore long pants the whole time I was there. That was my idea of paradise.

Every Thursday, if you went to the record store in Isla Vista naked, you’d get a free record. The turnout of nudies was sparse, but there was a turnout. A crowd would show up to watch, and of course, that was the point. They would buy records,

When I went to Australia a few years ago, I got to see eucalyptus in their natural habitat. Beautiful.

I live in the North Eastern US now. Maple trees predominate. Silver bark and beautiful red foliage in the fall. I tap the sap for syrup, and plain sap as a sweet and delicious beverage. To tap a tree you drill a hole and tap a spline in gently. The splines have hooks that you hang collection buckets from. When the buckets are about 3/4 full, you empty them into a large tub. Then, you divide the contents of the tub and boil down the smaller portions into syrup. The whole house smells like maple syrup, but it takes a lot of sap to make a good amount of syrup. But, it’s worth it.

I also have a small apple orchard that I make cider and applesauce from. I have a hand-powered apple-grinder and cider press. For applesauce we just core the apples and cook them. I put the apples scraps out in the yard. It is entertaining to watch the deer fight over the scraps—pushing each other around. Oh, last year we made hard cider. We used champagne years, and according to everybody, it was great. I’ll never know myself. I am not permitted to drink alcohol, but I smelled it, and it smelled good.

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, trope

Diacope

Posted on May 4, 2024 | Leave a comment

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

“Give me a dollar. Give me a dollar now! A dollar in my hand! A dollar! Come on, dickhead!” I was a street person. I was totally unsuccessful at getting money from people. They would tell me to back off or get lost, or take a shower, or go back to the halfway house—that sort of thing. Sometimes they’d hold up their stuffed wallet and taunt me with it.

I had a deep philosophical commitment to living on the streets. Well, it was more than that. I was raised in a series of refrigerator boxes in back alleys. My father died of food poisoning when he was 38. My mother never remarried. She said “the single life” was more fun. We had a smaller auxiliary box that I would sleep in when she brought her men “home.” I was about ten feet up the alley and put cigarette filters in my ears to block out the sounds. One morning I went to wake her up and she was laying on her back, dead. She had a vegetable baggie from the supermarket pulled over he head. That’s when I became chronically angry. That’s when my income plummeted—I became rude when asking for handouts.

The State of New York had recently instituted a group anger management program for street people. It was hoped that it would “mellow out” the streets. There were a lot of angry street people. We met in vacant lots in our respective cities. I was located in Rochester. Our vacant lot was for sale to be developed as a parking lot. The sessions ran from May first to July fifth. We learned special “polite” begging strategies. For example, we got down on one knee and would say “Kind sir, may I induce you to part with one George Washington?” Or, “Sir. Life is fleeting and my hunger overwhelms me. Will you gift me a dollar so I may quell my hunger?” We recite the begging words together in class, filling the vacant lot with the sound of need, not greed.

We graduated in quite an elaborate ceremony. All of Rochester’s big shots were there, including the mayor. He came over to me and we shook hands. I asked him for a dollar with one of my new routines. He asked me who the hell I thought he was—he’s the Mayor and Mayor’s don’t give money to bums. I punched him in the jaw and knocked him to the ground. I was arrested and was put in jail for ten days. I repurposed my money begging sayings into cigarette begging sayings. It worked really well on my fellow prisoners. I left jail with a small bag of cigarettes.

Now that I’m back on the streets I mug people outside of hotels. I stick a gun in their ribs and say, for example, “Would you please be so kind as to give me your wallet? I have bills to pay.”

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, figures of speech, rhetoric, trope

Dialogismus

Posted on May 2, 2024 | Leave a comment

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

Am I talking to myself? Hell no. I’m thinking out loud. It’s like reading out loud. Much more texture. Much more meaning. Much more significance. It’s like a glass of wine vs. a glass of water , or a bowl of ice cream vs. a bowl of gruel.

It was Saturday night and I was hanging out at “The Lucky Trout” country dance hall. I lived in Boukville, NY between a cornfield and a highway. The only other business in Bouckville was the “Rte. 20 All Night Diner.” The dance hall kept them going. The drunks would flock there when the Lucky Trout closed. They specialized in Hitch Hiker’s Breakfast, in keeping with the Route 20 theme.

I was drinkin’ shots a beer and eatin’ popcorn from a red plastic bowl. I was waitin’ for my Piggy Fingers—my favorite bar snack—little sausages with toothpicks stuck in them, and special sauce called “Chicago Fire.” It was so hot it could set your teeth on fire.

Suddenly my stool started spinning of its own accord. Two bars with handle grips popped up. I grabbed them and I took off. I flew through the swinging saloon doors and up into the sky, propelled by jet engines in the stool’s legs. I flew past an airliner and a little kid waved at me. The next thing I knew I was landing on the moon. I got off my stool. I looked to my right and there was a picnic table. I walked over to it. It had the initials “JG” carved in it and the date: 1964. That was history! I looked around some more but didn’t see anything else of interest. I got back on my stool and took off. As I was taking off, I looked back down and saw a bowling trophy lying on its side in the moon dust, and then, whoosh, off I flew. Destination Earth!

I flew through the doors of The Lucky Trout and landed where I took off from. Nobody noticed. I ordered “another” shot and a beer. I ordered some more Piggy Fingers. The waitress set them down in front of me and they started squirming around like big caterpillars. They were making a soft squeaking sound like baby birds. I called the waitress over and asked her what the hell was going on. she called over Mickey the bouncer. He dumped my Piggy Fingers on the floor and pushed me off my stool. He told me to get out and to come back when I had achieved a drug-free lifestyle.

I got out into the parking lot and I could not find my car. It was a restored pea-green Corvair. It was worth thousands. I called the police. When they arrived, my car appeared behind a dumpster. The police weren’t happy. When they left, my car disappeared. I decided to take an Uber home and sort it all out tomorrow. The driver was dressed like a clown. That was too much. I told her to be on her way and decided to wait out the insanity at the Rout 20 All Night Diner. I sat down in a booth and looked around, and everybody looked like me. Then, the waitress came to my booth. She did not look like me. Aside from being a woman, her hair was blond and mine is black. I ordered The Hitch Hiker’s Breakfast: three fried eggs, four slices of bacon, two slices of toast, grits and a napkin printed like a roadmap. I ordered a cup of coffee too.

People kept coming over to my table asking if they knew me. They all had my name. It was awkward, The sun was coming up. I finished my breakfast and headed back to the Lucky Trout parking lot to find my car. I got to the parking lot and all the cars partied there were pea green Corvairs. I found my car by its license plate. Finally, I could go home. I started it up and it made a poof sound and turned into a pumpkin. It was Cinderella sitting next to me. She asked me if I knew where her shoe was. We got married and lived happily ever after. She blew off the Prince for me. I felt lucky.

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, figures of speech, rhetoric, trope

Diaphora

Posted on April 30, 2024 | Leave a comment

Diaphora (di-a’-pho-ra): Repetition of a common name so as to perform two logical functions: to designate an individual and to signify the qualities connoted by that individual’s name or title.

Dick, dick. How’s that? Your name is Dick and they call you dick: Dick dick. Or, should I say, a dick or the dick? I have a string of memories of your dickhood stretching back to the Fifth Grade. I still remember: I needed one more block to finish off my castle. One stinking block. You had ten blocks and you had finished your fort. You wouldn’t give me one of your extra blocks. You said, “I might need it later.” What a lame excuse. What a dick! What a super duper dick.

I’m going to keep reminding you, dick: you took my little brother on a camping trip in Bowlng Rock State Park. Remember? He was 8 years old. You didn’t give him a flashlight and twenty feet down the trail you took off running, and he could not catch up with you. He got lost and was lost for three days. Believe it or not, you blamed him. I found him sitting a lean-to crying—covered with mosquito bites. You, being the dick you are, blamed him. “He shouldn’t have gone in the first place. What an idiot. Goddamn him!” Saying those things almost got you killed, but you still won’t admit you were wrong. Dick.

One last scar you’ve left. My dog Rough. My family was going to Maine for vacation for two weeks. Our usual dog sitter was unavailable, so I talked my parents into asking you. You said you could for no less than $100. We were leaving the next day, so we were stuck. We gave you detailed instructions —with the big one: keep Rough in the yard—NO MATTER WHAT! You failed to do that. You “thought” he looked like he needed more exercise. Rough dashed out into the street and was run over and killed. You didn’t tell us, and waited until we came home. Rough was wrapped up in a bloody blanket in the driveway. His collar was sitting on top of the blanket. You said, “If you had given him more exercise, he wouldn’t have run off like that. You should’ve taken better care of him. He was your pet. Not mine.” I wanted to kill you. Poor Rough. Never hurt a fly, laid out dead in our driveway.

Now you’re sorry for being a dick—being self absorbed. Your apology is smoke in the wind. The best thing I can do is stay away. I hope you move out of town, maybe out of state, or maybe into another country or a desert island where you can’t inflict yourself on other humans.

“Go, get out!” The door’s that way, remember? What’s that? A clock? “Time’s running out on you Joey. That’s all I can say. Don’t forget to wind it. I may be a dick, but you’re a shithead.”

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)

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

Diaskeue

Posted on April 28, 2024 | Leave a comment

Diaskeue (di-as-keu’-ee): Graphic peristasis (description of circumstances) intended to arouse the emotions.

Her baby was crying. It had been crying nonstop for five hours. It was 3 O’clock in the morning. She had to be to work at 7:00 am. She had to take a bus. Her husband had abandoned her and little Emile one month ago. He had run off with the 18-year old gymnast he had been giving guitar lessons to. Her mother had disowned her when she had married Morton. She was 22 and he was 45. Her mother was appalled by their age difference and threatened to take out a contract on Morton. Now that he had left her, she was threatening him again.

Morton worked in a MAGA hat factory on the outskirts of town owned by a state-run Chinese conglomerate: Moo Shoo Hat. Each hat came with a free set of chopsticks and a bar of jasmine soap. Morton was proud of himself—he believed he was making China great again—that the hats were turning China around—like opium did in the 19th century. In fact, he was thinking of selling fentanyl to help move things along—tucking it in the hats’ hatbands along with a coupon for a syringe from CVS. When the bosses found out about his scheme he was beaten, fired, and thrown out the factory’s back door. His pockets were full of fentanyl when the police found him. Morton is currently in jail awaiting trial.

“But that’s all behind me. Fu*k Morton and his girlfriend too—who, by the way, ran out on him when he bottomed out. Anyway— I’ve got to figure out how to get to work. Finally, baby Emile shut up and I put her into her crib. I set my alarm for 5.00 am and went to sleep. I woke up crying. I opened my window and held baby Emile out the window. I yelled ‘I’ll drop my baby if you don’t take care of her today, for free!’ People just looked at me with scolding looks. I live on the first floor, so my threat didn’t have much traction. Then, a man with a seeing-eye dog yelled ‘Throw me the baby. I can help.’ Without thinking, I threw baby Emile at him. He said ‘I was just kidding’ as my baby flew through the air. Suddenly, a young man in a Brooklyn Rampage baseball uniform jumped up and caught my baby. He came inside and promised to take care of my baby, and I made it to work. I was going to permanently hire him when I got home, and I 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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Diasyrmus

Posted on April 27, 2024 | Leave a comment

Diasyrmus (di’-a-syrm-os): Rejecting an argument through ridiculous comparison.

This “case” is a basket Cael. I’m not sure what that is, but I know it’s bad. Maybe it’s like a glass that’s half paper instead of half full. But maybe it is like a broken toilet or stapler that won’t staple. Or better yet—that smells like fresh roadkill—a raccoon perhaps?

My name is Professor Dirtwedge. My nickname among my students is Dr. Prick. I am cruel. I have never given a grade above C. I humiliate my students by belittling their intelligence in class. Nobody volunteers to speak. I have call on them to thwart their fear of participation. I am a philosophy professor and teach an introductory course titled “You are stupid: Admit it.” The course is centered round the works of the renowned hippie philosopher Californicus. His work was based on the Rolling Stones’ “you can’t always get what you want, but at least you don’t get what you don’t want, and if you do, you have to act like you need it.” Mr. Jimmy’s utterance (dead) frames the text’s intention of celebrating our shared fate: dead. It elaborates on the different ways you can become dead: disease, accident, suicide, murder. Californicus elaborates the received list with less conspicuous ways that the end comes. For example, laughing, foot stomping, dancing to frenetic jazz music.

I study the games insects play and their ethical dimensions. I have discovered that all ants cheat at everything they play. To be a consummate cheater is an aspiration of all ants. As they plod along building their mounds, protecting each other and gathering food, they would rather be playing ant checkers and cheating. I have been able to interview ants by using pheromones smeared on sweet-smelling candy wrappers. Their poetry and short fiction are mesmerizing. A scrap of a poem by a carpenter ant: “I make sawdust, oh I must. I chew for you. Some day this old house will fall, and become a shopping mall.”

This is a remarkable meditation on the passage of time and the fools it makes of us all. It’s like the Bible or a sticky note stuck on a car’s speedometer or a wheel of fortune that never stops turning, and if it does, it goes the opposite direction afterwards.

So, how did I become a tenured professor here at “The Meter’s Running University”? My mother died during my oral defense of my dissertation. I started crying when I was informed, so my committee took pity and passed me. I received tenure when the President found out I had “a story to tell.” He overrode the tenure committee after he heard my story. His wife had gone missing and my ants had told me where she was buried. When I showed him the map they had drawn, he knew he was had.

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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Diazeugma

Posted on April 26, 2024 | Leave a comment

Diazeugma (di-a-zoog’-ma): The figure by which a single subject governs several verbs or verbal constructions (usually arranged in parallel fashion and expressing a similar idea); the opposite of zeugma.

The truck hit the pothole, flipped over, caught fire, and exploded. I felt like I was watching a movie— maybe something ok like “Death of a Truck.” Maybe its remains could be piled in a dump truck and driven slowly to the junkyard followed by a procession of truck drivers, including Amazon, UPS, and followed by a column of independent truckers.

Lately, I’ve had too many of these experiences—observing tragedies. Two weeks ago I was doing my three-card monte scam, cruising along, fleecing the punters out in front of Trump Tower. This is a great place—it has a con vibe the covers the scam and makes it look like a legitimate gamble.. I even wear a blond wig and a blue suit. I tell the punters I’m Trump’s cousin and they eat it up. That day, I had about ten people clustered around the game, taking turns losing their money. Suddenly, a drone flew in and hovered overheard. The punters looked up and said chorused “Oooh!” I got under my card table. It started playing Deep Purple’s “Space Truck’n” as it hovered overheard. Then it said “Bobby Boy, you’ve reached the end of the line.” I invited Bobby under my table. The drone dipped down and blew my table over. Bobby was exposed! A tow hook lowered from the drone and hooked the back of Bobby’s pants and flew off with Bobby yelling “I didn’t know. I didn’t know!”

The next day, the headlines read “Stockbroker Skyhooked to Hell.” I read the story and Bobby had been dipped in industrial waste, sewage and the giant grease trap in Hoboken behind Ghost Burgers, the first burger joint opened in the Colonies in 1791. they found Bobby barely with blistered skin covered with sewage and grease.

The police determined that had invested all of a client’s capital in Truth Social. Bobby would not say who the client was and he’s afraid he’ll be attacked again. At one point, he winked at his interrogator and sad “I musk go to the restroom.” Hmmm.

There have been many more strange episodes. A hyena stole my car last Friday. He drove by with his big toothy smile and then sped away. A troupe of rats was doing acrobatics on the sidewalk in front of my apartment. They were wearing tights advertising d-con: the rat poison. I saw a woman juggling three babies in car seats with a bottle of Mr. Clean balanced on her head. I was impressed by her strength and choice of cleaning products.

One more: I saw a man stuck to the sidewalk by a piece of bubble gum. He had been there for three hours. He was begging for somebody to bring him a putty knife or some WD-40. A passing teenager offered to cut off his foot. Eventually, the man took off his shoe and was freed.

So, if you keep your eyes open, there is a plethora of weird things to see.

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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Dicaeologia

Posted on April 25, 2024 | Leave a comment

Dicaeologia (di-kay-o-lo’-gi-a): Admitting what’s charged against one, but excusing it by necessity.

The corrals are smaller. Where have all the lone prairies gone? I won’t be buried there, that’s for sure. Carbon monoxide fills the air, slowing down my thinking and making my eyes water and my vision blur. I was driving my manure spreader down Main Street. I don’t know how it happened. The bottle of whiskey wrapped in a rag under the seat is used for lubrication. Sometimes I take a yank, but it’s just to clear the dust away. It was a very windy night and my throat was filled with dust. Ah wait! Now I remember! My mother had called me and asked me to spread some manure in her front yard. It was Dad’s birthday the next day, and he always likes a load of fresh manure on his birthday. It’s a tradition that stretches back to the year we sold 90% of the ranch to a hockey rink, a parking lot and an airport. We kept the house, the barn and 25 acres—I raise miniature cows on the 25 acres. I sell them to people as pets and for diet sized cuts of meat. They are very popular with 30-something professionals who like little things like iPhones, ear buds, and electric sports cars. I also grow weed and have chickens. I sell bags of dope and eggs by the highway. All perfectly legal.

When I delivered the manure, Dad took off his boots and ran around the yard while me and Mom sang happy birthday. At one point he slipped and fell down and we all laugh together. We went inside and had cake while Dad talked about back in the day when commanded 10,000 acres of prime pasture land. He had to sell it off because his brother Bill, the co-owner had taken out 3 second mortgages on the property that he used to buy condos in Palm Beach, Vegas, and Hawaii. Soon after Dad found out, Uncle Bill disappeared without a trace. The properties were foreclosed on and Dad had to sell the ranch.

But why am I telling you all of this? I don’t know. It’s just stuck in my gut. Almost like a piece of barbed wire. Well, anyway, it was time to head home from Dad’s birthday. I said “bye” to Mom and Dad and hopped on my manure spreader. I backed into the Dormal’s house, tore off the front porch and smashed into their car in the driveway. I totaled it. At first, I thought it was my blurry vision from all the pollutants in the air. But then, I realized somebody had glued a picture of an open plot of land to my rear view mirror. It must’ve been done when we were inside having cake. The picture was very high resolution, so it would be mistaken for the mirror’s actual reflection.

After we discovered the picture, the police cordoned off the area and conducted a thorough search. They found Uncle Bill cowering in the garage. He had a couple of high resolution landscape photos trimmed to fit my ,mirror, a squeeze bottle of Super Glue and a Glock. He kept saying he hated his brother (my dad) and he had come to kill him. It was Mom. It was all about Mom.

Dad had stolen Mom from Bill when they were teenagers. It is amazing how the most blissful emotion can become so riddled with hatred that it can become a motive for murder. I wondered why uncle Bill didn’t want to kill Mom too.

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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Dilemma

Posted on April 24, 2024 | Leave a comment

Dilemma (di-lem’-ma): Offering to an opponent a choice between two (equally unfavorable) alternatives.

Why do things have to be different? Why do we have to make choices? I have a choice about which disease to get sick from—Whooping Nose or Polo Fever. I have contracted both diseases, but only one vaccine can be taken—if you take two, one of them will be fatal. Whooping Nose is pretty bad. I’m pretty sure I caught it in the pet store when I was looking for a rat for my daughter’s birthday. She wants to “experiment” on it by clipping one of its feet off with toenail clippers and making a little prosthetic leg out of tooth picks and superglue. Very admirable. But, Whooping Nose is another story,

It starts with a runny nose and quickly progresses into unending series of powerful sneezes, that get worse and worse as the nose clogs up. The end comes when the jaw locks shut and a gigantic sneezes blows your nose off. Your sinuses come out out and hang from your nasal cavity. If the EMTs make it on time, you’ll survive, your sinuses will be returned to their cavities and your nose will be retrieved and sewn back on. Once you’ve had whooping nose, you’re immune from it for the rest of your life.

Then, there’s Polo Fever. I think I got it from picking up a contaminated polo ball and handing it to my buddy Enrico who had invited me to watch him play in a match. When I picked up the ball he yelled “No, no, no!” And wouldn’t take the ball. He told me it had been contaminated by “the play” and I would soon contract Polo Fever. I asked him why he didn’t warn me. He told me that he had forgotten that I am a peasant.

Polo Fever comes on in a week or more, marked by a whinnying sound coming from your butt followed by your temperature shooting up to 101.5—the temperature of a horse. The absolute worst aspect of the disease is the polo ball-sized and shaped- feces passed by the victim. In some cases it takes surgery to remove the hardened polo ball poop. Less serious is manure rolling—where the victim rolls around in polo pony manure snorting. The victim in locked in one of the cages behind the stables and suppled with a steady stream of steaming manure and hosed down every hour. In addition, a shovel full of oats is thrown at the victim every 10 minutes until he or she is coated with oats like a big Payday candy bar is with peanuts. The sound of hoofbeats soothes the victim, helping them through their ordeal.

So, I have to choose between two vaccines, and consequently, two diseases. I’m heading down “the lesser of two evils” highway. Whooping Noses or Polo Fever. The prospect of intestinal surgery puts me off. Losing ny nose to an explosive sneeze may be worse.

I will pray on it, “God, please show me the way.” God didn’t answer, so being at a loss himself to make a decision, he put two slips of paper in his motorcycle helmet: “Whooping Nose,” “Polo Fever.” He reached into his helmet and the two pieces of paper had become stuck together by the cupcake icing on his fingertips. “I should’ve washed my hands” he said remorsefully. Suddenly, a whinnying sound was emitted by his butt. “Time has made my decision,” he said as he looked at the sky. It was too late for the Polo Fever vaccine, so he went to the doctor for the Whooping Nose vaccine, which was exhibiting the barest symptoms and hadn’t taken hold yet. His nose was barely dripping. The whooping Nose vaccine would still work!

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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Dirimens Copulatio

Posted on April 23, 2024 | Leave a comment

Dirimens Copulatio (di’-ri-mens ko-pu-la’-ti-o): A figure by which one balances one statement with a contrary, qualifying statement (sometimes conveyed by “not only … but also” clauses). A sort of arguing both sides of an issue.

Protagoras (c. 485-410 BC) asserted that “to every logos (speech or argument) another logos is opposed,” a theme continued in the Dissoi Logoiof his time, later codified as the notion of arguments in utrumque partes (on both sides). Aristotle asserted that thinking in opposites is necessary both to arrive at the true state of a matter (opposition as an epistemological heuristic) and to anticipate counterarguments. This latter, practical purpose for investigating opposing arguments has been central to rhetoric ever since sophists like Antiphon (c. 480-410 BC) provided model speeches (his Tetralogies) showing how one might argue for either the prosecution or for the defense on any given issue. As such, [this] names not so much a figure of speech as a general approach to rhetoric, or an overall argumentative strategy. However, it could be manifest within a speech on a local level as well, especially for the purposes of exhibiting fairness (establishing ethos[audience perception of speaker credibility].

This pragmatic embrace of opposing arguments permeates rhetorical invention, arrangement, and rhetorical pedagogy. [In a sense, ‘two-wayed thinking’ constitutes a way of life—it is tolerant of differences and may interpret their resolution as contingent and provisional, as always open to renegotiation, and never as the final word. Truth, at best, offers cold comfort in social settings and often establishes itself as incontestable, by definition, as immune from untrumque partes, which may be considered an act of heresy and may be punishable by death.]

I was and I wasn’t. I wasn’t what I was. I sounded like a riddle looking in a mirror. While something may be known one at a time, at another time it may be something different—now it’s a car, now it’s a cube of steel riding a magnet across a junkyard. Or, maybe not. Maybe it was a cube of steel when it was a car—a potential of steel, an actual car. Can you look at the cube as steel and say “That’s a 1992 Mercedes.” But I walk down the street swinging my arms back and forth like an ape. I am not an ape though. I am a cup of tea with legs. I must be careful not to spill. I do not want to stain the sidewalk Orange Pekoe. Why do I keep changing? Are they incarnations, or am I insane, or both? I think both. Or better, madness is a sort of a new incarnation. You forget your previous self and take on a brand new guise. When you’re really crazy you don’t remember your past. When you’re sort of crazy, you do remember. In a way being sort of crazy is worse than being totally crazy—you may be tantalized by a recent past—a reality that is “sort of” but not palpable enough to thwart the vague recollections that intrude on your dream and hurt. Being totally crazy is a glutted maelstrom of meaningless ooz with untraceable emotional import, like abstract art free from the canvas, possessing you with its colored fluidity.

There are many variations on this theme. I don’t know them. I don’t care when I roll around on the sidewalk singing Elvis’ “Don’t Be Cruel.” People look at me and step around me with disgusted looks on their faces. Why? Not because I’m in mental distress, but because I’m in their way. Then a guy that looks like Jesus hovers above me, motioning for me to get up. This happens once or twice a week. I usually get up and continue my crazy trek through the day. But today, I can’t get up. I am dead. A half-dozen teenage boys kicked and beat me to death while I lay drunk on the sidewalk. I look down and see my bloodied torso. The Jesus guy points. I look in the direction he’s pointing and there is a golden elevator. I climb on the elevator and ride to Heaven. As I step off the elevator, I become sane. I see my grandma coming toward me with a bouquet of flowers.

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

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Ecphonesis

Posted on April 20, 2024 | Leave a comment

Ecphonesis (ec-pho-nee’-sis): An emotional exclamation.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing Leonard?“ it was my father. I was doing my homework. “Homework, Dad,” I said. I was hunched over my desk, tapping away on my laptop. Our assignment was to write a job description, and then write a letter of application for the job. My job description was: “Wanted: stupid-ass drunk with no skills or common sense.” I thought my teacher, Miss Trank, would find it humorous and give me an “A”, especially when she read the cover letter: “Dear Potential Boss: I am drunk right now. I have had three gin & tonics for breakfast and will be drinking a half-bottle of MD-40 for lunch. So, I am a drunk. Stupid-ass describes me very accurately. For example, I sent away to Amazon for a hammock. The assembly instructions were complicated and I got tangled up in the webbing part.i was drunk so I didn’t care, but my mother cut me loose and and I fell on the ground and threw up. How’s that for stupid-ass? The only skill I have is taking a shower, and I have trouble with that. Apparently, my father is right: I don’t know my ass from my elbow. I have a picture of them with labels hung up in my shower. But they fall down from time to time, if they land face down, I’m screwed. I yell for my dad and he comes into bathroom and picks up the pictures and holds them up for me. Then, I can resume showering. Other than showering, I have other possible skills—well, maybe eating and getting dressed too. But that’s it. On the no common sense front, I can give you a quick example: I go out in the rain with no raincoat or umbrella. I get soaked and have suffered from hypothermia several times. I almost died once when I went camping in my bathing suit. Also, once I threw an alarm clock so I could see time fly. I can report for duty tomorrow. I will be drunk and ready to go.”

Leonard finished his third gin and tonic and started off for school. He staggered across Maple Street and was clipped by a car. He was knocked down on the pavement, but wasn’t hurt (so he thought). He was actually unconscious and dreaming that he was uninjured. A fifth-grader, Billy Wack, poked the crack in Leonard’s head with a stick. Leonard flopped around like a fish.

A crowd gathered. Mr. Topi, who lived on the street, called an ambulance to come get Leonard. He was still dreaming inside his cracked head—dreaming he was dreaming that his head had cracked open and leaked most of his intelligence, which he didn’t have very much of in the first place. Then, he heard a voice say “How many fingers am I holding up?” Leonard saw 300 fingers and fell off the stretcher, a common problem with the Hill Dale EMT team. They were different heights and had trouble keeping the stretcher level. When Leonard fell off the stretcher a small amount of his brain leaked out of the crack in his head.

Suddenly he was being shaken. Miss Trank was trying to wake him up. He had no idea how he had ended up in class. Miss Trank said: “Leonard, I am giving you a double zero on this assignment and you are being suspended from school for two weeks for educational sedition.” I had no idea what Miss Trank was talking about. The crack in my head was healed. I went back to the cloakroom, dug out my back-up bottle of gin and took three big swigs to hold me until the 3 o’clock bell rang.

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

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Ellipsis

Posted on April 18, 2024 | Leave a comment

Ellipsis (el-lip’-sis): Omission of a word or short phrase easily understood in context.

Jeff: Count with me: 1, 2, . . . yup, that’s right, 3. But actually, I was gong to say four. What’s next is always a big question, I’m going to jump up and down now, and what will I do after that? Moo hoo ha ha ha. Here I go! Whoops! Your picture of mom is under my feet. Oh no! The frame broke and the picture tore. What would I do next? Sweep up the mess and threaten to push you out of your bedroom window if you tell mo?.

If you don’t stop crying I will strangle you. I want you to lure Lawrence Burnborn to our basement. Tell him you will give him Peanut Butter Cups and Peter Paul Mounds. He is such a pig that he would crawl through broken glass to get the candy.

Sister: Jeff, you have flipped your wig again. You must’ve stopped taking you meds. Remember what happened last time? You lit my three little hamsters—Iggy, Swiggy, and Ziggy—on fire and put on a flaming hamster juggling show. The show was a failure because you couldn’t get the hamsters to stay lit. They took you to Cortex Creek Rest Home, where you stayed 6 months. You were fine when you got out. It was the meds, the “Normalacyn.” You were diagnosed with “Quadra-Polartechinosis,” a complex condition with four shades of “crazy:” 1. Deep Landfill, 2. Totally Bummed, 3. Starting Up, 4. Running Wild. Now, I think you should go . . .

Jeff: Shut up you human slag heap! You are telling me what I already know, snot face. Now, just go and get Lawrence and bring him back here. In the meantime, I”ll check my electric drill and jar of sulphuric acid. Go get him! Now!

Sister came back in a half-hour. Lawrence was not with her. Jeff went berserk. He chased Sister around the basement with his drill whining. Sister ran back up the basement stairs. Her boyfriend “Nordic” Bill, a giant and Icelandic Exchange Student, was waiting. He was holding a Narwal tusk.

Jeff came up behind Sister and drilled her in the buttocks. He pulled out the drill and went for Nordic Bill. Bill was waiting for Jeff pointing the Narwal tusk in his direction. At the last second, Bill dropped the tusk and turned and ran. Now, Jeff’s father Strom showed up and pointed a double-barreled shotgun at Jeff.

Strom: Put down the drill. You’re headed back to Cortex Creek.

Jeff put the drill down, but picked up the Narwal tusk and pointed it at his father. His father shot hm in the head—firing both barrels. A creature that looked like a small turtle crawled out of Jeff’s mangled head. The ambulance arrived for Sister. The “turtle” skittered out the front door which had been left open by Strom when he rushed into the house. Strom never said a word to anybody about the turtle.

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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Enallage

Posted on April 17, 2024 | Leave a comment

Enallage (e-nal’-la-ge): The substitution of grammatically different but semantically equivalent constructions.

I was carded. The ID said I was 45, but I was only 19. Those were the days! No photo IDs. As a 45-year-old I could pretty much go anywhere I wanted to, and I done what I wanted to do where age was a factor. As long as I had the ID in my hand, I was good to go. But I discovered, aside from driving, drinking gin, buying naughty magazines and owning a gun, the stretch between 21 and 45 didn’t have a lot of extra permissions. I paid $50.00 for my fake ID, so I was a little disappointed—until I discovered “Club 45.” It was for men “45 and over.”

I thought this place was going to be wild. I showed my ID at the door, paid my $10,00 initiation fee, and was motioned in. I looked. There were men sitting in bathrobes, reading newspapers and sipping orange juice. Some men had little tables where they were assembling plastic model boats and airplanes. I thought maybe that they were sniffing glue. They weren’t.

I was given a bathrobe and a newspaper and shown to “my” chair. I hadn’t read a newspaper in years. I took a sip from my orange juice and started reading the front page. It was shocking. Toy drones had been turned into weapons of war. I used my drone to video my neighbor’s wife in their hot tub. For the hell of it, I turned to the want ads. The first one I looked at said: “Wanted: A man. Must be energetic and like to experiment.” I thought: “I am energetic—I’m on the track team. I like to experiment: I just got a chemistry set for my birthday!” I was in!

I took the paper and left the club. There was a pay phone across the street. I called the number from the ad and a woman answered after one ring. I told her I was energetic and liked to experiment. She said “You’re just what I’m lookin’ for honey.” She gave me her address. Nobody had ever called me “honey” before. I had only heard it in movies or radio shows.

I walked to the house in about 5 minutes. Actually, I ran. I rang the doorbell. The door opened and there was my friend Eddy’s grandmother in a pink bathrobe and slippers. She slammed the door and yelled “Go away you little pervert!”

I was really disappointed. I didn’t know what we were going to do—but I thought it was along the lines of exercising together and doing some experiments. 2 days later it was Eddy’s birthday. Right after we sang happy birthday and Eddy blew out the candles, his grandmother showed up. We made eye contact and she blushed. She had a man with her. He was overweight and probably 45-50. I asked her if he was energetic and liked to experiment.

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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Ennoia

Posted on April 14, 2024 | Leave a comment

Ennoia (en-no’-i-a): A kind of purposeful holding back of information that nevertheless hints at what is meant. A kind of circuitous speaking.

“You might be wondering what’s coming next. It may be worth it for you to wait quietly. You never know. Ha! Ha!,” said my father.

At this point, after at least 100 times, I knew it wasn’t worth it to wait. I don’t know why he kept doing it, but at least once a week he would tell me to “wait quietly” and something beneficial would happen. He was no seer. He sat in his recliner in his bathrobe chain-smoking Camels, watching soap operas all day on our little black and white TV. He was “disabled” and he didn’t work. The Union paid him monthly benefits for the permanent injuries he had sustained when his UPS truck had exploded and he was thrown fifty feet and landed in a dumpster filled with broken glass. His UPS inform saved him from being shredded, but he was badly cut, and physically—he lost one of his eyes, injured from being blown up, and he suffers from PTSD, He can’t ride as a passenger in any kind of vehicle, including trains and airplanes.

They caught the person who blew up his truck. The person had a grudge agains UPS. His brother had died when the UPS driver delivering the heart to be transplanted in his brother got lost on the way to the hospital. By the time he got there, the heart was no good any more. So, this guy started a vendetta against UPS, blaming them for his brother’s death. When they caught the guy, he went “Boom!” and clapped hands. The cops were startled, but they cuffed him and took him away. He was tried and convicted as a domestic terrorist. He got life in prison.

Although we pitied Dad, we believed he could do better than “riding” the recliner and smoking Camels in his bathrobe every day. Instead, we decided to get him a motorcycle so he could tour around the hills and dales of central New Jersey where we lived. Despite his PTSD, he could still drive. We went to Marley’s Harleys and picked one out. He took lessons on the bike for a week.

He took off and never came back. We heard that an “old guy” that looked a lot like him was riding with “The Outlaws.” He was called “One Eye Jack.” That fit: dad only had one eye and his first name was “Jack.”

We gave up trying to find him. Then, 4 years later, there was a loud rumbling noise outside. There was a long line of Outlaws lining the street. One motorcycle was pulling a trailer with with a coffin draped in an American flag. Four men hoisted up the coffin and laid it down on our front lawn. One of the men, with tears in his eyes said “He was always sayin’ ‘You might be wondering what’s coming next. It may be worth it for you to wait quietly. You never know. Ha! Ha!’ His optimism was an inspiration.”

We’re not going to tell anybody that Dad’s dead. We’re going to keep collecting his pension check. He’d like 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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Enthymeme

Posted on April 13, 2024 | Leave a comment

Enthymeme (en’-thy-meem): 1. The informal method [or figure] of reasoning typical of rhetorical discourse. The enthymeme is sometimes defined as a “truncated syllogism” since either the major or minor premise found in that more formal method of reasoning is left implied. The enthymeme typically occurs as a conclusion coupled with a reason. When several enthymemes are linked together, this becomes sorites. 2. A figure of speech which bases a conclusion on the truth of its contrary. [Depending on its grammatical structure and specific word choice, it may be chiasmus].

“Make sure to lock the door.” She looked at me with a puzzled expression on her face.

I thought it was amazing that we found our way to her mud and bark champole—the dome-seeped structure where her people lived. There were no roads, just dirt paths crisscrossing everywhere. Svelto said, “We have no locks here.” Then I remembered: Svelto’s culture is lockless. Burglary is not a crime—it is an art form. This is inevitable in a lockless culture. When I told Svelto to lock her door, I was reminding her of something that’s “normal” in my culture, failing to realize that the norm was not operative in Elvizonia.

There were so many things I had to unlearn to live comfortably there. We had met in a cocktail lounge in New York, and married when we got tired of dating, and then, moved to Elvizonia. She had done an amazing job of assimilating to the dominant US cultural norms—it was like she was from New Jersey or Ohio.

When we got to Elvizonia, she expected me to assimilate. I complied. I had to get a tattoo of her face just below my belly button. The tattoo artist used a sharpened stick dipped in ink made from some kind of blackberries and hot sauce. It made me cry and Svelto was expected slap my face every couple of minutes during the tattooing. The tattoo was terrible. It looked like an ink blot with a nose and scraggly hair. But, in the aesthetics of Elvizonia it was considered a “superb” work of art.

The food was great. I developed a love of potatoes and mutant rabbits—the rabbits had very long ears and only one hind leg. Of course, the lack of one leg made it easy to collect them for dinner (or lunch for that matter). They would claw at the ground and spin around. You just picked them up and put them in a sack. The extra long ears were like carrying handles! Pick ‘em up, bag ‘em, and carry ‘em home.

For me, one of the strangest things of all was the Zeckszoot (Sexsuit). It was a fleece onesie —green for males and red for females—it was mandatory to wear during sex. Failure to wear a Zeckszoot could result in a fine, or even imprisonment. There were peepholes in every champole, and local officials had to be informed of your intention to have sex so they could observe through your peephole, making sure regulations were being followed.

As you can imagine, Elvizonian culture was too much of a stretch for me. My ethnocentricity was disabling. I lost the love of my life. I look at my tattoo of her face and feel the painful burden of my failure at cultural sensitivity. But then! There was Svelto!

She was working in the cocktail lounge where we met. She saw me and came over to my table. She said “Follow me.” We went back into the storeroom. She sad “Wait my little rabbit” and stepped behind a tall stack of boxes. In about a minute, she stepped out from behind the boxes. She was wearing an Elvizonian sex suit. She held up a green sex suit, wriggled it around and threw it at me. I recognized the “sex suit throwing ritual” as an Elvizonian hookup gesture—a one-off—a “just for fun.” I put on my suit and put my hands under my armpits—making wings of my arms. I flapped toward Svelto. We circled behind the boxes. Nobody was watching.

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

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Epanodos

Posted on April 12, 2024 | Leave a comment

Epanodos (e-pan’-o-dos): 1. Repeating the main terms of an argument in the course of presenting it. 2. Returning to the main theme after a digression. 3. Returning to and providing additional detail for items mentioned previously (often using parallelism).

The partridge was in the pear tree. The kettle was on the boil. The farmer was in the Dell. I was in a-gadda-da-vida. I had been stuck there since 1968 when my bell bottoms got stuck in time and I was chocked to death by my peace medallion when it got tangled in the external rearview mirror of a Cadillac that almost ran me over. I chased after him and my medallion got wrapped around the mirror. He took off with me hanging from the mirror and I choked to death.

He dragged me about a mile and I was flopping like a hooked fish. I distinctly remember dying. It felt really good. No anxiety. I was untangled from the mirror and transported to the morgue. They took off all of my clothes and laid me on a metal slab and covered me with a sheet. It was quite comfortable—cool and smooth. They determined by the burn marks on my throat and my bloated face, that I had been choked to death. I heard them say that the driver of the Cadillac had been arrested. That made me happier than I had already been.

Like I said, it felt good to be dead. I was comfortable and relaxed. Not a care in the world. The only thing that puzzled me was my awareness of the world around me and the monologue rolling along in my head.

Luckily, I wasn’t cremated. I had a traditional funeral with crying people saying nice things about me. My family was cheap and put me in a cardboard coffin. I didn’t care. I was dead. I was buried near the cemetery’s parking lot and my grave was marked with a white wooden stake with my name on it in magic marker: Brad Black: 1946-1970.

Just as I was getting settled in, I was resurrected. All of a sudden, I was standing by my grave with a guy in white robes standing there. He said “Boo!” and a huge wing popped out on either side of his body. He was holding a lute and started playing “In-a-gadda-da-vida.” He handed me a karaoke microphone so I could sing along. It was great. Then he cut the playing and said “Did you hear that bell tinkling?” I told him I had. He said: “You’re an angel!” My big wings popped out, and suddenly I was wearing a white gown. I went to angel camp and was trained as a guardian angel. I wear a thing like an Apple Watch that tells me when my charges is in trouble. I manifest myself and get things straightened out. Most recently, it was a five-year-old boy hanging from a cliff. He had been knocked over the cliff by his dog which his parents had subsequently angrily thrown over the cliff. Somehow the dog was unscathed after the 300 foot fall. Hmmm. I wonder how that happened?

It felt good to be dead. Don’t get me wrong—I know there are sinners burning in hell right now. When I was in Angel Camp, we went to Hell on a field trip. They gave us ear plugs so we couldn’t hear the screaming of Satan’s victims. I was surprised to see my neighbor Mr. Gundoor. I asked our guide what Mr. Gundoor was in for. He wasn’t allowed to tell me, but Mr. Gundoor was sitting naked on a pancake griddle, sizzling like bacon and screaming.

Well, it’s time to earn my eternal paycheck: there’s a boy stuck in a bear trap, circled by wolves, with a forest fire making its way toward him.

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

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

Epenthesis

Posted on April 10, 2024 | Leave a comment

Epenthesis (e-pen’-thes-is): The addition of a letter, sound, or syllable to the middle of a word. A kind of metaplasm. Note: Epenthesis is sometimes employed in order to accommodate meter in verse; sometimes, to facilitate easier articulation of a word’s sound. It can, of course, be accidental, and a vice of speech.

I’m goin’ to the roe-hoe-doe-dee-o. Yahoo! I got my bull ridin’ license yesterday afternoon, an after I flunked the test 9 times. You have to stay on a mechanical bull for 20 minutes without falling off. That’s a long ride partner! I coulda’ gone all the way to the shoppin’ mall. I tried to cheat once on the test by super gluin’ my butt to the saddle. I didn’t think it through. I went for the full twenty minutes, but the glue wouldn’t let me off the bull. I had to squirm out of my Wranglers and drive home in my underpants. It cost me $700 to fix the bull, but I learned a valuable lesson: don’t glue yourself to things unless you’ve got some kind of solvent to break the bond, especially if it’s Super Glue! I keep those Wranglers hangin’ in the garage to remind me of my folly every night when I come home from work. The butt’s as stiff as cardboard, and that’s a further lesson. What a fool I was. My wife actually put a frame around them and wrote “Nitwit” across them with gold glitter. Whenever I start acting like a fool, she takes me out to the garage and points to the pants. I nod my head and say “You’re right honey.” Another wrong turn avoided!

But today, I’m goin’ to the rodeo. I’m doin’ bull ridin’ as you have gathered. I’ve drawn “Old Red Eyes.” He seriously injured a rider last Saturday—he threw him hard, stomped on his face and stood there and peed on him. I didn’t see it, but I heard it was horrible. The rider’s face was smashed beyond recognition. He’s in a coma with possible brain damage. But, I’m gonna’ ride Old Red Eyes to hell and back if need be.

They call my number and I head to the chute. 5 cowboys with cattle prods are pushin’ Old Red Eyes into the chute. I climb on and adjust the body rope—I swear Old Red Eyes made a growling sound. Then, bam! We’re out of the chute. My shoulder comes dislocated—I’m afraid my arm’s going to come off. It hurts like hell! Time to dismount. My boot gets stuck in one of the stirrups. I fall off Old Red Eyes. He drags me around and hits me in the head with one of his hooves, and I pass out.

I “wake up” and I’m flying in a wheelchair over the rodeo arena. A crowd of people is waving at me as I fly over. They’re holding signs that say “Nitwit.” After two weeks, I’m released from the hospital, but I have amnesia from the blow on my head. I don’t recognize my children or wife, or anybody else. I answer to “Nitwit” and everybody laughs, especially the person who says he’s my brother. This is how he greets me, “Hey nitwit. What’s up nitwit? How’s it goin’ nitwit? What’s 2+2 nitwit?”

Suddenly, my amnesia lifted and I remembered everything. I agree that “Nitwit” is a good name for me. I changed my name on my driver’s license and opened a bungee jumping business named “Nitwits.”

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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Epistrophe

Posted on April 7, 2024 | Leave a comment

Epistrophe (e-pis’-tro-fee): Ending a series of lines, phrases, clauses, or sentences with the same word or words.

We came here to conquer. Some drove here to conquer. Some walked here to conquer. Some crawled here to conquer. Hemorrhoids! The vicious scourge plaguing butts withe endless itching, being medicated with sloppy ointment offering only temporary relief. And in the worst case, their surgical removal, often not covered by insurance.

What exactly are we going to conquer? We have developed a technique for unobtrusively scratching your itch while sitting down. Ms. Mill will demonstrate. Ms. Mill please sit up front here. Class, observe carefully. Ms. Mill slowly and almost imperceptibly, rocked her butt back and forth three times, and then, rotated it clockwise and then counterclockwise three times.

The look of joy and relief on her face deeply moved me. She told us that in order for it to work, “your “itchy place” had to be pre-slathered with cortisone which is refreshed by the rocking and rotating and reduces the itching. Right now, I can hardly feel any itching at all.”

I went home a drew up a printable leaflet giving step-by-step instructions on how to do the “Rock ‘n Rotate.” I hosted a hemorrhoid dating site and support group on the web. I had three subscribers, but I didn’t care. I had started posting graphic images of hemorrhoids and was confident they would draw more sufferers in. They weren’t intended to be erotic, rather they were informational. The site’s name was “Itchin’ for Love.”

The videos and selfies started pouring in. I started charging $100 to join the site. I was making more money than I ever dreamed of. Then “Humper” magazine did a spread on my site. As the premier porno industry publication, it caught everybody’s eye. My site was flooded and it crashed. There were far more people afflicted with hemorrhoids than I had realized. So, I purchased more bandwidth and continued my quest. Luckily, nobody knew where I was physically located.

To my shock, hemorrhoids have become a cultural phenomenon. College students have scratching parties in their dorms, people include mention of their hemorrhoids in their marriage vows, there are dances based on the “Rock & Rotate” moves. It is sort of like the hunchback craze that followed the publication of Victor Hugo’s “Hunchback of Notre Dame,” I don’t know whether what I’ve orchestrated is a good thing. When I have my doubts, I remember the look of relief and joy on Ms. Mill’s face when she finished doing the “Rock ‘n Rotate.” I dream about it.

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, trope

Epitasis

Posted on April 6, 2024 | Leave a comment

Epitasis (e-pit’-a-sis): The addition of a concluding sentence that merely emphasizes what has already been stated. A kind of amplification. [The opposite of anesis.]

I was looking for love in all the wrong places—the grocery store, CVS, Dick’s, the library and everywhere else where the prospect of finding romance is less than zero. Except, I did hear about a guy who started a romance with a woman he met et Lowes. But, after a week she killed him with paint stripper she had flavored with Mentos. As the police took her away, she yelled “This is my best DYI project ever!” So, there you have it: all the wrong places!

But, help is on the way. There’s a club opening down the street named “Sleezers.” It has a sign over the entrance depicting two women wiggling their butts. Between them there’s a flashing sign that says “Hook Up.”

After I paid my $200 membership fee and bought my mandatory t-shirt, I was allowed to enter. The place was huge inside, but there was only one other patron inside. She was dressed like Cinderella and leaning on the bar with a beer in her hand. She asked, “Are you my Prince Charming?” My heart nearly stopped. She shook her scepter at me and said, “Come on baby let’s hook up.” I said “Sure, let’s go my place.” She made me carry her piggy back. It was only four blocks, so it wasn’t a problem.

We were sitting in my living room. She was telling me about her crackpot stepmother and mean stepsisters. Suddenly she jumped up and lifter her dress over head and said, “you better hurry up. My coach will be here any minute.” I wasn’t fast enough. A horn blew the Stones’ “Parachute Girl.” My Cinderella ran out the front door where there was a giant fiberglass pumpkin mounted on a small flatbed truck. She got into the pumpkin and the truck took off blowing “Someday My Prince Will Come.”

I was devastated. I had felt that I had found the one. It might’ve been a snap judgment, but when you’re desperate, snap judgment is all you’ve got. My inability to make snap judgments had left me alone. I was too picky and that’s how I ended up looking for love in all wrong places. Since I paid my $200 membership fee, I kept going back to Sleezers. I hooked up with Dr. Bob’s daughter. He is the Presbyterian Minister. She was wearing a see-through dress and holding a Bible. Evidently, she was conflicted. Our eyes locked. She nodded her head, and we rook off to my place. She read Paul’s Epistles to us in a low and sultry voice. I told her I loved her and proposed. She laughed and said, “Yes, of course.” We got married. She has twenty transparent dresses. That’s all she wears. She still carries a Bible and her father wants to kill me for letting her dress like a “whore”. When he says that, I get mad.

So, I looked for love in all the wrong places and actually found love in a wrong place—Sleezers.

POSTSCRIPT

When he got home from work that evening she had gone. She sent him a selfie of her wearing overhauls, a flannel shirt and Blundstones. There was a note on the kitchen table that said: “You’re boring and I’ve had 146 affairs since we’ve been married. My boyfriend Buck is picking me up and we’re opening a tattoo parlor in Short Hills, New Jersey, where I grew up. Buck will kill you if you bother us.”

He certainly did look for love in all the wrong places. But, where are the right places? I think it’s about people, not places.

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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Epitheton

Posted on April 5, 2024 | Leave a comment

Epitheton (e-pith’-e-ton): Attributing to a person or thing a quality or description-sometimes by the simple addition of a descriptive adjective; sometimes through a descriptive or metaphorical apposition. (Note: If the description is given in place of the name, instead of in addition to it, it becomes antonomasia or periphrasis.)

“Hey! It’s Joey baloney!” People would say (or yell) when I came through the door. They nicknamed me “Joey Baloney” in middle school. My mother made me a baloney sandwhich for lunch every day. I asked her for peanut butter and jelly once and she ran at me holding up her mustard knife. I barely got out the front door. She stabbed the door behind me. Two days later, I asked her why I had to have baloney every day. She twitched all over and spun around with the mustard jar in one hand and the mustard knife in the other. “It’s the message” she said with fear n her eyes. “What message?” I asked politely.

“It was the ghost of Mickey Mantle, the greatest of all New York Yankees. He wanted me to save the world one baloney sandwich at a time. Right there, on the spot, I swore my allegiance to the “Baloney Brigade.” Since he was a great ballplayer and an angel too,. I believed him and complied. As “Joey Baloney” soon you will take your place in the Baloney Brigade making baloney sandwiches by my side—smearing on the mustard, slicing the bread into delightful triangles.”

My mother was clearly nuts, but only about baloney. Otherwise she’s normal. So, I decided to play along. We each made each other a baloney sandwich every day. Mom got me my own jar of mustard and we shared the knives from the silverware drawer.

Then, I got an idea. I got my sketchy friend “Sticky” to get me a signed Mickey Mantle baseball. Through his connections, he got me one for $50.00. It was nearly my life savings, but I wanted to cure mom. I wrote “Mission accomplished” over Mickey’s signature on the baseball. Then, when she was making lunch, I threw the baseball through the open kitchen window. It hit mom in the chest and landed in the sink. Mom started to cry and yelled “Praise God. Praise Mickey Mantle. We are saved.”

Something grabbed me by the shirt collar and pulled me into the lilac bushes behind the house. It was Mickey Mantle’s ghost and he was mad. He told me I had better get my mother to work on the baloney sandwiches again or the world would end. I wondered if it was possible for a ghost to be crazy. In Mickey’s case, I thought it was. He said, “You must think I am crazy, but I’m not. Once I explain to you the baloney-doomsday connection, you will be eager to get your mother back to work.”

I am unfamiliar with physics, so Mickey put the explanation in layman’s terms. What he said scared the hell out of me. I told mom of my “Mission Accomplished” ruse. She pinned my hand to the cutting board and said, her voice shaking, “you almost wiped us out.” I sad, “Get back to work. I’ll call 911 and get a ride to the emergency room.”

Joey Baloney is back. Together me and mom are saving the world with one baloney sandwich at a day. Every once in a while Mickey stops by for lunch. Since he’s transparent, you can see his sandwich inside him. He opens his robe and we all laugh. Angels don’t have privates, so he does not have to worry about embarrassing mom,

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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Epitrope

Posted on April 4, 2024 | Leave a comment

Epitrope (e-pi’-tro-pe): A figure in which one turns things over to one’s hearers, either pathetically, ironically, or in such a way as to suggest a proof of something without having to state it. Epitrope often takes the form of granting permission (hence its Latin name, permissio), submitting something for consideration, or simply referring to the abilities of the audience to supply the meaning that the speaker passes over (hence Puttenham’s term, figure of reference). Epitrope can be either biting in its irony, or flattering in its deference.

Tell me more about what’s the meaning of that grease on your hands? You don’t have to answer, I will. Clearly, you’ve been touchin’ grease with both hands—two hands, left and right hand—10 fingers, palms and everything. You disappoint me with your naïveté. Don’t tell me you’re a mechanic. You are half-naked and look depraved. That alone is enough to get you arrested here in Napville City.

Don’t try to get away, or I’ll shoot. “Sir, we’re pole dancers and we’re experimenting with using grease for a better spin on the pole. We just tried it out with that oil pan drainpipe and it doesn’t work very well. It is too slippery and you go flying off the pole. We’re about to try toothpaste. It is expensive, but if it works we’ll get more tips stuffed into our costume bottoms. The toothpaste’s abrasives improve pole spin without being too slippery.”

You’re lyin’. I’ll ask you: What’s that pickup truck doin up on that lift over there: No, I’ll answer: you’re you’re doin’ some thin’ to that truck. You’re stealing its grease. “No! This is my brother’s repair shop and that’s his truck. Ask him.” One of the women said. “Yes sir” her brother said, “That’s my truck. I told them they could have some grease. Anyways, they got the grease out of that drum over there.” That looks like a barrel to me Sonny. Why do you call it a drum? Confess! “We in the repair business call it a drum. If we were a brewery, we’d call it a barrel. Who the hell are you anyway?”

My name is Nosey Camboroni and I been sticking my nose into other people’s business ever since I got a Colombo detective set when I was 14. I’m 28 now and still making a pest of myself, finding something to “pin” on everybody I meet, getting arrested for harassment, paying the fine, and then, going looking for my next perpetrator to question with skill and insight into the human mind. Just the other day I was behind a woman in the line at the grocery store. She started paying with food stamps. I asked to see her US passport, if she knew who Johnny Cash was, and if she could recite “The Pledge of Allegience.” She kicked me in my privates and yelled “You Goddamn creep, leave me alone.” Her anger was a sign that my interrogation had hit home. The police disagreed, apologized for my “crazy” behavior, arrested me, and sent her on her way.

So, what does this example tell you! I’ll tell you: things are falling apart. Criminals are everywhere, but I’m the one in jail for good detective work that is disrespectfully called “harassment.”

Maybe if I had a “Colombo-Mobile” I would have more credibility. A never-washed Ford Fairlane would do, filled with candy wrappers, crumpled tissues,, empty soda cans, and empty coffee containers. The radio would be stuck on NPR and the defroster would be broken. I would patrol the streets of Napville City. Maybe I could have a show on Tiktok: “Detective Nosey.”

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, trope

Epizeugma

Posted on April 3, 2024 | Leave a comment

Epizeugma (ep-i-zoog’-ma): Placing the verb that holds together the entire sentence (made up of multiple parts that depend upon that verb) either at the very beginning or the very ending of that sentence.

White, yellow and a few other colors were slowly painted. Accuracy was paramount. Time was not a consideration. I had read the bestseller by Dr. Bob Reggi titled “There is No Time For Now.” He argues that time is like a fried egg—flat with a bump in the middle—either hard, medium, or gooey. It was called the time-yoke, holding the circling complexities of the moment together with the “eggcentric” flow of bemusement taking what was once and violently subduing it into what is no more.

I had used Reggi’s humble and unconfused writings as a foundation, motivating my painting. I had painted 645 fried eggs—sunny side up, to over easy, to over well. It was difficult capturing the shades and nuances of the yolks—all seemingly yellow, but in reality more complex than that. In order to have a ready supply of fried eggs as models for my paintings, I built a chicken coop and filled it with chickens—Rhode Island Reds. The egg business was modestly successful.

I also opened a galley to sell my fried egg paintings. I sold none until one day a fleet of Chevy Suburban’s pulled up in front of my gallery. Dr. Bob Reggi stepped out of one of the Suburban’s. He said, “I’ll have a look around.” I was stunned. I ran inside to get his book and a pen so he could autograph it for me.

After a couple of hours he came out of the gallery. He said “Remarkable. I’ll take them all. How much?” I said, “I reckon $650,000.00, plus your autograph.” He wrote a check and autographed his book. They loaded the paintings into a Ryder truck and took off.

A few days later I read that Dr. Reggi had fallen into a vat of uncooked scrambled eggs and drowned. I was devastated and hoped that my paintings hadn’t played a role in his demise. I went to his estate sale and saw that all of my paintings had been slashed and piled in a heap in the driveway. I asked Dr. Reggi’s estate sale manager about my paintings. He told me that after purchasing my paintings he could no longer believe his fried theorem. The repetitive inept depictions of the eggs had repulsed him and rendered him despondent. In his fevered sorrow, he turned to uncooked scrambled eggs. The night he died, he was going to go swimming in a huge vat of cracked and whisked eggs. When he dove in, his head hit the side of the vat and cracked like an egg. The irony wasn’t lost on the estate sale manager—he laughed.

I don’t know what Dr. Reggi was looking for in the vat of eggs. He was a scientist, so his motives were sincere. Clearly, his death was an accident, so I’m off the hook. Although, he may have committed suicide by intentionally diving into the side of the vat.

I have started painting pictures of uncooked scrambled eggs. It is a compulsion I can’t control. Maybe I’m searching for the truth. In the meantime, I am having a giant vat constructed. I am going to replicate Dr. Reggi’s’ “egg dive” experiment. Don’t worry: I will wear a helmet.

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 definitions, elocutio, example, figures of speech, rhetoric, trope

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