Articulus

Articulus (ar-tic’-u-lus): Roughly equivalent to “phrase” in English, except that the emphasis is on joining several phrases (or words) successively without any conjunctions (in which case articulus is simply synonymous with the Greek term asyndeton). See also brachylogia.


My dreams were broken, shattered, destroyed, obliterated. All I had hoped for was driving away in a Subaru Outback packed with remnants of our ended love. My electric toothbrush, cowboy boots, fencing foil, wagging tail cat clock were rolling down the driveway to her new happy home. It was Herb’s car, Herb behind wheel. Herb who had assaulted our love. Herby that I had vowed to kill.

I was the model husband. I did what model husbands are supposed to do: sit in my recliner and complain and yell orders. My recliner was my throne and I was King. One of her primary duties was to clean the bathroom. If she missed anything, I made her stand on one foot in the toilet for 15 minutes. she never learned her lesson and I actually enjoyed seeing her stand in the toilet—she was like a beautiful flamingo. Vacuuming and dusting were straightforward, so that left things in good order, unless she missed a spot—a smear of dust. When this happened, I rubbed her nose in it until she sneezed and blew the dust away.

Laundry was no big deal, but cooking was. I picked a recipe every night from her cookbook “What to Feed an Ogre.” It was mostly roadkill. She had to forage for it every day: if I wanted raccoon, she had to drive around until she found one, skinned it, and cooked it according to the cookbook’s recipe. Any deviation from the recipe earned her a threat to have her hand liquified in our blender.

So, as a typical loving husband, I couldn’t fathom why she would ever run off with Herb—a nondescript average man. Or, so I thought. Somehow he had seduced my wife—he probably promised state of the art kitchen appliances, or vacuum cleaner. Maybe he bought her new packs of cleaning rags, or window cleaner. Her faithless abandonment of me has shocked me and made me despondent. Now, I’m going on the hunt for a new woman.

Most men would hit the web or hang out at a bar, but I have plan. There’s a rehab center—“Back to Normal”—right down the street from me. I think I can find a normal woman there to get attached to me. My idea is to wave a spatula at women coming out of the facility. If they seem attracted to it, I will strike, saying nice things and asking them to move in with me. I’ve had no luck yet. Maybe I should wave around a different cooking utensil. Like tongs— their grabbing motion says “Come here baby.”

In the meantime, I’m trying to figure out how to murder Herb without getting caught. I’ve decided to hit him on the back of his head with a baseball and then, pour Clorox down his throat with a funnel. I saw that on an episode of “Columbo.” The guy got caught who did it to his wife because he had a receipt for the Clorox. I won’t be that stupid—I will steal it!

I got caught stealing the Clorox and have to go to court next week. It changed my mind about everything. I have decided to kidnap my wife and keep her as a prisoner until Herb comes looking for her and falls down the basement stairs and is killed. Ha! Ha! Maybe we will eat Herb. Ha! Ha!


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.

Aschematiston

Aschematiston: The use of plain, unadorned or unornamented language. Or, the unskilled use of figurative language. A vice. [Outside of any particular context of use or sense of its motive, it may be difficult to determine what’s “plain, unadorned or unornamented language.” The same is true of the “unskilled use of figurative language.”]


I have known so many weird people in my life. For example, I knew a guy who could only tell me he truth when he was drunk. Otherwise, he’d lie. Just to have a “normal” conservation, he had to drink a bottle of wine. He had “In Vino Veritas” tattooed across his chest with a gallon jug of Carlo Rossi “Sweet Red” below it. After about a half-gallon he started being honest. Often, he was belligerent, but at least he was honest. Situations where he couldn’t be drunk, but he had to tell the truth were his downfall. When he went to court for a speeding ticket, he nearly ended up in prison: he showed up drunk so he could be truthful about what had happened. The judge fined him $50 and put him in jail for one week. The second time he came to court he was sober: everything he said was a lie. He was fined $500 and his driver’s license suspended for 6 months. So, pretty weird, right?

Well, what about this: I went to high school with a kid who only had one eye. It was in the middle of his forehead. It was the size of an elephant’s eye. It was brown and sparkled in the sunlight. If you looked at it too long, you started to feel your soul being being sucked out of you. Carl was big and strong so nobody teased him or bothered him in any way. One kid, Sammy Bort, messed with Carl. He said “Did the moon hit your eye like a big pizza pie?” to Carl. Sammy became a shuffling, drooling, fart blowing zombie of sorts who would wait on Carl hand and foot. Carl would have him do nonsense tasks, like fetch three pebbles from the parking lot. So, it was a no-brainer to treat Carl with respect, even though he didn’t deserve it.

It was rumored that Carl’s mother ran a uranium crusher at a mine in Nevada. She was exposed to immense doses of radioactivity. Safety standards were such that she wasn’t required to wear goggles while running the crusher. As a consequence, her eyes became saturated with radioactivity. They say her eyes glowed. She became pregnant with Carl and her hair fell out and her gums started to bleed. She wasn’t alone. Her co-workers suffered the same plight. An investigation was undertaken and the Union reached an agreement with the US government to award the workers $2,000,000.

Carl was born 3 months later with the giant eye in the middle of his forehead, His mother placed him in a circus sideshow. He was known as “Cyclops Boy” and drew huge crowds. He would speak in pretend Greek and shake fist. By the time he got to high school, he had dealt with just about everything.

The last time I saw him he had gotten a job on a reality TV show “Classic Mayhem.” He “played” a wrestler from Ancient Greece. He called himself “Mr Cyclops” and became more and more like a Cyclops as time went by. He is obsessed with being strong. He is a loudmouth, violent, and, most likely, murderous.

I just made a new friend. Maybe this one will be normal, but it doesn’t seem likely: she has 12 cats and eats dinner with them out of a dish with her name on it. I don’t know where this is going, but I’m pretty sure I know where it’s going to end.


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.

Asphalia

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.

Assonance

Assonance (ass’-o-nance): Repetition of similar vowel sounds, preceded and followed by different consonants, in the stressed syllables of adjacent words


Water bubbles across the yard. The broken well makes mud. “Drink it! Drink it!” My heated brain yells. “What am I, nuts?” This is the right question under the circumstances.

I am writing a play titled “All is Well.” It makes me thirsty.. I head into the kitchen for a glass of water. I notice a fist shaking at me from out of the sink’s drain. It’s wearing an expensive watch! Then, I realize it is after three a.m. and my medication is wearing off. My condition induces vivid hallucinations that are easy to confuse with reality. Last week I thought I saw a murder take place in my front yard. A little man in a trench coat stabbed a woman in a wheelchair to death, and then, wheeled her away down the street. I checked the murder scene the next morning and saw no blood on the pavement and decided it was a hallucination. I just have to remember to take my anti-hallucinatory medication, “Delusionoff.” The only problem with it is that sometimes I think that things that are real are hallucinations. I was almost killed by a FedEx truck last week. I stepped in front of it thinking it was a hallucination. That’s a real problem that my medication should solve. I am going to talk to Dr. Farmazzi next week & see if there’s anything he can do. I saw a supplement on the web called “Sanizine.” It is supposed to help you distinguish between illusion and reality. It says: “Tired of seeing what’s there and thinking it isn’t? 25 Sanizine per day will fix it!”

Yesterday, despite taking my medication, I saw a cow on my neighbor’s roof. My neighbor was playing a guitar with a small amplifier and singing a song about being a rich man. It was annoying me, so I went outside to confront him. He was working in the flower bed in front of his house and singing the Beatles “Money.” I was so embarrassed that I helped him work in his garden for a half-hour. We sang “Money” together and talked about soil—mostly loam. Kidding around, we sang “Loam, loam on the Range” and laughed.

So, eventually I’ll finish “All is Well.” It’s about a broken well that needs repair or its owner will run out of potable water. Just as the well repair team arrives, Timmy, a neighborhood boy, falls in the well and gets stuck. It starts to rain and the well-water rises. Timmy drowns. He is so stuck in the wall that he can’t be extracted. As time goes by Timmy starts to decompose. The well water is ruined. But the owner of the well bottles it and sells it as “Timmy Memorial Water.” People come from hundreds of miles to purchase small vials for $50. 10% of the profits go to the “Tmmy’s Foolish Boys and Girls Camp Fund” which provides training in how to avoid doing foolish things, like falling in a well. The camp runs for one week in July every year. Nobody knows if it does any good, but it’s the money-making gesture that counts. If “All is Well” becomes a movie, I am hoping to get Danny DeVito to play Timmy., and maybe, Sting to play the well’s owner. I think Madonna will be perfect as Timmy’s mother. Johnny Depp will play Timmy’s father. Peter Falk will play a tricky detective in a filthy trench coat who suspects Timmy is “faking it” down in the well so his parents can collect on his life insurance policy.

Right now, I’m looking at a giant cockroach holding a paddle with a number on it, like the ones used by judges in sporting events. It says “127.” I don’t think my Sanizine is working.


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.

Assumptio

Assumptio (as-sump’-ti’o): The introduction of a point to be considered, especially an extraneous argument. 

See proslepsis (When paralipsis [stating and drawing attention to something in the very act of pretending to pass it over] is taken to its extreme. The speaker provides full details.)


I dropped my flashlight, and it went out, and total darkness descended. I was in the middle of the woods looking for a rare nocturnal slug. They were so rare that they were worth millions. That was a good reason to hunt them, but it was rumored that they could talk. They weighed up to 10 pounds and left a wide slime trail I was hunting the logos maximus for all these reasons, but really, it was the slug’s color that compelled me to hunt it: the slug was brown with a yellow stripe. What could be more fascinating? A sock with a hole? A blender? A leg brace?A three-legged pig? No. None of the above. Well, maybe a red cat. Or, an ivory shoe horn. Or, a half-used roll of aluminum foil. I don’t know. I have trouble rank-ordering, hierarchies, and increments. Especially increments. People say about me: “Give him an inch and he’ll take a mile.” That means that I can’t measure.

But anyway, I heard a squishing sound in the darkness. I got down on my hands and knees and could barely make out what looked like a jiggly watermelon inching past. It was a logos Maximus. I wanted take a picture, but I couldn’t find my phone. The slug said “What’s the matter shithead, can’t find your phone?” I was shocked by the talking slug. I asked what his name was. He told me slugs don’t have names, but you can call me Vick. I asked him what it was like to be so rare and relentlessly hunted. He told me it was “a pain in the ass.” I agreed as I squatted to pick him up and stuff him in my slug hunting bag. When I grabbed him he screamed, started squirming violently and cursing. He slimed up and slipped out of my hands.

He took off like a bat out of hell. I took off running after him. We were headed down the bank of a creek. I made a move to bag him and I tripped over a log and stepped on him. It was like stepping in a bowl of jello. Vick died. He liquified and soaked into the ground. All I could think was “I was so close.” I hadn’t gotten to know Vick that well, so I didn’t care that much about killing him. In fact, I was kind of angry that he liquified. I didn’t even have a trophy to mount on my living room wall over the fireplace.

When I got home, there was a large slug trail leading to my front door. I got in my car and drove away and never went back.


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.

Asteismus

Asteismus (as-te-is’-mus): Polite or genteel mockery. More specifically, a figure of reply in which the answerer catches a certain word and throws it back to the first speaker with an unexpected twist. Less frequently, a witty use of allegory or comparison, such as when a literal and an allegorical meaning are both implied.


Joann: No ifs, ands, or buts about it.

Gill: No butts? a world without butts is a world where there’s nothing worth looking at.

Joann: Give it up. Your attempts at humor are a joke. And that does not mean funny. It means pitiful. So again, you’ve got to get your act together or I’m packing up and leaving, no ifs, ands, or buts about it.

Gill: My favorite act is getting my act together. That means knowing my lines, memorizing them, and speaking them in the right tone with the right gestures, including facial expressions. See? I am smiling with a depth of sincerity that shows my act is together. See? See? That means “yes” in Spanish.

Joann: Yes, I see. Si. Si. You’re disturbed. Your relational calculus is missing actual sincerity—the foundation of trust, and possibly, in some cases, a sure sign of love. We’re supposed to be n love. I don’t think you know what it is.

Gill: My idea of love goes deeper than my favorite cut of beef or flavor of ice cream, which is chocolate, by the way. For me, true love is more like rolling in gold coins. What a feeling!


Joann started laughing, but it wasn’t for happiness. It was angry laughter that had a sort of growl to it. Gill had heard that kind of laughter before. Joann was going to break up with him. He lamented the fact that he had no staying power with women. Barbara had made get out of her car at gunpoint out in the middle of the desert. He never should’ve gone camping with Joann. She was fingering a can of bear repellent. Gill was pretty sure he was going to take a squirt in the face. Why? Because he’s ugly? No. Because he’s mean? No. Because he’s socially inept? Yes—that’s it. He begged Joann not to squirt him. She squirted hm. He ran to the lake and soaked his face. She came running to lake yelling “I’m sorry. My god. My finger slipped!” She was holding something behind her back. It was a small log. She beat the half-blinded Gill over the head until he was dead. Too bad Gill did not know that Joann was psycho and was a fugitive from “Bluto’s Hope Mental Hospital.” There were pictures posted all over the place with a warning—they were everywhere—from telephone poles to the internet. If Gill had done a little research he would’ve been saved.

So, the lesson here is check out telephone poles and mental institutions’ websites. “Billy’s Bear Spray” has set up a memorial fund in Gill’s name. Joann is still on the run. She was last seen in Tulsa with a man with a bruised and swollen face.


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.

Astrothesia

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.

Asyndeton

Asyndeton (a-syn’-de-ton): The omission of conjunctions between clauses, often resulting in a hurried rhythm or vehement effect. [Compare brachylogia. Opposite of polysyndeton.]


I got an unbelievable deal on a new car. Well, it wasn’t actually new, it was one year old, but it was new to me! It only had 9,000 miles on it. It was a black Escalade CSV. It cost around $65,000 new. I paid $3500 for mine. I had gotten it from a newspaper ad. The tag line was “No bullet holes!” The guy I bought it from was named John Smith. It was on the title, so I figured it was legitimate. He said to me: “I hate to get rid of it, but I need to get rid of it fast. There could be consequences I don’t want to deal with.

This was one of the best things that ever happened to me. I was overjoyed, totally stoked,ecstatic. Ever since I was a little boy, I wanted a black Cadillac. All the mafia guys drove them. They were like four-wheeled merit badges, expressive of a major accomplishment. Now I had one! The leather seats were enough to make me cry with joy. I bought a handgun and stashed it under the seat. I didn’t know how to shoot it, but it made me feel cool. My girlfriend, Rosy, wanted to move into my Cadillac and live together. She said, riding in the car she felt like a goddess—like Venus. I felt like a mobster: Bosch suit, stingy brim hat, Gucci shoes, black cashmere overcoat, Di Nobili cigars, dark glasses.

I was waiting in the cue for a burger at McDonald’s when a guy who looked like a mobster, knocked on my window and asked “Where’d you get that car?” I didn’t answer. I pulled out of line and sped away. I swear, the guy pulled out a gun. I never saw him again. Then something started to smell. I tried to cover it with air fresheners, but it didn’t work. The smell got really really bad. I couldn’t ignore it any more. I drove out to an isolated place in the woods. I opened the back of the Escalade and the smell got worse. I opened the hatch where the spare tire was stored. Just as I suspected there was a dead body stuffed in the space. He was wearing a black suit and all the other things mobsters wear. There was a note pinned to his suit jacket: “When you find me, throw me on the ground somewhere isolated. You will be rewarded. Keep car.” So, I was somewhere isolated—the woods. I hauled out and let him flop to the ground. Underneath him was a shopping bag filled with $100 bills.

I’ve been scrubbing my car and have made some headway getting rid of the smell.


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.

Auxesis

Auxesis (ok-see’-sis): (1) Arranging words or clauses in a sequence of increasing force. In this sense, auxesis is comparable to climax and has sometimes been called incrementum. (2) A figure of speech in which something is referred to in terms disproportionately large (a kind of exaggeration or hyperbole). (3) Amplification in general.


The wind was quiet, then blowing, then like a jet engine sweeping across the land. Trees shot through the air like giant leafyl spears, impaling people on their branches. Whole towns disappeared into the sky. Livestock flew. The only safe place was Cliff’s, a convenience store catering to beer drinking, smoking, scratch-off lotto players. People packed in to save themselves as dogs and sheep and cows flew by.

Nobody knew exactly why Cliff’s survived the annual wind storm. The most credible rumor was that Cliff was descended from Viking stock—after all, his last name was Fiord. It was rumored he had a shrine to Njord, the Viking god of the wind. To appease the god he ran an electric fan that blew on the shrine 24-7. It even had a back-up battery for when Njord made the power go out. The constant wind appeased Njord and kept hm from blowing Cliff’s away.

I wanted to believe the rumor. If it was true, I would build a Njord shrine in what remained of my basement. Cliff denied he had a shrine, so I had to do some sneaking around. Cliff’s house was always unscathed by the wind, and his basement windows were painted over. I had to go inside. I had worked briefly for CIA and learned how to pick locks. I knew Cliff was at the store, so I wouldn’t be worried about meeting up with him. I picked the lock and went straight down the basement stairs. There it was!

There was a 70” plasma screen Tv with a box fan blowing on it. I turned on the TV and it was tuned to an episode of “Vikings”—where they were a sacking Paris. Suddenly, I heard a voice with a Danish accent ask “I am Njord. Who in the name of Odin are you?!” I told him I was Cliff’s neighbor and friend and I wanted to build a shrine to Njord. He told me I was looking at one—he told me to just keep the fan blowing and “Vikings” tuned to the TV. Njord swore me to secrecy. If I revealed the secret of the shire, he told me he would “blow me to pieces with one gust of northern wind.” I believed him, so I kept my mouth shut.

Everybody attributed our recurring wind storms to climate change. I knew better. With my shrine running in my basement, my house has remained unscathed for the past 9 years—Cliff has the same kind of “luck.” Every couple of months Njord stops by disguised as an EMT. He brings a bag of Kringle. I make strong coffee and we play Hnefatafl, a board game with a military objective. We talk too. He misses the old days, when the wind was the primary ”fuel” for moving trade and war ships.


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.

Bdelygmia

Bdelygmia (del-ig’-mi-a): Expressing hatred and abhorrence of a person, word, or deed.


I hate myself and everybody like me. I can’t help myself. I can’t resist. No matter how many times I risk bent caught, I go back. If am a certified nutcase. I beg my brain to stop me, but it won’t. It has a mind of its own.

What’s my problem? I like to squeeze women’s butt cheeks in public places—malls, nightclubs, places of worship, schools, etc.

My Uncle Ernie got me started grabbing. One day we were walking through the mall. He went up close behind a woman and grabbed her but with two hands. He had this wild look on his face—his eyes were bulging and he had a smile on his face like he was intoxicated. As soon as he made his grab, he stopped and turned around and pretended he was checking his cellphone. The woman would look around and sometimes ask him if he saw anybody come up behind her. Uncle Ernie would answer “No” and ask if he could be of assistance.

I thought grabbing was so cool that I took it up—I became addicted. I grabbed hundreds of butts and never got caught. Then, everything changed.

I came up behind an elderly woman one day and grabbed her butt. Before I could make my getaway, she looked over her shoulder and said “That was nice.” Here face turned from that of a 60-year old woman to that of a 25-26-year old woman. Then, it immediately turned back to a 60-year old face. She invited me to come to her home once a week and give her grab. All I had to do in return was mow her lawn and water her garden. I agreed with her proposal. We built a “mall walk” in her basement. She would walk past me and I would follow, squeeze her butt and then do my turn-around evasion routine. I spent some of the best days of my life in that basement making grabs.

Then one day she invited me over midweek for a special grab. The basement was lit by candles and the air was perfumed by jasmine incense. She came walking by and her pants were pulled down, exposing her naked butt. This was the holy grail—she put on her young face and said “Grab it hard.” I did. But my hands sank into her butt as if it was peanut butter. I could feel something chewing lightly on my fingertips. No matter what I did, I couldn’t pull out my hands. She was eating me with her butt. It wouldn’t be long and I’d be dead. Just then, the basement door crashed open. It was Bill Whilk, my dad’s Vietnam War buddy.

He said, “Mary Lee, stop right now. You’re about to eat Willis Yodel’s son Wendell!” I felt the grip loosen. Mary Lee kept on her young face. Even though she had tried to eat me, I was smitten.

I learned she was one of very few mutants who had grown up in close proximity to the oil refineries in Linden, NJ. It had never been documented so nobody knows how many hand-eating grabbers exist. None have ever been captured and most people think they are fictional.

So, that does not keep me from hating myself. I would much prefer living a normal life. I hate the fact that I married Mary Lee. I’ve become her grabber pimp. I can’t rat her out. I’d be ratting myself out. End of story.


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.

Bomphiologia

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.

Brachylogia

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.

Cacozelia

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


He is a pickled booger —relish for his secretion sandwich. Look at the mucus dripping from his lips. Of course, this isn’t literally true, it is the beginning of an allegory of the person he really is. Dog vomit. Cow flops. Puss. Blood. Gangrene. Amputated fingers. Ingrown toenail. Gout. Sweat. Rainbows.

Yes, rainbows. The light of hope beaming down on Noah’s yacht, ready to capsize with the weight of his living cargo—endangered species destined laboratories and museums up and down the east coast of North America. This is why I call him a pickled booger, and all the other disparagful cognomens. I don’t how or why he merits he rainbow. Perhaps God has made a mistake. Can it be? Who am I to say—a Papa John’s Pizza franchise owner. I must confess, the idea of pickled boogers intrigues. As a garnish, they would bring my franchise to the top of the mark. Pickled boogers are not produced everywhere. There is only one place in the world. I won’t reveal it. They are worth their weight in gold among aficionados. For example, Steve Banon consumes $1,000,000 worth per year. He has tiny toothpicks to spear them for “Boogartinis.” He sits by his pool sipping Boogartins and making up lies for his boss.

It just goes to show you that one person’s Boogatini is another person’s vile concoction. Which is it? Both. That’s how taste operates through our feeble understanding of its origin, say, in the tongue, with some tastes being excellent and others being vomit inducing. But one person can love what another person hates—we’ve already established that. So, it’s the person not the taste. Jello can tastes good and it can taste like crap (to somebody). Sweetness is the equivalent of truth to the tongue. it is certainly used as a metaphor for goodness—not quite truth—but sweet enough.

But, getting back to Captain Noah. His yacht “Bedlam” is looking for a place to dock. Given his cargo, his quest for a North American dock is doomed. We hear he is disguising the animal cargo to evade detection. They are being disguised as so many Rin-Tin-Tins. Rin-Tin-Tin was a German Shepard mercenary working for the US Army in the far western US. His major role was to bark vigorously in support of Army maneuvers. So, the animals on Noah’s yacht are being taught to bark—even the only existing Samoan Weasel Constrictor. That, I’d love to see. By the way, Noah is disguising his cargo of pickled boogers as peppercorns.

We live in strange times. “The lie, the disgusting, the ugly” have replaced “The true, the good, and the beautiful” as aspirational horizons of the human adventure. We are nearing the end. Don’t despair. Have a handful of pickled booger and make up some lies.


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.

Catachresis

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


I was parking my thoughts under the overpass. Then, I would abandon them—leaving them behind like a salad with no croutons—just romaine lettuce, cheddar chew, cherry tomatoes and cucumbers, with oil and vinegar dressing. The more words I use, the more likely it is that ai’ll say what I mean to say. I am reticent to speak my mind because the world waits to respond and I have to pretend I care. I am not good at that as my wife will tell you. She’s filing for divorce because I didn’t on’t “listen.”

So what if she was yelling for help when she got stuck in the dishwasher. She got out on her own, Anyway, you’d think she was helpless the way she talks. I believe that “No island is a man.” Anybody can see that. So why do we keep trying to make islands into men? Think about it. I think it might make sense to a poet or a king, or a geographer.

Anyway, I’m going to take a walk down by he river. I like to look at the garbage washed up on the bank. I especiallynnnnnń like shopping carts. They are like woven metal sculptures with wheels. How do they end up there? I think it’s my wife. She’s Trang to please me to make up for the divorce.

This how I wrestle with my thoughts. It is as if they don’t exist. I don’t wonder any more. I drink and do unsafe things—like going home.


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.

Catacosmesis

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)

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.

Cataphasis

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.

Cataplexis

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


Husband: You have done me wrong. I am on fire with anger. You ignited my matchbook collection. They traced my travels through the 70s. The 100s of bars I hit, slowly building my collection of East Coast matchbooks, sometimes going to a bar just to get a matchbook.

My collection won first prize in ‘78 in the National Assemblers Sweepstakes. All you cared about was the giant wine glass I kept them in and how “ugly” it looked as a centerpiece on the dining room table. It was an icon—a token of excellence from a time gone by, along with my disco suit folded in the chest up in the attic waiting to be resurrected as time reaches back to the past and time returns us to the good times when bell bottoms flapped and the top three buttons of our shirts were unbuttoned revealing our manly chests. It is people like you who want to obliterate my past, to make me a living anomaly—a doorway to nowhere, a highway to hell. A living landfill.

Well baby, we know we all collect something. We gather together objects that are the same in some way—like matchbook! My beloved matchbooks! Damn you! Well, have you seen your thimble collection lately? I know, your answer is “No.” That’s because I have—that damn tray with your carefully arranged thimbles—metal, wood, ceramic, rubber, plastic—antique to contemporary. I’m especially going to enjoy crushing the Mary Todd Lincoln thimble she used to repair the seat of Abraham’s pants because he insisted on wearing cheap suits for at least four-score and seven years. Then I’m going to grind up the Winston Churchill thimble—made of rubber and used by his doctor to examine Churchill’s prostate. It saved Churchill’s life when it was discovered he had an enlarged prostate and stopped eating fish and chips. Then, there’s the John Glenn thimble he carried to moon in case his spacesuit got a leak, he could sew it shut. Part of his training involved sewing classes. He was supposed to embroider a lunar landscape, but was unable to do so because of “issues” with the lunar lander. I can’t wait to turn the John Glenn thimble into dust, along with commie dictator Kennedy’s portrait on the tip.

Wife: Where are my thimbles you loon?

Husband: At the divorce lawyer’s. I’m holding them hostage until you beg for my forgiveness for destroying the greatest matchbook cover collection ever.

Wife: If you must know, I staged their demise—I burned random matchbooks to account for the collection’s absence from the dining room table, I had a crystal chalice made for it for your birthday. It was a bad decision, but all’s well that ends well. Right?

Husband: Well umm . . .


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.

Charientismus

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


Bill: You’re the world’s biggest schmuck.

Me: That’s totally wrong! You’re talking about my brother! He’s the king of the schmuck-a-lucks. He makes me look smart and likeable like Santa’s Claus or the Cat in the Hat.

Shh. Here he comes. What’s that you’ve got there?

Brother: A magnifying glass. I thought we could fry some ants. Sizzling ants makes me happy.

Me: You’re 26 years old and I’m 30. My time for frying ants has passed.

Brother: Then what about this? Ha ha!

Me: That’s a baby bird! You are truly twisted. They never should’ve let you out of Gurney Hill. I told Mom and Dad they were making a mistake. When you head-butted the orderly who was escorting you to the exit, they should’ve known. You’re psycho. These things escalate—first it’s baby birds and eventually it babies.

Brother: Bullshit. I am very normal. That’s what my therapist Dr. Bugles tells me. We build little matchstick dungeons and pretend we’re inside torturing each other. I paddle him and he whips me. Sometimes he makes me sit on nails.

Me: Give me the baby bird. It is an innocent little creature that should live!

Brother: Over my dead body. See this? It’s a .22 auto. I got it at the flea market with no background check. You told me all my life I have a hole in my head. Now, I really will.

Me: My brother shot himself in the head. The .22 didn’t make much of a hole, but it was big enough to kill him. As he lay there bleeding the baby bird got loose and ran down the driveway where it was run over by a FedEx truck delivering my “Candles in the Rain” mantle decoration. When you turned it on the “candles” flashed red, yellow, blue and green. And, it played the song “Candles in the Rain” by Melanie. I thought I had heard it at Woodstock, but I wasn’t sure.

At that point I called 911. My brother had started twitching around on the ground.

Somehow, he had survived a self-inflicted wound to the head. As he convalesced we discover he could speak six languages, knew the entire contents of the dictionary, wrote beautiful poetry and gave excellent advice based on his encyclopedic knowledge. It was a miracle! He became an actuary, got married and had two daughters. People ask him how he got so far in life. He says “I took a shot.”


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.

Chiasmus

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


In morning the sea retreats. In evening it attacks the shore. It destroys sandcastles, washes away the seashells, and winds around the pier’s pilings making them sway, showing their age and need of repair.

When I was a kid I watched a show called Diver Dan. He wore a diving suit and had fish friends and enemies who talked to Dan. But most important, there was a mermaid queen named Laura who he had a passionate love affair with until he decided to move to the Galápagos Islands. How sad.

The show taught me that I could like somebody who acted like an absolute A-1 bastard. Dan had to do what he had to do. I don’t remember why he moved, but I know it tore Laura the Mermaid to pieces. She almost climbed into a lobster trap to die. But she didn’t because her anger outweighed her grief. She conspired with Baron Barracuda to cut Dan’s air hose and murder him. Baron demanded that Laura “be his girl” if he was going to help her cut Dan’s hose. She said she would think it over, but by the time she made up her mind, Dan was gone to the Galapagos Islands where he planned to build an army of Blue-footed Boobies and invade the small fishing village of Salango and become its Mayor for Life. There was an archaeological dig there that gave him further motivation to invade. He would open a stand on the beach selling artifacts, including fake native bracelets made in Taiwan, and t-shirts saying “Kiss an Archeologist.” Dan was ambitious. Meanwhile, Laura was wasting away from a broken heart. She stopped eating and just sat on a rock looking sickly with scales coming off her tail. Yet, Dan was not taken in. He persisted in his plan and never came back.

Dan’s plan failed. His flotilla of Boobies was intercepted by the Ecuadoran navy and flew off to better places. They left Dan by himself about a half-mile off the coast bobbing on his Ski Doo, with the Boobie flag mounted on the stern. Dan revved up the Ski-Doo and headed for Costa Rica, but he was too late. The naval vessel fired its deck-mounted fifty caliber machine gun at Dan and his Ski-Doo. Dan was hit in the head by a round and his decapitated body slipped into the sea in a circle of blood. The sharks soon arrived and ate the hapless Dan. Hundreds of the cowardly Blue-Boobies circled the carnage silently out of respect for their leader Dan. They were hypocrites.

Laura recovered her health. She met another diver—Diver Dave—and fell in love. Still, though, she would cry in her Boobie flag at night and pine for Dan who she hated and loved at the same time. When the Blue-footed Boobies recounted to their children what happened that day, they lied.


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.

Chronographia

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)

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.

Climax

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


I was angry. I was outraged. I was ready to go ballistic, somebody had stolen my pin cushion. It looked like a strawberry and it had been in my family for 800 years. Betsy Ross had rented it from my ancestors during the American Revolution when she was sewing the flag. She said it’s strawberry motif worked to motivate her to “keep going” in the face of Ben Franklin’s “incessant” overtures. He was overweight and the creepy glasses he wore repulsed her. She said Tommy Jefferson would’ve been a real catch, but he already had a girlfriend.

Then, we got into the wedding dress business. Great-Great Grandmother “Lippy” used the pincushion when she made wedding dresses for rich people. One dress is especially interesting p. It was for Duchess Binger of the tiny European Duchy of Droppenstain. Duchess Binger was known far and wide for her dishonesty. She had “dishonest” breasts stitched into the dress. Her soon-to-be husband, the Duke of Earl, would be none the wiser. He was blind. She was taking a huge risk. If he touched them he would know—he had touched them when they first met. He knew how big they were. The Duchess had to keep him at bay until the wedding was over. When Grandmother Lippy asked her why she “was ding this,” she said she didn’t know. That was normal for the Duchess. Nobody had ever taken the time to teach her how to make good decisions. People believed that her unlimited wealth would shield her from the consequences of her bad decisions. For example, recently she had salted the manor’s fields, rendering them unsuitable for farming. She believed salting the earth would make food taste better.

But enough of this—where the hell is the pin cushion now?

Holy crap! The dog had gotten ahold of it! It was soaked with saliva and he looked like he had had an altercation with porcupine. My wife sat on him while I pulled out the pins and needles with a pair of pliers. After I got him straightened out I put the pin cushion up on the mantle on a dish towel to dry out.

This was the closest the pin cushion had come to being destroyed. The only other incident I’m aware of was Uncle Zombro’s carrying the pin cushion during the Civil War as a lucky charm. His diary recounts many time how it saved his life. For example, at the battle of Knuckle Ridge, he was juggling the pin cushion, a crumpled piece of paper and a rock. A Rebel sniper who was going to shoot him was so impressed he came down from his tree and asked Zombro to show him how to juggle. Zombro shot him in the head and took his boots, which were in great shape for a Rebel’s boots.

Well, the family heirloom is home! We’ve had it appraised and it is worth $25. That’s not much, but it’s ours. To family it’s worth $25,000,000. It’s packed with history, like a suitcase full of time. When the pin cushion dries out, I’m going to put it in a showcase and insure it for $50.


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.

Coenotes

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 epistrophecoenotes 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)

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.

Colon

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


There was a time before time—no time, no measure of duration, no deadlines. People lived and then they died—no yesterday, no tomorrow. Just now. this is how you live. I’ve known you for 22 years and you’ve never been on time. I remember when we were going on vacation together. You were driving. You were two days late picking me up. I waited with my suitcase on my front lawn. When you finally showed up it was pouring rain. I was wrapped in a plastic tablecloth I pulled off the picnic table in the garage. It leaked and my head got wet. When you finally got there you didn’t apologize because you didn’t know what “late” means.

The time has come. Cuckoo cuckoo me and you are going to Switzerland. Enough is enough. There is a clinic in Geneva—“The Max Plonk Clinic.” They have developed a foolproof surgical procedure for awakening your time onsciousness—to get the ticker in your head tocking. Phil was opposed to it at first. But when I pointed out how being bereft of time consciousness had negatively affected his life, he capitulated. I had reminded him how he was 3 years late for his daughter’s birth and almost destroyed his family. So, we took off for Switzerland.

I made sure we were on time to the Max Plonk Clinic. It was still beyond Phil. The surgery was bizarre. Dr. Chronoveaux cut a slot in Phil’s head like a piggy bank slot. It was about the size of a quarter. he dropped a watch the size of a quarter into the slot. And then pugged it with a little rubber plug. For purposes of battery changing, he implanted a small spring that would enable the watch to pop up like a little piece of toast when the skull plug is removed. As far as the way the mechanism works, it is a mystery to me. Dr. Chronoveaux would only say, “It puts zee time in zee head. Ha, ha, Zo vunny to me!”

That didn’t help. But when the watch was inserted in Herb’s head, he started tapping his fingers and his eyes darted around. At one point he looked at his wrist like he was wearing a wristwatch. When he fully woke up he asked what time it was. Success! but then, he asked again in five minutes, and again in five minutes. It needed to be fixed. They sedated Phil and used the toast popper function to remove the watch. There was a picture of Mickey Mouse on the watch’s face. “Vee must upgrade!” Said Dr. Chronoveaux. He went to the Mall and came back in around 30 minutes. He had a small watch with Taylor Swift embossed on the face. The Doctor dropped it in the slot and Phil was repaired! Aside from wanting to time nearly everything, Phil is just fine now. He is on time most of the time and he apologizes if he’s late by saying “Taylor and I apologize— it’s really not her fault.”


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.

Commoratio

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


I am right. Do you understand me? I know the answer. My answer is the “right answer”always—even if I’m wrong. And it does not matter. No matter how wrong you think I am, it is you who’re wrong. You might think there is something beyond the wall of convention that makes you right. Well, I’ve taken a few bricks out of that wall in anticipation of change. We are not talking natural order here. We’re talking about everything else. Do you remember when marajuana was illegal? Well, it is not illegal any more. It is wrong to call it illegal. What about abortion? Now it is illegal. What about gay marriage? Now it is legal.

So, if you have a hope, you may be able to induce a change. This is how democracy works. Nobody is %100 in favor of everything, so there’s always a chance for change—for better and for worse. Accepting the status quo is functional if you’ve thought about it and it aligns with your values—what you think is right. Just because it is true that abortion is illegal, it does not make it right that it is illegal.

This is all pretty basic, but it opens the portals of change. So you reflect on what keeps you party to the status quo. What motivates whre you reside? Laziness? Happiness? Trapped? Lack of vision? Fear? Every motive term you can imagine is operative here. And then, on the other side are the motives for change. We live in the grip of motives. They fuel our choice making. They are the foundation of our character. As you make your trajectory through life they answer the question “Why?” They answer to our conscience internally, and externally to people who care about the meaning of our actions. Of course, as Kenneth Burke tells us, we avow motives and others impute motives to derive meaning—the why. For example, the meaning of a handshake isn’t in the handshake, it’s in what motivates it.

Anyway, I am right. Whatever I project on the screen of social reality is in some way right. I don’t know why. I just think it. Thinking it does not make me wrong. It makes me like everybody else.


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.

Comparatio

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 metaphorsimileallegory, 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.