Repotia (re-po’-ti-a): 1. The repetition of a phrase with slight differences in style, diction, tone, etc. 2. A discourse celebrating a wedding feast.
1. A. Did you kill your neighbor? Did you end his life with a kitchen knife? He’s full of holes—you must’ve been enraged. Did you do your neighbor in? Was it you? Look, all you need to do is answer yes, or no. Did you whack your neighbor?
B. Why would I kill my neighbor. That goddamn piece of crap had everything he wanted and needed. His cute-ass wife supported him with money and affection. She might’ve made a pass at me a couple of times, but nothing to build a relationship on.
A. How do you account for the blood on your hands.
B. I slipped on his blood a fell down, bracing my fall with my hands. It looks bad, but it isn’t.
A. Ok, do you know who might’ve killed your neighbor—who put him in his grave? Who sent him South? Gave him angel wings?
B. As strange as it seems, it might be my wife. We had had sex just once in nine years and then, all of a sudden one Saturday afternoon she pushes me down on the bed & tells me to wait. After five minutes she comes back wearing the Frederick’s of Hollywood nightie I got her for our wedding night nearly twenty years ago. It was unexpected to say the least. It was like having sex with Wonder Woman, or Stormy Daniels, or our pool woman, Sassy. Anyway, about a week later my wife tells me she’s pregnant, and I’m the “naughty” man who did it. She cited our recent sexual activity and complimented my virility. What she didn’t know was that I had had a vasectomy five years ago. I had a lot of reasons, but the most important one was I did not want have children with that shallow, conniving bitch. If I was going to kill anybody it would be her, not Marcus. He was a fun loving guy who probably knocked up my wife. The DNA tests will tell us.
A. Thank you for your cooperation. We’re going to have to take you down to the station. Your wife tells us you confessed to her, and from what she tells us about your drinking, your drug problem, jealousy, physical abuse and explosive homicidal temper, I’m betting you killed Marcus when he affirmed to you that your wife’s baby was his. You had blood on your hands and a pain in your heart. Do you want to confess now, or wait until we get to the station?
B. That bitch. Marcus’ wife gave me a thumb drive with video from their security cam. I was going to toss it, but now I’m going to give it to you. I wanted to protect my wife, but now she can go to hell. When you plug it into your computer, you’ll see my wife murdering Marcus. End of story.
2. You call this a wedding feast? Tater Tots and baloney sandwiches—no cheese, no mustard? Oh, who the hell cares anyway? Definitely not the bride and groom who march to a different drummer, like a couple of Lemmings headed over a cliff into a marital abyss.
I’ve known Bob all my life. I’ve been to all of his weddings—4 I think, but who’s counting? I’m not. Anyway, marriage is a thinly veiled excuse for driving another person crazy. After the vows, everything you’ve kept hidden from each other seeps out. Your chronic jock itch, her prosthetic nose, your hepatitis, her inflated boobs. These can all be game changers, and they often are. I mean, who wants to live with a man with chronic jock itch, right Bob?
And then there’s the in-laws! Bob’s dad is a convicted child molester. His mother’s on probation for nearly beating a 78 year old woman to death over a parking spot. Martha’s dad is a mystery. Nobody knows (or asks) where his money comes from. Martha’s mom sits in her filthy stained house dress, drinks little glasses of wine all day, and swears at the TV.
Well Bob and Martha, if you can steer clear of your families and keep lying to each other, you marriage has a chance. Let’s raise our glasses to the bride and groom. “May your marriage survive the first two weeks.”
Definition courtesy of “Silva Rhetoricae” (rhetoric.byu.edu).
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