Hypozeuxis


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


I am going to the mall. I’ve been locked down for a year. I was unable to go out for fear of catching the virus. I have been dividing my time between bedroom, bathroom, kitchen, living room and laundry room. I don’t answer the phone. My kids annoy me. I don’t answer the door for the same reason. I used to think the internet is a curse. Now, I think it is a blessing. I give my kids 1 minute on Zoom every three days. I buy everything I need on Amazon. The other day I bought a Beagle puppy. I need the company. I named him Peloton after the ad on TV. The only thing I can’t get on Amazon is a haircut, and it shows. That is my first stop at the mall—at Hairport where a recent high school grad will cut my hair for $8.00 and yap the whole time. Then, I’m going to Boscov’s to look at all the shiny chrome appliances and cheap t-shirts. Last, I’ll go to Pet Hutch to get Peloton a leash and collar. In a way, I feel like I’m being unfaithful to Amazon, and I am! It’s exhilarating.

Postscript: I caught the virus at the mall. Or, maybe I got it from the Uber driver who took me to the mall when my car wouldn’t start. He was wearing a mask, but it was one of those cheap cloth ones with Jesus’ picture printed on it. Anyway, at least I am not dying. The vaccine and booster I got when all this started helped. Last night, I stumbled across a gentleman on Zoom. He was just as surprised as I was. We had a very intimate conversation and I slept like a kitten afterwards. The next day I was supposed to meet him again. This time, I was dressed for ‘success’ with my newly purchased “toy” (named Big Richard) in my hand. I turned on Zoom and there were my children! Jaws dropped. My second oldest threw up. My son started laughing. I killed it as fast as I could and started thinking of an excuse. I couldn’t think of one. I am going to tell the truth. They’re mature adults. But, will they understand? Probably not.

It’s late. I pick up Big Richard from the nightstand. He cost $95.00 on Amazon. I am determined to get my money’s worth. I plug his charger into the electric outlet by the closet. His red “I’m charging” light glows, casting a lurid hue over the darkened room. I will wait for Big Richard, like I used to wait for my former husband. I wonder if Big Richard will be a disappointment too.


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

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