Dehortatio


Dehortatio (de-hor-ta’-ti-o): Dissuasion.


Don’t do it Eddie. You will ruin your life totally and completely. You’ll start to atrophy and become a walking talking carrot or bell pepper. Is that what you want? Carrot Boy! Is that who you want be? Do you want to die on the sidewalk from rickets—I’m not sure what they are, but they’re bad—they do something to your memory too. Have you started forgetting things lately? What’s your L.L. Bean account number? What’s the capital of Labrador? Yeah, see? It’s starting to go already. Pretty soon you won’t be able to remember who won the World Series in 1946. And all the cheese! It’ll plug you up like a bathtub drain packed with hair. Especially, from all the sharp cheddar you eat, you could probably build a dog coop with all the yellow bricks you’re pushing out your butt. And, my God! No meat?! You might as well be dead. No juicy cow flesh? No steaming veal? No lamb off the grill on one of those bamboo sticks? No pork liver sandwiches with onions and garlic? Last, and most terrifying, you will go as limp as linguini. You know what that means: the end.

You will be disabled, lonely, and then, dead in a year. This is my only warning: Do not be a vegetarian. Put that tomato down. Put it down!


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

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