Alleotheta (al-le-o-the’-ta): Substitution of one case, gender, mood, number, tense, or person for another. Synonymous with enallage. [Some rhetoricians claim that alleotheta is a] general category that includes antiptosis [(a type of enallage in which one grammatical case is substituted for another)] and all forms of enallage [(the substitution of grammatically different but semantically equivalent constructions)].

I could be selling live butterflies last month. Who knows how that would work out? I don’t know because I wasn’t there. That is, I wasn’t at Bkekleville Farmer’s Market. I was banned for life for selling organic magic mushrooms grown on my little farm called “Little Farm” located on the outskirts of town. The other vendors and townspeople bought all the ‘shrooms I had and most of them brewed up a little tea and gulped it down. When I saw Mr. Compree run by naked with a carrot sticking out of his butt, I knew I was in trouble. But that was just the beginning. Mr. Riley had brought his tractor down for kids to climb on and have their pictures taken. Now, Mr. Riley was doing donuts with his tractor in the middle of the town square with a chicken on his head held in place with a bungee chord. Ms. Gangel, who sold goat’s milk ice cream, was trying to juggle 3 one-pint containers of vanilla “Big Meh” while she listened to something on her earbuds. Some villagers had some psychedelic tea too. One man was prancing in circles with his balled-up fists moving around under his T-shirt and saying “Look! They’re alive! They may be turtles!” I think the only guys not high were me and the Amish farmers from Pennsylvania who packed up a left when things started to get weird. The 60-something grandmother playing acoustic guitar in the square’s gazebo stood up, kicked off her Crocs and started singing Blue Oyster Cult’s “I’m burn’in for you” to the shy guy who was at least 20 years younger than her and sold organic honey near the gazebo. Blushing, he made it to the stage, squirted honey on her neck and started to lick it off. There was a group of around ten people standing silently in a circle with their arms stretched out toward the sky. It reminded me of Woodstock, but it wasn’t Woodstock. It was the Bkekleville Farmer’s Market and I had turned it into a hallucinating fracas—an ensemble of space rangers floating through the Shroomasphere. Thank God nobody was hurt and I wasn’t arrested (the Chief of police was too embarrassed to press charges), but I had to plow under my mushrooms (even though they would keep coming back), and get a haircut. I want to be readmitted to the Farmer’s Market. In anticipation, I’ve planted two acres of tomatoes, Bella Donna, and yellow squash.

Definition courtesy of “Silva Rhetoricae” (

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