Paramythia (pa-ra-mee’-thi-a): An expression of consolation and encouragement.
“Now, now honey, it’s not like it’s the end of the world.” I said, trying to console my wife Roxie. Then I realized it was probably the end of the world. Smoke filled the air. Sirens were blaring. My neighbors were eating their dog Sarah right there on front lawn. It was disgusting and fascinating at the same time. Mel was holding Sarah, their little dog, like corn on the cob, spinning and chomping like he was at a summer picnic. Mel’s wife Gloria was chewing on Sarah’s tail. Mel had always treated her like a second-class citizen—even eating their dog together, Gloria got the short end of the stick. She didn’t mind though, she had already chewed off half Sarah’s tail, and was still going strong, with bloody fur on her chin and no sign of slowing down. I couldn’t stop looking out the window at the carnage—little Ricky Ranker standing in the street, licking his headless hamster like it was an ice cream cone. Then, there was Grandma Tuttle with what looked like a finger in a hot dog bun. She was squirting mustard on it and looking at it like it was some kind of religious icon.
I was on the verge of vomiting when there was a knock on the door that quickly turned into pounding. Without opening the door, I asked who was there. “Police, open up!” The voice sounded like it was talking with it’s mouth full. Normally, I would’ve thought it was a donut, but given that it was the end of the world, it was probably a piece of the guy across the street who I could see through the window, holding his arm and screaming. So I looked through the front door’s peephole and saw my friend Bill, a police officer. He had blood down the front of his shirt and was holding my bank teller’s severed head by her hair, swinging it back and forth by his side like it was a bleeding bowling ball.
“Bill! I think you want to eat me and Roxie—you’ve always looked at her like she made you hungry, but I thought is was sexual. But now, I see it isn’t. You want to make her into some kind of human rainbow roll, smear on some wasabi, and eat her along with shots of sake. What the hell happened to you?” He yelled through the door: “I don’t know Goddamnit. I went to bed, got up and put on my uniform, and ate the bank teller, and now I want to eat you and Roxie, especially Roxie. My mouth’s watering and my stomach’s growling like a mad dog. Open the damn door, or I’ll shoot my way in.” He was lying—he had an axe and started chopping his way through the door. I wondered why he hadn’t just broken the picture window and climbed through. I didn’t have time to ask. I could see the axe’s blade tearing through the door. I ran into the kitchen where Roxie was, but she wasn’t there. I didn’t blame her for taking off on me. It might save her life. Just then, Officer Bill broke through the front door. I ran as fast as I could out the back door. I looked over my shoulder as I ran and caught a glimpse of Bill and Roxie—evidently she had been hiding in the bathroom and he had found her. I felt sick. I got down on my knees and yelled “make it stop!”
And it stopped. I had awakened from yet another one of my mega-nightmares. They were vivid and inevitably apocalyptic. I have been seeing a psychologist to find a way to put an end to what I call ‘My night horrors.” She seems to think the nightmares are triggered by my vegetarianism and abhorrence of meat. Anyway, waking up, I felt like Dorothy arriving back in Kansas. Aside from our neighbor’s worthless dog Sarah’s barking at whatever the hell she barks at, things were quiet and serene. I went to the kitchen to get a glass of water. It was late, but somebody knocked softly on the front door. Trixie came downstairs fully dressed. I noticed she was carrying a suitcase. She opened the door. It was my friend Bill the policeman. “Shhh” she said and went out the door, and quietly closed it behind them.
“This is the end of the world,” I sobbed as I thought of all the ways I could kill, and possibly, eat Trixie and Bill..
Definition courtesy of “Silva Rhetoricae” (rhetoric.byu.edu).
Buy a print edition of The Daily Trope! The print edition is entitled The Book of Tropes and is available on Amazon for $9.99. A Kindle edition is available for $5.99.