Mesozeugma (me’-so-zyoog’-ma): A zeugma in which one places a common verb for many subjects in the middle of a construction.
Him: I am going for the weather, for the food, and for the scenery. You don’t think that’s all right. You think that we should immerse ourselves in the so-called culture. For me, that means going to the local fast food place, most likely Burger King, and seeing if it’s the same greasy cheesy mess on a bun that I can get at home. If it isn’t the same, I’ll complain to the proprietor. Meanwhile, you’ll be hunched by a brook eating salamander testicles off a wild mint leaf. Given that they are smaller than BBs, you and your “host” will probably wipe out the local salamander population before you’ve had enough. And oh, I vividly remember our last vacation, while I was laid out in a cabana flying on Mojitos, you just had to go with three local guys to explore the “Motel Fantasma” on the outskirts of town. They brought you back with a pillowcase over your head, and you lost your shoes, and purse, and all your cash and credit cards. You told me it was all worth it. You told me your “guides” were very courteous and took turns showing you their artifacts and very graciously illustrating their uses in a variety of ancient/timeless rituals. I still don’t know what the pillowcase was about. You told me they put it over your head when you were leaving Motel Fantasma because the air-conditioning had broken in their car and they had to put the windows down, and they didn’t want the wind to mess up your beautiful hair. Sounds sketchy to me.
Then, the next day, you went back to the motel to act in an amateur movie. Your co-star was a nineteen year old boy, that by local norms, had to get his mother’s written consent to do the movie with you. You told me the movie’s name was “Two Horses.” I had no idea where the horses came from, but it was great that you found your belongings (including your shoes) piled on the vibrating bed. Then, you told me you actually played one of the horses—it reminded me of “Midsummer Night’s Dream” when everybody turned into animals. But anyway, while you were soaking up the local culture, as you know, I went for a hike up in the mountains with no guide or anything.
I consider myself a “Manly Man.” We are a dying breed. I am an Eagle Scout. And let me tell you, my Eagle Scout project was international. You’ve only met my father once, but as you know, he is rich and powerful. As an arms dealer, he is well-connected with shady people around the world. He set me up with an internship in New Zealand. He had a surplus of small Swiss land mines that he needed to get rid of. He gave them to me to blow up rabbits, which were competing with sheep for grass, and winning. I donated the blown-up rabbit carcasses, and a couple of sheep “mistakes” to orphanages around New Zealand. I became known as “Bloody Jack” throughout New Zealand.
So, getting back to my story, there I was on a 10” wide trail with a 200 foot drop on one side and a 200 foot high wall on the other. I heard a rattlesnake. I looked and it was coiled up on a small ledge, level with my face. Remember dear wife, I am a macho man, just like the “Village People” sang. I didn’t hesitate. I wasn’t going to let the damn snake keep me from getting to the waterfall pool. I was going to grab that rattler and throw him over the 200 foot drop, and continue on my way to the waterfall pool. I grabbed the snake and he bit my hand.
Luckily, I had my cell phone and called 911. Before I knew it, a helicopter was hovering beside me, blowing rocks and dirt and dust around me. They lowered a piece of rope with a board on the bottom like a swing. I grabbed it, almost falling off the narrow trail. I sat in it and away we went, brushing the top of a pine tree and injuring my leg. We were lucky that some associates of my father’s airlifted us back to the States in an unmarked black C-130. We landed on a small airstrip in the middle of nowhere in northern Montana. There was a rental car waiting for us. You complained that it wasn’t an Uber.
You know, after recounting last year’s vacation adventures, and their horror (at least for me), I think we should buy a couple sets of Legos and a few cases of the best wine we can find, and hire some folk singers and a catering service specializing in cuisine from around the world, and stay home. As my Albanian grandfather used to say: “The sun at home warms better than the sun elsewhere.” I don’t believe the saying is true, but my grandfather was always very sincere when he said it.
Her: Every year I have to listen to your rambling bullshit recounting of the previous year’s vacation “catastrophe” as we plan this year’s vacation. Your story is crap. Unlike you, I had a great time last year. Your stupidity nearly cost you your life. Inevitably you concoct a stay-at-home plan, like this year’s. Legos? What’re you crazy? As you point out, your grandfather’s saying about home is bullshit. This year, we’re going to Botswana, so shut up! We’re going on a wildlife safari. “Adventure may hurt you, but boredom will kill you.” So, start packing you boring little twerp, we’re going on an adventure!
Postscript: The man’s wife was trampled to death by an elephant herd in Botswana. Then, she was dragged off by Hyenas. The next day they found one of her boots.
Definition courtesy of “Silva Rhetoricae” (rhetoric.byu.edu).
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