Ominatio

Ominatio (o-mi-na’-ti-o): A prophecy of evil.

After I graduated from Minor University with an MFA in Creative Writing, I went searching for a job as a writer. The university is located in Arkansas and takes great pride in its distinguished alumni. For example, there was Nostrom McOgle who held the world record for riding on a flat tire. Anyway, I was lucky to get a job in a Chinese fortune cookie factory, WonTan Food Groups Ltd. My job was to write fortunes “addressing peoples’ hopes and fears.”

I had a desk and a computer. The screen displayed a template with 20 fortunes per page. I typed in my fortunes and sent them off to the “proofer” who accepted them for printing, or rejected them. I thought my first sheet was pretty good. For example, “Your house won’t burn down,” “Keep drinking,” “ Your pet may run away,” “You might have cancer.” “Something bad might happen to you.” I thought of my fortunes as “adventures in realism.” I was a fan of Earnest Hemingway. The compact prose he was noted for was perfect for fortune cookies. The blunt and vivid pronouncements exemplify brevity’s “soul of wit.” I was loving it.

Then, the Manager, Ms. Lee, visited my desk one day. She said, “Are you trying to put WonTan out of business? Your fortunes are pathways to misery. Who wants to end a meal with the possibility of having cancer? If you can’t get more upbeat, you’re fired. Do you understand?” I could barely say “Yes.” She was so beautiful and so charming, and so nice that I developed a huge crush while she admonished me. Later that afternoon, she called and asked if I wanted to take a tour of the factory to get better oriented. “Of course!” I instantly replied. I decided I would write “love fortunes” and email them to her. The first one was “Our souls have met. What’s next?” I emailed it to her before our tour.

The tour was fantastic. The machines that insert the fortunes into the cookies are amazing. Such delicate work for a machine. After the tour was over and we had removed our hard hats, Ms. Lee pulled a sheet of paper from her blouse. She handed it to me. It was warm from being in her blouse. “Read it,” she said. It said “You’re fired.” “Why did you take me on this tour? What the hell is going on?” I was nearly crying. “”Your ‘two souls meeting’ did it. I wanted to take you on a tour anyway, so you could hate yourself all the more when I fired you.

Now I was mad! I went back to my desk and threw my computer on the floor. It popped a couple of times and died—just like me; heartbroken without a chance. Ms. Lee was out of my league. So, now I have a new job working for Smut Brothers, the world’s most prolific producers of pornography. I write the movie synopses that appear on CD-dust jackets or on-screen. I enjoy the work, although I do get tired of the repetition of what the actors do. I often think of Ms. Lee and the total failure I was at winning her affections. Then, a new movie titled “Hong Kong Time-bomb” came across my desk one morning. Ms. Lee was the star. Her screen name was Feng Banana and she ran a company in Hong Kong that made crotchless garments. It was called “Flash Pants.” Her role was to randomly “test” the product, which was the central theme of the movie.

I couldn’t believe it. Now, I was really heartbroken. But, I wanted her more than ever. I took a cab to the fortune cookies factory. I had a big sign that said “I know what you do in your spare time Feng Banana.” I stood outside the factory hoping she would see me. She came outside and said to me “If you do not leave me alone, I will have you gruesomely murdered. Do you understand me?” “Yes,” I said. But actually, I did not understand. I remembered something from my MFA program at Minor University: “Don’t criticize what you don’t understand.” I was too young to be murdered. I went back to Smut Brothers and sat down at my desk. I booted up “Hong Kong Time-Bomb” and pressed play.

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

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