Metastasis

Metastasis (me-tas’-ta-sis): Denying and turning back on your adversaries arguments used against you.

“You’re no damn good.” That’s all my father said to me whenever the family went to visit him in prison. I would tell him, “No. You’ve got it wrong. You’re no damn good. You killed Mr. Grant with a bow and arrow. It was horrendous. He lay there face down, soaking his lawn with blood while you did a jig. And why did you shoot him with your bow and arrow? You found out he was a METS fan! He was wearing his METS hat and was on his way to a game with his son Tommy, who saw the whole thing and went crazy at the age of nine, vowing to get you. God Dad, you are a colossal loser. You are no damn good!” After my diatribe, Dad gave me the double finger, lit another cigarette, and continued talking to Mom and bouncing my little sister Grace on his knee.

Oh well, Dad was a burden I was doomed to bear. Mom still believed him: that he killed Mr. Grant in self-defense. He claimed that Mr. Grant had “drilled” into his soul and made him want to jump in front of car and kill himself. He was feeling an uncontrollable urge to close his eyes and run into the street—the dead-end street where we lived—when he noticed he was holding the bow and arrow, he felt that “the time had come” to defend himself by shooting Mr. Grant. His cockamamy defense was laughable. There were people snickering in the jury when he told his story, which was totally debunked by Mrs. Grant’s testimony—which was the truth—how Dad suffered from METS-a-phobia and harassed Mr. Grant on numerous occasions before he murdered him.

Dad’s first trial was a mistrial. Dad is very, very attractive. One of the female jurors fell madly in love with him. She bribed a guard to deliver love letters and tasteless pictures to Dad. She was caught when Dad taped the pictures to the walls of his cell. She was recognized as a juror by an honest guard, and that was that for trial #1. Now, the juror lady regularly visits Dad for conjugal visits. Mom thinks ‘conjugal’ has something to do with grammar. Dad told her that the woman is a tutor supplied by the sate for his rehabilitation. Improving his grammar will help him get a job if he ever gets out of prison. He is up for probation in 10 years.

Mrs. Grant has remarried. Her new husband, “Warpy” Grant, is the murdered Mr. Grant’s identical twin. The first time I saw him out in the yard I nearly fainted. Although he is his identical twin, Warpy is way different from the dead Mr. Grant. For example, he struts around his backyard in boxer shorts and no shirt. Mom has bought a pair of cheap binoculars for “birdwatching.” But, there’s no doubt they are for “Warpy watching.” Yesterday, Warpy came to our house to fix the kitchen wall clock. Somebody had removed the batteries and Warpy was going to replace them. Mom gave me $5.00 to take my sister to Dairy Queen. She told us to take our time and take the long way home through the park.

We had our favorites—Buster Bars—and we headed home. We didn’t listen to Mom, and took the shortcut through the school playground. We got home and heard Mom crying in the kitchen. Warpy was laying on the floor. He was wearing his boxer shorts and had a double-A battery in each hand. My little sister screamed and ran and hid in her bedroom. I called 911. An ambulance arrived in five minutes. Mrs. Grant was crying on her front lawn. She pointed at Mom and yelled “Tou killed him you whore!” Actually, he had died from a heart attack, but his wife couldn’t let go of the idea that Mom had murdered him.

One night, Mrs. Grant broke into our house with a bow and arrow to get revenge against my mother. I was in the kitchen getting a late drink of orange juice. When she heard us talking, mom came into the kitchen to see what was going on. Mrs. Grant aimed the bow and arrow at her, and pulled back the bow string. My mother laughed. The bow and arrow was a child’s toy. The arrow had a suction cub tip. It was harmless. Mrs. Grant apologized and went home.

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

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