Metaphor (met’-a-phor): A comparison made by referring to one thing as another.
“I am an unpaved driveway. Think about it. Mull it over. Forget about it. It’s a heavy metaphor. Dirt. Gravel. Ruts. A weed strip down the middle.” That’s it! Miss Mantandino will love it. She might even read it to the class. I—Billy Widdle—was in love with her and wanted to marry her after we finished the school year—maybe in July. It didn’t matter that she was fifteen years older than me. I was going to do it. She came to my desk to pick the metaphor. She read it, and without a word, put it back on my desk. She made her way back up to her desk and said: “Attention boys and girls. Attention!” The room quieted down and she said”Billy Widdle has written something for today’s metaphor assignment that he will read aloud. Billy, go ahead.” I read it and there was silence when I finished it. James Klogar was the first to speak: “It is more stupid than what Billy usually writes.” Then Suzy Schmid chimed in: “It is a striking portrait of Billy’s self concept. He should be escorted to the school nurse for counseling.” Then Bella Schazoul was called on: “I agree with Suzy, but I would add, clearly he is dangerous. We should call Public Safety and get him out of here before he goes berserk and hurts us.” Miss Mantandino had pulled a small automatic pistol out of her desk and pointed it at me:
“Don’t be afraid Billy. Just don’t make any fast moves. I’ve been trained in classroom firearm utilization by the school district’s ‘Bureau of Bombs, Guns, Gases, Chalk’ in a one-day workshop in a very nice hotel with a jacuzzi and swimming pool.” I did not know what to do. I never imagined the metaphor would take me down this road. I couldn’t tell anybody, but my big sister had written the metaphor for her senior class. I had found it squished between the cushions of our couch. I had copied it and used it.
I started singing a song I had composed. It was a version of “Old MacDonald’s Farm” where he has exotic animals and two wives. His Wife #1 is mauled by a Raccoon, catches rabies, and dies. I was on my final “eee-yi-eee-yi-oh” when Public Safety showed up. They knocked down the classroom door. There were ten of them dressed in military gear with automatic weapons. They yelled at Miss Mantandino, “Where’s Widdle?” She said, “I’m aiming my pistol at him.” They handcuffed me and led me to the Principal’s Office for questioning. The officer slammed my sister’s metaphor down on the desk. “What’s this crap?” He asked. I told him my big sister had written it and I had stolen it and passed it off as mine.” “Oh,” he said “We’re going have to hunt down your sister. Where is she?” I told them she was working on a coffee plantation in Brazil. He said “Ok. You may go back to class now. Please thank Miss Mantandino for her service and vigilance. Just remind her to keep her pistol under lock and key.”
I went back to class. It was nearly 3.00 PM. My fellow students cowered behind their desks when I walked in unescorted. Miss Mantandino stood there—if she had her arms amputated, she would be Venus’s identical twin. I figured the time was right to ask Miss Mantandino to marry me. I raised my hand . . .
Definition courtesy of “Silva Rhetoricae” (rhetoric.byu.edu).
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