Metalepsis (me-ta-lep’-sis): Reference to something by means of another thing that is remotely related to it, either through a farfetched causal relationship, or through an implied intermediate substitution of terms. Often used for comic effect through its preposterous exaggeration. A metonymical substitution of one word for another which is itself figurative.
I am the screwdriver man. I have screwed many screws, making them go round and round, driving them to the finish, into soft wood, As in a 500 mile race at Indianapolis, fastening, fastening, fastening up to the finish line, The screw is mightier than the sword. You can’t just pull it out. You have to unscrew it!
But the screwdriver is the screw’s master—it is an affair of the heart—it is love at the first turn of the screw— it is Romeo and Juliet—star crossed tool and fastener, made to bind things together—to eclipse the dowel and the nail: fasteners of a baser shade, furiously beaten by mallets and hammers, not the sunshine of love ignited by the screwdriver’s spinning waltz with its chosen screw: together, screwdriver and screw connect and bore into the wooden plain like lumberjacks looking for the wood of gold. Will a lasting connection be made? Yes! The screwer, the screwdriver, and the screw will bring things together in a relationship deigned to last, and perhaps, to outlast the screwer’s screwing in the sun, snapping his mortal coil.
Anyway, I currently use a “Whip Tip” racing screwdriver. It is made in Germany where all great tools are made. When I started my career as a competitive screwer, or “screwy,” my father gave me his screwdriver—a Stanley Spinner. It was made in China (not Germany). Also, it really wasn’t designed for competitive screwing. It had a clear yellow plastic handle with a black rubber grip-improving sheath. The shaft was silver—garishly chrome plated. The blade seemed sturdy—like it could take the rapid hard turns that competitive screwdriving is known for.
Briefly, the first competition went badly. I inserted dad’s screwdriver into the screw’s slot. The slot was deep. The blade fit well— no wiggle, tight. The starting gun fired. I started screwing like my wrists were lubricated with WD-40. I was like wrists of fire. I had been following the exercise regime in “Screwing It,” by Philip Head. He was known as “The “Screwing King.” He lived in Germany’s Black Forrest where he made world-famous Cuckoo clocks, held together entirely by beautiful brass screws. Anyway, I was furiously turning my screwdriver when I had a catastrophic handle failure: the plastic cracked making the screwdriver shaft a free-spinning non-sequitur: killing the screwdriver’s capacity for screwing. Out of anger, I started stabbing my workbench with my screwdriver. A judge saw me and I was escorted out of the venue by a giant usher. He said, “I know how feel,” as he pushed me down onto the pavement. I considered stabbing him with my broken screwdriver, but decided not to. I wanted to be around for next year’s competition.
So, here I am—competing again. I’m clutching my German “Whip Tip” in my fist. In practice, I’ve got my screwing down to 2.6 seconds—almost a world record. Oh damn: there’s Philip Head. He’s competing. He’s holding a screwdriver that looks like it’s from a science fiction movie. I can see through the plastic handle that the screwdriver pivots on ball bearings. The shaft has a diameter the size of the handle and appears to be made of lead, for extra pressure on the screw head. Mr. Head’s innovations are too much for me.
I dropped out of the competition, and, clutching my “Whip Tip” caught a bus home. My dad, trying to be funny, said “Screw ‘em” when I told him what happened. Crying, I went out to the garage and starting screwing things together. I had to put a drill into play. I screwed the lawnmower to Dad’s car. I screwed the chainsaw to the wheelbarrow. I screwed my bicycle to the workbench. I had gone insane! I called my therapist and told her what I had done. She told me to pack a bag and catch an Uber to “Head Games,” the new mental hygiene facility near the county landfill. She would call ahead an set things up. I knew I could get well if I could get rid of my “Whip Tip” and say goodbye to competitive screwing. As we we rode along, I decided to throw my “Whip Tip” out the car’s window. That was a mistake. I speared a bicyclist in the leg. I called 911 as we sped off to “Head Games.” I was looking forward to taking medications and was hoping there would be a good snack time.
Definition courtesy of “Silva Rhetoricae” (rhetoric.byu.edu).
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