Merismus

Merismus (mer-is’-mus): The dividing of a whole into its parts.

It was a pancake, flat and round, buttered, soaked with maple syrup. It had a top, a bottom, and sides. I picked up my fork and dug into it—holding my fork on its side, rocking it back and forth, and up and down to cut the pancake. There was sausage too, but the pancake was the focus of my attention. Ever since I was eleven, when I had pancakes for the first time, I’ve had them for breakfast every day. I figure I’ve had a hundred gallons of maple syrup. I dress like a lumberjack—Carhartt overhauls, buffalo-checked red shirt, Timberland work boots, and a navy blue watch cap. I carry an antique peavey wherever I go. I have trouble getting into night clubs, but I just check my peavey in the coat room. At the grocery store, I check it in the manager’s office, same with the liquor store.

So anyway, who makes my pancakes? It’s not my mother! It’s my girlfriend Shirley “Baby Batter” Tapper. It took her nearly a year to learn to make perfect pancakes. When she first started, the pancakes were the size of quarters and had flour dust inside from her failure to adequately mix the flour. I was so mad that I pulled my .45 and shot up the pancakes, and the dish, and the kitchen table. I was about ready to shoot up Baby Batter, when I started to calm down and put the gun away.

One morning, I asked Baby Batter to make pancakes with something interesting mixed in. I was thinking of blueberries or something like that. She mixed loose Oolong tea into the batter. It was the most god-awful pancake I had ever had in my whole life. The tea looked like snuff on my teeth and it tasted like my dog’s collar smells. I pulled out my .45 and pumped five rounds into the pancake from hell—the plate shattered and the five slugs went through the kitchen table and lodged in the kitchen floor. Baby Batter was crouched in a corner crying. I went to comfort her and she yelled “No!” and swung her stainless steel spatula at me. I had gotten it for her birthday. She was so happy! Now, she was a miserable wreck sobbing in the kitchen. I decided then and there to drizzle her with maple syrup and eat her.

I had never eaten a person before. I Googled “cannibalism” and found instructions for butchering and some “natural organic” recipes for Homo Sapiens Comedere that were quick and easy to prepare. The “Breaded Thigh Garlic Pizza” looked great. I couldn’t wait to get my teeth into Baby Batter. I was reloading my .45’s magazine. My mouth was watering. I could already smell Baby Batter baking in the oven. I got my butcher’s knife out of it’s drawer and jacked a round into the 45’s chamber. Suddenly, Baby Batter jumped up and scraped my face with her spatula, like my face was a crusty cookie sheet she was trying to clean off. I was bleeding profusely. Baby Batter grabbed my .45 and pressed it against my forehead. She said, voice trembling, “If you ever do anything like this ever again, I will blow off your testicles and shoot you in spine so you’ll be riding a wheelchair for the rest of your life, with no balls. And I will never make you pancakes again—not even on your birthday or Christmas. You WILL go to counseling.”

I agreed to everything. I went to counseling and found out that I was suffering from “Rapid Onset Cannibal Syndrome.” It is triggered by temper tantrums directed toward loved ones, and overindulgence in pancakes, which makes you want to eat people. The formula: ANGER+PANCAKES=CANNIBALISM is a part of my therapy, I am required to recite the formula to my therapist on Moodle twice a day.

My face is disfigured from Baby Batter’s spatula scraping. Every time I look in the mirror, I can’t believe that Baby Batter did this to me. We are married and have a daughter named Sally “Nonstick.” I’ve started tapping my maple trees and making my own syrup. I’ve created a maple syrup cologne that is selling really well in Canada. I haven’t wanted to eat Baby Batter for four years, although I must admit, sometimes my stomach growls when I look at her for more than 30 seconds.

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

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