Hypozeuxis

Hypozeuxis (hyp-o-zook’-sis): Opposite of zeugma. Every clause has its own verb.

I waved the crayon around over my head. I smiled and jumped up and down. My chest tattoo of a dormouse started showing as my cowboy shirt started to come unsnapped—pop, pop, pop, pop went the snaps as they came undone, revealing the tattoo’s caption: “Feed Your Head.” From “Alice in Wonderland” to The Jefferson Airplane, I had fed my head. So, I picked up my gold-plated kazoo, and did my best Jimi Hendrix, blasting out “Voodoo Child” like somebody was sticking pins in me. Then, I ate a handful of Smarties, as I did every day, as a tribute to Princess Diana. It was her favorite candy. Some people say she was eating a handful Smarties when she was killed in the car crash in Paris. It is almost too horrible to contemplate, but they say she had a red one stuck in her eye when they removed her body from the car. It reminded me of the time I was hanging out with the Stones, and we all put Red Stipe bottle caps in our eyes pretending we were blind Jamaican zombies with our hands stretched out in front, bumping into each other. That’s when we found out that Kieth Richards actually was a zombie. He kept saying “I smell the brain of an Englishman.” I pulled the bottle caps out of Keith’s eyes and he returned to his aged, wrinkled, nicotine-stained 80-year-old looking 35-year-old-self. I never saw him eat a brain, but he would talk about it after he smoked a little weed. He would talk about how much a “prime” brain weighs, the different “cuts” of brain and how the medulla was tremendously useful in making the heart keep track of the beat, and how it was very soft because it didn’t do any thinking.

Eventually Kieth went to South Jersey in the US for the cure. He was buried up to his neck on the beach, a perfect target for urinating dogs. After being “splashed” 13 times, he was cured. It is rumored that “Honky Tonk Woman” came out of this experience.

I was in the rock group “Sputtering Flame.” We sang songs we composed about serial killers, farm animals, and roller blading—looking for the kind of success The Beach Boys had achieved with with surfing with our music about rollerblading, Our biggest hit was “Crazy Gacy,” a song about the American serial killer John Wayne Gacy. At the same time, we were booed off the stage even if we hinted we might perform it. So, we focused on farm animals and roller blading. “Old McDonald Stole My Pig” made it to 72 on the charts—that was the best we did, although “How Now Tattooed Cow” made it to 89. Rollerblading was a catastrophe—it was almost ephemeral in its longevity. “Let Me Roll You to the Motel Next Door,” “Squeaking Wheels,” and “WD-40” were our best, topping the charts at 105, 107, and 125, and then the rollerblading craze crashed. The venues closed and “Sputtering Flame” was extinguished..

We were heartbroken, but we had to carry on. I gave up my musical career. I was awash in drugs, and still am—mostly pot and opiated hash. Although I’m nearly 80, after 40 or so years of debauchery that makes Dorian Gray look like the Pope, I got a full tuition scholarship at Candy Land Community College. I’ve dyed my hair black and lost a few pounds. I was pretty sure my creative writing professor Ms. Wangford, had some kind of crush on me. She told me I needed to come to her office for a “special lesson.” My imagination took off. It would be amazing. I got to her office and she was on all fours on her desk. She jumped down and we both sat down. She took off her wig. It was Alice Cooper. He said “Do you get the irony my man?” I was coming on to my third pipe load of opiated hash. Alice looked like the yellow circle in the center of a daisy, with white petals. Only he wasn’t only yellow—he was flashing purple and red too. Misunderstanding him, I said “I don’t do ironing. Everything I own is wash and wear.” He started spinning like a wheel of fortune and cackling. I ran out the door, slamming it so hard the glass broke.

I am almost ready to graduate with an Associate Degree in Topiary Sciences. I specialize in making hedges into squirrels and ducks. But I do have my creative moments—my senior project was a firefighter with a mug of beer in one hand and a BIC lighter in the other. I have a job with “Trendy Trimmers.” Although it sounds like a hair salon, it is the Number 1 topiary operation in North Jersey. My first gig will be making all of Jon Bon Jovi’s hedges into parked Harleys. It should take about a year.

So, it looks like I’ve landed fairly gently in life. With all my failures, it looks like I might have some success ahead. But still, I like to reminisce about the bad old days—taking the stage with “Sputtering Flame” and trying hard to be a star.

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

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