Expeditio (ex-pe-di’-ti-o): After enumerating all possibilities by which something could have occurred, the speaker eliminates all but one (=apophasis). Although the Ad Herennium author lists expeditio as a figure, it is more properly considered a method of argument [and pattern of organization] (sometimes known as the “Method of Residues” when employed in refutation), and “Elimination Order” when employed to organize a speech. [The reference to ‘method’ hearkens back to the Ramist connection between organizational patterns of discourses and organizational pattern of arguments]).
Our family of six packed in a Ford station wagon, along with the family dog—a one-eyed beagle named Spot. It’s 1957 and we’re doing 70 in a 45 mph zone on Rte.1 going over the bridge to Maine from Portsmouth, New Hampshire. We had just stopped at the New Hampshire State Liquor Store a few miles back so my dad could stock up on tax-free booze for our vacation in Maine. We had left NJ at 4:00am in a huge thunderstorm. The car had been struck by lightening. Nobody was killed, but it made our hair stand on end. My mother and sisters really looked crazy and I was worried that their hair would never flatten out again. But, being from New Jersey, my mom said they’d just say they were “experimenting” with different teasing techniques, and to “back the F off.” My mother had given me and my dad flat tops right before we left. Now, we didn’t have to the Butch Wax them to keep our hair sticking up straight. I saw that as a benefit of almost being electrocuted.
We stopped at LL Bean’s in Freeport. My two sisters and mother got slippers with pine trees, bears and lobsters printed on them. My father got a pair of red socks that said “AY-YUH” on them. Ah-Yuh is the Maine sate motto. My brother got a stuffed lobster children’s toy. He immediately named it “Leviticus Lobster” after his favorite book of the Old Testament. I weaseled my father into getting me a combination compass, whistle, and match stick holder that you could use if you got lost in the woods. I noticed the match stick holder was perfect for hiding cigarettes. So, I had to have it. We got Spot a bag of deer-flavored doggie treats.
We were getting close to our destination—crossing the rickety old Bath Bridge and turning off at the Wiscasset exit. we were headed to East Boothbay where my family had settled in the 1690s. It was low tide when we got to the “bridge” out of Wiscasset over the Damarscota River. At high tide, the water would wash over the bridge.
Then it happened. The sort of pleasant smell of the clam flats turned into an eye-watering nose-burning stench. Somebody had farted. My father turned around and yelled, “What the hell are you four doing back there?” We rolled down car windows, but the stench lingered. We pulled over and got out of car at Nola’s Clam Shack. We all denied farting. My father lined us up and went down the line trying to determine whether we were telling truth. He was one of those people who couldn’t let a mystery go unsolved. He had a Bible in his hand and we had to swear on it that we didn’t fart. We all swore—that eliminated us. Then, we started walking toward my mother. She looked at him coldly, but she swore on the Bible too. Then, she held the Bible while father swore on it. That eliminated everybody. Then we heard a bark from the back of the station wagon. We ran over to the car and we could see the torn open and empty bag of “Deer-Flavored Treats” on the floor of Spot’s carrier. He was able to rake the treat bag though the bars of his carrier with his paw. Spot looked bloated. When my dad opened the station wagon’s back hatch, a stench rolled out and almost knocked us down. Spot was the mystery farter! We tied Spot to a tree and stayed at the clam shack until it closed at 10:00. We were hoping Spot would be “farted out” by then. But that wasn’t enough for my dad. He tied Spot’s carrier to the station wagon’s rooftop carrier and shoved Spot in. Spot started howling from the roof of the station wagon like a police car siren as we headed down Route 96. He was heralding our annual return to the home land. We all started howling as we pulled into the summer cottage’s driveway.
Definition courtesy of “Silva Rhetoricae” (rhetoric.byu.edu). Bracketed text by Gorgias.
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