Epiplexis (e-pi-plex’-is): Asking questions in order to chide, to express grief, or to inveigh. A kind of rhetorical question [–the speaker does not expect an answer].
I woke up on my dinosaur floatie in the middle of my swimming pool. I had summoned my usual creative powers and named him “Dino” after Dean Martin, Jerry Lewis’s partner in their comedy team. Jerry would play a man afflicted with Tourette’s and Dean would play a slick (if not sleazy) straight man. It was in poor taste, but nobody cared in the late 50s before Lewis & Martin went their separate way.
There was a party going on in my home. I got out of the pool to check it out. I yelled through the door: “Why are you making so much damn noise? What the hell is that red stuff spilled all over the carpet? Who the hell are you?” There we’re about 10-15 little people in my living room that I had never seen before. “We’re from The Lollipop Guild“ one of them yelled louder than “Over the Rainbow” playing on the stereo. Again, the chief spokesperson said,”You’ve a huge place here and you’re trying to do it all alone—shame on you! Things are falling apart and you look malnourished. We can handle your landscaping, maintain your pool, clean your house, and hunt and cook meals for you. I assume you need a driver too. All we ask for is room and board.”
I was stunned. These were the good guys from “The Wizard of OZ.” It had to be some kind of elaborate joke. My fist thought was Reggie. His life-purpose seemed to be playing jokes on me or trying to make me think I was going crazy. Last week, he had a fake Amazon Prime truck deliver 800 pizzas—each one separately boxed with tape and everything. The fake driver piled them up in my driveway and lit them on fire. It was quite a sight and I immediately knew Reggie was behind it. So, I called Reggie and asked him what was going on with The Lollipop Guild. He told me he never heard of it. I thought he was lying, but what difference did it make? The offer being made seemed legit, so I went for it.
Things were going great until “The Guild” split into two factions. The second faction called itself the “Hip Hop Guild” and wanted to dress like B. A. Baracus from the “A-Team” TV show. That was all they wanted—they thought the lollipops made them look stupid, but gold chains and Faux-hawks would make them look bad-ass. I agreed with them. The leaders of The Lollipop Guild grumbled, but they accepted my decision.
That night there was a rumble on the tennis court. The Hip Hop Guild swung corded microphones over their heads, while the Lollipop Guild came at them with battery-powered weed whackers. Before they could meet in battle, they all went up in a puff of pink smoke. A beautiful woman walked out of the smoke wearing a opalescent sequin coated baby-blue dress. She wore a tiara topped with giant emerald and carried a wand tipped with a sticky note covering a star that said “Property of the Good Witch Glendale, Curator of the Neon Museum of Art, and Head Minder of the Lollipop Guild.” “I’m sorry for your trouble,” she said “This happens about once every two months. They look like they’re finally getting along, so I drop my guard, and boom, there’s another schism. Last time, Madonna (The Material Girl) was almost killed trying to bring order when the splinter group came at her with a backhoe. I intervened and saved her life. Luckily things didn’t get that out of hand here.” Then the Good Witch Glendale disappeared in a puff of pink smoke.
I was shocked, stunned, flipped out, and bin-bound. I went to bed and dreamed I was wearing ruby slippers that did nothing when I clicked them together and yelled “Take me back to New York!” I woke up and went downstairs to make a snack. I opened a tin of caviar and dipped in a cracker. There was a faint knocking on the basement door. Like a fool, I opened it. It was the leader of the Hip Hop guild. He said, “Hey sucker! I can be your bodyguard. I’ll save your ass every day.” I took B.A. up on his offer and he’s been saving my ass every day for ten years now. I have never asked him a single question about his past, or where he comes from, and I never will.
Definition courtesy of “Silva Rhetoricae” (rhetoric.byu.edu). Bracketed text added by Gorgias.
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