Epenthesis (e-pen’-thes-is): The addition of a letter, sound, or syllable to the middle of a word. A kind of metaplasm. Note: Epenthesis is sometimes employed in order to accommodate meter in verse; sometimes, to facilitate easier articulation of a word’s sound. It can, of course, be accidental, and a vice of speech.
I was drivin’ my shit pumper way the hell out to Cramyon National Park. I’m a porta-potty p.u.-pumper. I suck 3,000 gallons of poop and pee and paper, and other things that get stuck in my hose. It is total A+ hell cleaning the hose when it’s clogged. A poop-soaked Teddy Bear? I’ve seen it. A high heel shoe? I’ve seen it. A blond wig? I’ve seen it, and so many diapers I could build a two-story igloo out of them. I go home smelling like shit. I go to the movies smelling like shit. I go shopping smelling like shit. Damn! I do everything smelling like shit. I tried calling it “shite” like a Brit for awhile, but it was still shit. Then I tried calling it “she-it” to give it a regional spin, but I had the wrong region. I was in New York, and she-it was in Georgia. So, I’ve settled on just plain shit.
My business is named ‘Mr. Stinky’ and my logo is a porta-potty with a skunk holding its nose and waving one hand. It is modeled after Pepe LaPew, the the famous cartoon skunk who thought he was a cat. My motto is “I Suck.” My wife thinks it’s stupid, immature, and nearly obscene. I tell her to stand in my boots and suck some shit and see if she changes her mind. She tells me to “Eat shit!” But, we are happily married with twins, named after the “Sesame Street” characters Bert and Ernie. They live in a large shed out back so they don’t have to deal with my smell when I’m home. They have electricity and everything, and we eat dinner together every night on Zoom. I tell them not to follow in my footsteps or they’ll have to throw away their shoes.
Business is a little off. That’s why I’m dumping shit in the national park on the sly. I wish I could afford to pump out at “Pike’s Poo Pits,” but I can’t. I’ve been pumpin’ into a beaver dam. It’s starting to look like a cesspool, but what can I do? If you see a beaver covered in shit layin’ by the side of the road, you can thank me for the sighting!
When I got home, I saw that my wife had bought three fake Christmas trees and decorated them with about 100 of those little pine tree car fresheners. Now, I call that love. She and the boys were wearing brand new carbon filter face masks. We hugged and boys ran outside to their shed and my wife headed to the kitchen. I may smell like shit, but my family treats me like Shalimar.
Definition courtesy of “Silva Rhetoricae” (rhetoric.byu.edu).
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