Ecphonesis (ec-pho-nee’-sis): An emotional exclamation.
I hadn’t volunteered like the others to be on the cruxifixction detail. I was assigned by Sergeant Jedidiah because I was the lowest ranking member of the squad. I was nailing a spike in the palm of our victim’s hand when my mallet slipped and I hit my finger. I yelled “Goddamn hell shit” and my hand turned into a piece of shit, and I heard a voice booming from above. It was God who turned my hand into shit..
God said: “Yes, Mikamekkalak you have become the Shit-Handed one. Soon the shit will cure in the desert air, revealing fingers and affording you the grip of 50 men. Do not despair. Your Hand of Shit will be like a mighty sword slewing infidels and proving the wisdom and power of God, not to mention His existence.
“Wait a minute,” I said, “What about the other guys on the cruxifixction detail? They volunteered, Goddamnit!” God said, “Stop saying ‘Goddamnit’ or I’ll give you the Sodom treatment and pour you into a salt shaker like Lot’s wife. Now, to answer your question.
I like to induct nondescript idiots into my crew. Who was Noah before he built the boat? What about Job? Just a normal guy, until. . . Then, there’s Abraham: the knife, the son, the sacrifice, My last-minute intervention. It’s got Hollywood written all over it. But it’s not fiction. It’s fact! Now, it’s time for you to get out there and get smiting, my Shit-Handed one.”
I was propelled into the 21st-Century on the wings of a giant snow-white dove. That could’ve been front page news, but the dove dumped me in the desert somewhere in the USA. In this century, nearly everybody is an infidel. The Hand of Shit was going to be busy. After a couple months, I wandered out of the desert into a place called Las Vegas. I kept my Hand of Shit in my vestments until I saw a place named “Beat it!” selling Michael Jackson paraphernalia. I noticed a stack of white sequined gloves in a showcase inside the store. When no one was looking, I stuck my Hand of Shit through the glass and grabbed one, along with matching socks. Then, I materialized myself into a Michael Jackson suit, complete with loafers and a fedora. It was all very chic. I ran out the door. My Hand of Shit was concealed. I was thinking of moon walking around Las Vegas. Then God said in a voice of rumbling thunder, “It’s bad enough you stole all that Michael Jackson junk! Now you want to moon walk? No! Start looking for infidels! Remember the salt shaker! Soon, you will be sprinkled over a large order of fries if you don’t straighten out!”
I begged for forgiveness and started looking for a really big-time infidel to smite, and maybe, fulfill my obligation to God once-and-for-all. I worked my way through the herds of Elvis impersonators, and the drive-in wedding chapels, and the casinos filled with blue-haired women blowing their Social Security checks on the slot machines. But, I turned up no infidels that met my criteria. Then I saw it!
It was somebody named Cher. On a poster she was dressed like one of Satan’s jezebels. Her eyes drilled into my soul and almost threw me off course from my divine duties. I went to the library and checked out Cher’s autobiography. In it, she never thanked God once for all of her success. I found out that she was being paid $60 million for a three-year residency in Las Vegas. Smiting her would do the job. I would jump up on the stage, pull off my Michael Jackson glove, and my mighty Hand of Shit grip would squeeze her head off like a pimple.
The big night came. Just as she began to sing “Do You Believe in Love After Love?” I climbed onstage and squeezed off her head. The place went crazy. It seemed like the whole audience was coming after me. Suddenly, everything froze. There was a clap of thunder and God said, “You idiot. You total absolute idiot. Not only is she not an infidel, from time to time she sings in my Celestial Choir. Not only that, she is my favorite female vocalist. You dolt. You moron. You nitwit.” There was another loud rumble of thunder, and everything was restored to what it had been before I decapitated Cher, and Cher continued on with her show.
God fired me as an infidel hunter and made my Hand of Shit back into a hand of flesh, and eventually, a hand of spirit as I was deported to heaven. Presently, I work for St Peter (AKA Pearly Gate Pete). I work with a couple of other loser angels maintaining heaven’s gates. Basically, we polish the gates and keep the hinges from getting squeaky, We also stand with arms outstretched welcoming new arrivals. Right now, we’re getting ready to welcome Jimmy Carter. Like Cher, he is one of God’s favorites.
Definition courtesy of “Silva Rhetoricae” (rhetoric.byu.edu)
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