Dilemma (di-lem’-ma): Offering to an opponent a choice between two (equally unfavorable) alternatives.
You will never take me alive. I am as nutty as a fruit fly in Florida fishing for ferns in a flying frying pan. I think I have the beginning of a hit tune here—“Miami Fruit Fly.” What do you think of that you dirty copper? I’m ready to go over the rainbow, no questions asked, I’ll make my grand exit—brave and unwavering in my commitment to the true, the good, and the beautiful—against the sophists, used car dealers and Viagra manufacturers, rampaging in Hollywood studios advertising “True Bliss” at a low, low special introductory monthly subscription rate that can be cancelled at any time with no penalty.
I am armed a dangerous. This Donald Duck paperweight could kill you if it hit the right spot on your head—most likely your temple. Do you want to be killed or crippled by a blow to the head? Two equally distasteful fates to choose from you miserable leach, conducting your life at the trough of taxpayer money, waving your gun around and strutting through my yard in your I’ll-fitting uniform like a drunken drum major who got lost on the way to the parade. Whoa! Back up or I’ll throw!
Wait! I just got a brain flash. Joe, the guy who rents a small apartment in my head, reminded me that I don’t know why you’re here. Why are you here?
“Mr. Nitwhich, we’re here to ask if you’d like to purchase tickets to the Policeman’s Ball. All the proceeds go to the ‘Hungry Children s Home’ in Morristown, NJ. The tickets are only $2.00 and you can buy as many as you like. The sky is the limit. The more the merrier. We’re sorry if we startled you, or disrupted your day in any way. However, we did notice that there’s a dead woman in your driveway. Do you mind if we ask you a few questions about that?”
Damnit! Are you selling charity event tickets or accusing me of murdering my wife? I’ll take twenty tickets. And yes, that’s my wife laid out in the driveway. She had a heart attack and died. I called 911 two hours ago. I dragged her outside to make it easier for EMTs to load her up. Right now, there’s a loud buzzing my mead accented by Salsa music and the sound of three hands clapping. You look like a fly wearing a hat and a blue tablecloth. You’re disgusting. Here’s $40.00 for the tickets—you’re lucky I keep my wallet in my bathrobe. I’ll just go sit on the lawn and wait for the ambulance. Now, get out of here before I bean you!
“Mr. Nitwich, thank you for your generous donation. The children will appreciate it and you will receive a thank-you note from one or them. Now, please put your hands behind your back so we can handcuff and arrest you for murder. You wife’s head was stuck repeatedly by a blunt object, very similar to the Donald Duck paperweight you’re holding.”
Blah. Blah. Blah. Go ahead and take me in. It’ll be like “Santa Claus is Coming to Town.” I’m immune. I’m out of play. Now I’m going to disappear. I blew three raspberries, touched my nose and spun around twice. Guess what? I’m in jail.
Definition courtesy of “Silva Rhetoricae” (rhetoric.byu.edu)
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