Dicaeologia (di-kay-o-lo’-gi-a): Admitting what’s charged against one, but excusing it by necessity.
Some enchanted evening I met a perfect stranger and I ran her over in the parking lot at “Mickey Finn,” the bar outside of town built in the abandoned coal mine that used to sustain the community with a quality of lower class brutality mixed with smugness and relentless name-calling. One resident, William “Billow” Blondini, held the world record for saying “fu*ck you” non-stop for 3 years straight. He quit when he was hit in the face with a baseball bat by Mayor Wiffy’s son Eshmail. Now he experiences excruciating facial pain, even when he speaks through the AmpoBox strapped to his disfigured lips. He “eats” through a tube in his left nostril. Somehow he taught himself to play the harmonica though his nose and travels around giving talks on the pitfalls of fame. He always ends his harmonica set with Roy Orbison’s “Crying.” His book “Saving Face” will be published “sometime.” Eshmail wasn’t even arrested for smashing Billow’s face. That’s what it was like back then when the mines were booming. Having a thug for a son would increase your chances of being re-elected.
But now, it’s a different story. “Dan’s Crotch“ is no more. The town changed its name to “Tulip Town.” That was about all it took. Now, there’s a software development company located in the old Lutheran church. Marijuana fields surround the town, there’s a craft distillery opening in the now-vacant middle school. And then, there’s the new construction. They’re flattening out ten acres on the edge of town for the word’s biggest used car lot. There’s also a huge mall going up called “Karma.” The food courts will serve only vegetarian and vegan dishes. No fur or leather will sold either, not even shoes. Then there’s “one of biggest Dick’s in North America” specializing in polo, croquet, and cricket equipment.
But anyway, back to the woman in the parking lot. She was a stranger, yes, and she resisted my harmless advances. I had followed her into the ladies room and shot an extremely short video of her in the toilet stall. She objected, and came roaring out of the stall, ripped the soap dispenser off the wall, and beat me over the head with it. I dropped my phone and she picked it up and threw it in the toilet. I tried to tell her I was a scientist and she kicked between legs. She ripped my wallet out of my pants pocket and yelled, looking at my driver’s license, “You’ll be hearing from the cops Lawrence Baker!” as she ran out the door.
As far as I was concerned, I had done nothing wrong. It was a classic case of entrapment. She had gone into the restroom, I simply followed her. There must’ve been some kind of misunderstanding. When I saw her in the parking lot, I was on my way home to make my mom some hot cocoa, and then, tuck her in. The woman saw me and jumped in front of my car. I was so shocked I pressed the gas pedal instead of the brake pedal. It wasn’t like I made a choice.
This can’t be hit and run on my part. She hit my car and didn’t run. It’s too bad she’s in a coma. If she could talk, she’d probably sound like she’s directly quoting me.
Definition courtesy of “Silva Rhetoricae” (rhetoric.byu.edu).
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