Dianoea (di-a-noe’-a): The use of animated questions and answers in developing an argument (sometimes simply the equivalent of anthypophora).
He: Am I your man? Yes! Am I your best bestie? Yes! Am I your rainbow? Yes! Am I your first-class ticket to paradise? Yes! am I your package under the Christmas tree? Yes!
Baby, it all adds up, and you want me, and need me, and love me more and more every minute of every . . .
She: Will you PLEASE shut the hell up? My answer to your rant is none of the above, none of the below, or none of anywhere else. You are a psychopath and you’re not going to get away with this! Everybody knows, you’re so crazy you give crazy a bad name! Put down the fly swatter and let me go! I’ll visit you every month at “Flying Id.” They like people like you there and they can help you with your delusions of love, and all the rest. Medication will help you see you’re not a Harley chopper with three-foot ape hangers and a rainbow mist gas tank. I’m sure you have an inkling of how disturbing it is when you “rev it up” in your driveway at 2:00 a.m. So, put the fly swatter on the coffee table and we can get you some help.
He: Help? You’re the one who needs help! Traitor! If you don’t apologize, I’m going to swat you to within an inch of your life—well maybe a half-inch, or even a foot. I don’t know. But a few things I do know: I am your man, your bestie, your rainbow, and more. Vroom! Vroom! Vroom! Let’s go for a ride around your living room. I can do a wheelie.
He got down on his hands and knees and let go of the fly swatter. She climbed onto his back and dialed 911. They circled around the living room three times before help arrived.
The door flew open with a crash and police streamed through, guns drawn, along with two orderlies from “Racking Mind Hideaway.” He picked up the fly swatter and started waving it around and the police shot him 27 times, stopping to reload before using all their ammunition.
In court, during the wrongful death suit, the police argued that the fly swatter looked like a machine gun in the dimly-lit apartment. She backed the police up, testifying that the fly swatter looked like a machine gun. (Although on cross examination, she admitted she didn’t know what a machine gun is). The police were exonerated. Injustice was served.
Now, whenever she sees a fly swatter, she cries, gets hives, vomits, goes cross-eyed, bloats up, farts, and feels numbness in her feet. She voluntarily committed herself to “Flying Id Psychiatric Hospital” to rid herself of her unpleasant reaction to fly swatters. She’s been diagnosed with PIS (Post Injustice Syndrome). She is undergoing swatter therapy administered by Frank Bugck, a doctor newly graduated from “Granada Medical School” in Port-au-Prince, Haiti. In their sessions, using what he calls “crazy on crazy” therapy, Mr. Bugck has her dress in blue velvet pajamas and approach a fly swatter hanging on the wall while inhaling nitrous oxide. Dr. Bugck is optimistic about her prospects for recovery. “We are seeing signs of recovery: the numbness has moved from her feet to her hands, and the duration of her farts has diminished.”
Definition courtesy of “Silva Rhetoricae” (rhetoric.byu.edu)
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