Monthly Archives: September 2023

Epicrisis

Posted on September 4, 2023 | Leave a comment

Epicrisis (e-pi-cri’-sis): When a speaker quotes a certain passage and makes comment upon it.

Related figures: anamenesis–calling to memory past matters. More specifically, citing a past author from memory–and chreia (from the Greek chreiodes, “useful”) . . . “a brief reminiscence referring to some person in a pithy form for the purpose of edification.” It takes the form of an anecdotethat reports either a saying, an edifying action, or both.

“If you’re happy and you know it, and you really want to show it, clap your hands.” I was happy and I knew it, but I didn’t want to show it, so I didn’t clap my hands. Everybody else in Ms. Wingly’s seventh grade class clapped their hands. Ms. Wingly looked at me angrily, “Clap your hands John!” Instead, I pounded my fist on my desk. I was sick of Bossy Wingly always telling me what to do—from arithmetic to clapping my hands. She had given us an option on the hand clapping, emphasizing “if” as in “if you really want to show it.” I told her she had she given me a choice, and I took it. “What’s wrong with that?” I asked.

Ms. Wingly said, “Here’s a hall pass. Go to the Principal’s Office right now! No dilly-dallying! Tell him you acted unwisely, refusing to display positive emotions by clapping, as I commanded. Give this note to Him upon your arrival. Do not read it! Now, Go!”

The first thing I did when I got out the door was tear open the note and read. It said: “Darling Pimpy, This boy has done nothing wrong. I tested positive this morning. There are certain kinds of operations that have recently made illegal here. Please buy me a plane ticket to New York. I hope your wife is feeling well. Your Perky Little Substitute, Winnifred.” There was no doubt Ms. Wingly had flipped out, trusting me not to read her note. I was notoriously “bad” and could not be trusted for anything. I don’t know why I did it, but I turned around and went back to my classroom. The door was locked so I held the opened note up to its window. Ms. Wingly was at her desk so she saw me holding up the note. She stood up abruptly and stumbled over the trash can by her desk. She hit the floor hard and was knocked unconscious. I called 911 on my new cell phone and she was taken away on a stretcher. There was a gawking crowd around the classroom door. It included Principal. Pimpyton. I read him Ms. Wingly’s note and he tried to grab it. He couldn’t catch me. He groaned and made a gurgling sound and turned and ran out of the building. He had a big wet stain on the back of his pants. He won’t be clapping his hand anytime soon. I feel sorry for Ms. Wingly. She’s beyond stupid. Her biggest mistake was trusting me. I bought her flowers.

POSTSCRIPT

Ms. Wingly’s “Note” has turned out to be something like money—I use it to buy things I want. I wave it at Principal Pimpyton and say something like “One carton of Marlboro 27’s please.” He goes to Cliff’s and meets on the playground 15 minutes later with the “goods.” Ms. Wingly disappeared. I heard somebody saw her sitting on a piece of cardboard in Times Square smiling and clapping her hands. I hope her operation was a success.

Definitions courtesy of “Silva Rhetoricae” (rhetoric.byu.edu)

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Epilogus

Posted on September 3, 2023 | Leave a comment

Epilogus (e-pi-lo’-gus): Providing an inference of what is likely to follow.

Sometimes I wish I was “way down upon the Swanee River,” then I don’t. It is Florida’s state song. It has been traditionally sung at the Governor’s inauguration ceremony. It is definitely a paen to the Old South. Who the hell wants to live in a “little hut among the bushes”? The lyrics of “Swanee River” long for it, as if a little hut among the bushes was Mar-A-Lago or some classy hotel in South Beach.

It was Sunday and I was sitting by my pool reading the paper. It was a nice day in West Palm Beach and Millie my maid had just brought me one of her super sugary mint juleps. I turned to the real estate section to see if my friend Mewbert’s beach-front mansion had sold yet. It was up for sale for $15,000,000 so I was sure it would make the news. Then, there it was: “Little hut for sale on bank of Swanee River. Has dock. Fixer-upper. Prone to flooding. For sale by owner. Call Steve Foster (252) 228-9922.” It was a North Carolina area code. Given the coincidental connection to my earlier musings, I had to call Steve.

He answered after two rings. I told him I was interested in the property in Florida and wanted to have a look at it. Also, I asked him to tell me the asking price. He said, “That depends. Are you for us or agin’ us?” Without thinking I answered “For ya!” trying mimic Steve’s accent. He told me the price was negotiable and emailed me directions to the hut on the Swanee River (aka Suwannee River). It was near a weigh station off Route 90. Zeb, my chauffeur, jumped behind the wheel of my Rolls and we sped off, north, starting out on Route 95.This was an adventure.

We arrived around 5:00 and we had hiked about mile when we arrived at the hut. There was plenty of light left. It was indeed a hut, with the river flowing slowly about ten feet behind it. It was surrounded by bushes. This was it! Part of the inspiration for “Swanee River.”

A shotgun barrel suddenly poked out one of the broken front windows. “What in the hell do y’all want?” asked a male voice in a menacing tone. I said, “We’re here to look at the property, and possibly buy it from Steve Foster.” He laughed, “Haw, haw! You gotta’ be kiddin’ we ain’t seen him since The Civil War. Now git! My trigger finger’s a startin’ to itch.” “Yes sir!” I said in the most obedient-sounding voice I could summon. Zeb and I ran for the Rolls as the mystery-man took a shot over our heads to speed us along.

We were silent during the ride back home. I tried to call Steve several times on my cellphone but there was no answer. I swore Zeb to secrecy and we never spoke about the incident, but I couldn’t get the damn song out of my head. Five years later, we went looking for the hut again. It was gone. Nothing remained but overgrown bushes. But I stepped on something that mad a crushing sound. I was the mains of a clay pipe that had “Foster” scratched on the stem.

Definition courtesy of “Silva Rhetoricae” (rhetoric.byu.edu).

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Epimone

Posted on September 2, 2023 | Leave a comment

Epimone (e-pi’-mo-nee): Persistent repetition of the same plea in much the same words.

“Will you think it over? Will you please think it over? Will you consider it? Come on! Skydiving! Floating to earth under a colorful canopy of polyester. Landing on your feet won’t be a metaphor! The view from 12,000 feet is stunning. You can see the earth’s curvature. You can take pictures. You can brag about it. Plus, you have a reserve parachute! Fail safe!” I couldn’t believe my mother was trying get me to jump out of an airplane with what looked like a giant tablecloth billowing above my head.

All my life she had prodded me to play it safe—from the playground to the parkway—safe, safe, safe. No Monkey Bars. No driving over the speed limit. She would give me call and response pep talks. “What’s the most important thing?” she would yell. I yelled back “Safety!” “What keeps you alive?” “Safety!” “How did Columbus get to America?” “Safety!” “ Why did you wear diapers?” “Safety!” On and on it went. Safety was the Holy Grail.

So, why does she want me to take up sky diving? It isn’t safe. Far from it. People die. So, I asked her. She said, “Skydiving is a perfect pastime for an unmarried middle-aged uninteresting coward. I met a girl who’s a skydiver. We made friends and I told lies about you to get her interested. I told her you’re a skydiver too.” “Jeez Mom, I’ve pent my life protecting my cowardice with safety’s shield. You put me on that path and now pushing me off it. Ok, I’ll go skydiving.”

I took some lessons at the airport from “Soft Droppings,” the skydiving school. I was ready. I hadn’t made any actual jumps yet—all the lessons were conducted in virtual reality. I called Mom’s friend and asked her out on a skydiving date. She sad she would love it after what my mother had told her about me. She told me she had never met a professional race car driver before and was really eager to jump with somebody in “The 1,000 Jump Club.” I was screwed.

We were 8,000 feet above some hick town in central Minnesota. It was time to “Go!” and I was first out the door. The green light came on and, eyes closed, I jumped. My parachute deployed automatically and shredded like a piece of lettuce. I panicked and peed in my parachuting pants. But then, I remembered what my mother used to say about diapers, and I yelled “Safety!” I pulled the handle on my reserve chute. When it deployed, it wrapped around my neck. It looked like a giant condom fluttering in the wind, but it did slow me down a little. At that point, my date came flying out of nowhere and grabbed my harness. She cut the reserve chute loose with a big switchblade knife. She was facing me. She pulled close and kissed me, sticking her tongue in my mouth. It was my first kiss since my landlord’s daughter five years ago.

We landed on our feet. But, that wasn’t the end. She found out the truth about me and told everybody that I had peed my parachuting pants.

Definition courtesy of “Silva Rhetoricae” (rhetoric.byu.edu)

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Epiplexis

Posted on September 1, 2023 | Leave a comment

Epiplexis (e-pi-plex’-is): Asking questions in order to chide, to express grief, or to inveigh. A kind of rhetorical question [–the speaker does not expect an answer].

I woke up on my dinosaur floatie in the middle of my swimming pool. I had summoned my usual creative powers and named him “Dino” after Dean Martin, Jerry Lewis’s partner in their comedy team. Jerry would play a man afflicted with Tourette’s and Dean would play a slick (if not sleazy) straight man. It was in poor taste, but nobody cared in the late 50s before Lewis & Martin went their separate way.

There was a party going on in my home. I got out of the pool to check it out. I yelled through the door: “Why are you making so much damn noise? What the hell is that red stuff spilled all over the carpet? Who the hell are you?” There we’re about 10-15 little people in my living room that I had never seen before. “We’re from The Lollipop Guild“ one of them yelled louder than “Over the Rainbow” playing on the stereo. Again, the chief spokesperson said,”You’ve a huge place here and you’re trying to do it all alone—shame on you! Things are falling apart and you look malnourished. We can handle your landscaping, maintain your pool, clean your house, and hunt and cook meals for you. I assume you need a driver too. All we ask for is room and board.”

I was stunned. These were the good guys from “The Wizard of OZ.” It had to be some kind of elaborate joke. My fist thought was Reggie. His life-purpose seemed to be playing jokes on me or trying to make me think I was going crazy. Last week, he had a fake Amazon Prime truck deliver 800 pizzas—each one separately boxed with tape and everything. The fake driver piled them up in my driveway and lit them on fire. It was quite a sight and I immediately knew Reggie was behind it. So, I called Reggie and asked him what was going on with The Lollipop Guild. He told me he never heard of it. I thought he was lying, but what difference did it make? The offer being made seemed legit, so I went for it.

Things were going great until “The Guild” split into two factions. The second faction called itself the “Hip Hop Guild” and wanted to dress like B. A. Baracus from the “A-Team” TV show. That was all they wanted—they thought the lollipops made them look stupid, but gold chains and Faux-hawks would make them look bad-ass. I agreed with them. The leaders of The Lollipop Guild grumbled, but they accepted my decision.

That night there was a rumble on the tennis court. The Hip Hop Guild swung corded microphones over their heads, while the Lollipop Guild came at them with battery-powered weed whackers. Before they could meet in battle, they all went up in a puff of pink smoke. A beautiful woman walked out of the smoke wearing a opalescent sequin coated baby-blue dress. She wore a tiara topped with giant emerald and carried a wand tipped with a sticky note covering a star that said “Property of the Good Witch Glendale, Curator of the Neon Museum of Art, and Head Minder of the Lollipop Guild.” “I’m sorry for your trouble,” she said “This happens about once every two months. They look like they’re finally getting along, so I drop my guard, and boom, there’s another schism. Last time, Madonna (The Material Girl) was almost killed trying to bring order when the splinter group came at her with a backhoe. I intervened and saved her life. Luckily things didn’t get that out of hand here.” Then the Good Witch Glendale disappeared in a puff of pink smoke.

I was shocked, stunned, flipped out, and bin-bound. I went to bed and dreamed I was wearing ruby slippers that did nothing when I clicked them together and yelled “Take me back to New York!” I woke up and went downstairs to make a snack. I opened a tin of caviar and dipped in a cracker. There was a faint knocking on the basement door. Like a fool, I opened it. It was the leader of the Hip Hop guild. He said, “Hey sucker! I can be your bodyguard. I’ll save your ass every day.” I took B.A. up on his offer and he’s been saving my ass every day for ten years now. I have never asked him a single question about his past, or where he comes from, and I never will.

Definition courtesy of “Silva Rhetoricae” (rhetoric.byu.edu). Bracketed text added by Gorgias.

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