Apoplanesis

Apoplanesis (a-po-plan’-e-sis): Promising to address the issue but effectively dodging it through a digression.

Is it true I had a five-year affair with my secretary along with two children, a condo and a place in the Bahamas? Whoah. Let’s back off a little bit. My wife tried to kill me last week with a handgun I gave her to protect herself with. Now, she’s in jail and there’s a bullet hole in the kitchen wall. Let me say again: my wife tried to shoot me. Thank God she’s such a bad shot, or I’d be laid out on a slab at the Coroner’s.

Given the lax safety standards, I never should’ve bought her the gun. She was becoming paranoid and wearing a holster around the house. It was disconcerting seeing her grilling chicken with a .45 strapped to her hip. She almost killed the Amazon delivery person. She was persistent in banging on our door when nobody answered. My wife pulled the .45 and was about take shot at the door when the delivery person identified herself and my wife holstered her gun with a smug look on her face. The package contained a fast-draw cowboy holster. Now, my wife began practicing her fast draw in front of a full length mirror with my picture taped on it. When I saw that, my worry really kicked in. My wife was going crazy. What could I do?

We went to see a psychologist, Dr. Fudgy. He came highly recommended. He had gotten his Doctorate on Zoom from Mt. Insight University, which is so technologically advanced that it is “Delocated.” It has no physical presence anywhere, which is good for the environment. We would meet with Dr. Fudgy one a month. The meetings were vexed. Dr. Fudgy would ask my wife how she was doing and she would spit at him and yell, “What the hell do you think Fudgy?” He would start to respond, and she would stand up and point at the ceiling and yell “See that. It’s not the floor Fudgy!” At that point, Dr. Fudgy would instruct her to put some pills in a paper bag he gave her. He called them “Whoah Nelly Pills.” He told her to take two every half-hour for the next half-hour and then take one per hour for the next hour. It was confusing, but we complied.

We got home, and my wife followed the pill-taking regime. It was getting late and she passed out on the living room floor. I checked her pulse to make sure she was alive. She was alive, but her breathing was shallow. I was thirsty, so I drove to Cliff’s and got an apple juice. I also got a slice of pepperoni pizza, and 3 Take Five scratch-off lotto tickets. When I got home my wife was sitting on the couch holding a fork up to her head. She said: “I have an itch.” Things were spinning out of control. I almost called 911, but decided not to because I couldn’t describe what was going on in a way that warranted the call.

My wife went to bed and so did I. I was hoping that the next day would be a better day. I was going to get up early and see the sunrise and listen to the birds singing. I was sure, that with time, my wife’s problems would disappear under the guidance of Dr. Fudgy. But instead, she’s in jail for attempting to murder me.

If I could think of her motive, that would help me deal with this unanticipated tragedy. I have wracked my brain. I can’t think of a reason for what she did. All I can do is send my thoughts and prayers to her jail cell.

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

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