Anacoloutha (an-a-co’-lu-tha): Substituting one word with another whose meaning is very close to the original, but in a non-reciprocal fashion; that is, one could not use the first, original word as a substitute for the second. This is the opposite of acoloutha.
I bowled my ball into the gutter. I was on fire. I had sat in the ashtray by my lane and my pants were smoldering. My best friend Millie dumped her Coke on my pants—my cottons that I had gotten for Christmas after begging Santa for 2 years. Yes, two years! Our Santa was a mean Santa. Every year he showed up on December 1st and put up a tent in the town square. Nobody questioned who he was. The line of kids would form and one at a time we would make it into the tent. Santa would be sitting there in his gold-leaf throne. It was just you and Santa in the tent. If you showed the least hesitation in jumping up on his lap, he would clap his hands and yell “Get over here you little bastard!” I climbed up on his lap and he asked: “What the hell do you want?” I told him about the pants again and he said, “Duly noted. Don’t hold your breath.”
I told my mother that Santa swore and he was mean. He didn’t even give me a complimentary candy cane. My mother didn’t believe me, going so far as chastising me for losing the candy cane. I resolved to nail Santa and run him out of the town square. I put fresh batteries in my Donald Duck cassette recorder. I would record Santa swearing and play it for my mother. She would have to believe me.
I got in line again outside the tent. As I approached the entrance, I stuck my recorder in my pants. When I got in the tent, Santa looked me over carefully. I pressed the record button as covertly as I could. But I pressed the play button by mistake. It started playing the Donald Duck cartoon club theme song. Santa stood up. My tape recorder slid down my pant-leg and bounced out on the floor. Santa pulled a hunting knife out of his big black belt. “Stomp on that thing or I’ll slice you up like a holiday ham!” yelled Santa. I stomped my recorder to death.
Santa put his knife back in his belt. I don’t know why I was still standing there, but I was. Santa told me he had anger management issues. His therapist thought taking on the role of Santa would help calm him down. For that past two years, that, along with valium, and maybe, a couple shots of Johnny Walker, would put him in the right place. “It all started when my dog Rudolph was run over and killed by a police car. Please, don’t tell anybody about this and I will personally get you your pants.”
I was overwhelmed with pity. I agreed to keep my mouth shut and invited Santa to dinner. Dad was out of town, but I thought it was ok. Mom was always eager to entertain guests. When I got up the next morning, there was Santa wearing a pair of my dad’s pajamas, sipping a cup of coffee. My mom was wearing a pair of my dad’s pajamas too.
After anguishing for 2 days, I decided to tattle on Santa to the police. When I told the desk Sargent what had happened, he laughed: “Santa would never do that kid. Get out of here. Go bother somebody else.” Later that week, a 10 year old kid was wounded by Santa. Santa had stabbed him in the hand when he reached for an extra candy cane.
When the investigation started, it was determined that nobody had given Santa permission to set up his tent. The mayor of our town was immediately impeached and the police force underwent 1 week of sensitivity training with an emphasis on listening skills.
After he was tried and convicted, Santa was exiled “up north” for two years, sentenced to muck out the reindeer stalls every day and paint small wooden toys.
Definition courtesy of “Silva Rhetoricae” (rhetoric.byu.edu)
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