Tmesis

Tmesis (tmee’-sis): Interjecting a word or phrase between parts of a compound word or between syllables of a word.

I was running and for not for exer-friggin-cise. I was running for my life. I was being chased by a pack of killer dogs and their pistol-waving handlers. I thought, “Why don’t I just sit down and let it be over.” I had just been passing through this beautiful little town. I was on a jogging tour of the northwestern United States. I was in Western Washington in a town named Butte Bluff Valley Glen a contradiction, but a beautiful little town nevertheless. I had decided to stay for a couple of weeks and maybe get to know some local people. All I had was a credit card and my jogging apparel. I washed it once a week. I could go a little longer when I couldn’t find a laundramat with an attendant and a restroom where I could hide while my clothes were washing. I’d hand my clothes off to the attendant along with my credit card to pay for the washing. It worked well. I’d started my jogging tour in Portland, Oregon and had made it all the way to Butte Bluff Valley Glen without incident.

I had handed my clothes out of the rest room to the attendant, including my socks. I was just going to sit on the closed toilet seat until my clothes were done. I was completely naked. Suddenly I felt a painful stinging on my leg. I looked down. There was a fire ant mound by the toilet and the ants were swarming out and covering my legs! I tried swatting then and bushing them off. Then I realized I had to get the hell out of the restroom. I burst out the door swatting and brushing my legs and ran out the front door of the laundromat. I was on the sidewalk naked, dancing around trying to get rid of the ants. Their venom was starting to affect me. My spine was tingling and I was seeing things. I was boxing with my mother. I was kicking the crap out of her. Then the hallucination subsided and I saw I had beaten up a little girl—maybe eight years old. I heard sirens. It was an ambulance. I thought maybe I could jog my way out of the mess.

I went back in the laundromat to get my clothes, the attendant, a 30-something woman, threw them on floor and yelled “pick ‘em up and get the hell out of here pervert.” I told her I wasn’t a pervert. She took a shotgun down from the wall, aimed it at me and said, “Get the hell out of here pervert.” I pulled on my jogging clothes and ran out the door. Somebody yelled “You broke her nose pervert!” I ran faster than I ever ran in my whole life. I knew I would wear out sooner or later, collapse and be eaten by dogs. They were about a half mile behind me and closing.

Suddenly a pickup truck pulled up alongside me. The driver said”Hop in. I’ll get you the hell out of here.” As we rode along, he told me he was a “genuine, dyed in the wool pervert,” and what I had done back there was great. He thought punching the little girl in the nose was the work of a Grade A pervert. I was stunned. I had escaped the dogs, but now I was riding down the highway with a total nutcase. We must’ve been speeding because we were pulled over. The cop said, “Mayor Jarvis, what’re you doing giving the laundromat pervert a ride?” “I’m takin’ him in Sheriff Pellwap,” said the Mayor.

I’m in jail awaiting trial. I have no lawyer. I have no hope. The laundromat attendant kept my credit card and has probably maxed it out.

The moral of the story: if you go on a jogging tour, bring a backpack with a change of clothes.

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

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