Systrophe (si’-stro-fee): The listing of many qualities or descriptions of someone or something, without providing an explicit definition.
Iron, tile, milkweed, nailgun: shacks, mowing candellabras, showers. All in a day’s work—a day’s hard work. Working with the hands sometimes slowly, sometimes fast. Toady, I’m making a cradle for the neighbor’s daughter’s newborn baby. Her name is Shane. She’s 11 and her dad’s 45. That’s quite a difference in their age, but here in Texas, the abortion ban wonderland, it happens too often. You see the middle school girls pushing baby carriages to school. The school has made no accommodations for the kiddie moms, making them bring their strollers to class and park them in the back of the classroom.
Put the unwanted pregnancies together with lax gun laws in Texas, and you haves a common sense way of dealing with things. There is a public interest group called “Bullets for Babies” that will loan out handguns for the “Never Again” movement’s mission called “Bye Bye Daddy.”
It has been successful slowing down the rate of unwanted pregnancies by eliminating repeat offenders and scaring the hell out of prospective offenders. But best of all, the US Supreme Court has declared open season on men who impregnate girls under 17. It is hoped this will balance out the strict abortion laws.
It is surprising how many men in our town have been put down. One of the first to go was Mr. Medwick the English teacher. He was young and smart, and single, and very handsome. Of course, this is a recipe for abuse. He was shot dead on the football field during half time. Susie Clen pulled the trigger, wounding him and finally getting a bullet into his head. It was gruesome, but the astroturf cleans right up and you’d never know anything happened.
Another benefit is free DNA tests. They are an infallible guide pointing directly at perpetrators. Many men have mysteriously left town after being summoned to appear at the local DNA testing center to have their saliva swabbed. Most noteworthy was Mayor Jackson. His secretary’s daughter was growing a bump and had pointed the finger the Mayor. As soon as he got notice he was seen speeding out of town in his Cadillac. His Secretary was chasing after him in her Subaru but couldn’t catch up, although she did manage to put a couple of .357 slugs into his trunk.
Anyway, as soon as I finish Shane’s cradle. I’ll hunt her father down and bring him in to the DNA testing center. I hear he’s doing the “sanctuary” thing in the local church. What a joke, after what he did. If he resists, I’ll shoot hm in the foot and then drag him to the center for testing. Chances are, he’ll take off before I can apprehend him. That’ll be a shame. He probably deserves to die. He’ll probably make a run to Oklahoma, but we have an extradition agreement. We’ll get him one way or the other. It’s ironic, but I think he’s a bastard.
Uh oh! I hear gunfire up the street. It must be another feckless father payin’ his dues.
Definition courtesy of “Silva Rhetoricae” (rhetoric.byu.edu)
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