Onedismus (on-e-dis’-mus): Reproaching someone for being impious or ungrateful.
What is this about? Where is this going? Last week you were composing a song about what a great partner I’ve been. This week you’ve stripped down the Ten Commandments to thou shalt lie, cheat, steal, commit adultery, punch out your neighbors, and have as many gods as you want—the more the merrier. What happened?
WHAT HAPPENED
Nancy put a white bag with eyeholes over her head. She began: “Do you remember the street vendor on Times Square, selling genuine Voodoo food? We laughed and so did the guy cooking and selling it. He had no teeth and his clothes were filthy. His stand was called ‘Zombie Mambo.’ Remember?” A bloodstain started forming where her mouth would’ve been on the white bag. I told her I remembered. We both had the Zombie Disco Chicken—it was delicious—I could’ve eaten ten servings.
I was becoming mildly terrified. Nancy started producing an irresistible sweet perfume smell—like jasmine and orange blossoms blended together, sailing toward me through the air, and she was gliding toward me too—slowly, almost imperceptibly. Despite the bloodstain over her mouth, I was overcome. I started moving toward her and she pulled off the bag.
There was a ball of mating garden snakes writhing where her head should’ve been. The ball had a mouth and eyes. The eyes were yellow and the mouth was still dripping blood. Strangely, I wasn’t overcome by terror.
The next thing I knew, Nancy and I were dancing to “Night Fever” by The Bee Gees streaming from the stereo. I was in another dimension feeling more alive than I ever have—focusing on Nancy’s snake ball head my heart was pulsing to the rhythm of the snakes. Nancy was making a protracted moaning sound, filling the living room with lust—but we couldn’t succumb. All we could do was dance, dance, dance. The Bees Gees played on. Nancy’s head slowly turned into a disco ball. It spun faster and faster. The mirrored reflections became streaks on the walls. We had been dancing for three hours. Exhausted, I passed out and flopped to the floor. When I awoke, Nancy was sitting on the couch looking at me affectionately. She was back to her normal beautiful self. I asked her: “What happened?” She told me she thought it was the “Zombie Disco Chicken” we had gotten from the street vendor in Times Square.
We went back to Times Square to see if we could find the vendor. We could not find him. We Googled “Zombie Disco Chicken.” Nothing. We stumbled on a fortune-teller on First Avenue who also sold charms made of stone, bone, shells, and feathers. We asked her about Zombie Disco Chicken and she shuddered. “You have done the Zombie Disco Night Fever?” We described what had happened and told her the vendor’s name—“Voodoo Mambo Chicken.” She said, “Yes you have done it. The Zombie Disco Chicken motivated it. The Zombie Disco Night Fever maintains the right relationship between life and death, as the disco ball simulates procreation, and, as Eros is excreted through its rotations, it obscures its opposite with the sacred veil of the ‘busted’ dance move.”
POSTSCRIPT
We bought tickets to Haiti. We wanted a reprise of what we had experienced. In fact, we wanted it to become an ongoing part of our lives. We wanted the “thrill” of the dance. We listened to “Night Fever” whenever we could on the flight to Port au Prince. We looked high and low for somebody who knew about Zombie Disco Chicken. No luck. It was disappointing. I looked back over my shoulder as we prepared to board the plane and there was the vendor! We turned around and went back. Together with Bob’s assistance, we worked out a nightclub act. Nancy and I would eat a helping of Zombie Disco Chicken and then dance for the punters, who thought it was all an act. It wasn’t.
After 2 years we got tired of putting on the show. It’s hard to believe, but it’s true. We went back to the US, to our normal lives, and never ate street food again.
Definition courtesy of “Silva Rhetoricae” (rhetoric.byu.edu)
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