Mesodiplosis (mes-o-dip-lo’-sis): Repetition of the same word or words in the middle of successive sentences.
This is a new chapter in my life. I’ve had my fill of St. Louis. Panera Bread had gotten inside my head. I smelled like yeast and was dusted with flour, like a poltergeist pizza. I had grown up in St. Louis, graduated from high school in St. Louis, and was arrested in St. Lewis for stealing a garden gnome when I was 19. I was sentenced to 3 months community service. That’s where I met my dog, a stray Coyote-Poo. I named him Jocka after the dog in the French song about oversleeping. But now I was moving out. At 27 it was time to go. I will be unfettered, foot-loose, a free bird. Drivin’ and arrivan’.
So, where am I going?
I’m goin’ to Kansas City. I think it’s in Kansas somewhere. I think Kansas City is my destination. Maybe I’ll pack some meat when I get there. I flicked on the GPS and found out Kansas City is in Missouri. I was delighted that the drive would be shorter.
I was singing “I’m goin’ to Kansas City, Kansas City Here I Come” when my Hyundai was hit by a toilet iceberg discharged by a jet flying overhead. I lost control of my car. I hit a guard rail and bounced off. The car blew up and started burning. I was able to drive it to the Kansas City line before the smoke got to me and I pulled over choking. I rolled down my window and Jocka made his escape. My seatbelt wouldn’t come unlatched. I pulled out my knife specially designed for seatbelt cutting—and breaking glass too! I got it online at “Jay’s Blades.” My eyes were burning as I flipped open the knife and started cutting. Suddenly the car door flew open and there was a firefighter standing there. He reached in the car and pulled on my seatbelt. This caused me to stab myself in the stomach. The knife was protruding from my stomach—I was afraid to pull it out. I had seem countless doctor shows on TV where pulling a knife out was fatal. Next, an EMT person showed up at the car door. She said, “We’ve got to get you out of here.” She grabbed me by the shoulders and started pulling me out of my car. The knife got stuck in the steering wheel and popped out. “This is an emergency” she said. I felt my life leaking away. I hadn’t made it to Kansas City. I was about five feet from the city limits. I could smell the barbecue over the smoke coming out from under my hood. Despite the fact that I was dying, I had hunger pangs. The EMT said, if you don’t get to a hospital in a half-hour, you’re dead. That was disheartening.
We were speeding along in a Kansas City ambulance when we passed a big red sign titled “Piggy’s” with a flashing neon pig in a bun. I took off the oxygen mask and yelled “Turn around, I want a barbecue sandwich!” The driver turned and smiled, his silver front tooth gleaming in the streetlights. He pulled the emergency brake and did a full 360. The EMT ran into Piggy’s and came out with a steaming barbecue sandwich. She threw it to me as we continued on to the hospital. It hit me in the face and splattered on my stretcher. I scooped up what I could and stuffed it in my mouth.
I passed out just as we pulled in to “KC General.” I woke up when I fell off the gurney because one of the wheels fell off. I passed out again. I woke up in my hospital bed feeling pretty good. I looked at my stomach wound and it was stitched up with florescent orange fishing line, with a hookless fishing lure dangling from it. I asked my nurse what the hell it was about. She said, “It celebrates the centrality of urban fishing to KC’s cultural heritage—before there were cows, there were bass. We decorate nearly everything with fishing lures. Christmas is a very special time here.” I felt like I was hallucinating or dreaming. All of a sudden, I felt like I’d been hooked up to a car battery. Somebody yelled “Clear” and I felt myself starting up again. I looked at my stomach and it was held together with normal stitches. I stayed in the hospital for two weeks, and then, I walked to Kansas City.
I didn’t take a train. I didn’t take a plane. My car blew up, but I got there just the same. I got to Kansas City, Kansas City here I am. I sued the fire department and EMTs for worsening my knife wound and almost killing me. I was awarded $12,000,000. I bought Piggy’s, a luxury condo, and a new car—not a Hyundai. I hired a PI to find Jocka. He had gotten a job modeling flea shampoo and acting as a watchdog at a dog salon named “Royal Woofers.” When he saw me, he went crazy dancing around in circles and howling. Now, we’re living happily ever after, but we’re think of moving. We’re looking at New York, El Paso, Surf City, San Jose, Las Vegas, Chicago, or Galveston.
Definition courtesy of “Silva Rhetoricae” (rhetoric.byu.edu)
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