Hypallage

Hypallage (hy-pal’-la-ge): Shifting the application of words. Mixing the order of which words should correspond with which others. Also, sometimes, a synonym for metonymy (see Quintilian).

I knew it was bad to kill people, but I didn’t care. Only Ernie could save me from doing it. I think it was the tone of his voice. He sounded like Elvis. In fact, he was studying to be an Elvis impersonator when tragedy struck.

Me, it was, that wore me down. Like an evil angel, present always, like the sky, the earth, my best friend Ernie. He was my best friend because he was my only friend. I had an explosive temper. I would “lose” it at the slightest provocation. Once I kicked my toddler brother because he asked me where his Buzz Lightspeed doll was. Clearly, he was accusing me of stealing it—an unfounded accusation worthy of being kicked on the ankle as retribution for slander. I was getting ready to follow up with a fireplace poker whipping, when Ernie said “You might kill him.” “Whoops” I said. “Thanks for the reminder. I think it would’ve been justified, but you’re right.”

The only thing that kept me from murdering people was fear of the electric chair, lethal injection, or gas. There was also the prospect of spending life in prison—the big smelly prisoners, possible marriage to a loser, the food and no tools handy to beat people to death who made me lose my temper. It would be hell, and hell, I wasn’t ready for. But I had Ernie, ever present, to remind me I was about to do something that would land me in prison or get executed.

There was the time our teacher had called on me and I thought she was taunting me. It made me mad. I jumped out of my chair with my circle-making compass in my had, prepared to stab Miss Jones to death with the pointy thing. Ernie yelled from the back of the classroom “You’ll go to prison, or worse,” Miss Jones was saved and I had to go to weekly counseling for two months. They showed me pictures of dying bleeding people with “BAD” over the image. Then, they’d show a picture of two smiling people shaking hands with “GOOD” over the image. I had no idea what was going on.

Ernie and I were hanging out in my room. In keeping with his Elvis studies, Ernie said “Hey baby, let’s go to Dairy Queen.” Ernie had called me “baby.” “Son-of-a-bitch!” I yelled. Before Ernie had a chance warn me not to, I grabbed my autographed Yogi Berra baseball bat and hit Ernie in the middle of his head. He had called me “Baby” when I was a teenager—bastard. I threw his body out my bedroom window and dragged it into garage, where I put him in the kiddie pool. I felt no remorse, so I knew I was on the right track. So what if it’s Ernie? He called me “baby”—he even had a crooked smile on his face.

I cut Ernie up with Dad’s electric chainsaw, I put his head up on a shelf behind a gallon can of paint. Then, I put the rest of Ernie in a large garbage bag and stuffed it in my big travel suitcase with the wheels. My plan was to dispose of him that night. I was still as mad as hell and couldn’t wait to get rid of him—the insulting loser.

The zoo was only a mile away. My plan was to break into the zoo and feed Ernie to meat-eating animals, like lions. I climbed over the fence and waded through the moat surrounding the lion enclosure. I opened my suitcase and dumped the pieces of Ernie’s butchered body on the ground. Two lions came trotting out of a cave—straight for me! I ran for the fence and got halfway up when one of the lions got me by the foot. It let go and I scrambled over the fence.

I left my suitcase behind, and that, along with the baseball bat and bloody kiddie pool are what got me. They were able to connect the suitcase to me by checking my purchase history on Amazon.

Well, you guessed it: my worst nightmare has come true. I’m serving a life term in Marcus Welby Memorial Psychiatric Hospital. So far, I’ve threatened to kill all of my fellow inmates and staff. I am bereft of weapons and strangling makes me queasy, so my desire for vengeance is thwarted. It’s too bad Ernie ended up as piles of lion poop. I have no remorse—he deserved it. I guess my only regret is that I didn’t debone him and cut him into smaller, bite-sized, pieces.

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

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