Diaphora

Diaphora (di-a’-pho-ra): Repetition of a common name so as to perform two logical functions: to designate an individual and to signify the qualities connoted by that individual’s name or title.

Dick, dick. How’s that? Your name is Dick and they call you dick: Dick dick. Or, should I say, a dick or the dick? I have a string of memories of your dickhood stretching back to the Fifth Grade. I still remember: I needed one more block to finish off my castle. One stinking block. You had ten blocks and you had finished your fort. You wouldn’t give me one of your extra blocks. You said, “I might need it later.” What a lame excuse. What a dick! What a super duper dick.

I’m going to keep reminding you, dick: you took my little brother on a camping trip in Bowlng Rock State Park. Remember? He was 8 years old. You didn’t give him a flashlight and twenty feet down the trail you took off running, and he could not catch up with you. He got lost and was lost for three days. Believe it or not, you blamed him. I found him sitting a lean-to crying—covered with mosquito bites. You, being the dick you are, blamed him. “He shouldn’t have gone in the first place. What an idiot. Goddamn him!” Saying those things almost got you killed, but you still won’t admit you were wrong. Dick.

One last scar you’ve left. My dog Rough. My family was going to Maine for vacation for two weeks. Our usual dog sitter was unavailable, so I talked my parents into asking you. You said you could for no less than $100. We were leaving the next day, so we were stuck. We gave you detailed instructions —with the big one: keep Rough in the yard—NO MATTER WHAT! You failed to do that. You “thought” he looked like he needed more exercise. Rough dashed out into the street and was run over and killed. You didn’t tell us, and waited until we came home. Rough was wrapped up in a bloody blanket in the driveway. His collar was sitting on top of the blanket. You said, “If you had given him more exercise, he wouldn’t have run off like that. You should’ve taken better care of him. He was your pet. Not mine.” I wanted to kill you. Poor Rough. Never hurt a fly, laid out dead in our driveway.

Now you’re sorry for being a dick—being self absorbed. Your apology is smoke in the wind. The best thing I can do is stay away. I hope you move out of town, maybe out of state, or maybe into another country or a desert island where you can’t inflict yourself on other humans.

“Go, get out!” The door’s that way, remember? What’s that? A clock? “Time’s running out on you Joey. That’s all I can say. Don’t forget to wind it. I may be a dick, but you’re a shithead.”

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

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