Consonance: The repetition of consonants in words stressed in the same place (but whose vowels differ). Also, a kind of inverted alliteration, in which final consonants, rather than initial or medial ones, repeat in nearby words. Consonance is more properly a term associated with modern poetics than with historical rhetorical terminology.
Herbert: Tumbling dice. Shallow ditch. Sky-blue donut. It all fits together—everything fits together. Just look! Use your eyes—both of them. Just look. Don’t listen. It is not in your ear, although it could be. This is one of the interesting things about repurposing your senses. Look! Don’t listen or smell for awhile, just see and feel. Then, after a week let smelling be your companion. Sniff it out, twist and shout—shake it up baby.—do the jerk! Do you love me now that I can smell?
You are sugar and spice and everything nice, pony tails and hiking trails, toilet seats and doggie treats, selected meats, and big plump beets.
I feel so much better. A visit from Marshmallow Man always sweetens things up. I wish they’d let you in my cell. I’d take a big bite out of you. Probably, your face.
Susan: Herbert, it’s me your mother. Today is visitor’s day, and I’m visiting you like I do every month hoping you’ll return to normal—like when you were a little boy and played your days away with Chip the neighbor boy. I’ve told you before, but you don’t remember. He broke into Micky’s Pet Store and ate the tropical fish, got sick and had to be taken to the hospital to have his stomach pumped. I always knew you’d be good friends, but the pet store incident would’ve sealed the deal if you weren’t locked up here at “Don’t Worry, Be Happy.” Who knows, maybe some me day you will snap out of it.
Herbert: Chip was such a good influence. I remember when we made kites out of our underpants and flew them over the playground. They were too heavy to fly, but we tried. Miscalculation is 50% of calculation. I learned that from Chip. One enchanted evening we were wearing blue suede shoes and pink carnations. We went to the bowling alley, had a cherry coke and then talked about Kansas City and then I went directly home to murder you, mom. It was my best plan ever, but you were in the bathroom and I wanted to kill you in your bed, where you slept, and I would stab you with my Boy Scout knife. With, in addition to the main blade, has a small blade, can opener, a corkscrew and an awl. You were too cheap to get me one with a fork and spoon.
When you came out of the bathroom, I chased you across the hall into your bedroom. You ran into your bedroom, locked the door, and called the police. That was it for me.
Susan: Oh Herbert! You’re so funny! Your needs and desires are hilarious. You’re such a clown. Just think, if you had murdered me, where would you be now? You’d be right here because you’re insane. Ha! Ha!
Herbert: Ha! Ha! Ma, you light up my life. But really, you’re nothing but a hound dog. Go home!
Definition courtesy of “Silva Rhetoricae” (rhetoric.byu.edu)
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