Anthimeria (an-thi-mer’-i-a): Substitution of one part of speech for another (such as a noun used as a verb).
He was a goer—always tapping one foot and looking at the sky. My mother had dropped him on his head three times when he was a baby. The first time it happened she was trying to mix a gin and tonic. She blamed Sylvester for “moving” as if babies weren’t supposed to move. The second time she dropped Sylvester, she was trying to unlock and open the car door, which took two hands. The third time she was holding Sylvester’s hands while she spun around. Although, technically not a drop, she sneezed and let go of Sylvester and he landed in Dad’s prize rose bush. Sylvester was scratched by the bush, but didn’t bleed much.
Sylvester’s “falls” didn’t seem to affect him in any critical ways. Instead of a backpack, he wore a parachute. Instead of a ball cap, he wore a motorcycle helmet. He wore a first aid kit on his belt and kept his cellphone pre-dialed to 911 in case he fell and couldn’t get up. Lately, he’s started growling at things that are red. He had a fit over a radish, foaming at the mouth and scratching himself. Yesterday, he saw some strawberries in the refrigerator and went berserk. He growled and foamed and peed into the refrigerator. That did it,
We were sure his behavior was due to his head injuries. We took him to Dr. Grinder, a noteworthy psychologist specializing in people with mental difficulties. Sylvester was rolling in mental difficulties. After two years, Dr. Grinder determined that everything was my mother’s fault. She showed no remorse until the Doctor told her she should pay reparations for what she had done. She exploded with rage. She pushed Sylvester to the office’s forty-story window. “You wanna hit your head big time?” She yelled at Sylvester. “Yes” he quietly said. My mother shoved him out the window. You could hear him laughing, and then there was a popping sound—it was Sylvester’s parachute deploying! We also heard sirens—Sylvester had hit his pre-dialed 911 and the police were on the way.
My mother was remanded to the “Penal Home for the Criminally Insane.” She is not permitted to carry anything breakable. She has a rubber doll she calls “Sylvester” and throws on the floor repeatedly.
Sylvester is totally cured (of what we’re not sure). He has stopped growling and does not wear his “falling down” equipment any more. In fact, he met a woman who is a professional high-diver. He jokingly says they are making a big splash.
Definition courtesy of “Silva Rhetoricae” (rhetoric.byu.edu)
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