Antanagoge (an’-ta-na’-go-gee): Putting a positive spin on something that is nevertheless acknowledged to be negative or difficult.
I hate driving the speed limit, no matter what it is. 30? I’d go 50. 40? I’d go 60. 75? I’d go 105. I knew how fast I could go. I didn’t need a road sign to tell me. Then, I nearly killed my family.
I had the SAAB Combi up to 115 on the Maine Turnpike. Then, a little red Fiat cut me off. I hit him in the side and he rolled over, making sparks fly and smoking. I skidded sideways onto the median strip with my hands off the steering wheel. The car seat we had bought at a garage sale, and installed improperly, had malfunctioned and Baby Waylon had flown toward the windshield from the back seat. Luckily my high school baseball experience kicked in and in a flash I caught Waylon like a line drive—bare-handed. My wife had a nosebleed, and my teen-aged daughter Dolly was cursing me out. I was a little rattled, but I was impressed by the number of swear words she knew at 16. Then, the Combi caught on fire. We scrambled out into the mud and I noticed Dolly was missing. Then I saw her rolling around in the mud trying to put out her flaming sweatshirt. I told her to take off the sweatshirt. She swore at me again and pulled it off. Her T-shirt, under the sweatshirt, rolled up. She was covered with tattoos! She had a huge tattoo on her stomach. It was the counter guy from Cliff’s. The tattoo was positioned so her belly- button was one of his eyes winking. It said “True Love” below it. My wife wiped off her nose and started crying. I started thinking how much it would cost to have the tattoo removed.
Then, the driver of the Fiat came limping up the median strip brandishing a car Jack that he had somehow retrieved from the car. He had a gash on his forehead and the left leg of his pants was soaked with blood. His car was truly a wreck. It looked like a big red crumpled red hot dog with doors. He said “I’m going to kill you.” Then, I recognized him! It was my nephew Ludlow—my little sister’s son. Then, he recognized me too—He yelled, “My God, it’s uncle Crooky!” He was on his way to Freeport to buy a life vest and a half-dozen pairs of torque preventing Polartec underpants at L.L Bean. I called Triple-A and offered to pay to have his Fiat towed somewhere. He wanted to leave the Fiat there, but I talked him out of it. Then, I called an ambulance for Ludlow’s leg. All of a sudden, the state police showed up, with guns drawn they smelled our breaths and made us dance with them to “Showroom Dummies.” They determined there was no foul play and we were free to go. We waited 3 hours for AAA, but that’s another story.
Now, the lesson I learned: Speed limits are a pain in the ass, but they keep you and other people from getting killed or injured. Now, I never drive more than 10 MPH above the speed limit. Lesson learned.
Definition courtesy of “Silva Rhetoricae” (rhetoric.byu.edu)
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