Tapinosis

Tapinosis (ta-pi-no’-sis): Giving a name to something which diminishes it in importance.

They are a piece of crap, a waste of space, a symbol of oppression. the Crown Jewels of England. Worn by beheaders, adulterers, bad tennis players and overweight slobs. When I see the Queen wearing the crown, I want to run up and push her down. But what good would that do? I would be packed off to the loony bin and disappear into meds and electric shocks. So, that’s why I’ve gotten a job in the Tower of London where the Crown Jewels are displayed. The crown is taken out of its showcase once-a-month for dusting. That’s when I will strike. I will work my way up to crown duster. Then, instead of dusting it, I will run away with it.

After three years I was promoted to Duster. As planned, I absconded with the crown. I ran out a side door with it under my arm like an American football. Strangely, nobody chased me or even yelled. I checked into the first hotel I came to. I sat on the bed and looked at the crown, imagining ways I could destroy it. I thought fire was my best bet, but throwing it out a window or running it over with a steam roller were pretty good options too.

Then I noticed it said “Barbie” on the inside rim. The crown on display was from one of those life-size Barbie Dolls! I had to find the genuine crown so I could lay it to waste once and for all. Then I remembered: Nick Knack. I had served with hm as an altar boy back in the day. We pilfered communion wafers and sold them to the Satanic cults flourishing in London at the time. We got mixed up with some pretty crazy people, one of whom taught Nick how to turn into a house plant and spy on people. He was willing pose as a philodendron in The Tower of London to see if he could get the lowdown on the crown’s whereabouts. His friend posed as a florist and dropped him off. It didn’t take long.

Nick heard them talking and heard them say the crown was disguised as cake topper in Harrod’s pastry hall. It was sitting atop a “permanent” wedding cake. I jumped in a cab and headed to Harrod’s as fast as I could. I climbed up on the showcase where the cake was displayed. I reached for the crown, and a nicely manicured hand with a handcuff attached to the wrist shout out of the cake and shackled me. She stood up and was wearing a maid’s costume. It was like the girl popping out of the cake at a bachelor party. But, it was no party for me. No lap dance. The oppressor had won again.

I am in prison. I am writing a book: “Try to Have a Plan.” It is based on my experience.

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

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