Prozeugma (pro-zoog’-ma): A series of clauses in which the verb employed in the first is elided (and thus implied) in the others.
Before I got ‘corrected’ I bought things impulsively that I didn’t need or couldn’t afford, or both. The internet was like a Satanic voice calling me to buy. Crazy disparate objects and intangibles. Big things, little things, cheap things, expensive things, and in between, in my shopping cart, in the mail.
FEDEX and UPS drivers could find their way to my house with their eyes closed. Some days there was a cue in the driveway. While the the drivers waited, they would get out of their trucks and smoke, and talk, and play frisbee on my lawn. I would tell them to “keep a box” as a tip. I bought so much stuff, I did not know what was in the boxes, and I didn’t care. Whenever I opened a box, it was like Christmas—the contents were always a surprise. One time I “got” a drone. I had trouble figuring out how to set it up and use it, but with patience and practice, I figured it out. I used it to spy on my neighbors. I would hover about 100 feet above their hot tub. They would just sit there with the water bubbling around them and then it looked like they were almost always arguing. Then, there was only the husband sitting there all alone. Then, my neighbor shot down my drone and that was that. Once I opened a box with holes poked in the sides, and there was a baby raccoon in it. I named him Norbert and put him outside with some table scraps in a bowl. The next morning I looked outside and saw Norbert curled up asleep on the porch next to the empty bowl. He woke up and I let him in for awhile. I got him a double dish—one side water, the other side food. I put him outside at night. Once I saw his picture on a wanted poster for rummaging in garbage cans. I don’t care what he does on his own time. When we’re together he is a perfect gentleman. There are thousands more box-opening stories, but these two should give you an idea of how whacked-out I am.
Eventually, I had so far exceeded my credit limits on my 15 charge cards, a collection agency was put on my tail. I got phone calls. I got letters. I got weird-looking men knocking on my door. They all threatened to destroy my credit rating if I didn’t pay up. I didn’t pay up, but I made a deal. I taken by the credit agency to Silicon Valley to a tech company called “Thwart.” There, I had a micro-chip implanted in the back of my right hand (I’m right-handed). If I say or write the words “borrow,” “loan,” “credit,” or any of their derivatives or synonyms, my hand twitches uncontrollably and I receive mild pulsing shocks for two minutes. I tried it out right after I got it. Let me tell you, my borrowing days are over. I tried to hire a surrogate, but it didn’t work. The hand-chip caught me.
Next week, I am going to go to Argentina to have the implant removed. My guess is “Thwart” will detect the removal and the chase will be on again. After Argentina, I’m headed for Switzerland where I’ll have a total body alteration done—my height, my weight—everything. There, I can have my US passport altered as well, including a change of name, guaranteed to be valid and pass through passport control no questions asked. All my expenses are being paid by “Credit Crashers,” an NGO located in North Korea.
Definition courtesy of “Silva Rhetoricae” (rhetoric.byu.edu)
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