Paromologia (par-o-mo-lo’-gi-a): Conceding an argument, either jestingly and contemptuously, or to prove a more important point. A synonym for concessio.
I told her I couldn’t take the dog for a walk because it was dark and I might get lost. She told me we’ve been living here for 12 years and it hadn’t happened, so it was nearly certain it wouldn’t happen now. Damn, I lost again. But, I’d give it another try. “But this could be the time.” She told me to shut up and handed me the dog leash. “But, what do think, I’m a flashlight.” She told me to shut up again and put the leash in my hand.
Losing to my wife had been going on for years, but I always had a new reason not to walk the dog up my sleeve, or ready to pull out of my ass. I didn’t hate the dog, but I hated walking him—walking, stopping, sniffing, peeing, and eventually squatting and dropping a steaming bomb. And then, I had to squat and pick it up in a little plastic bag. If anybody had told me 30 or 40 years ago that we’d be picking up our dog’s shit by the side of the sidewalk, I would’ve thought they were some kind of creepy poopoophiliac, on medication, and undergoing counseling for their condition. Anyway, I hated walking down the street with a bag of swinging hot poop in my hand. So, I had invented the “Poopvac.” It was like a Dust Buster for dog poop. It was a hollow walking stick with a rechargeable battery-powered a vacuum concealed in the handle. You inserted a specially designed condom-like receptacle in the walking stick’s tip. You’d hold it over a poop, pull the trigger, and it would suck up the poop and seal the receptacle in one smooth move. It was a failure. The receptacles had a tendency to explode, spewing poop from the walking stick’s handle. I tried to get funding to perfect it on “Go Fund Me.” I raised $16 and was mercilessly ridiculed. I gave up. A dark time in my life.
Two nights ago, I told my wife I couldn’t walk the dog because my foot hurt. I figured that was a winner, because she’d have a hard time proving it was a lie. She got up and went into the bathroom. I heard the medicine cabinet squeak open. She cam back with a bottle of Ibuprofen, told me to take two and shut up. I was had again. Would I ever come up with a reason not to walk the dog that would work—that would persuade her?
Last night was the end of it all. I told my wife I couldn’t walk the dog because I couldn’t find him. Somehow, he’d gotten lost. But actually, I had hidden him under the bed with a bag of Doggy Doodles dog treats. I was just starting to realize that putting him under the bed was a bad idea—he was housebroken, but not that broken. Just then, my wife walked past the bed and the dog came slithering out and ran in circles around her. She took him for a walk.
When she got back, she told me she was sick of the nightly dog walking bullshit, that she would walk the dog from now on. My new responsibility is “Housekeeper.” I keep the place clean, do the laundry and cook our meals. My wife walks the dog and pays the bills. Currently, I’m watching Julia Child reruns and working on a chicken fist puppet “Punch and Judy” routine.
Definition courtesy of “Silva Rhetoricae” (rhetoric.byu.edu
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