Ominatio (o-mi-na’-ti-o): A prophecy of evil.
My father is a prophet. He spends most of his time far away in the future. We don’t know who pays him, and we didn’t care. His prophecies hit the mark about one-third of the time. He saw the disco craze coming—he had Saturday night fever about one year before the first disco ball lit up the night. His biggest miss was Google Glass. He prophesied: “Woe will sweep across the land. People will be run over and their blood will flow in every gutter and their loved ones will weep from the curbs.” Dad was so far off on this one that he didn’t go out of the house or roll a public prophecy for a year.
That year was hell for our family. He needed to stay in practice as a prophet to keep his certification, so he practiced on us. Here’s an example addressed to my sister: “Lo, Marie, if you wearest those clothes your belly-button will show and it will attract the impure attentions of your male peers.” Marie answered: “That’s the point Dad. Go bother somebody else.” After Marie gave him shit, Dad put on his sackcloth suit, hoping it’s itchiness would get him on track with the future. He had given me a sackcloth suit for my 17th birthday. He told me to make sure I wore no undergarments when I wore the sackcloth suit. It was brown and smelled like goat urine. When I wore it to my first job interview my crotch started itching after the first question. I couldn’t scractch myself there or I was certain not to get the job, which was working on the assembly line at a Tesla plant.
I asked if I could be excused to use the rest room. I was granted permission. When I got to the men’s room, I ran into a stall and locked it. I tore down my pants and scratched like crazy—almost to the point of bleeding. I decided to fill my pants with toilet paper, and stuff what I could in my crotch, and wrap my penis like a bandage. I thought the toilet paper would insulate my skin from the itchy sackcloth pants.
When I got back they were eager to resume the interview. They asked me if I owned a bidet. I told them “Yes.” I had used a bidet once in France, but I didn’t really own one. They asked me how long I would sit and let it wash me. That’s when everything went to hell: the toilet paper in my pants was cheap. It was stiff and made a crinkling sound whenever I moved. The first time it happened the interviewers’ heads jerked simultaneously and the interviewers looked toward my crotch’ where the sound was coming from. One of the interviewers asked me what the sound coming out of my pants was. She said it sounded like somebody was wrapping gifts.
I told them the story of my sackcloth suit. They told me to stay where I was and left the room. Soon after, two security guards showed up and “escorted” me out of the building. I was infuriated. I tore off my sackcloth suit and threw it on the ground, and stomped on it. Naked, I caught a bus home my with my private parts covered by the toilet paper.
This is just one example of how having a prophet for a father has affected my life. When his self-imposed exile had run its course, Dad was ready to rip. He had loudspeakers on the roof of his car and he would ride around our neighborhood slowly, repeating the day’s prophecy. On his first day out it was: “Lo unto you New Yorkers, the Yankees will bring darkness and anguish to your hearts by the wrath of socks of red.” Being a Yankees fan myself, I thought Dad had a good thing going. I gave him a fist pump as he rode past our house.
Definitions courtesy of “Silva Rhetoricae” (rhetoric.byu.edu).
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