Epizeugma (ep-i-zoog’-ma): Placing the verb that holds together the entire sentence (made up of multiple parts that depend upon that verb) either at the very beginning or the very ending of that sentence.
Going crazy was the height of my existence. I was nuts. Boingo-roni. Off the tracks. Around the bend. Out of my mind. Cuck-koo. Barmy. Schizo. Bipolar. But, I wasn’t a psychopath. I was kind, compassionate, complimentary, a creature of comfort and joy. I was Christ like. I wore a diaper and told people to love God and their neighbors and sold crowns of thorns at the town’s weekly farmer’s market. I would wear one and make red dots on my wrists and ankles to replicate being nailed up. Initially, I had used ketchup, but it wore off too quickly. The red marker was indelible, guaranteed to last forever, if properly applied.
In one month I had sold only two crowns to a middle-aged couple clothed in black leather. They were weird. So, I decided to go out of business. I lowered my price to $1.00 and still, no sales. So I decided to give my crowns away. I threw them like frisbees to passersby. It was a catastrophe. They reached for the crowns as a reflex action, and were stabbed by the thorns. It was a mess. There was one small first aid kit—not enough for everybody who had grabbed my thorn crowns. I was yelling “Jesus loves you” as the unwounded came toward my booth chanting “Antichrist.”
I pooped my diaper and ran, chased by at least 50 people. There was a boarded-up building across the street from the Town Square—where the farmers market is held. I climbed through a broken window.and squatted in a corner crying. Suddenly, there was a flood of light. It was the Ghost of Christmas Past, from the movie “A Christmas Carol.” She told me I was going to get older and my hair would fall out. I cried louder. She told me I would marry a big fat Prussian woman and have 12 children, all slow-minded. Still sobbing, I said “That’s all well and good, but what about my poopy diaper and the 50 people who want to kill me?” She had a magic wand. She touched it to my butt, a bell rang, and my poop was cleared. I thanked her. She told me she had erased the 50 peoples’ memories, and they were no longer a problem. She told me to grab the hem of her dress. I was concerned about the morality of doing so. She said, “Don’t worry, we’re going on a trip.” I grabbed her hem and we took off through the roof. In what seemed like minutes, we landed in Key West, Florida.
I was wearing pink Bermuda shorts, a white Polo shirt-sleeve shirt, and Birkenstocks. She handed me a martini, and then another one. I was feeling rambunctious. I smoked one of her cigarettes, and went across the street to a tattoo parlor called “Inky Dink.” I got a tattoo of a watermelon with wheels. It was something I had wanted ever since I was a kid.
We got married. I’m still a little uncertain about the legality of marrying a spirit. Although the Minister said he couldn’t see her, he married us anyway.
Definition courtesy of “Silva Rhetoricae” (rhetoric.byu.edu).
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