Epiplexis (e-pi-plex’-is): Asking questions in order to chide, to express grief, or to inveigh. A kind of rhetorical question [the speaker does not expect an answer].
“Why do I feel so bad? Why have I cried for two days straight?” I did feel bad, but I was lying about the crying. I was talking to my reflection in a mirror, so I should’ve known better. I changed it to “Why did I cry all morning?” That wasn’t true either. What did I expect to get out of lying to myself about my grief? I said “Boo Hoo” to see if that would help—boo hoo is the universal expression of crying. It didn’t get me anywhere.
My mother-in-law, Bobbi, the bane of my existence, was dead. We found her in the bathtub with a plugged-in toaster oven under her head like a pillow. It was set on broil and had blown all the circuit breakers in the house. Bobbi’s bathroom was the last place we checked for a short circuit. She was lying there with her hair smoking and a little smile on her face. There was no sign of struggle. All 265 pounds of her was resting quietly in the bathtub. She looked like a manatee in repose.
I unplugged the toaster oven and called the police. I was fearful of foul play, especially since the toaster oven was tucked under her head like a pillow. Detective Parrot showed up at the door. He looked like a penguin with a mustache. “Where is the body?” He asked in some kind of foreign accent—maybe Massachusetts. I told him where the body was and he took off up the stairs. 20 seconds later he yelled “I have solved the crime. Everybody assemble in the driveway and I will disclose the killer. Hurry!”
My wife and I and Shatzy, the sneaky, disgruntled, dangerous, furtive Home Aide we hired from Clean Hospitals without reading his references, stood waiting for Detective Parrot in the driveway.
Finally he showed up and yelled “None of you are the killer!” We looked at each other, relieved. “The murderer is the Chinese assembly line worker who left the “Do not immerse in water” label from the toaster oven’s underside. After sabotaging 100s of toaster ovens, he moved to the US to reap the rewards. He calls himself Parrot! That’s my name too! I have never met him, ha ha! At that point Parrot turned his walking stick into a sword. He came at the three of us yelling something in Chinese. Because of his penguin gait, he was no match for us as we ran away. We jumped into my Maserati and headed straight for Parrot.
He was toast. I ran over him with a sickening thumpabumpa. My Maserati was injured, but we weren’t.
All three of us stayed on at the manor house, and things returned to normal. One morning, when my wife was taking a bath, I saw Shatzy carrying a toaster oven upstairs. He said he wanted to make English muffins in his room. “What a great idea Shatzy, capital!” I said. I wanted to encourage him to be creative. I went back to playing with my electric trains. I had set a switch so there would be a head-on collision between two trains. I was excited! Then, suddenly the power went out. I called Shatzy but he didn’t answer. I went upstairs and there was my wife with her hair smoking in the bathtub. I went down stairs and there was Shatzy. I handed Shatzy a briefcase with $250,000 in it. We had gotten the idea from Parrot. The English muffin thing was a ruse! Moo-hoo hah, hah, hah. I called the police as Shatzy went out the door, and I practiced being upset in the mirror.
Definition courtesy of “Silva Rhetoricae” (rhetoric.byu.edu).
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