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.
Trucks, cars, snow plows, ride mowers, motorcycles, motor-scooters were all going. The sun had risen and it was a beautiful summer morning. Some people were walking along carrying powered-up chainsaws and weed eaters. They added a special effect to the cacophony and the smell of 2-cycle exhaust fumes added a sweet haze to the bland smell of unleaded gas.
This was the annual celebration of the advent of internal combustion: enclosed explosions making things spin: from driveshafts to mower blades— taking people places in their cars, to harvesting the week’s grass growth, transforming it into good-smelling lawn clippings.
I hated it. I had nicknamed my neighbor “Mow” because he mowed two acres every day, starting at 6.30 in the morning. He had a giant lawnmower—it was like a cruise ship with blades. It is loud. It wakes me up and makes me mad. I got a sniper scope for my .22. I was going to shoot him in the ear as he rode by my back porch. Then, push his corpse off the lawnmower, and then, run him over until he was just an unidentifiable pile of gristle. The vultures would take care of him and I would sleep until 9.00! I aimed at him a couple of times, but I couldn’t pull the trigger. I just wasn’t a cold-blooded killer. So, I decided to kill his lawn instead.
I went to Ace Hardware and bought a back-pack weed sprayer. I bought a derivative of Agent Orange made in China named Agent Tomato. It was probably illegal. I had to wear rubber gloves and a face mask. Agent Tomato was “guarantee to kill all roots.” I took it as a bad translation, but understood what it meant: it would kill grass! I bought five gallons.
My plan was to spray Mow’s lawn while he was at work. He’d never know what hit him. Also, and this was diabolical, Agent Tomato’s label said “Keep away pets for one day from spaying.” Another typo, but I understood what it meant: Mow’s obnoxious mutt would die! Almost immediately, I vowed instead to kidnap the mutt and hold it hostage for two days. I was no killer.
I mixed the Agent Tomato in my garage in one of my maple syrup buckets, and then, filled the sprayer. I put on my face mask and donned my balaclava, put on my gloves, and hoisted the sprayer up onto my back.
It would be a lot of work, but it was worth it to halt the internal combustion wake-up calls. So I went at it.
It took nearly all day. I had been done for about 30 miniutes when Mow pulled into his driveway. I watched him through my bird-watching binoculars. He sniffed the air and went inside. He came right back outside calling the mutt. But, I had the mutt chained in my basement wearing a muzzle.
The next morning I slept until 9.30. It was so quiet, I thought I was in a library. I went out on my back porch and surveyed the scene. Mow’s lawn was dead! Mow was sitting in the middle his yard crying. He said: “My wife left me and took the kids 2 months ago, now, my dog has left me, and so has my lawn. What can I do?”
I told him to suck it up and get a life, I had my own problems. Agent tomato had given me a horrible rash on my forehead. I turned the mutt loose and went to see my dermatologist Dr. Skinner. He told me to soak my forehead in salad dressing and swish my head around in a bowl full of romaine lettuce and six croutons twice a day for a month.
Definition courtesy of “Silva Rhetoricae” (rhetoric.byu.edu).
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