Dicaeologia (di-kay-o-lo’-gi-a): Admitting what’s charged against one, but excusing it by necessity.
I held up ten fingers. It wasn’t a gesture. I was looking at my fingernails. I had cut them two days ago. They had grown an eighth of an inch already. I was sick of clipping them, so I let them go. Now, they were one inch long. I couldn’t push buttons—I couldn’t open the trunk of my car, I couldn’t turn on my blender, I couldn’t pet my cat, but at least I could scratch him. My claws were better than his. I thought about getting a scratching post to keep my nails in line, but they weren’t abrasive enough. Eventually, I settled on a rasp which is a mega-file. I got a 10″ Flat Bastard Cut Wood Rasp, designed to quickly make its way through wood-working projects.
Although the rasp worked like a charm, it was still a pain having to tend to my fingernails every day. Then I remembered that veterinarians did surgery on cats where they removed their claws. Maybe that would work for me. I told Morty’s (my cat) veterinarian about my problem and asked her to remove my fingernails. I showed her my hand. She put her hand over her mouth, gasped, backed up against the wall, and pulled out her cell phone. I told her I was only kidding—who would want to do that? She laughed uncomfortably, put her cellphone away, and told me our appointment was over.
My nails kept growing and I kept rasping. My life was miserable. I remembered seeing a movie where a Japanese soldier pulled out fingernails as a form of torture during interrogation. I went to a Sushi restaurant. I asked if any WW II vets worked there who knew how to extract fingernails. The waiter yelled “Asshole!” and hit me over the head with a chair. The other employees formed a circle, put me in it and took turns hitting me in the face. Clearly, I had insulted them. They threw me out into the street, where my foot was run over by a motorcycle returning from a delivery.
I crawled the 5 blocks home, leaving a trail of blood behind like a wounded animal. The next morning my head was swollen up like a pumpkin from being beaten, my foot was sore, and my nails had grown again. I started crying, picked up my rasp, and headed to Morty’s vet.
I burst into her front office brandishing my rasp. I dragged her into the surgery with my rasp to her throat. “Pull ‘em” I yelled “Or I’ll file your nose off.” She told me to calm down and sprayed my hand with lidocaine. She got a pair of surgical pliers out of a drawer behind her. She told me to put my hand flat on the operating table.
Suddenly there was a pounding on the door. “Open up! Police.” I said, “I will kill Dr. Leah if that door moves. I am desperate.” The pounding stopped.
She pulled out my thumbnail. The pain was horrible, but fleeting. She did all ten fingers and bandaged my hands. I put down the rasp, opened the door and was arrested.
I was charged with false imprisonment, disregarding police orders and making death threats. During the trial, I told my fingernail story, and how, since I had them removed, I was living a normal and productive life working as a masseur, where having no fingernails was a real advantage.
I was found guilty. In his sentencing, the judge cited mitigating circumstances and gave me two weeks of home confinement.
I noticed the judge had longer than normal fingernails.
Definition courtesy of “Silva Rhetoricae” (rhetoric.byu.edu).
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