Bomphiologia (bom-phi-o-lo’-gi-a): Exaggeration done in a self-aggrandizing manner, as a braggart.
I am the most famous person. People don’t notice it. That’s why I am so famous. My name is Barny Anon, like Al-Anon. Strangely, my brother’s name is Al. He’s been teased all his life. That’s why I’ve become so famous. My motto is “You don’t have to be famous to be famous.” I am behind the scene famous—an unsung hero.
I went to a seer and found out all about my many incarnations. I was there when Rome burned. I saved Nero’s fiddle and then stepped on it by mistake and destroyed it. It was destined for the British Museum, but ironically, disappeared along with my heroic attempt to save it.
Then, there was the Trojan Horse. We rolled through the gates of Troy on bumpy wooden wheels. The Trojans thought we were a gift. The horse was filled with killer soldiers. We were going to spill out of a trap door in the horse’s belly, and kick some ass. But, the trapdoor got jammed.
Part of my morning regimen, in addition to shaving with a sharpened clamshell, was to work about a quarter-pound of boar grease pomade into my hair. Nobody else did such a thing because the smell was pretty strong and you had to have a chinstrap affixed to your helmet to keep it from sliding off your head. I added a handful of cloves to the boar grease every morning, rolled it into a ball, and patted it flat to rub into my hair. My concubine loved it and would sometimes rub my hair around inside a frying pot to add flavor to our food. But anyway, I saved the Trojan Horse plan from failure.
I took off my helmet, got on my hands a knees, and rubbed my hair on the trapdoor’s iron hinges. The trapdoor came loose, flew open, and we slaughtered the Trojans. Did you ever read about this in history books? No, you haven’t. Once again I operated in the shadows. I was unsung.
One more anecdote:
We were headed to Japan. World War II was roaring. We were flying in the Ebola Gay on a mission to drop an Atomic bomb on the Japanese city of Hiroshima. It was believed that dropping the Big One would elicit Japan’s surrender and end the war. Everybody wanted that—the war had dragged on too long and cost too many lives.
My job on the plane was to make sure the head was stocked with soap toilet paper, stand by a stock of lens cloths for the bombardier’s bomb sights, monitor the thermostat, and crack jokes to keep pilot morale high. Like: “Where does a mountain climber keep his plane? In a cliff hanger.” Ha, ha.
We hit some heavy turbulence as we approached Hiroshima. The A-bomb fell off the bomb rack. It started rolling around and could’ve gone off in the airplane. I jumped on it like it was a horse. I yelled “Yippee kai yi yay little doggie!” I rode it until the turbulence went away, I helped the bombardier load the A-Bomb in the bomb bay. The rest is history. Again, my contribution to this important historical event goes unmentioned. Once again, I go unsung, and this is how I want it.
I am writing this to make sure my wish to be famous, without being famous, is honored. Please honor my wish. If you want to know more about me and my feats, take out an add in the New York Times classified pages and I will answer you.
Definition courtesy of “Silva Rhetoricae” (rhetoric.byu.edu).
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