Anapodoton

Anapodoton (an’-a-po’-do-ton): A figure in which a main clause is suggested by the introduction of a subordinate clause, but that main clause never occurs.

Anapodoton is a kind of anacoluthon, since grammatical expectations are interrupted. If the expression trails off, leaving the subordinate clause incomplete, this is sometimes more specifically called anantapodoton. Anapodoton has also named what occurs when a main clause is omitted because the speaker interrupts himself/herself to revise the thought, leaving the initial clause grammatically unresolved but making use of it nonetheless by recasting its content into a new, grammatically complete sentence.

As it was. Because of it.

The kaleidoscope of regret is spinning in my head like a multicolored wheel of misfortune. I had just finished dealing with the latest catastrophe and I was waiting for the next. It was like I was a fish hooked on a line of ill fate flopping out my future.

Most recently, the brakes had failed on my Tesla in autonomous driving mode. I couldn’t turn the ignition off either, and I just kept rolling on until I ran into a school bus. Kids poured out of the bus yelling “Elon must die.” I was surprised that Musk bashing had trickled down to middle school. Then they started pounding on my Tesla with their aluminum school-themed water bottles, still yelling.

My Tesla’s exterior finish was ruined and it was covered with dents too. The brakes suddenly started working again. I drove to an auto-body shop to have it repainted and the dents ironed out, but they refused to work on my Tesla because they hate Musk. So, I drove it out to my father’s farm. I parked it in the middle of a corn field, doused it with diesel, and lit it on fire. After it burned and cooled, I had it towed to the Tesla dealer. The place was surrounded by angry protestors. It was crazy. I left my car there with “Fu*k Musk” painted on both sides. I took an Uber home, and called my insurance company. Here I am now, waiting for the next shitstorm to hit.

I heard my 14year-old daughter yelling, “Daddy, Daddy, come here!” Panic stricken, I ran down to the living room. There she was with her left pant leg pulled up and a tattoo of Satan on her calf captioned “I Love You” written out in flaming script. “Isn’t it cool?” She asked. I flipped out. In our state you had to be eighteen to get a tattoo, I asked he who the hell did it. She told me she had fake I,D, and had been passing for eighteen ever since she was ten. My first thought was to have her leg amputated.

I think I started foaming at the mouth and running around in circles. When I stopped, I dragged her to the tattoo parlor, “Posh Ink,” to see what we could do. When I told the Tatoo guy my daughter was only fourteen, he said he couldn’t work on her, due to the law. I felt so stupid for telling him my daughter’s real age. He saw how distraught I was and took pity on me.

We couldn’t erase the tattoo, so he inked it over. He covered Satan with a big red heart and added “Mommy and Daddy” to the caption: “I Love You Mommy and Daddy.” That was a nice touch. If my daughter was going to have a tattoo, that’s the one I would like. My daughter thought it was cool too. Her gym teacher had recommended the Satan tattoo and my daughter didn’t like it from the start. She said her gym teacher was an ass and she wouldn’t listen to her ever again. I was relieved.

I sat in my chair waiting for the next piece of shit to hit the fan. I heard a loud crunching sound and my wife screaming in the basement. “Here we go,” i thought as I jumped from my chair and ran to the basement door. I opened the door and looked down the stairs, and was filled with dread when I couldn’t see what my wife was wrestling with. I flipped on the light. The was an Anaconda wrapped around her legs. Our son Breck’s pet had returned after missing for a year. He named Beagle. He thought that was really funny. God only knows how it had survived down in the basement, but the rodent infestation that we endured had abated.

I grabbed my Skill saw, plugged it into an extension chord and carefully sawed off Beagle’s head. I unwrapped him from my wife and we dragged him into the back yard and buried him in an unmarked grave.

Well, I was glad that over. I sat in my chair waiting for the next disaster. Then, I heard a loud buzzing sound and went to the window. It was a swarm of killer bees. All I had to do was stay inside and I’d be ok.

Definitions courtesy of “Silva Rhetoricae” (rhetoric.byu.edu).

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