Anacoluthon

 (an-a-co-lu’-thon): A grammatical interruption or lack of implied sequence within a sentence. That is, beginning a sentence in a way that implies a certain logical resolution, but concluding it differently than the grammar leads one to expect. Anacoluthon can be either a grammatical fault or a stylistic virtue, depending on its use. In either case, it is an interruption or a verbal lack of symmetry. Anacoluthon is characteristic of spoken language or interior thought, and thus suggests those domains when it occurs in writing.

“I am going to grab . . put that under it.” I lost my balance. I was supposed to be on vacation. There was a goddamn monkey on my back. He’d been riding me for weeks, heavily breathing in my ear, laughing his chattering laugh, and making me pick parasites off his shoulders. I was pulling a wagon loaded with bananas. I was feeling oppressed.

Now he wanted me to give him a manicure. I looked at the fellow members of my tour group and they were all filing and clipping their monkeys’ nails. The favorite color was turquoise followed by purple.

I was regretting ever hooking up with the “Primate Treasure Monkey Tour.” The brochure made it look like you’d have a monkey pal for two weeks, who “would be as close as any friend you’ve ever had.” I never equated friendship to slavery, but that’s what happened on the tour. That’s how I ended up with a monkey on my back.

Part of the tour was a banana plantation. I was given a large wagon and ordered to fill it with bananas. It was grueling work. Three members of the tour group came down with heat stroke and it was rumored that one of them died. That’s when I realized I had become a slave. I resisted picking bananas and I was tied to a whipping post. I wasn’t whipped, but it was very disconcerting. It was the only time the monkey got off my back. The march back to the hotel was horrendous—people falling like flies and loaded onto gurneys for a bumpy ride back to the hotel, one or them in a body bag.

My monkey started sticking his tongue in my ear and doing his monkey laugh. I told him to stop, and he just laughed harder. I snapped and yelled “Get the fu*k off my back!” That was it. I laid down and pinned him under my back. I beat him over the head with a rock until he stopped wriggling and laughing and his grip loosened on my shoulders. He was dead.

All the monkeys dismounted and formed a circle around me. The troop was going to tear me apart. I prepared myself to die. Suddenly the “Treasure Monkey Tours” proprietor popped out the bush. His name was Reginald Pramford and his ancestors had been oppressing monkeys ever since they colonized their habitat in the mid-1800s. Reginald was like a God to the monkeys. He told them to go home and they immediately disbursed. I was saved!

A female monkey wearing a dress, earrings, and a crown, seemed to be whispering something in Reginald’s ear. He frowned, unholstered his handgun, and pointed it at me. He said “An eye for an eye. My wife, The Monkey Queen, won’t have it any other way. Sorry old chap.” Clearly, he was insane.

I rushed Reginald, knocked the gun out of his hand, picked it up, and put it to his “wife’s” head. I told him: “Tell the monkey troop to back off and call me a cab to the airport.” He pulled out his cellphone and booked me a cab. Luckily, I had my passport with me. I didn’t pack. The cab came and we headed for the airport. Then I saw it: A monkey was driving the cab! But, he was a “good” monkey. I arrived at the airport safely.

I boarded my jet to Newark Airport. It was going to be a long flight. I sat in my seat and was shocked to see a monkey sitting next to me! But it was ok. He was a “emotional support animal” belonging to the woman in the window seat. His name was Salvatore, and he lived in New York City. He was wearing a NY Yankees hat. We shook hands and nodded. I was relieved.

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

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