Anacoloutha (an-a-co’-lu-tha): Substituting one word with another whose meaning is very close to the original, but in a non-reciprocal fashion; that is, one could not use the first, original word as a substitute for the second. This is the opposite of acoloutha.
He opened the door. He pushed hard. The door swung quietly on its hinges. He didn’t knock. He didn’t tap. He just pushed his way in. He tiptoed to the living room. There was his girlfriend Nell sitting in front of a crackling fire reading what looked like a magazine, but he knew it was a catalogue for men’s exercise clothing.
I was on page 24 of “Workout Meat,” sort of a “Victoria’s Secret” of scantily clad man hunks. I gave it to her to look at when she got lonely for me. I had so many muscles that I was paid to model nude at the local medical school’s anatomy classes. I was known as “Muscles Mike.” I loved to model, but I loved walking up and down the beach in my Speedo at Seaside Heights even more. The Jersey girls weren’t shy about whistling and applauding when I walked by. I loved the cat calls—“Gimme some of that pepperoni,” “Get on me big boy,” “Pull down your suit and I’ll pull down mine.” “Make me moan.”
Even with all that attention, I stayed faithful to Nell. We started dating in high school when I was a 98-pound weakling. She stood by me while I bulked up. Lately, I started taking steroids and my penis has shrunk to the point where it looks like a second belly button. Nell has cut me some slack, but lately, she has been adamant about me quitting the steroids, and we both know why—an important part of our relationship is gone. That’s why I snuck up behind her to see what picture she was looking at in “Workout Meat.” I was shocked to see she was looking at Mr. Muscle Mountain’s photo. He was my body-building rival in high school. He knew Arnold Schwarzenegger and had beaten him in a couple of body-building competitions. He was the spokesperson for “Body Propellor Protein Shakes.” He was arrogant and flexed anywhere, all the time. He’d be walking through the mall and suddenly stop and strike a pose. It was disgusting.
I quickly moved in front of Nell. Her pupils were dilated and her face was flushed. She told me: “I saw Mr. Muscle Mountain at Cliff’s today. Although he’s graying a bit, he had a nice banana bulge in his sweat pants. I couldn’t help but notice. We exchanged pleasantries, and he asked me if I wanted to take a ride with him at Motel Gaucho tonight. I told him no, that you’re my one and only love.”
I almost cried. I vowed to get off the steroids and grow my penis back. I could take human embryo shots to maintain my bulk—a lot more expensive than steroids, but Nell was worth it.
Inch by inch I grew back to proper poking size. Soon, when I wore my sweatpants to Cliff’s, I was sporting a hefty banana bump of my own when. I could make it twitch if I wanted too—only for Nell.
One afternoon, I met Mr. Muscle Mountain at Cliff’s buying beer. We faced each other and nodded, wiggled our hips, and shook our bananas at each other. I made mine twitch. His banana’s movement in his sweat pants looked fake. I could see him struggling, but he couldn’t make it twitch. I didn’t say anything.
Definitions courtesy of “Silva Rhetoricae” (rhetoric.byu.edu).
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