Synathroesmus (sin-ath-res’-mus): 1. The conglomeration of many words and expressions either with similar meaning (= synonymia) or not (= congeries). 2. A gathering together of things scattered throughout a speech (= accumulatio [:Bringing together various points made throughout a speech and presenting them again in a forceful, climactic way. A blend of summary and climax.]).
I had trouble making comparisons that went anywhere, so I tried going random to see if anything would fall out. I tried: “The hammer had a tremor, like ticking jello, like a swishing metronome, a robust tick tock, a merry-making time piece, a jocular watch, a bathing suit rhythmically dripping water, the creamed beats of a drum—rump a pum pum.”
There. You see. They go nowhere, like people in a nursing home, beached polliwogs, grilled cheese Bloody Mary’s, weasels on a holiday.
Ahh! A holiday!
I finally got somewhere. I called my keeper Crispy and announced my plan. He demanded more detail, so I made some details up. Crispy had worked for my family for hundreds of years. My great great great Grandfather had liberated him from a pyramid while he was on an archeological dig in Egypt. Crispy was immortal. He had no insides and had been given a drug made of ground scarabs, powdered lapis lazuli, bullrushes, and a secret ingredient that bestowed immortality on him. Surprisingly, he did not exploit his immortality. Instead, he plodded along through the ages, serving our family faithfully out of gratitude to my great great great grandfather. He never ate, so he was cheap to keep, but he wasn’t very smart.
I told Crispy I had a plan, I told him we were going to Ukraine to fight in the war. Given his immortality, this was a perfect holiday for Crispy. But, he was concerned that I might get killed. I told him I didn’t care. He insisted we make arrangements to ship me home. I was surprised at his pessimism, but I was glad he was thinking ahead.
When we got to Ukraine. We were immediately sent to the front lines. It was hilarious seeing Crispy get shot. The bullets would knock him down, but he’d quickly get up and shake his ass at the Russians who had shot him. They’d shoot him again and he’d get up and shoot them. It was a riot seeing the looks on their faces when Crispy stood up a second time. I was a coward, so I’d always found a tree to hide behind and watch.
Then it happened.
I got shot in the butt running away from a Russian ambush. One AK round in the ass. That’s all it took. In the hospital, the nurses treated me like a god. One in particular treated me like a mega god and told me she loved me every day. Her name was Bohdan. She gave me extra ice cream and the “Tom Swift” series to me. I loved “Tom Swift and His Rocket Ship.” I vowed t build my own rocket ship when I got back to Nee Jersey. I would call it “Space ECKS” (Every Craft Knows Space) and launch it from North Jersey—maybe Newton.
I didn’t know whether Bohdan knew I was a multi-billionaire, and I didn’t care. Crispy told me to go for it, so I did. We were married. We lived in my private hotel in Atlantic City—“The Open Arms.” We slept in a different room every night, Crispy made us breakfast, and I worked on my rocket ship every day. Soon, we will land on your anus—ha ha—I mean “Uranus.”
That’s it. That’s my story.
POSTSCRIPTT
Bohdan ran off with Crispy. Crispy pushed her off a cliff and went back home to apologize for everything.
Definitions courtesy of “Silva Rhetoricae” (rhetoric.byu.edu).
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