Palilogia

Palilogia: Repetition of the same word, with none between, for vehemence. Synonym for epizeuxis.

Proof, proof, proof! I thought I had finally found the proof I needed to have my father arrested. I was 11 years old and hell bent on seeing him put away. Ever since first grade, I’ve been looking for something to pin on him. He had done so many bad things, but up until now I didn’t have the proof I needed to have him arrested, tried, convicted, and imprisoned for a good long time.

Ironically, I had gotten a Junior detective kit for Christmas. It consisted of a hat like Sherlock Holmes’ hat, a big magnifying glass, and a plaid cape. It also included a plastic pipe that was “suitable for children.” I had been using the kit relentlessly since Christmas to nail my father. I knew he was guilty of something. He had a sinister laugh and a furtive look that was clearly the gaze of a secret wrongdoer. One thing he would do was take our dog Carmen for late night walks. He would be gone for an hour and would look tired like he’d been up to something when he got back. I wasn’t allowed out late at night or I would’ve shadowed him and taken pictures of his criminal activities with my cellphone and messaged them to the police.

One time he came home with a book he said he found by somebody’s garbage can. It was titled “The Munsters Go To Mexico.” I clearly saw the international twist and expected that he would be leaving home, and traveling with the Munsters to Mexico City. But he didn’t leave. He stayed at home, which was probably part of his cover—I was beginning to think he was a Mexican spy. He had a real fondness for burritos and tacos—demonstrating a strong link to Mexican culture, and consequently, working for the Mexican government. He would be an agent for Centro Nacional de Inteligencia (CNI)—the Mexican CIA. Wikipedia told me all I needed to know about the possibility.

I decided to climb out my bedroom window and follow my father on his nightly walk where he would gather information to share with his minder, most likely, at the bus station or Buck’s Bar and Grill—a notoriously unpatriotic establishment that served beer and wine from other countries, and hard liquor from foreign countries too. Also, their most popular drinks were from other countries, like martinis. My Uncle Flip shared this information with me, helping me out.

I stayed well behind my father so he wouldn’t see me. But he did. He ran back, grabbed me by the throat and pinned me to the wall with one hand. In his other hand he was clutching a burrito. He yelled: “See this bean burrito? It is soaked with cyanide and I’m going to stuff it down your ungrateful throat! You have blown my cover all to hell! I have no choice but to eliminate you. Your mother will throw a fit. She thinks I’m an asshole already anyway.”

I peed my pants and started begging. I reminded Dad what a good team we made at Cornhole and how I helped him around the yard. He lowered the burrito. “Why didn’t I think of that? We can both become traitors and work for the aMexican government. You’ll have the learn Spanish and where to fatally stab people on the first thrust. As soon as I know what our first mission is, I’ll let you know. I think it’s going to be sabotage—putting jalapeño peppers in the Portland, ME water supply.

As soon as I got home, I called the FBI.

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

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