Kategoria (ka-te-go’-ri-a): Opening the secret wickedness of one’s adversary before his [or her] face.
I was just a normal guy. I rooted for the Yankees. I paid my bills on time. I wore black wingtips with my charcoal suit. I drove a two-door Chevy, and went bowling every Wednesday night. My landlord loved me and I went to the Poconos for two weeks every summer where I helped out at a kennel for stray dogs. It was called “AWOL Woofers.” It is personally rewarding to help out there, especially when some kind person adopts an “AWOL woofer.”
For a living, I work at factory that makes paper dinnerware. I work in the salad bowl division, overseeing quality control. I make sure the bowls all have a uniform depth and a perfect circular shape. I also keep an eye on the floral patterns imprinted along the bowls’ rims, making sure they are a uniform distance from the edges. My favorite print is foxglove. Although, in reality it would be poison, on the bowls it is a simple decoration.
This summer I brought a dog home from AWOL Woofers. He is a large one-eyed German Shepard. I named him Gutenberg. I took him with me to visit my former girlfriend Norma. I called her “Normal Norma” because she was so strait-laced. She had been the perfect girl for me—just an everyday person with everyday tastes and needs. But, she betrayed me and now I actually hated her. I pretended to be friends so I could hang out with her and find a way to get back at her.
When we got to her apartment, Gutenberg started barking and pulling on his leash until he pulled it out of my hand and bounded toward Norma’s bedroom. I ran after him. When I caught up with him, he had his head stuck under Norma’s bed and was barking like crazy.
I looked under the bed and there was a large vibrator. I picked it up, turned it on and went into the living room with it buzzing to confront Norma. “Why do you keep this hidden under your bed?” Norma blushed and told me it was none of my business. She was right, so I pretended to relent and blamed Gutenberg for what had happened. “Crazy dog made me lose my mind.” I said with a frown, but in my head I knew I had “gotten back” a her. I had found her secret vice.
When we got home, I gave Gutenberg three dog biscuit treats
Definitions courtesy of “Silva Rhetoricae” (rhetoric.byu.edu).
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