Eutrepismus

Eutrepismus (eu-tre-pis’-mus): Numbering and ordering the parts under consideration. A figure of division, and of ordering.

First, I put on my pants. Second, I put on my socks. Third, I put on my t-shirt. Fourth, I . . . dammit I forgot to put on my underpants. They should’ve been number one, before my pants. Now, I had to start over. I was glad I hadn’t put on my shoes yet! They’re usually number four, before my wristwatch and coat.

I pulled off my pants, then my socks, then my t-shirt. Then, I started over. It was getting a little late, dawn was breaking, and I was hoping I’d make it to the duel on time. So, first I put on my underpants. Second, I put on my pants. Third, I put on my socks. Fourth, I put on my T-shirt. Fifth, I put on my shoes. Sixth, I put on my wristwatch. Seventh, I put on my jacket. Eighth, I put on my Kevlar vest over my jacket, just in case.

The duel was scheduled to take place at the county landfill. If somebody was killed, they could just be rolled onto the mountain of garbage and forgotten about.

“Duels” were unheard of in the 21st century, but I had crossed paths with the wrong person. He had a permanent role off Broadway in “Gone With the Pies.” He played an 18th-century pie delivery man who steals pies to save his starving family. He is caught and hanged without a trial, and consequently, the benefit of an attorney. His dying words were “The apple pie was best.” A fitting taunt for a pie thief.

He had played the role for so long, he had affected an 18-century demeanor. Hence, the duel. I had made the mistake of telling him I thought his daughter Nell was “hot.” He hit me in the face with a slice of apple pie and challenged me to a duel for his daughter’s honor. I was so shocked I just said, “Whatever.”

Nobody was going to be killed—I don’t know what the landfill thing was about. We were going to hurl pies at each other. We were back to back with our pies hoisted high. We were to take five steps, turn, and hurl. I turned. He was pointing a small handgun at me—clearly .22 caliber. He fired once and hit my pie. He fired again and hit my Kevlar vest. He yelled “You ruddy blighter!” and threw the gun on the ground, and ran into the rising sun taking a bite out of his pie.

He was clearly operating over the rainbow. The man was nuts. I never should’ve gone along with him. I thought it was some kind of joke, but it wasn’t. I didn’t press charges for attempted murder on the condition he let me date his daughter. He said I could marry her if I wanted to.

“Gone With the Pies” is still running off Broadway. I’ll be marrying Nell in two weeks. After I told her about the thing with her father, she got “HOT” tattooed on her lower back.

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

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