Epergesis (e-per-gee’-sis): Interposing an apposition, often in order to clarify what has just been stated.
My ass was grass, just like the old cliche, and he was the lawnmower. My “crime” was asking his sister to the movies. I didn’t see what was wrong with that. I asked him: “What’s wrong with that?” He told me I had a reputation as a “Don Casanova Quixote.” He didn’t want his sister pawed by me.
Evidently I had done something to warrant the reputation. But what could it be? I thought and I thought. After a couple of hours, I came up with a lead—Mary Tabala. She was the only girl I had expressed an interest in so far in my young life. Maybe she was spreading the rumors, but I couldn’t imagine what they were unless they were lies.
Being named after Jesus’ mother, Mary was hyper-moral, so much so, she once told me that she was going to have a virgin birth. That was a pretty tall ambition. Mary would never lie. I asked her anyway. She swore to God that she did not spread rumors about my romantic inclinations. She even said “May God strike me dead if I’m lying.” When she said that a car alarm went off down the street, but God left her alone.
I put up a sign on the school bulletin board asking for information about the rumor spreader. After a few false leads, Vinny “The Squealer” Bologna came up to me on the playground. He told me for a dollar, he’d give me the information I wanted. I told him I only had twenty-five cents. He said OK and took my quarter. Then he said “It’s your little brother. Sorry.”
I wanted to hit Vinny, but I knew he was telling the truth. His reputation preceded him. He never steered you wrong. As difficult as it was, I believed him. I hurried home to confront my little brother. He was very intelligent. He wore glasses. He had skipped two grades and was starting his freshman year at Harvard next fall.
My brother told me that for the first time in his life he had made a mistake. He told me he believed the rumors would boost my prospects as a “lover boy.” However, they had had the opposite effect. This error had prompted him to begin work on his “Polar Retro-Affective Theorem.” Given his reputation as a “boy genius,” he had already secured a grant of $1,500,000 from the N.I.H.
I was amazed. Of course, I forgave my little brother and took the part-time job he offered me taking care of the lab rats used in the research.
POSTSCRIPT
My little brother’s research project was a failure. It had something to do with the lab rats.
My ass was grass, just like the old cliche, and you’re the lawnmower. You’re going to mow my ass! I didn’t believe it. If it was a gasoline-powered rotary lawnmower, you would kill me. My “crime” was asking your sister to the movies. I didn’t see what was wrong with that. I asked him: “What’s wrong with that?” He told me I had a reputation as a “Don Casanova Quixote.”
Evidently I had done something to warrant the reputation. But what could it be? I thought and I thought. After a couple of hours, I came up with a lead—Mary Tabala. She was the only girl I had expressed an interest in so far in my young life. Maybe she was spreading the rumors, but I couldn’t imagine what they were unless they were lies.
Being named after Jesus’ mother, Mary was hyper- moral, so much so, she once told me that she was going to have a virgin birth. That was a pretty tall ambition. Mary would never lie. I asked her anyway. She swore to God that she did not spread rumors about my romantic inclinations. She even said “May God strike me dead if I’m lying.” When she said that a car alarm went off down the street, but God left her alone.
I put up a sign on the school bulletin board asking for information about the rumor spreader. After a few false leads, Vinny “The Squealer” Bologna came up to me on the playground. He told me for a dollar, he’d give me the information I wanted. I told him I only had twenty-five cents. He said OK and took my Quarter. Then he said “It’s your little brother. Sorry.”
I wanted to hit Vinny, but I knew he was telling the truth. His reputation preceded him. He never steered you wrong. As difficult as it was, I believed him. I hurried home to confront my little brother. He was very intelligent. He wore glasses. He had skipped two grades and was starting his freshman year at Harvard next fall.
My brother told me that for the first time in his life he had made a mistake. He told me he believed the rumors would boost my prospects as a “lover boy.” However, they had had the opposite effect. This error had prompted him to begin work on his “Polar Retro-Affective Theorem.” Given his reputation as a “boy genius,” he had already secured a grant of $1,500,000 from the N.I.H.
I was amazed. Of course, I forgave my little brother and took the part-time job he offered me taking care of the lab rats used in the research.
POSTSCRIPT
My little brother’s research project was a failure. It had something to do with the lab rats.
Definitions courtesy of “Silva Rhetoricae” (rhetoric.byu.edu).
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