Enthymeme (en’-thy-meem): 1. The informal method [or figure] of reasoning typical of rhetorical discourse. The enthymeme is sometimes defined as a “truncated syllogism” since either the major or minor premise found in that more formal method of reasoning is left implied. The enthymeme typically occurs as a conclusion coupled with a reason. When several enthymemes are linked together, this becomes sorites. 2. A figure of speech which bases a conclusion on the truth of its contrary. [Depending on its grammatical structure and specific word choice, it may be chiasmus].
“There’s a war outside. You better take a gun and a couple of grenades.” My mother gave me this advice. I lived in the worst country in the world. All day and all night, there was screaming and gunfire—pistols, rifles, machine guns and other lethal devices that kept me awake—like hand grenades and mortars.
My mother did such a wonderful job of keeping us in touch with reality. The war of “Everybody against Everybody” had been raging for twelve years. The only people benefitting from it were the ammunition, arms, and body armor manufacturers.
I rode to work in an Uber armored transport vehicle. There were sandbags around the entrance to the “Daily Rake” a muckraking newspaper where I worked. The Rake told mostly lies. In a way, it was responsible for perpetuating the war by making up reports that made it seem that everybody deserved to be shot. At work, we had sandbags on our desks and we kept our weapons alongside our computer keyboards while we worked. I worked in the sports section to make it look like cheating was rampant. Last week I did a piece on drugged horse racing and nine horses were put down by “patriots” who posed as jockeys. I liked the fact that my writing influenced peoples’ behavior. I was hoping to win a Putzlicker Prize for effective journalism.
“Effective” was the key word in everybody’s journalistic success story. “No impact, total shit” was the saying we all marched to. Like my mother told me: “Son, the truth is boring. Vivid lies will win the prize every day.” I followed her advice. I lied and told her I was married and had four kids. When she asked me where they were, I told her I didn’t know. I lied and told her I made $200,000 a year. She asked why we lived in a shit hole. I told her I was saving my money for my kids to go to college. I was an enigma wrapped in a baloney skin headed out on the midnight train. But it didn’t matter. I had a fireproof apartment with gun ports in every bulletproof window and the door too. I had a generator and a well and a small vegetable garden in the living room.
Monday was Truce Day. Everybody put down their weapons so everybody could go shopping. I didn’t like it much. I still took my armored Uber to the grocery store, the hardware store and the knives, guns and ammo store.
My first stop was “Big Ted’s Gun, Knives and Ammo.”
I had been collecting switchblade knives for a couple of years. They make me tingle “down there” when I press the button and they fly into action—especially the Out The Fronts (OTFs).
My collection consist of fifty knives, all renowned for their killing prowess, and slashing prowess too. I am always eager to see the most recent models. Kershaw has made a 2–foot long out the front (OTF) automatic knife. It said in the pamphlet “Sneak up behind your opponent. Press your OTF against their back. Stroke the knife’s button. Voila! They’re dead.” I think I’ve killed ten or fifteen people, but it’s never been that easy! The knife is $600. I bought it on layaway.
Well, life isn’t great. Nobody remembers or knows how we got here. Anyway they say it all started on the subway when a transit cop shot somebody’s dog.
Definitions courtesy of “Silva Rhetoricae” (rhetoric.byu.edu).
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