Commoratio

Commoratio (kom-mor-a’-ti-o): Dwelling on or returning to one’s strongest argument. Latin equivalent for epimone.

I didn’t want to go to the butcher shop again for mother. I told her it smelled like dead animal fat. I told her the bones sticking out were disgusting. I told the animal organs made me want to puke. And the pickled feet. My God! And the baloney—it looks like a giant condom injected with pink blood. Pease Mom, make Charmin go! She wants to be a biologist. I want to be a race car driver. Like I sad, the butcher’s shop smells like dead animal fat.

Mother told me to shut up and “No more condom talk.” She said I was too young to make those kinds of references.

She gave me $15.00 and sent me off to “Harry Heinz’s Modern Butcher Shop.“ I was supposed to buy 3 pig kidneys. When she told me I almost puked. It was dad’s birthday. Last year we had tripe. We had Italian tripe soup. The edible inner lining of an animal’s stomach for a birthday dinner put me wretching on the floor—I was faking it, but it could’ve been real.

Now, we were going to have kidneys. Mom was going to stuff them in a duck and bake them. It was called kid-duckin. It was an old family recipe from when our family resided in Scotland. Sheep would get run over all the time and my family would scrape them up, slice them open, and squeeze their organs out and wash them off. Then, they would strangle a couple of ducks, stuff a kidney or two into the ducks, and dine on them, giving thanks to God above.

Also, the birthday cake has persisted for hundreds of years. It is made from grass, wild apples, milkweed, and molasses. Dad eats it once a year and claims it restores him to his youth. After we sing happy birthday, he acts like a six year old, throwing a tantrum on the kitchen from, kicking his feet and calling mother a “Big poo-poo head,” which is clearly a return to his youth.

Anyway, I made it to the butcher shop. Mr. Heinz was waiting by the door with three kidneys in a plastic bag. I gave him the money and he told me when he squeezed the the kidneys, they felt like my mother’s ass. When he said it he had a juicy leer on his face.

I thought about what he said on the way home. I squeezed the kidneys too. I didn’t know for sure, but they probably felt like my mother’s ass like Mr. Heinz had said. As a butcher, he would be in a good position to judge their comparison.

When I got home, I handed Mom the kidneys and asked her if Mr. Heinz had ever squeezed her ass. She said, “Yes. Two or three times, I don’t recall exactly. Mr. Heinz is a very attractive man.”

I couldn’t believe it! My mother was fooling around with the butcher and admitted it without hesitation. I didn’t tell Dad, but I think he knew. He started spanking her in the living room. My sister and I enjoyed it and took a couple of swats when Dad said it was ok. We were an unhealthy family.

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

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