Antimetathesis (an-ti-me-ta’-the-sis): Inversion of the members of an antithesis.
“Bad is good” I say this in the spirit of ass-backwards visionating. Like a dunk slam or candy poison or the sweet stink of mole meat chugging in the garbage disposal. Well, maybe not. I’m struggling to mean what I said. Maybe I should just shut up, like a zip lock bag or a lunch box or a can of tuna.
I’ve tried a week to break my head jam. It’s like a log jam woven into neurons twisted, glowing, floating. My hairdresser Manitoba Pete tells me I need a therapist and drugs to keep me on track— small little pills to comfort me and maybe give the opportunity to meet angels.
I did it.
My therapist was so beautiful I could hardly keep my dick in my workout pants. She looked me in the eyes and asked me if I felt uncomfortable managing the bulge in my pants. I told her it was temporary and would go down in a minute. She nodded and asked me why I was seeing her. I told her my hairdresser Manitoba Pete had recommended it right after cutting my hair and farting real loud.
She said “Hmm, I’m going prescribe to a rocking horse and some very small pills.” She wanted me to ride the rocking horse three time a day for one hour each time, and take 11 little pills per day. I couldn’t do the math on the pills, so she told me to take one per hour.
If I said anything while I was riding the rocking horse I was to taser myself in the armpit and keep on riding.
I’ve been at for six months now. My therapist tells me I’m doing well; maybe in a year I’ll be cured: “Keep riding cowboy,” she says “and keep taking those little pills.” I love those little pills!
Every time I take a handful I imagine I’m having sex with my therapist. I think it may be better than the real thing—she moans in my head and everything. I will be telling her about it next week. It is high time. I bought her candy.
Definitions courtesy of “Silva Rhetoricae” (rhetoric.byu.edu).
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