Anadiplosis (an’-a-di-plo’-sis): The repetition of the last word (or phrase) from the previous line, clause, or sentence at the beginning of the next. Often combined with climax.
I was struggling with gas. Gas that alienated my friends, banned me from elevators and, due to the lingering smell, department store dressing rooms. Despite the presence of the smell in real time, I had to have a chip implanted in my head that would trigger a stink alarm. It was mandated after I was convicted of stinking up public places and causing severe nasal and mental discomfort in adults and children. It was unprecedented and an unbearable burden to bear.
Even in the fresh air, my gas would stink. People on the sidewalk would wrinkle up their noses and run away coughing, some even vomiting.
Maybe the worst part of the whole thing is my butt hole. I suffer from “flaccid sphincter syndrome.” What this means is that the muscle that keeps normal peoples’ butt holes closed does not work right on me. Before going out I have to administer six or seven enimas to myself, to clear pending poops so nothing “falls out” while I’m out in public. After that, I have a special charcoal filter I push up my butt. It works really well unless I blow a really robust air biscuit and blow my cork. The blown cork will release the stench and subject me to the ire of nearby people—which can be substantial.
Once, I was riding on the subway when my cork blew. People fought to vacate the car. The man standing next to me put a handkerchief over his nose and beat me in the face with his briefcase until my nose bled. When he was done and left the subway, I reached down into the back of my pants, found my cork. and shoved it back in. Of course, it was too late, but I thought I wouldn’t blow another whopper that day.
I was wrong.
I had a blowout when I was standing in line for tickets to a Taylor Swift concert, “Rosy Posy.” It was actually fortuitous. Everybody ran away retching, and there I was at the front of the line. I took out my credit card and the salesperson, who was choking with snot pouring out of his nose, and tears streaming down his face, closed the ticket window and told me to go away.
This is typical. I’m just walking around stinking up the world. I had to do something beyond enemas and the charcoal cork up my ass. I put an ad seeking help in the “New York Post.” I got lot of responses from people who were clearly scammers. But, one seemed for real, offering a remedy for free.
She came to my stench-soaked apartment wearing a military grade gas mask and carrying a small bottle of pills labelled “Windless.” She told me to take one-a-day and I would become windless. I’ve been taking the pills for five months. My gas has abated and my sphincter has tightened up. The side effects are minimal—drooling and anal itch that cortisone does not remedy—I use a mixture of olive oil and baking soda to quell the itch. Also, there’s the tumor on my left butt cheek. All of these side effects are minimal compared to the relief “Windless” has given me.
It is wonderful living in a stink-free world. I never miss it. Every once in awhile I blow a tiny fart that reminds me of days gone by. I take my old cork out of the kitchen drawer, look at it and quickly put it away.
Definitions courtesy of “Silva Rhetoricae” (rhetoric.byu.edu).
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