Paromologia (par-o-mo-lo’-gi-a): Conceding an argument, either jestingly and contemptuously, or to prove a more important point. A synonym for concessio.
She: Your argument is as on-point as Boofy licking his butt. Isn’t that what you want? Boofy is a good dog. He hits the mark every time. He is earnest. He is accurate. He is just like you.
He: So you finally believe I’m dead. Now you know I died 3 weeks ago. You threw a plugged-in space heater into the bathtub when I was lounging there. I’m still there in the tub and I’m starting to smell.
She: Yes. Yes, but this is some kind of a joke, especially your smell. It has a lovely decaying flesh smell, just like you wanted. The bathroom is permeated with your stench, but the Fabreeze holds it down along with the pine scented candles I got for my birthday from my mother. Don’t be such a jerk. Maybe I killed you. So what? Remember? I caught you with the Blond Bombshell in the bushes in the park. You weren’t picking leaves—you were taking turns. It disgusted and angered me. So, here you are, dead in the tub.
He: Bravo! You make the case: my infidelity as a rationale for my murder. This is a really good reason—like all murder, it’s anchored in a “good reason.” It may not be legal, but it’s a good idea! Bravo! I’ll just keep floating here until you figure out how to dispose of me. Let me suggest: dismember me and burn me in the fireplace.
She: I don’t know. The smoke coming out of the chimney may smell putrid and I might be caught. I was thinking of bagging you up and dumping you piece by piece into the Delaware River from the Riegelsville Bridge. The catfish and crawfish and turtles will eat you up pretty fast.
He: ha. Ha. I’ll go along with you either way because I’m dead. I couldn’t change your mind, even if I wanted to. Being dead puts me at an insurmountable disadvantage. Just call me Johnny Rotten. Ha. Ha. Get it? My smell. Ha. Ha.
She: Ha. Ha. It looks like we have a plan Mr. Rotten. I’m headed to the hardware store to buy a chainsaw.
POSTSCRIPT
She had gone mad, conversing with her murdered boyfriend. Her friends started noticing her peculiar behavior, like insisting they leave an empty seat next to her when they went out. She would talk to the empty seat, yelling about Blond Bombshell, infidelity, and murder. If she ate a hamburger, she would dip her fingers in the side-order of ketchup and hold up her hands and cackle. She was clearly out of it. Accordingly, her friends brought her to “Shiny Mind Sanatorium.” She kept complaining about the smell.
Eventually, her boyfriend’s cut-up bones were found downriver from the Riegelsville Bridge—scattered on the river bottom. The police put his bones in a basket and brought them home to his parents. His parents mentioned that he had a girlfriend who was in a mental institution. The police questioned her and she made fun of every question they asked her—telling her fantasy boyfriend not to laugh or he’d be in “big trouble.”
The police were entertained by her behavior and left the asylum laughing. They were through with her, and she was through with herself. She escaped from Shiny Mind Sanatorium, jumped off of Riegelsville Bridge, and drowned.
They found a headless shirt and pants effigy stuffed with hay in her room. Everybody laughed and they burned the effigy in the sanatorium’s incinerator.
Definitions courtesy of “Silva Rhetoricae” (rhetoric.byu.edu).
Daily Trope is available in an early edition on Amazon in paperback under the title of The Book of Tropes for $9.95. It is also available in Kindle format for $5.99.
The Daily Trope 