Kategoria

Kategoria (ka-te-go’-ri-a): Opening the secret wickedness of one’s adversary before his [or her] face.

I had been trying for years to make something of myself. It had to do with landing a prestigious job—maybe working for “Dilly’s Doilies” running a doily press. I had interviewed there and failed. The interview was my downfall. When they asked me in my interview what doilies are made of, I panicked. I wasn’t sure, I had never thought about it. I didn’t even know what a doily was—yes—that’s true. In my smug self-confidence, I thought if I was asked what a doily is made of, the answer would somehow magically come to me. So, when I was actually asked, I flubbed the answer big time. So, I said “toilet paper?” “Doily” and “toilet” had the same “oi” sound, so there must be some kind of connection. Boy, was I wrong. They threw me out and told me to get therapy. I was devastated.

I was starting to think I was destined for greatness when I enrolled in the local community college. My adviser had told me if it wasn’t for open admission, I’d be sitting on a blanket on the sidewalk holding out a styrofoam cup, and asking for spare change. I didn’t know what to say, but I agreed with her. So, I kept a blanket and a styrofoam cup in the trunk of my car, just in case the community college changed its admission requirements.

Anyway, as I was leaving Dilly’s Doilies the day of my interview, I was looking for Human Resources so I could punch the Director. I was that kind of guy. If things didn’t go my way, I punched somebody. Often, I punched my little brother. But this time I knew who to go after: the Director of Human Resources who had set me up with the doily question. I was going to punch him. I was going to sneak into his office, hide under his desk, and spring out and punch him.

But I noticed something when I got into his. There was a half-smoked joint in his ashtray. It was 1959 and this was serious business. He could go to prison for 10 years. He was a lunatic, but now I had him. The half-smoked joint was my job ticket! When he came back I waved the joint at him and said in a taunting voice “Now it doesn’t matter what doilies are made of! You’re going to give me a job!” He said, “When hell freezes over! That’s not mine. Get out of here or I’ll call the police!” I said “Not so fast” and held up the one- pound bag of weed I had found in his desk.

He started begging and I punched him. He offered me the job, and I took it.

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

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