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’ have 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 had gone to doily interview because I was starting to think I was destined for greatness. I had enrolled in the local community college. My adviser had told me if it wasn’t for open admissions, I’d be sitting on a blanket on the sidewalk holding out a styrofoam cup asking for spare change. I didn’t know what to say, but I agreed with her. 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 hi office. I ransacked his desk and found a half-smoked joint in a cough-drop tin in his middle desk drawer. It was 1959 and this was serious business. He could go to prison for 10 years. He thought he was made of Teflon, but now I had him. This would stick! 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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