Inter se pugnantia (in’-ter-say-pug-nan’-ti-a): Using direct address to reprove someone before an audience, pointing out the contradictions in that person’s character, often between what a person does and says.
You told me you loved me. And here I see you at 2:00 a.m. eating a half-gallon of Rocky Road—my Rocky Road. You have a chocolate ring around your lips and a giant serving spoon in your hand, dripping on the kitchen island.
If you loved me you wouldn’t secretly work on bloating yourself while I sleep. When do you think you’ll fill out enough so I notice it? Well, it’s happened already— I can tell when I hug you. It’s like hugging a pillowcase filled with peanut butter—the only thing missing is the smell of peanuts. Even your voice has changed! The fat buildup around your vocal cords has made you into a soprano—no more sultry whispering in my ear. You sound like a castrato even though you are my WIFE for God’s sake. I am diasappointed, disgusted, and distraught over your bogus profession of love while you’ve drifted into fat-blivion, making yourself so unattractive that I know you don’t love me—you’re trying to drive me away with your disgusting fat-hood. You legs look like Crisco columns. Your breasts are like watermelons rotting on the vine. Your face looks like a marshmallow soccer ball. Your stomach is like a huge pile of mashed potatoes soaked in sweat.
All of the insults I just hurled are intended to motivate you to get back in shape again, as a sign of your love for me. I want my svelte little honey back again. I’ll pay you $5.00 for every pound you lose on the road to recovery. If you refuse to go it on your own, I’m sending you to “Liposuction Junction.” You know what that means! Daily full-body liposuction and room temperature gruel! You might die! In fact, I’m pretty sure you will. I have to know by tomorrow whether you’re going to go to “Liposuction Junction” so I can “adjust” your life insurance policy.
So, now you know how much I love you—giving you options for becoming whole again. Now, it’s time for you to put that serving spoon down, wipe off your mouth, and let me know how much you love me. If you don’t, you’ll be moving out to the garage, chained to my lawn tractor. It’s a weight-loss program I saw in my magazine “Whips, and Chains, and Bleeding Veins.” So, the garage awaits you as an alternative to the other two options if you reject them.
Your choice: “Roses are red. Violets are blue. Your fat ass means trouble for you.”
Definitions courtesy of “Silva Rhetoricae” (rhetoric.byu.edu).
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