Exouthenismos

Exouthenismos (ex-ou-then-is’-mos): An expression of contempt.

You make my pants fall down whenever I look at you. It’s not my fault. You are a black magic woman. Your pet newts prove it—most of them are missing an eye. We both know what that means! Your pointy hat is a dead giveaway. You say it’s a birthday party hat that you wear all the time because you like to celebrate. Oh, also, you’re only 22 years old and you have gray hair. The broom is too much of a cliche for me to even mention!

I should’ve known when we first met, when you pulled a rabbit out from under your dress and held it up by the ears while it squealed in pain. You told me that’s how rabbits bark. We had chicken fried rabbit for dinner—now I’m starting to see what was going on there. You killed that rabbit with one swing of your hatchet that you were so proud of. Your mother had given it to you for getting an “A” in History.

I heard the rabbit screaming and the hatchet banging down, but thought nothing of it at the time. I wrote it off to cultural differences between us. But every time you had me over for dinner there was screaming and hatchet banging in the kitchen, where you wouldn’t let me go. We always had chicken-fried meat.

Then, one night I peeked into the kitchen. There was a pheasant duct taped to the cutting board, thrashing around. You whacked off its head and started cleaning it. It was delicious and I decided to tolerate the slaughtering as long as the results tasted good.

But then, you stepped over the line: a Guinea pig—a fat little furry Guinea pig. I know they’re eaten in Peru, but NOT in New York. They’re cute. They’re clean. They make a musical oinking sound. Trying to get me to eat a Guinea pig is what has brought here. You must be Satan’s chef you horrible witch! Just because I’m sitting here on the kitchen floor wrapped in duct tape, it doesn’t mean I want to be eaten. Let me go Glenda!

POSTSCRIPT

Glenda turned him into a Guinea pig and shared him for dinner chicken fried with her new friend Wynn who worked behind the counter at CVS.

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

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