Ampliatio

Ampliatio (am’-pli-a’-ti-o): Using the name of something or someone before it has obtained that name or after the reason for that name has ceased. A form of epitheton.

“Hey Boobie-Butt! How’s it going? Are you selling watermelons or potato sacks filled with jello?” I dreaded running into anybody from my high school days. In high school I was flat chested and flat assed. I had breast and butt injections to fill me out. But something snapped in my head. I was obsessed with the word “jumbo” and couldn’t stop getting injections. People started calling me “Boobie-Butt” due to my expanding boobs and butt.

As they grew, I loved to stand it front of my mirror a look at them. I’d hoist up my boobs and bend over and look at my ass. It sent a shiver up my spine. My parents didn’t even notice. The plastic surgeon cut me off after I had spent all the money my grandma had left me—$6,000. My big bras were custom made by my Home Ec Teacher Miss Tremble. She would fit me after class, in the evening. She would squeeze my boobs and kiss them to make sure her big bra pattern was the right size. I really enjoyed my fittings. Also, she had a plastic buzzing “Seamstress Wand” that she turned on and set on her lap during the fitting. At the time, these sessions were the highpoint of my life. Miss Tremble also made my giant underpants, following the same rituals as she did for the bras. I felt like the underwear Queen! But that was then. This is now.

I am 70 years old and my boobs and ass are weighing me down. I can barely stand up or sit comfortably. They make an embarrassing sloshing sound. People look at me in the grocery store. Mrs. Tremble, who became my wife, died 10 years ago. Every day that goes by without Mrs. Tremble I wonder why I still have big boobs and a giant ass, especially given my age, and also the taunts from high school assholes hurled from their walkers and wheelchairs. “Boobie-Butt” breaks my heart. To my class mates it was a bullying taunt, to Mrs. Tremble it was an affectionate nickname. We’d snuggle under the duvet and she’d whisper “Boobie-Butt” in my ear. Now, I’m old and broken down and having my “Boobie-Butt” drained. Yes, drained.

POSTSCRIPT

I had them drained. I feel like a traitor, but now I can stand up and sit down without any problems. The emptied body parts look weird. My boobs look like Christmas stockings hung on my rib cage. My butt looks like a giant washcloth flapping around behind me. This is what we do, as some poet sad, to “go quietly into the night.” I can’t go that quietly. My breasts make a flopping sound when I walk. Oh! If only Mrs. Tremble was still alive. She could fit me with a “flop suppressor.” I can joy look forward to seeing Mrs. Tremble again in heaven. Love never dies. It’s perfect for heaven.

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

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