Alliteration (al-lit’-er-a’-tion): Repetition of the same letter or sound within nearby words. Most often, repeated initial consonants. Taken to an extreme alliteration becomes the stylistic vice of paroemion where nearly every word in a sentence begins with the same consonant.
I was in the sixth grade. I was in the lunch line. I pushed the boy in front of me out of line and took his place. Earlier that day, I had pushed my sister off the toilet so I could pee. I chased her out of the bathroom. On my way to school I has pushed a third grader into a crossing guard causing him to fall down and nearly get run over by a school bus. I walked by a nursing home on my way home after school. I saw on old man in a wheel chair and gave him a push. He rolled away and ran over the nursing home’s comfort cat. That episode wasn’t very satisfying, but I couldn’t figure out why.
I was at the mall shopping with my mom for a new pair of shoes for me. I wanted loafers because I thought they would make me relax and “loaf” around. I saw a pair called “Ecological Elk Skin.” I knew it was just a sales ploy to call them ecological, but they were made out of real elk skin. But it wasn’t to be. My mother made me get brown lace-ups. They looked like cow shit with heels. My mom said “What sharp stylish shoes Jerry. You will enjoy stepping on insects when you wear them.” I knew my mother was crazy, but this was one of her best derailed ding-dong moments. I pushed some nerdy looking kid out of the way as I went out the door. I was going to step on him, but he wasn’t positioned properly—he was laying on his side crying, so I gave him a light kick. His mother asked me what I thought I was doing. I said, “Picking on your dumbass kid. You need to toughen him up mommy.” My mother had her fists raised. I calmed her down and we ran out the mall exit, found our car, and drove away.
As you may have noticed, pushing plays a major role in my life, even to the point of pushing the Mayor off Dead Man’s Cliff. I beat the rap for killing the Mayor because I was too young to be indicted. My pushing was so bad that I was known as “The Pusher.” People wouldn’t get within five feet of me for fear of being pushed. I couldn’t stop pushing. I went to a doctor. He told me that I had a genetic disease that I inherited from my Greek ancestor, Sisyphus.
Sisyphus is directly related to me. He is the archetypal pusher man—pushing a boulder around for all eternity. Once I realized I couldn’t be cured, I searched the world for something productive I could do with my “Pusher’s Syndrome.” I tried pushing baby carriages, but they were not people and it just didn’t seem right.
My travels took me to Tokyo, Japan. The subways were crowed during rush hour. I started pushing and stuffing people into subway cars. It was deeply satisfying and provided a service to Japanese commuters—what are called “salary men.” Now I have established a school that teaches people how to stuff people into subway cars.
I toyed with calling my school “Shove it Academy.” Everybody thought it was stupid, so I named it “Sisyphus Academy.” I am making a ton of money. Every once in awhile, I get the urge to push somebody down. I have an employee designated as “Faller Downer” standing by to take the push.
Definitions courtesy of “Silva Rhetoricae” (rhetoric.byu.edu.
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