Protherapeia (pro-ther-a-pei’-a): Preparing one’s audience for what one is about to say through conciliating words. If what is to come will be shocking, the figure is called prodiorthosis.
“Nobody can tell the future, but I’m sure I’m fixin’ to die.” These were the second-to-last words said by my Uncle Bud as the water in the drainage ditch where he had fallen rose above his neck. His last words were “Fu*king shit!” said with a gurgly choking sound. His head disappeared under the water—all I could see was his hair swirling around and bubbles coming up. Uncle Bud was drowned.
I was 12 and Uncle Bud was 38. He was a wild man. He didn’t commit crimes. Rather, he got drunk and did thrill-seeking daredevil stunts. Falling in the drainage ditch was a little different. He was tiptoeing along its edge singing “Jesus walks on water. He’s the lifeguard at my pool. Jesus saves, Jesus saves, Jesus saves.” He pretended to step out onto the water and he slipped.
I thought “It’s about time!” My father had appointed me Bud’s Monitor. I had to follow Bud around and make sure he didn’t hurt himself. The most recent save I made was at the “Bubbly Fenders Car Wash.”
Bud had decided he was a dirty Corvette. He stuffed $5.00 in the pay box and started walking toward car wash tunnel. First, he washed his “rims” with a pressure hose. I thought that would be it, but it wasn’t—he tore off his clothes and ran into the tunnel. He had signed up for an undercarriage wash that I was sure would ruin his reproductive equipment. He was singing “Swannanoa Tunnel” like he knew what the hell the old folk song is about.
I ripped off my clothes and went after him. The side brushes were too far from his hips to get him, but there was a giant spinning soapy brush descending toward his head. It was going to decapitate him. I tackled him and the brush missed us by inches. We ran ahead of the washing process, missing all the brushes. The only upside were the two college girls in bikinis with towels who were car wipers. They dried us off. We got dressed and left.
That’s when I decided the next time Bud pulled a stunt that could lead to an accidental death, I would let the accident roll and say goodbye to Bud and my shitty job. Hence, the drainage ditch.
Even though Bud was a foolish risk taker, somehow, now that he was dead, I missed him. In my later years, I had a bronze statue of Bud erected by the drainage ditch where he drowned. He is standing there naked, holding a bottle of Gypsy Rose over his head with a college girl in a bikini holding a towel over his privates. The statue’s brass inscription plate says “Accidents Happen” with his name and dates of existence on planet earth engraved below.
After hanging out with thrill-seeking danger ranger Bud for three years, I went to college and received dual degrees in studio art and engineering. I design and manufacturer amusement park rides designed to thrill the hell out of people.
My latest ride is the “Rotor-Ripper.” It is like a big metal drinking cup. People climb in and lean against the Ripper wall and strap in. The Ripper spins at 150mph and tilts on its side. It is released by the operator and rolls across the park at 150mph, eventually slowing down, it falls flat again, stopping at the souvenir shop. We plan on manufacturing, and selling as souvenirs, miniature Rotor Rippers that people can use with pets or or give their small children to play with and have a little backyard risk taking to toughen them up for the front yard, where life goes on.
I’m a billionaire. People need their thrills. Like the proverb says, “If you want the ultimate thrill, you’ve got to be willing to pay the ultimate price.” For you, it could be $5,000 for a Mini-Rotor-Ripper for your cat or kid.
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