Paronomasia (pa-ro-no-ma’-si-a): Using words that sound alike but that differ in meaning (punning).
I had undergone a metamorphosis, not as drastic as Kafka’s character though. I couldn’t hold a candle to Gregor Sansa who woke up one morning as a giant bug. My metamorphosis was gradual, not sudden like Gregor’s.
One morning I woke up as a giant ant Boy Scout—7 feet tall. I had been transitioning there ever since I said “Be prepared” to my big sister as she went out the door on a date. She turned head and asked with a smirk “Be prepared for what you little pervert?”
Next, all my clothes turned a nasty olive drab, and would preface everything I said with “Scout’s honor.” It was like nobody trusted me.
Then, I had the two-foot growth spurt. Everybody teased me. They called me “Skyscraper,” and would ask me “How’s the weather up there Beanstalk?” I responded, “Scout’s honor, you’re a bunch of assholes. You’re a bunch of ducks—as low as you can duck, evading the pain you inflict on people like me, but I’m a liver, not a dier! If you want to be mean, make sense!” My puns needed work, but I didn’t give a damn—they kept me from flooding myself with tears.
One high point of my metamorphosis was the so-called Boy Scout knife my deranged father gave me. It was a 12” switchblade that he had panted olive drab. You pressed a button on the side and it flew open. Dad said it would come I handy in the gang wars with other troops. He made a dummy out of a pair of pajamas, stuffing them with newspaper. I would pretend I was nonchalantly walking down the street and the dummy would yell “Hey, Troop 911 pussy, wanna fight a killer from 289?” I’d flick open my knife and yell “You bet your ass.” I’d slice the jammie’s to pieces. Dad would jump up and down and throw his empty beer cans at the dummy yelling “Take that you fu*ing little Girl Scout!”
Talking about Girl Scouts, near the end of my transition, I met a 6’4”girl named Bingo Dodsworth. She was from a wealthy family and introduced me to”Some-Mores”—toasted marshmallow topping a square piece of chocolate on a Graham cracker. For me they were an aphrodisiac, but I respected Bingo and didn’t give in, until one night she came on to me and we did it—we yelled “Some-More, Some-More” as we rolled around on the kitchen floor.
Subsequently I became addicted to Some-Mores and went to rehab in the Catskills—Bingo’s family paid for it. Bingo and I are getting married—we’ve already decided on “Scout” as our first kid’s name.
Now that I’m a full-fledged giant Boy Scout, I have begun working on my merit badges. I’ve decided to go for the Xenophobe badge. You have to learn to identify foreign-looking people and then turn them in to I.C.E. You must taunt them with slurs while they’re being arrested, and then, find out their address and harass their family, if they have one.
I aspire to be an Eagle Scout, and maybe volunteer as a crosswalk guard at “Mel Fritter Elementary School.” I can do some foreigner spotting while I’m on the job..
I know this account is incomplete, but suffice it to say, I’m doing way the hell better than Gregor Sansa.
The Daily Trope 