Monthly Archives: July 2026

Palilogia

Palilogia: Repetition of the same word, with none between, for vehemence. Synonym for epizeuxis.


“Help, help, help! I’ve got bad morning breath and I can’t get up.” It was my senile mother again, yelling from her big chair in the media room. She was trying to imitate a commercial and she mixed up the “Lifeline Medical Wearable Alert System” advertisement with the old Oral-B “Overnight Protect Toothpaste” advertisement.

She had the uncanny ability to imitate voices, and had been recruited by the CIA at the age of 8 to serve during WW II as a “Clandestine Voice Imitator.” She interdicted radio transmissions by imitating the voices of enemy radio operators. Her code name was “Klein Schnitzel” among her co-workers at their Langley CIA headquarters.

For example, when a German General was urging a division to retreat in an uncoded “in the clear” emergency message, she spoke over him urging it to “Attack, attack, attack!”

The CIA had special radio equipment that delayed enemy radio operators transmissions so The Imitator Cops could speak over them “excising” words phrases and filling them in with Voice-imitated messages. In the case cited above, an entire Panzer Division was obliterated when it’s already shattered effectiveness was exploited by the Americans, as it followed the Imitator’s orders.

At the War’s end my mother was decorated with a Bronze Star and was nicknamed “Atomic Bomb” for the important role she played in bringing the war to a close more more quickly than it otherwise would’ve been.

She was 11 years old when the war ended. With my grandparents help, she put together a vaudeville-type act. She would begin being Churchill and delivering his famous “We Shall Fight Them on the Beaches” speech, and the take requests from the audience. One of the favorites was Clark Gable’s “Frankly, my dear, I don’t give a damn,” from “Gone With the Wind.”

She went on to work with Mel Blanc imitating his Warner Brothers cartoon characters’s voices, enabling Blanc to take a break, and also, increase cartoon production. She made extra millions for the studios, but had to work behind the scenes and never got credit for her massive contribution to the Warner Brothers bottom line. But, she was generously rewarded for her work and be came a millionaire in 1959. At that point she retired.

In her retirement, she learned how to imitate bird songs, and learned the song every bird in Tory “Peterson’s “North American Birds.” She appeared as a recurring guest on the “Tonight Show” with Johnny Carson, and chortled her way into the heart of America.

Things started going down hill a few years ago. The first sign was doing a Daffy Duck imitation when she was asked to do a Mallard duck. She said “Sufferin’ succotash,” one of Daffy’s famous catchphrases. Soon after, when asked to a woodpecker, she did Woody Woodpecker’s “Heh-heh-heh-HA-ha!” instead.

It was sad seeing her lose it after such a stellar career and her outstanding service to our country. Currently, a documentary is in production that spans her life. It is titled “Voiceborn” and consists solely of archival film footage, with Taylor Swift narrating.

My mother is 104 and won’t be around much longer.

Well, I hear Teddy Roosevelt singing a cracked version of “Wooly Bully.” He’s ordering lunch. I have to go.

Parabola

Parabola (par-ab’-o-la): The explicit drawing of a parallel between two essentially dissimilar things, especially with a moral or didactic purpose. A parable.


“The sun will not shine thine shoes—wingtips, moccasins, pumps, ballet and all the footwear under the sun. Yea, you are but a square-toed Frye boot unwisely coursing the sands of sinfulness wearing a hole in thine soul. Sit thee down and repent.” This is one of those deep and wise parables that you think about for days. My brother said it to me.

I was at the beach with my brother Swami Piraña. He files his teeth to points and wears a turban made of deadly nightshade. He has a following of nine committed, or ought to be committed, acolytes. He holds weekly ZOOM meetings with his “congregation” dancing to the dervish-like strains of “YMCA.” Sometimes the service goes on for ten hours. Then, when his congregation is delirious from dancing, he asks for money. Then, he gives a sermon in a sarcastic tone on the evils of materialism and the “shark eat shark” perils of capitalism. Then, he rebukes them for eating of the tree of “false tomatoes” (deadly nightshade), and asks for more donations to the cause of uprooting it “once and for all from the landscapes of your minds.”

So, there we were—broiling on the beach. I asked him what the hell he meant with the shoeshine sun thing. He leapt up and pointed at me—“You will burn,” he yelled. It was true. I had forgotten my SPF 90 sunscreen and was already turning red. I ran to the concession stand and bought some sunscreen and smeared it on. I covered myself with a towel and lay down by my brother again. I asked what the shoes signified in his parable. He said he didn’t know, it was too mystical, even for his divine consciousness. He thought for a minute and said “Maybe the shoes are your soul, and I’m telling you you must ‘shine’ your own soul with the shoe polish of God’s wisdom in the Bible. The Bible is the Gucci of the Lord.”

My head was spinning. God, shoes, Gucci. It was too much for me to understand. So, I forgot about it, put my sunglasses back on, and ran into the ocean. I heard somebody yell “Shark!” It was coming toward me. It stood up! It was my brother wearing a strap-on fin. He raised his arms and yelled “Behold! I am not a shark, I am an imposter: You are betrayed by your senses, follow your heart.” He was arrested for impersonating a shark and causing widespread beach panic.

As a result of his stunt, and its coverage in the news, his congregation grew to 50,000. He is now known as an influencer on TikTok where he hosts “Free Range Wisdom” once a week on Fridays. He sells plastic “Trees of Wisdom” turbans to his viewers for $29.99 and is getting rich.

This week’s sermon it titled “God is a Stamp Collector.”

Paragoge

Paragoge (par-a-go’-ge): The addition of a letter or syllable to the end of a word. A kind of metaplasm.


“My little cutesy wootesy. My little ba-ba baby boo-boo! Grandmama loves you more than gummies, or gin & tonic, or Lucy Strikes. Let’s play bouncy on my knee, Little Barty.”

I am 64 and Grandmama still treats me like a baby when she comes to visit me and my wife. She stayed for a week. She brought a bottle, Pampers, Zwiebach toast (for my teething), Simulac, a portable crib, and my blanky,

It was totally, uncontrollably, weird. And I liked it. I liked being cutesy-wootsey. And crawling around the living room in my onesey. I loved free range pooping in my die-pee. My wife took care of my hiney hygiene so things wouldn’t get too weird with Grandmama. Sometimes my wife would give me a bath in my tubby and wash my hair with no tears baby shampoo. It was wonderful.

My ba-ba really brought me back to the good old days when Mama would feed me warm Simulac and I would suck on the rubber nipple. I still have a Simulac shake now and then, but they are really fattening.

My blanky hadn’t been washed for forty years. I could smell Mama’s cheap perfume on it—“Bonkers Babe.”

Mama was wild. She drove a motorcycle and hung out the “Owl’s Claw” down by the beach. She drank shots and beers and carried a gun—a sweet-looking little Beretta .25. She taught me how to shoot it at my eighth birthday party. I idolized her.

“Dirty” Dad had left me and mom when I was three. He ran off with a stunt-driver from the “Bimbos, Bimps and Backdrafts,” a traveling stunt-driving circus. Her name was Mabelliene. She was a cheating slut, but Dad was smitten by her stunts. He loved it when she drove through a flaming hoop with the car’s horn blowing, jumped out the driver’s side window, and let the car smash into a concrete wall, where it exploded and burst into flames.

When Dad left, Mama didn’t give a shit. She had a big party with her biker buddies—“The Karma Busters.” We danced all night. Mama wouldn’t let me drink or smoke. I was only 3. I had my first toke when I was eleven at Mama’s annual “Fu*k the Bastard Party,” The best part of the party was beating the shit out of the custom-made Dirty Dad Piñata with crowbars. The piñata was filled with tabs of blotter acid and “Dark Side of the Moon” CDs. Each tab of acid had a little cartoon middle finger printed on it. Mama was a stickler for detail.

Dirty Dad died 8 years ago when Mabelliene lit him on fire for “speeding in wrong lane”—that’s stunt driver jargon for cheating on her. She duct-taped Dirty Dad to the hoop of fire, doused him with gasoline, and boom, sent him up in flames screaming. Too bad Mama didn’t get a chance to be there,

Mama died 15 years ago. She had a heart-attack trying to kick start her vintage Harley. At least I still had Grandmama! Now, she’s 109 and wears an ankle monitor for the “incident” at the grocery store. We love to have her visit from “Never-Never Land Nursing Home.”

I said, “Grandmama ba-ba! Pleezy weezy!” and pulled blanky up to my chin.


Paralipsis

Paralipsis (par-a-lip’-sis): Stating and drawing attention to something in the very act of pretending to pass it over (see also cataphasis). A kind of irony.


“He said, standing there in his monogrammed bathrobe: ‘I’m not going to tell you how I love you more than anything—anythng between heaven and earth.‘ With that, he came at me with his tongue sticking out. I was 46 at the time, and I thought I had seen everything. When it was over, I felt guilt for what we had done. But, from then on, men’s tongues excited me. Sometimes I would sit on park bench with my tongue sticking out, waiting for ‘Mr. Right.’ Please help me Reverend Jack.”

I specialize in fetish conversion therapy, trading “The Cross” for “The Fetish.” Ms. Lombardi’s case was difficult, but we helped her overcome her tongue fetish. We filled her tub with cow’s tongues obtained from “Big Bill’s Broadway Butchery.” Bill specialized in weird cuts of meat like pig’s ears and sheep’s ankles.

Ms. Lombardi leapt into the tub yelling “Yahoo!” But after a week of soaking in the tongues, she begged to be hauled out. She screamed “I hate tongues.” She was cured!

We told her that when the tongue-urge hit her in the future, the Lord advised that she turn to glossalalia (speaking in tongues), or licking envelopes, to drive out her urge.

The hardest case we ever had was Mr. X, or “The Man Who Loved Air.” He refused to gasp or hold his breath. He wouldn’t make a wish and blow out his birthday cake’s candles. He wouldn’t go under water in his swimming pool. He slept with a respirator, put in place every night by his private nurse. Whenever he exhaled, he felt guilty for betraying the oxygen he loved by expelling it into the “big and lonely” atmosphere.

As you can see, his love of oxygen, in the last case above, put him in a sort of double bind: if he inhaled, he would have to exhale because “breathing” symbolized the full circle of his love, but it was inevitably snarled in “exhalation regret,” a rare and nearly intractable psychological malady, not unlike that of breaking up.

We prayed on it and the Lord told us he should become a clown—blowing up balloons for children could, itself, be an act of love, ameliorating the conundrum of exhaling/loving. His exhalation would be housed in a balloon releasing it from the cruel anomie of the atmosphere. He was told that the Lord wanted him to carry a handful of balloons at all times, and to blow one up when he felt the anxiety of exhaling. It worked. Just yesterday, he did a “full gasp” when he ran over a groundhog with his car.

Praise the Lord. I am but a vessel for His divine spirit. Damn you fetishes! In the name Lord Jesus, BE GONE!

Paramythia

Paramythia (pa-ra-mee’-thi-a): An expression of consolation and encouragement.


With fake tears in my eyes, I said sarcastically, “Oh my little Bumble Bee. Maybe your wing will grow back! You’ll be able to fly in a straight line instead of spinning around in circles on my coffee table when you flap your remaining wing. Miracles DO happen! I know how you feel, I’m rooting for you!”

Then, there was the Itsy Bitsy Spider. Sarcastically, I said: “Oh little ‘Spidey.’ Two legs are better than none. Now, you can take life more slowly, finding your bliss skidding ‘round and ‘round like a merry-go-round on my coffee table. Do you want some dopamine? Be optimistic. If you survive, when you molt your legs will grow back and all will be well. In the meantime, keep on skidding little guy.”

Anthophila (bees) and Arachnids (spiders). I hated them. I pulled off their wings. I pulled off their legs. It was my way of torturing them and exacting my revenge for what an individuals had done to me. As a species, they were all the same.

I was allergic to bee stings. I found that out when I was six years old. I sat on a hornet at my birthday party at our lake house. It stung me through my bathing suit. I went into anaphylactic shock and nearly died. Now, I carry an “epinephrine pen.” It’s a needle that I jam in my thigh if I get stung. That’s why I torture bees.

When I was twelve, my mother fell into a nest of “Nesting Black Widow” spiders, a species that lives communally. Mother was bitten so many times, she died on the spot—they found her slumped over a pallet board stored in the back of our garage. That’s why I torture spiders.

There’s a good reason for everything. Although something may appear to be cruel and perverse, if you know the back-story, you may change your mind.

After all, bees and spiders are only goddamned insects.

For thousands of years in so-called “Western Culture,” torture has functioned to “get the answers” out of miscreants, such as Ted Bundy, and Lizzie Borden. But more often, it’s been used to provide catharsis for victims. No more medications needed after torturing one’s assailants. Their suffering absorbs one’s suffering. As they say, “Revenge is sweet” and the best proven “sweetener” is torture.

Don’t pity me. I pack an epinephrine-pen, a lidded jar, a pair of tweezers, and a pair of surgical gloves everywhere I go. Pulling legs is my personal way of managing my grief and fear.

Don’t pity me—pity the pill-dropping chumps who manage their grief and pain with meds.

Paraprosdokian

Paraprosdokian: “A figure of speech in which the latter part of a sentence or phrase [or series = anticlimax] is surprising or unexpected in a way that causes the reader or listener to reframe the first part. . . . For this reason, it is extremely popular among comedians and satirists. An especially clever paraprosdokian not only changes the meaning of an early phrase, but also plays on the double meaning of a particular word.” (1)


“Give me a break, but not my leg! He was head over heels. His brother had decapitated him! I’m on a roll. Pass the ketchup! I raised my hand and farted. My science teacher told the class it was a gas! I was like a grain of sand on the beach, gritty and hot! My girlfriend bit my neck. The next time we went out, I insisted that we go out for a stake. I thought time had run out, but my watch’s battery was dead. How many beagles can dance on the head of a pin? None. Beagles don’t dance.” Me

I was addicted to two- or three-liner jokes. I was in a rehab group named “Ha. Ha,” said with a sarcastic tone of voice. At meetings we affected the Homo Seriosus demeanor described by Stanley Fish in Down the Anti-Foundationalist Road.

We were all failed comedians or plain everyday annoying people who had alienated their friends, families, and basically, everybody they met, with streams of one liners not even fit for a toilet.

The group’s only rule was “Don’t crack any of your stupid ass jokes.” If you cracked a joke you had to read the “Declaration of Independence” to the group in a solemn tone. Eventually, I got sick of reading it after 67 times, and quit the group.

I refashioned myself as the “Hokey Paradoky: Street Corner Funnyman.” I blurted one-liners at passersby while I held out a styrofoam cup that said “Deposit $1” on it. Usually, people would just keep going. But every once-in-awhile, somebody who was as warped as me would stop and deposit a dollar. One day, the owner of “Warpo’s Comedy Club” asked me to perform at his club.

The club specialized in dead baby jokes, a genre of humor popular in the 60’s. I was ok with that—I would’ve joked about old ladies falling down flights of stairs naked if I had to. My mind wasn’t wired to make up dead baby jokes, so I plagiarized my Schlick from the web. I managed to make up one though: “How dead babies does it take to screw in a lightbulb? None. They’re dead.” My stolen ones weren’t much better. For example: “How do you fit ten dead babies into a bowl? With a blender.” “What’s the difference between a dead baby and a granola bar? About 500 calories.” “What’s the difference between a dead baby and a moose. I don’t have a moose head mounted above my fireplace.” “What’s the difference between a dead baby and peanut butter? A dead baby won’t stick to the roof of your mouth.”

As soon as I did the peanut butter joke, a woman in the audience stood up and yelled, “Robber, thief, plagiarist. I wrote that!” I was screwed. It was Marmy Ridex, the famous “Dead Baby” lady. Her act was revered among dead baby aficionados. Everybody recognized her. I ran out the fire exit and almost made it to my car when Marmy caught up with me. She hurled what looked like a dead baby at me, but, thank God, it was one of those anatomically correct CPR dolls. Then, she hurled a yellow liquid- filled plastic ba-ba at me and yelled, “What’s the difference between a bucket of baby guts and gravel?” I freaked out. I didn’t know the answer. She yelled and held up jar full of something: “You can’t gargle gravel.” I applauded and she dropped the jar. It had some kind of disgusting goo leaked out of it when it shattered on the pavement.

Trying lighten things up, I said “Hey baby, let’s get a drink.” Marmy laughed and nodded her head. When we got to the bar, she ordered a “Rosemary Baby” and I ordered a “Baby Stout.”

We fell in love.


1. “Paraprosdokian.” WikipediaThe Free Encyclopedia. 4 Jan 2008, 03:30 UTC. Wikimedia Foundation, Inc. 9 Jan 2008 <http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Paraprosdokian>