Epilogus (e-pi-lo’-gus): Providing an inference of what is likely to follow.
Sometimes we encounter weird things.
I was looking in the medicine cabinet mirror. I had written “Stud” on its fogged up surface. Behind the fog I could barely see my face. It was moving around! Suddenly, there was a sucking sound. At first I thought the exhaust fan had somehow turned itself on. But I was wrong. My fog face was trying to suck me into the mirror. I held my ground.
My fog face flew out of the mirror and slapped itself on my actual face, sticking like a pancake or slice of bread. I was looking through its eyes. I saw the empty mirror. My new face made me say ”I’m a Commie dupe.” I was scared shitless. What else would my new face—my surrogate face—make me say. I went downstairs for breakfast. I told my mom, “Mom, I’m a Commie dupe.” She was shocked. She yelled, “Go upstairs and wash your mouth out with soap”. I went up to the bathroom and pretended to wash my mouth out. I looked in the mirror. My reflection said “I’m a commie dupe.”
I was terrified. The Cold War was at its peak. Joe McCarthy was ferreting out commies everywhere from labor unions to entertainers. Professing to be a Commie was risky business.
I developed a strategy for dealing with my fog face’s “I am a commie dupe.” I would try to use my own face to add “hater“ to my avowed commie-hood. So, I went downstairs again. I said (again) “ I am a commie” I tried to add “hater” but my fog face said “lover”instead. I was screwed.
The fog face had become my real face!
My mother dropped my bowl of cereal on the floor and told me to go to my room. I tried to explain, but all I could say was “I’m a commie lover.” She was going to have me examined by Doctor Crabbe. If he didn’t have a cure, she would call in Father Dominick to give me an exorcism-enima, like she did with my brother Bert when she found a Penthouse magazine under his mattress.
I needed to do something, fast. It was 9:00 and Dr. Crabbe would be here at 11:30.
I got an idea!
Maybe if I steamed up the bathroom mirror again, looked in it, and wiped off the fog, my real face would appear and I would be me again. It was a long shot, but everything was crazy anyway.
I went into the bathroom and turned on the shower as hot as it would go, The bathroom rapidly steamed up. I stepped in front of the fogged up mirror and quickly wiped it off with a towel.
There I was, totally in focus—clear! My clear face ripped off of the mirror and plastered itself over my fog face. The two reflections fought to be my face. My head spun around in circles and the fog face flew off and was replaced by my true face.
I was saved.
I went back downstairs and said to my mom: “Mom, I am not now, nor have I ever been, a commie dupe.” She hugged me.
My fog face was vanquished, but my neck was killing me,
The Daily Trope 