Enthymeme (en’-thy-meem): 1. The informal method [or figure] of reasoning typical of rhetorical discourse. The enthymeme is sometimes defined as a “truncated syllogism” since either the major or minor premise found in that more formal method of reasoning is left implied. The enthymeme typically occurs as a conclusion coupled with a reason. When several enthymemes are linked together, this becomes sorites. 2. A figure of speech which bases a conclusion on the truth of its contrary. [Depending on its grammatical structure and specific word choice, it may be chiasmus].
“It’s raining. Don’t forget to wear your galoshes.” Said my mother.
She was eighty-two and had recently moved in with me and my wife. She refused to go to a nursing home, so we were stuck with her, waiting for to keel over dead. Her mind was blown by old age. She called me “My little boy Johnny” and took up her mothering duties as if I was nine years old.
She thought my wife was my sister and constantly scolded us for sleeping together. Every time we tried to convince her we were married and not otherwise related, she went berserk, calling us liars and perverts, and calling 911. I would take the phone away from her and cancel the call. But, she got through once and the police came to our door. She pointed at my wife and me and yelled “There’s your perverts, take ‘em away!”
We were arrested and Mom was left alone in the house. It took about two hours to get the police to believe us. We had copies of our birth certificates and marriage certificate emailed to the police from “Make It Legal,” an internet “proof brokerage” specializing in retrieving records of all kinds—birth certificates to death certificates.
When we got home, Mom had managed to prepare a meatloaf dinner. When she cut the meatloaf, she said to me “Don’t let your meat loaf, son. All is forgiven.” I had learned the “meat loaf” joke the 7th grade from my wood shop teacher who would say it as we left at the end of class.
That night we locked her out of the house in her nightgown. We were hoping she would freeze to death. Around midnight there was pounding on the front door. I looked through the peephole and saw her standing there with an elderly man in his pajamas leaning on a walker.
We let them in and she introduced him as “Lover Boy” who she met at the bus station where she was going to spend the night. The man’s name, we found out, was actually Clot Runger. He was wearing a stuffed backpack. He took the backpack off and handed it to me as he said, “Here’s your reward Pluto.” It was filled with hundred dollar bills and $10,000 bearer bonds.
I was stunned. Between the cash and the bonds, there must’ve been a million dollars in the backpack. I wondered who Pluto was, but decided I would gladly become Pluto. I started calling my wife Dinah Dachshund.
As we faded into our canine guises all the pestering faded away. The man with the walker was named Clot Runger. He was a former Brinks security guard who had “cashed in” in the late 70’s. I didn’t ask him what “cashed in” meant, but I figured he might’ve played a role in the famous “Lufthansa heist,” I was probably wrong. Maybe he had earned legitimately.
Either way, the money was mine now! All mine!
POSTSCRIPT
So, life went on. All my “Mom woes” evaporated, and we had enough money to affect a lavish lifestyle, without moving or touching the outside of our little three bedroom one-story home, quietly resting on a cul-de-sac in Mahwah, New Jersey. We built a cell in the basement from plans we got off the internet. It is 1,500 square feet with two bedrooms, a living room, a full-on kitchen, a laundry room, and two baths.
Mom and Clot live there comfortably. They are glued to to the 75-inch plasma screen TV glued to “Fox News”, streaming “Magnum P.I,” , “American Bandstand,” and “Gun Smoke” reruns. I deliver their groceries.
POSTSCRIPT
We are anxiously awaiting their deaths so we can travel. There is a glimmer of hope for Clot—he has a huge tumor on his throat. Mom has a pneumonia-type cough, so we’re optimistic about her expiration sometime soon.
The Daily Trope 