Comparatio (com-pa-ra’-ti-o): A general term for a comparison, either as a figure of speech or as an argument. More specific terms are generally employed, such as metaphor, simile, allegory, etc.
He was like a pierced ear on a dog. He was like a blank yardstick. He was like a bowling ball with no finger holes. He was like a trailer hitch on the side of a car. He was like an empty tub. He was like a shoe with no laces. He was like a frog with no croak. He was like an orange without a peel.
As hard as I tried he couldn’t make an apt comparison for Albert Loney. But that didn’t stop me.
Albert Loney was like a poopless pigeon. He was like a shoe without a sole. He was like moldy cheese. He was like a raccoon in my garbage can. He was like the crud growing on my earlobe. He was like the wind blowing in my window. He was like rising water. He was like a dirty dove—that’s it: dirty dove!
When he talked Loney had a tone to his voice like a cooing pigeon—especially when he said “coooool coooool” after he saw or heard something he liked. On the surface he was unkempt—gravy stains grace his shirt front. His fingernails were filthy. His shoes were scuffed. His hair was tangled and unkept—but he was generous, kind, and loving. In short, he was a dirty dove.
People started calling him DD;(Dirty Dove), and it stuck. DD has more friends now. He has actually become a “Snow White Dove.” He wears all white. He bleached his hair all white, with a little white goatee. He looks like a holy Colonel Sanders. He looks like an elderly Frank Zappa in a tropical suit. He looks like a hospital orderly. He looks like “The Good Humor Man.” He looks like a lab technician ready to test a pile of diodes.
I feel like a fatherless son. I can’t stop making comparisons. It’s like I’m in the Twilight Zone. It’s like I’m lost in a maze. Nothing is what it is. I feel like I need help. Like I’ve lost my grip. Like me is like somebody else that I don’t want to be, like me.
POSTSCRIPT
The author of this piece suffered a nervous breakdown. He was placed in “Wilted Rose Sanatorium” where he lived like a worm in loam. Like writing a bestselling tome. Like polishing a dome. Like reading a gnome. Knowing he would never be cured of his comparaphilia, he said “My disease is like a prison of my own making, like my second marriage, . . .”
