Bomphiologia (bom-phi-o-lo’-gi-a): Exaggeration done in a self-aggrandizing manner, as a braggart.
I am the greatest—that’s what Muhhamid Ali said, and it was true. I guess it was bragging, but I loved it as a kid. I remember watching him box. His hands were so fast that he could knock out an opponent and you wouldn’t even see him throw the punch. It was like magic.—brutal magic. He inspired me to become a fighter—ultra pinfeather weight. I weighed 96.5 lbs. my punch was more like a pat. I stood 5’9” tall. Ultra pinfeather weight class was created for vegetarians, in the wake of the social reforms undertaken in the 1960s. Many of my fellow boxers were anorexic as well and felt they had found their niche in the boxing ring,
I was knocked out 11 times in my first 12 fights. The fight I won was against I guy with terminal lung cancer, he was close to the end. All I had to do was bump into him and he went down for the count and died in the hospital at 10.00pm that night. I felt bad, so I went to the hospital to see if any of his family was there so I could apologize for contributing to his death. There he was, laying in the hospital bed still wearing his boxing gloves. A fat woman came into the room and handed me her business card: “Stormy Weather, Gymnast, Ultimate Porka-Cise, Tenafly, NJ.” She said: “You killed my son Flip. You took him over the finish line. For that, I’m grateful. You saved me thousands of dollars in medical bills. Now, he’s swinging his mitts up there among the stars. I can see his special twinkle out there—whoops no, it’s a plane coming into Newark Airport.”
She was clearly crazy. I told her I was giving up boxing. She said, “Oh, why don’t you come to work for me? “Porka-Cise” is a growing vibrant business with a bright future.” I hesitated for a minute, but I took her up on her offer. You had to weigh a minimum of 300lbs to join Porka-Cise. I didn’t know why, but you also had to have documented heart and blood pressure problems.
The next day, I learned why. Stormy had a 400 pounder on the treadmill going as slowly as it could go. Suddenly it ramped up to 60 degrees and 40 MPH. The client, who could barely walk anyway, kept up for about 5 seconds, screamed, clutched her chest and flew into the wall, dead. The other clients mocked her—sarcastically calling her “Treadmill Terror” and “Loser.”
Two days later the dead client’s husband came by with a gym bag with $110,000 cash stuffed in it. He handed it over to Stormy and said, “Thanks for helping me get rid of her. Now I can have my ice cream again without it being gone ten minutes after I bring it home.”
I was reeling! I was ready to go to the police. Stormy held up the bag and said: “This is half of the life insurance payout on old fat-ass Nelly. Your share is half.” I rethought my moral indignation and saw how we are providing a service to people who are burdened by other people, who are weighing them down. Ha ha! “Weighing them down.” Ha-ha.
This was the best job I ever had, until I fell in love with Carol, a 320 pounder with black hair and green eyes. When it came time to crank her up. I couldn’t do it. Carol’s mother was getting restless, she needed the insurance money to get out of debt and start over. At that point I had killed 11 clients. I couldn’t understand what it was about Carol that made me want to let her live..
I couldn’t stand the pressure from Carol’s mother. So, I put Carol in the back of my pickup truck and we took off for Arizona, where she could blend in with the other fat wives of the retirees. I had saved a ton of money, so that wasn’t a problem. The problem was Carol. I couldn’t stand taking care of her. I told her if she didn’t lose 160lbs I would leave her out on the desert. She laughed at me, so I left her out on the desert with enough water to keep her alive. I went back one month later and she was still alive. She had lost a bunch of weight and looked great! She thanked me and we went back home.
That night, she cleaned out the refrigerator.
Definition courtesy of “Silva Rhetoricae” (rhetoric.byu.edu)
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