Dialogismus (di-a-lo-giz’-mus): Speaking as someone else, either to bring in others ’ points of view into one’s own speech, or to conduct a pseudo-dialog through taking up an opposing position with oneself.
Am I talking to myself? Hell no. I’m thinking out loud. It’s like reading out loud. Much more texture. Much more meaning. Much more significance. It’s like a glass of wine vs. a glass of water , or a bowl of ice cream vs. a bowl of gruel.
It was Saturday night and I was hanging out at “The Lucky Trout” country dance hall. I lived in Boukville, NY between a cornfield and a highway. The only other business in Bouckville was the “Rte. 20 All Night Diner.” The dance hall kept them going. The drunks would flock there when the Lucky Trout closed. They specialized in Hitch Hiker’s Breakfast, in keeping with the Route 20 theme.
I was drinkin’ shots a beer and eatin’ popcorn from a red plastic bowl. I was waitin’ for my Piggy Fingers—my favorite bar snack—little sausages with toothpicks stuck in them, and special sauce called “Chicago Fire.” It was so hot it could set your teeth on fire.
Suddenly my stool started spinning of its own accord. Two bars with handle grips popped up. I grabbed them and I took off. I flew through the swinging saloon doors and up into the sky, propelled by jet engines in the stool’s legs. I flew past an airliner and a little kid waved at me. The next thing I knew I was landing on the moon. I got off my stool. I looked to my right and there was a picnic table. I walked over to it. It had the initials “JG” carved in it and the date: 1964. That was history! I looked around some more but didn’t see anything else of interest. I got back on my stool and took off. As I was taking off, I looked back down and saw a bowling trophy lying on its side in the moon dust, and then, whoosh, off I flew. Destination Earth!
I flew through the doors of The Lucky Trout and landed where I took off from. Nobody noticed. I ordered “another” shot and a beer. I ordered some more Piggy Fingers. The waitress set them down in front of me and they started squirming around like big caterpillars. They were making a soft squeaking sound like baby birds. I called the waitress over and asked her what the hell was going on. she called over Mickey the bouncer. He dumped my Piggy Fingers on the floor and pushed me off my stool. He told me to get out and to come back when I had achieved a drug-free lifestyle.
I got out into the parking lot and I could not find my car. It was a restored pea-green Corvair. It was worth thousands. I called the police. When they arrived, my car appeared behind a dumpster. The police weren’t happy. When they left, my car disappeared. I decided to take an Uber home and sort it all out tomorrow. The driver was dressed like a clown. That was too much. I told her to be on her way and decided to wait out the insanity at the Rout 20 All Night Diner. I sat down in a booth and looked around, and everybody looked like me. Then, the waitress came to my booth. She did not look like me. Aside from being a woman, her hair was blond and mine is black. I ordered The Hitch Hiker’s Breakfast: three fried eggs, four slices of bacon, two slices of toast, grits and a napkin printed like a roadmap. I ordered a cup of coffee too.
People kept coming over to my table asking if they knew me. They all had my name. It was awkward, The sun was coming up. I finished my breakfast and headed back to the Lucky Trout parking lot to find my car. I got to the parking lot and all the cars partied there were pea green Corvairs. I found my car by its license plate. Finally, I could go home. I started it up and it made a poof sound and turned into a pumpkin. It was Cinderella sitting next to me. She asked me if I knew where her shoe was. We got married and lived happily ever after. She blew off the Prince for me. I felt lucky.
Definition courtesy of “Silva Rhetoricae” (rhetoric.byu.edu)
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