Epanodos (e-pan’-o-dos): 1. Repeating the main terms of an argument in the course of presenting it. 2. Returning to the main theme after a digression. 3. Returning to and providing additional detail for items mentioned previously (often using parallelism).
The partridge was in the pear tree. The kettle was on the boil. The farmer was in the Dell. I was in a-gadda-da-vida. I had been stuck there since 1968 when my bell bottoms got stuck in time and I was chocked to death by my peace medallion when it got tangled in the external rearview mirror of a Cadillac that almost ran me over. I chased after him and my medallion got wrapped around the mirror. He took off with me hanging from the mirror and I choked to death.
He dragged me about a mile and I was flopping like a hooked fish. I distinctly remember dying. It felt really good. No anxiety. I was untangled from the mirror and transported to the morgue. They took off all of my clothes and laid me on a metal slab and covered me with a sheet. It was quite comfortable—cool and smooth. They determined by the burn marks on my throat and my bloated face, that I had been choked to death. I heard them say that the driver of the Cadillac had been arrested. That made me happier than I had already been.
Like I said, it felt good to be dead. I was comfortable and relaxed. Not a care in the world. The only thing that puzzled me was my awareness of the world around me and the monologue rolling along in my head.
Luckily, I wasn’t cremated. I had a traditional funeral with crying people saying nice things about me. My family was cheap and put me in a cardboard coffin. I didn’t care. I was dead. I was buried near the cemetery’s parking lot and my grave was marked with a white wooden stake with my name on it in magic marker: Brad Black: 1946-1970.
Just as I was getting settled in, I was resurrected. All of a sudden, I was standing by my grave with a guy in white robes standing there. He said “Boo!” and a huge wing popped out on either side of his body. He was holding a lute and started playing “In-a-gadda-da-vida.” He handed me a karaoke microphone so I could sing along. It was great. Then he cut the playing and said “Did you hear that bell tinkling?” I told him I had. He said: “You’re an angel!” My big wings popped out, and suddenly I was wearing a white gown. I went to angel camp and was trained as a guardian angel. I wear a thing like an Apple Watch that tells me when my charges is in trouble. I manifest myself and get things straightened out. Most recently, it was a five-year-old boy hanging from a cliff. He had been knocked over the cliff by his dog which his parents had subsequently angrily thrown over the cliff. Somehow the dog was unscathed after the 300 foot fall. Hmmm. I wonder how that happened?
It felt good to be dead. Don’t get me wrong—I know there are sinners burning in hell right now. When I was in Angel Camp, we went to Hell on a field trip. They gave us ear plugs so we couldn’t hear the screaming of Satan’s victims. I was surprised to see my neighbor Mr. Gundoor. I asked our guide what Mr. Gundoor was in for. He wasn’t allowed to tell me, but Mr. Gundoor was sitting naked on a pancake griddle, sizzling like bacon and screaming.
Well, it’s time to earn my eternal paycheck: there’s a boy stuck in a bear trap, circled by wolves, with a forest fire making its way toward him.
Definition courtesy of “Silva Rhetoricae” (rhetoric.byu.edu)
The Daily Trope is available on Amazon in paperback under the title of The Book of Tropes for $9.95. It is also available in Kindle format for $5.99.