Category Archives: epergesis

Epergesis (e-per-gee’-sis): Interposing an apposition, often in order to clarify what has just been stated.

My ass was grass, just like the old cliche, and he was the lawnmower. My “crime” was asking his sister to the movies. I didn’t see what was wrong with that. I asked him: “What’s wrong with that?” He told me I had a reputation as a “Don Casanova Quixote.” He didn’t want his sister pawed by me.
Evidently I had done something to warrant the reputation. But what could it be? I thought and I thought. After a couple of hours, I came up with a lead—Mary Tabala. She was the only girl I had expressed an interest in so far in my young life. Maybe she was spreading the rumors, but I couldn’t imagine what they were unless they were lies.
Being named after Jesus’ mother, Mary was hyper-moral, so much so, she once told me that she was going to have a virgin birth. That was a pretty tall ambition. Mary would never lie. I asked her anyway. She swore to God that she did not spread rumors about my romantic inclinations. She even said “May God strike me dead if I’m lying.” When she said that a car alarm went off down the street, but God left her alone.
I put up a sign on the school bulletin board asking for information about the rumor spreader. After a few false leads, Vinny “The Squealer” Bologna came up to me on the playground. He told me for a dollar, he’d give me the information I wanted. I told him I only had twenty-five cents. He said OK and took my quarter. Then he said “It’s your little brother. Sorry.”
I wanted to hit Vinny, but I knew he was telling the truth. His reputation preceded him. He never steered you wrong. As difficult as it was, I believed him. I hurried home to confront my little brother. He was very intelligent. He wore glasses. He had skipped two grades and was starting his freshman year at Harvard next fall.
My brother told me that for the first time in his life he had made a mistake. He told me he believed the rumors would boost my prospects as a “lover boy.” However, they had had the opposite effect. This error had prompted him to begin work on his “Polar Retro-Affective Theorem.” Given his reputation as a “boy genius,” he had already secured a grant of $1,500,000 from the N.I.H.
I was amazed. Of course, I forgave my little brother and took the part-time job he offered me taking care of the lab rats used in the research.
POSTSCRIPT
My little brother’s research project was a failure. It had something to do with the lab rats.

My ass was grass, just like the old cliche, and you’re the lawnmower. You’re going to mow my ass! I didn’t believe it. If it was a gasoline-powered rotary lawnmower, you would kill me. My “crime” was asking your sister to the movies. I didn’t see what was wrong with that. I asked him: “What’s wrong with that?” He told me I had a reputation as a “Don Casanova Quixote.”

Evidently I had done something to warrant the reputation. But what could it be? I thought and I thought. After a couple of hours, I came up with a lead—Mary Tabala. She was the only girl I had expressed an interest in so far in my young life. Maybe she was spreading the rumors, but I couldn’t imagine what they were unless they were lies.

Being named after Jesus’ mother, Mary was hyper- moral, so much so, she once told me that she was going to have a virgin birth. That was a pretty tall ambition. Mary would never lie. I asked her anyway. She swore to God that she did not spread rumors about my romantic inclinations. She even said “May God strike me dead if I’m lying.” When she said that a car alarm went off down the street, but God left her alone.

I put up a sign on the school bulletin board asking for information about the rumor spreader. After a few false leads, Vinny “The Squealer” Bologna came up to me on the playground. He told me for a dollar, he’d give me the information I wanted. I told him I only had twenty-five cents. He said OK and took my Quarter. Then he said “It’s your little brother. Sorry.”

I wanted to hit Vinny, but I knew he was telling the truth. His reputation preceded him. He never steered you wrong. As difficult as it was, I believed him. I hurried home to confront my little brother. He was very intelligent. He wore glasses. He had skipped two grades and was starting his freshman year at Harvard next fall.

My brother told me that for the first time in his life he had made a mistake. He told me he believed the rumors would boost my prospects as a “lover boy.” However, they had had the opposite effect. This error had prompted him to begin work on his “Polar Retro-Affective Theorem.” Given his reputation as a “boy genius,” he had already secured a grant of $1,500,000 from the N.I.H.

I was amazed. Of course, I forgave my little brother and took the part-time job he offered me taking care of the lab rats used in the research.

POSTSCRIPT

My little brother’s research project was a failure. It had something to do with the lab rats.

Definitions courtesy of “Silva Rhetoricae” (rhetoric.byu.edu).

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Epergesis (e-per-gee’-sis): Interposing an apposition, often in order to clarify what has just been stated.

I was going berserk, a flower pot on my head, singing Devo’s “Whip It.” 27 years old, I was the birthday boy.

All my friends were there: Bongy Wingo my stalwart ice fishing friend, Marbella Bella who loved me, Gamble Marlow my financial adviser, Wheels Driver my Uber man, Doughball Jackson the fat guy who makes me feel good about my own obesity, Scrub Clipsy my manicurist, Nuts Muffler my mechanic, and Snowbank Miller, my snowplow man. There were five or ten more friends there, but enough is enough.

All my friends have nicknames—some pretty weird. We are all members of a cultural group that goes by nicknames who emigrated to the US in the 19th century. They used nicknames so nobody knew their real names. That would keep them out of trouble—no body could squeal on them. One of my favorite nicknames is Scarface. It projects the aura of a battle-hard bruiser ready for action. The world needs more people like that, instead of the whimpering cowards we’re surrounded by everywhere we look.

My nickname is Bloody John Bandwit. I used to be a hitman, but I wasn’t trusted, so, after a couple tries, I got permanently reassigned. I had family rights to the job, so, even though I had the nerves of a rabbit I got the job. My dad is Talons Bandwit and he was so proud when I was initiated. I had beaten a mouse to death with a hammer, so he thought I was ready for the job. I wasn’t.

My first assignment was to hit a Christmas bell-ringer—one of those annoying Salvation Army Santas. This guy was using his money kettle to launder money he had stolen from a West Coast operation run by a Quaker splinter sect specializing in the “Big Thee Thou” a very lucrative phone scam. The bell-ringer’s name was Job. I couldn’t kill him. To deter what he was doing, I was supposed to shoot him with buckshot, stab him and leave the knife in his chest, and smash his head with a big rock, and then take pictures to be circulated among the members of the Quaker splinter sect to scare the shit out of them. I refused.

Luckily, my father kept me from getting hit! I was reassigned to smother an old lady in her bed with a pillow. I took the job. I got to the house and crept silently up to the bedroom wearing a balaclava. When I opened the door, her husband was sitting in the bed smoking a cigarette, waiting for me to kill his wife who was sound asleep next to him. He handed me his pillow and motioned me to hurry up. I pressed it on her face and she started squirming around. Then, she died. Her husband thanked me for freeing him from a life of hell. I felt good, but I found out later that I screwed up when I talked to the victim’s husband—he could recognize my voice.

I was reassigned. Now, I sell stolen cars. It would take ten pages to explain how I get away with it. My car lot is called “Millennial Motors” and I cater to dishonest sleaze-balls who want a good deal.

Anyway, happy birthday to me. Thank God I have my father to cover my ass.

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.

Epergesis (e-per-gee’-sis): Interposing an apposition, often in order to clarify what has just been stated.

Stop singing “goat milk kefir in in the sky.” It’s “ghost riders in the sky.” Your mind is like an cosmic merry-go-round—orbiting around inside your head, decorated with shiny silver meteorites and painted plastic space creatures blurting gibberish as they go up and down, up and down, around and around.

That’s you, or I should say, that’s what I envision as your mind, which is pretty complimentary if you think about it.

Please stop singing “grackles keep falling on my head”—it’s “raindrops keep falling on my head” from the movie Midnight Cowboy’s instrumental theme with the lyrics added later for a Johnny Mathis album. Jeez! Oh come on: “Hey Moe, where you goin’ with Curly’s comb in your hand?” Really? It’s actually “Hey Joe, where you goin’ with that gun in your hand?”

Mama and I named you Alfred after your grandfather, but everybody calls you Weird Al, even your grandfather! It’s because of your nearly constant public lyric twisting: at the mall, at school, at the bowling alley—everywhere! We know you can’t help it. Maybe you can make a career of it somehow.

Our weird son Al, the musical genius!

Stop that! It isn’t “You ain’t nothin’ but a peat bog.” It’s “You ain’t nothin’ but a hound dog.” But you know that, don’t you, Weird Al?

Definition courtesy of “Silva Rhetoricae” (rhetoric.byu.edu).

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