Category Archives: epilogus

Epilogus (e-pi-lo’-gus): Providing an inference of what is likely to follow.

Things were getting rough. Soon I would be where I belonged. It was closing in like a closing door. Dawn would not come. Daylight would not reach me.

I was visiting my cousin Helga in Iceland in the town of Höfn, a small fishing village surrounded by mountains. It was January and pure daylight never came. It was dark most of the time and the Northern Lights would appear frequently. They were beautiful, like rainbow-colored bedsheets waving on a clothesline in the sky.

Helga worked at “Whalesickles.” They sold chunks of Minke whale, barbecued, and skewered on a stick. I loved them and ate at least three per day. With the special sauce, eating a Whalesickle was like kissing an angel.

Helga was a little weird but I enjoyed staying with her. The weirdest things were having to listen to ABBA every morning during breakfast and drinking four shots of cod liver oil at bedtime every night. The cod liver oil was to fight Vitamin D deficiency, the primary cause of bowlegs, Iceland’s most prevalent physical malady. You would frequently see bowlegged women and men on the street. Otherwise beautiful or handsome, their bowlegs would cause them to rock back and forth when they walked, often making observers feel seasick. Knowing their chances of landing a wife or husband were close to zero, they would lament their failure to drink the cod liver oil when they were children, as they foolishly resisted their parents’ admonishments.

There is a genre of Icelandic music centering around Vitamin D deficiency. It was sort of like the American Blues. “Ég get ekki drukkið lýs”(I Can’t Drink No Cod Liver Oil) is one of the most haunting songs sung by the all-bowlegged band “Nature’s Wrath.” They wear special trousers that roll up like curtains, revealing their naked bowlegs at the end of each of their sets. Nature’s Wrath brought tears to my eyes when I saw them perform at the Reykjavik Civic Center. Here are some lyrics from the song:

“I can’t drink no cod liver oil

It tastes like a walrus ass and gives me boils

I threw a tantrum, clamped my jaws, and rolled around on the floor

My mother gave up and yelled at me ‘No cod liver oil for you no more.’

Oh mothers spank your children so they won’t do as I have done

So they won’t be bowlegged and spend their lives in therapy in The House of the Nordic Sun.”

By the way, I am a private detective working for the “American Association of Faceted Stones.” I came to Iceland to track down a fermented shark smuggling ring. They don’t eat it. They open jars of it in jewelry stores. The stench drives everybody out and the thieves scoop up the jewelry. Fermented shark is illegal in the United States. That’s why they have to smuggle it. It is perfectly legal in Iceland. The top fermenter is Gunnar Batson. I’ve had my eye on him. He has recently patented an odor-proof vest that looks like a traditional tweed vest, only it’s a little puffy—ideal for smuggling. Gunnar is flying to the U.S. tomorrow. I will be there along with Interpol customs agents to arrest him.

In the meantime, Helga and I are headed to the nearby hot springs where we’ll luxuriate in the warm bubbles and take turns reading Halldór Kiljan Laxness’ “Salka Valka” aloud to each other in its English translation.

If it wasn’t dark or light all the time, or if there wasn’t the risk of becoming bowlegged, I could learn to love Iceland.

Definitions 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.

Epilogus (e-pi-lo’-gus): Providing an inference of what is likely to follow.

“Too much trouble. Too much heartache. Too much sorrow. Too much. Too much. Too much.” I was writing a song for my new album titled “Too Much.” This would be my fiftieth album—a landmark in my career. I had talked my old record producer into fronting me the money to produce it and go on tour.

I hadn’t sung a note in twenty years. I was wealthy but I wanted to cap things off and go out with a bang. I planned on shooting myself in the head at the end of my final gig. I had a solid gold walker with a holder for my pistol built into the handle bars. I had designed it and it worked quite well. I could’ve concealed my gun in my leg brace, but it would’ve been harder to reach.

The only downside to the record deal was Joe Potato’s insistence that his daughter Jeckyl join the tour. She is 19. I was way way older than that—84. She couldn’t sing worth a shit and she couldn’t play drums, guitar or keyboard. However, she was beautiful. Every time I laid eyes on her I got a feeling. It was a barely detectable echo of the man I used to be, when I could feel, and my feelings were real. I was going to have Jeckyl stand by me on stage and slap a tambourine while I did my thing. She made me look good and she brought us good luck.

“Throwing Stones” first concert was a blockbuster. I dyed my hair black and used a Vocorder. I had skateboard wheels put on my Walker so I could roll around the stage and come back to Jeckyl’s side. Also, I could press a button and candy-colored lights would shoot up and down the walker. The audience loved it! But the dance Jeckyl did while she played her tambourine blew the audience away. Teenaged boys were moaning and groaning and begging on their knees, grown men left their wives and girlfriends and barged to the front of the audience, held their hands over their heads and danced like dervishes along with her. It was wild. Jeckyl put men and boys in a trance.

I wrote her a song that I sang to her at the end of the show while she stood in the beam of a red spotlight, looking up and slowly writhing:

“There is a fire in my heart

Tearing me apart.

You’re so young and I’m so old

You shine like 24-carat gold,

I am rusted like a nail in the rain

I look at you and feel only pain.”

There are more lyrics, but this should give a good idea of the schmaltz level. I didn’t believe a word of it, but the audience loved it, and so did Jeckyl. She started motioning me toward her when she did her dance. She gave me ginseng gel caps. She weaseled her way to my hotel room to watch TV. She confided in me that I was her best friend, really, her only friend: “Sharks, you’re the best friend I ever had—even better than my own father Potato’s.” She told me she knew the closing song was bullshit. I was relieved. After the show, we would make popcorn and watch “Andy of Mayberry” reruns, and “Fargo” too.

Then the last gig of the tour came. I got dressed and loaded my gun. It was time to blow my brains out and make my grand exit from show biz. But, I thought about Jeckyl. After all these years had we had bonded. It was weird. Then, Potato called to wish me well on the final gig of the tour. Then he dropped a bomb: “Sharks, you’re Jeckyl’s father.” I had always been her father, but I didn’t know it.

She was born when I was 65. I had an affair with Joe Potato’s very young wife Tippy. Joe suspected, but he never knew for certain, Tippy ran off soon after Jeckyl was born. She was raised by her paternal grandparents.

I decided to live a few more years. I told Jeckyl she was my daughter. She said she already knew and that Joe put her on the tour with me so we could get to know each other. Now I knew where my feelings for Jekyl came from! We would hook our pinkies together and say “Pals Forever.”

Now that she’s a star, she’s inundated with friends and is going back to college. I’m still writing bad songs.

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.

Epilogus (e-pi-lo’-gus): Providing an inference of what is likely to follow.

It wasn’t just another day at “Shorty’s Frog Legs.” Shorty was getting married to Parky Carlisle, the daughter of “Frank’s Frog Sauce,” the only condiment we used. It was a “spicy blend of mayonnaise, Habanero peppers, and grated Parmesan cheese.” Nothing like a steaming crispy pile of frog legs smothered in “Frank’s Frog Sauce.” Each order came with a giant-sized glass of water to quell the pepper-fire.

The wedding was huge and we were working in a meat-cleaver frenzy, lopping leg as fast as we could, and throwing them in overflowing frier baskets. I was bottling extra “Frog Sauce” to make sure we had enough for the reception.

I had to pee and headed to the Men’s Room in the back. As soon as I wrapped my hand around my Dong, I knew I had made a huge mistake. I should’ve washed my hands. My Hooter was on fire from the “Frog Sauce.” I turned to the sink to wash it off, but the sink was awkwardly positioned—I could splash a little water, but it wasn’t enough to put out the fire. I turned again and there was the toilet stall. I pulled down my pants and laid across toilet. My Weeny dunked into the toilet water, so I started swinging it back and forth like a bell clapper, swirling water around my Tool. With about 50 swirls and 20 yards of toilet paper, I was back to normal. My pants weren’t even wet.

I got my cousin Bill, who is an artist, to draw step-by-step instructions for washing off in the toilet if you have a burning Wang. I posted it in the Men’s Room alongside the “Employees Must Wash Hands” sign. I also posted a sign in the kitchen; “if you’re working with Habaneros, don’t touch your Peener without washing your hands first.”

The wedding went great! So many frog legs down the hatch. To avoid any burning issues, we served the legs with latex gloves that said “Remove before peeing.”

Since I put up the signs, the number of burning Penises has gone down significantly. We’ve also started including latex gloves at Shorty’s along with “Frank’s Frog Sauce.”

This is a story about innovation. I was promoted from leg chopper to batter dipper. God bless America.

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.