Category Archives: eustathia

Eustathia (yoos-tay’-thi-a): Promising constancy in purpose and affection.

“I love you more than BLTs.” Everybody can relate to that! Who doesn’t love BLTs? People with no taste buds? Unfortunately, I had failed all these months to realize she was a vegetarian! All the carrots. All the rice. All the cheese. All the humus. Etc., etc. I should’ve realized.

She spit on ground—yes, spit on the ground! And said, “You toad. I can’t believe you think I have BLTs on my radar screen as similes of love—actually, a BLT is a bearer of two hapless vegetables poisoned by nitrite-laced pig meat—MEAT—you idiot—MEAT!”

I told her I was sorry. I hadn’t realized she was a vegetarian. She hadn’t told me and all the delicious food we were eating never seemed specifically vegetarian. It just seemed like good food. This softened her up. I was relieved when she stepped close to me and handed me an avocado. I was vindicated. In fact, I had become a vegetarian without knowing it.

Unfortunately, I still had a taste for meat. I satisfied it with cold cuts, primarily mortadella, and occasionally, bratwurst. I lived in fear of being caught, but I loved her and needed her in my life. One day she said she thought I had meat on breath. I started eating breath mints to cover up the smell. I told her I wanted to be ready to kiss her all the time. She thought that was romantic.

Then, it all fell apart. Foolishly, I had given her a key to my apartment. One day she came over unexpectedly. She walked into the kitchen and saw me with a slice of mortadella hanging about of my mouth. I was caught!

She tore the mortadella out of my mouth and threw it on the kitchen floor and ground it into the tile with her foot. She pulled a rutabaga out of her purse and started beating me over the head and yelling “Meat traitor!” and “Pig swallower!” I just stood there and took it. I deserved it. I said, “I don’t care what you think, I will love you forever, through the planting and harvesting of vegetables of hope, with no pesticides.”

She stopped beating me. She put some water on to boil, sliced up the rutabaga and put in the pan to boil. She said, “Honey, we can do this. As long as you don’t eat your mortadella in front of me and keep eating the mints we can be a couple forever. I will love you like an ear of corn heavily salted and soaked in butter. Our love will be an eternal harvest of joy.”

I was shocked by her turnaround, but love works in mysterious ways. When she wasn’t looking, I pulled a slice of mortadella out of the package on the counter, took it into the living room, and gobbled it down, followed by a breath mint.

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.

Eustathia (yoos-tay’-thi-a): Promising constancy in purpose and affection.

I had bought her on a trip to Japan, where her “sisters” were on display in the window and inside “For Your Pleasure” in Tokyo.

I was chronically lonely, and extremely awkward. I couldn’t do small talk and I was obsessed with my toy electric trains.

The salesperson assured me that if I kept her clean and didn’t abuse her, she would be my partner for as long a fifty years. Plus, I could name her and dress her however I liked. I named her Bettina after my 7th grade art teacher.

She was made of some kind of space-age rubber that was used for skin grafts on burn victims. By programming different parts of her body, I could make her moan, squeal, or say “yes, yes, yes” when I touched them.

She had a beautiful voice. I wished that she cold say more than “Yes.” Then, one night we were having our weekly “slut night” at a broken-down motel at the edge of town. It was frequented by hookers and drug addicts. It was a perfect place for me to play out my fantasy. I dressed Bettina as a female version of the scarecrow in Wizard of Oz. I would pull out pieces of straw and tickled her crotchless overalls, I would say “This isn’t Tokyo any more baby,” playing a lecherous Wizard of Oz. I would then jump on her yelling “I’m ridin’ the yellow brick road baby!”

Suddenly, Bettina said “I love you Mr. William Bowyan.” I stopped yelling and jumped off her. All could say was “What?”

She said, “I love you Mr. William Bowyan. I want to be with you forever. You are my dream come true—ride the yellow brick road all the way to my heart. I am all yours, until death do we part. “Yes, yes, yes! Faster, faster! Ride!”

I can’t even say how I felt. I jumped back on and went wild. After my ride was over, I asked Bettina if she still loved me. Silence. I packed her in her canvas zipper bag and drove home feeling totally crazy.

When we got home I put her in her room. After about 15 minutes, I heard her bag unzip and there she was, standing at the foot of my bed in a sexy nightgown. She asked if she could get in bed with me. I said “Of course.”

When I woke up in the morning the bed was stained with blood and Bettina’s head was missing. It was found in my trash can and a bloody hacksaw was found on my garage workbench. I told police that Bettina was a rubber sex doll that I had purchased in Tokyo. They laughed and arrested me. Nevertheless, they investigated and found there was no such place as “For Your Pleasure.” Further, they found valid I.D. in Bettina’s purse, and finally, they had verified her employment as an art teacher at Fudd Middle School.

I’ve been convicted of first degree murder. I’ve exhausted all my appeals. I’m awaiting my lethal injection.

When the jury found me guilty and the judge sentenced me to death, I could hear Bettina softly saying “Yes, yes, yes.”

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.

Eustathia (yoos-tay’-thi-a): Promising constancy in purpose and affection.

“Baby, I love you. I promise never to leave you or mistreat you. This is the end of the rainbow. You are my pot of gold.” I had reached a milestone on my bullshit my road to Damn-ass-kiss. This was the 100th time I pitched my “Baby I love you” line. I would date a woman for three weeks, get her to love me, pitch my “Baby I love you” line, and then, take an intimate turn in the relationship. If I had to, I’d ask the woman to marry me. That usually got me what I wanted. If it didn’t I was out of there. There would be tears and talk of incompatibility, and all the other breaking up cliches. Like, “I’ve outgrown you,” “You’re too good for me, “We don’t get along,” “I’m no good,” “You smell.” I only used ”You smell” once. I was drunk and Barbara slammed me across the face with her purse. She gave me a nose bleed and stalked out of the motel calling her big brother on her cellphone. He showed up about ten minutes later, kicking open the door, holding a tire iron. We talked. We agreed that Barbara smelled, and that killing me wasn’t the solution. He commended me on my bluntness. They never talk about Barbara’s smell at home, and it wasn’t doing her any good. They needed to be more blunt like me. The problem was she had lost her sense of smell in a sleigh riding accident when she was a little girl. She had hit a tree and lost her sense of smell.

Now things were getting really complicated, but we were beginning to see the light. We agreed that Barbara’s smell was due to her inability to smell things (from the sleighing accident) and, consequently, from poor hygiene. She had severe B.O. mostly from her armpits and her nether regions. We decided it would be best for her Dad to pay her $5.00 every morning to take a shower before getting dressed. This measure changed her life. I was proud that breaking up with her had led to her life-changing odor-redemption.

Now, Anne’s time has come. It was fun while it lasted. According to her, we were “so much in love.” I had fed her the “Baby” line and she had swallowed it hook, line, and sinker. Anne was 6 foot-two. I am 5-foot nine. There was danger here—%she could probably beat the shit out of me when I whipped out one of my breakup cliches. So, I tried a new exit strategy. I would tell her I knew she was cheating on me, and I was so hurt, it was time to say goodbye. To my chagrin, she admitted it, and we parted. I found out she was cheating with the postman. I overheard her say that she was getting a “special delivery” every day. All of her friends laughed and nodded their heads. That was the last time I went to that pub, where she hung out.

So, I’m single for now. I’m actually looking for somebody to fall in love with and get married, and have a family. So far, I’ve met three women. They’ve played the “Baby I love you” game with me and then dumped me. I’m thinking of sending for a mail order bride—maybe from Botswana or Manila. As far as I understand it, they’re pretty cheap and good-looking too. My friend Fredo has told me he’ll set me up when I’m ready to “buy the girl of my dreams.”

POSTSCRPT

I “bought” the girl of my dreams, from Manila. She stayed with me for a week after we were married. I got a letter from her yesterday asking for child support payments. I’m not very good at math, but I think she was already pregnant when she came to the US. I guess this is what they call “instant karma.”

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.