Category Archives: expeditio

Expeditio (ex-pe-di’-ti-o): After enumerating all possibilities by which something could have occurred, the speaker eliminates all but one (=apophasis). Although the Ad Herennium author lists expeditio as a figure, it is more properly considered a method of argument [and pattern of organization] (sometimes known as the “Method of Residues” when employed in refutation), and “Elimination Order” when employed to organize a speech. [The reference to ‘method’ hearkens back to the Ramist connection between organizational patterns of discourses and organizational pattern of arguments]).

Was it a bird? A plane? A speeding locomotive? Was it my neighbor Ed running wild in his back yard wearing a spa towel?

It wasn’t a bird. It had no feathers and was firmly on the ground. It wasn’t a plane. It was firmly on the ground too and it had no propellers or jet engines. Speeding locomotive? Where the hell did I get that idea from? My thinking was scaring me, but I knew it came from my boyhood obsession with Superman—the caped crusader for truth, justice and the American way. Whenever I was unsure of what I was observing, I laid out the bird, plane, and speeding locomotive options. They brought me comfort, relaxing my mind and making it more likely I would draw a seemingly well-considered conclusion, even if it was wrong or insane, or worse.

In the case above, it was in fact Ed running wild in his back yard in his spa towel. He says the towel reminds him of his Scottish heritage—it’s like a kilt with an elastic waistband and Velcro closeure without any plaid. He got a number of different colors and wears them everywhere, even in the winter. It snows a lot where we live and he looks really crazy on snowshoes wearing a baby-blue spa towel trudging through the snow. I don’t know where his spa towel fetish comes from—definitely not his Scottish heritage—he’s of Italian lineage.

I think it started with him flashing the cleaning ladies when he was sitting by his swimming pool. He’d face his house with the towel on and spread his legs and jiggle his junk. The cleaners would stop their work to watch out the back window. Their supervisor admonished him and banned the spa towel. This really irked Ed, but he went along with the ban. Now, he wears the towel grocery shopping and has developed a technique that makes it looks like it got caught on the shopping cart and falls off on the floor. It works like a charm and he’s never been arrested for exposing himself. He’s working on a routine now where his dog Butch pulls off the towel when he’s walking him in the park. In a way Ed reminds me of Superman with his persistence and strength of character. It’s not good character, but it’s strong character.

Uh oh. There’s something coming up my driveway. Is it a bird? Is it a plane? Is it a speeding locomotive? Or is it a Jehovah’s Witness? It wasn’t a bird. It had no feathers and was firmly on the ground. It wasn’t a plane. It was firmly on the ground too and it had no propellers or jet engines. Speeding locomotive? Where the hell did I get that idea from? It had to be a Jehovah’s Witness! The door bell rang. I hid in the basement and cleaned off my workbench, hoping he would go away. I went upstairs after about 10 minutes. There was pounding on my door. A voice said “I can see you.” Maybe it was Superman posing as a man of Christ, looking through my door with his X-ray vision. No. No way! Not Superman!

I called 911 and waited for the police to arrive.

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

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Expeditio (ex-pe-di’-ti-o): After enumerating all possibilities by which something could have occurred, the speaker eliminates all but one (=apophasis). Although the Ad Herennium author lists expeditio as a figure, it is more properly considered a method of argument [and pattern of organization] (sometimes known as the “Method of Residues” when employed in refutation), and “Elimination Order” when employed to organize a speech. [The reference to ‘method’ hearkens back to the Ramist connection between organizational patterns of discourses and organizational pattern of arguments]).

I am sick of mowing my lawn, but my lawn keeps growing. I was going to play Corn Hole with my daughter yesterday, but we couldn’t find it buried in the grass. So, we decided to play badminton instead, but the long grass slowed us down and we couldn’t get to the birdie in time to hit it. So, we gave up on father daughter play time and went our separate ways. I paid bills. My daughter applied for jobs on the internet. I thought, pretty soon the tall grass will make it hard to get out the front door and we will be living in Hay Fever Hotel.

Something must be done. But what?

1. Burn the grass; 2. Get a herd of goats to eat the grass; 3. Plow up the grass and replace it with gravel; 4. Move to the grassless city; 5. Hire my neighbor Mow to deal with my grass.

Let’s take these proposals one at a time and see if one rises to the top.

1. Burn the grass: no, no, no. My house will be surrounded by flaming grass and will probably catch fire and burn down; 2. Get a heard of goats to eat the grass: no. Goats smell bad, make lots of “baaa” noise, and butt people (looking at a lawsuit here); 3. Plow up the grass and replace it with gravel: no, no. Weeds grow out of gravel and look like hell. Also, vandals can throw fistfuls of gravel at my house, breaking windows and denting its aluminum siding; 4. Move to the grassless city: no. The up side of city living is no yard maintenance. The down side is that it’s the city: honking horns, crime, and way expensive. As a WalMart floor manager, I could never afford it. In fact, I would probably have to quit my job and start all over again, just because of my unruly lawn; 5. Hire my neighbor Mow to deal with my grass: Jackpot! Mow is a professional lawn mower. His nickname is short for his profession and he’s only 100 feet away. He mows his yard every day at 5 pm, even in the rain! His grass is as short as a golf course putting green—weedless too. His mower is what I call a “lawn limo.” It goes 30 miles per hour, steers with levers, has two cup holders, and a glass-pack rumble muffler. However, there’s a major stumbling block to securing Mow’s mowing services. I call it the “Hot Tub Misunderstanding.” Mow calls it “My Neighbor’s Death Wish.” Mow’s been divorced since the incident occurred 3 years ago. He has a hot young girlfriend now and seems a lot happier since he divorced Marge. So, I’m going to risk my life, go next door, and ring his doorbell. It would be cowardly to just text him. Maybe I’ll get to meet Mow’s new babe Melinda and have a beer or two with her. No matter what, I’ve got to get Mow on board or soon it will look like I’m living in a hay field. Which reminds me, I could just get a farmer to mow my yard, bale it up, and drive it away. But given all that hiring Mow has to offer, I’m going to give him (and Melinda) a shot.

Definition courtesy of “Silva Rhetoricae” (rhetoric.byu.edu). Bracketed text by Gorgias.

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