Category Archives: onedismus

Onedismus (on-e-dis’-mus): Reproaching someone for being impious or ungrateful.

I rode his staff. I gave him a bath. I dried him off. I dressed him. I tied his shoes. I combed his hair. I shaved him. I splashed on his aftershave. I made him breakfast. I drove him to work at Fungu’s Corporate Law. He could’ve done it all himself, but he expected me to.

After I drove him to work, I went home and cleaned the house, and then, went grocery shopping for his favorite foods: Porterhouse Steak, Cod, lamb chops, potatoes, smoked oysters, hot dogs, salmon, and Chips Ahoy.

The more I thought about it, the angrier I got. Our marriage was a one way street headed in his direction. He was a selfish, ungrateful bastard. In four years of marriage there had been no thank-you for all I do. I decided then and there to have an affair with a man who cared and wanted to treat me right. So, I signed up for a dating site called “Ding Dong Dell.”

I logged in. I couldn’t believe it. There was my husband holding his sizable rod. The picture was captioned “Let’s do the Pokey Pokey.” It had his demographic information plus his status. It was Platinum ++++, a far cry from my experience which was more like Lead+. It said he liked sailing and there was a photo of a sailboat I didn’t know we had.

Now, I was more determined than ever to strike up a meaningless relationship with a good-looking humping machine. I would show that bastard husband! I found my humper after a whole day of searching. His name was Buck Fever, obviously a fake name, but I didn’t care. he had a perfect body, long black hair, blue eyes, and a promising bulge.

Our first date was at “Roadside Rendezvous” where all the local cheaters went to do the mattress tango. I wore a mask so nobody would recognize me. It was a perfect likeness of Taylor Swift. Buck texted me when he was checked in and I headed for our room: Room 9. I knocked on the door. It was unlocked, so I went in. He was lying on the bed naked. He was wearing a sock puppet on his hefty hard-on. He said “Come and play with Mr. Clowns” in a high-pitched puppet voice. I sat down by him and started pulling the puppet off. In the same high-pitched voice he said “Oooh!” Then, in the same high-pitched voice he sad “I’m so glad we could meet here today.” That’s when I found out he had a vocal cord injury as a child which made him into a permanent falsetto.

He and he mother were shopping at a Christmas door-buster at Kohl’s. The PA system announced there were blenders for sale in Appliances for 90% off. His mom took off running, knocked him down and rode over his throat with her loaded shopping cart. She kept on going and left him sitting on the floor, crying, with a crushed larynx. A security guard found hm and took him to customer service where his mother found hm two hours later.

He told me he was sorry as I ran out the door. I sat there in my car trying to decide what to do next. I drove home and logged onto Ding Dong Dell. I spent the rest of the day looking for something promising. But, after Sock Puppet Man, I had lost interest in the whole cheating thing. Instead, I decided to confront my husband. Maybe he would take me for a sailboat ride.

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.

Onedismus (on-e-dis’-mus): Reproaching someone for being impious or ungrateful.

You give religion a bad name. You wore a crucifix and spit on street people. You stole money from the collection basket at church. You made a joke of the Ten Commandments while reproaching other people for adhering to them. You had a line of little statues on your mantle—gods and goddesses you made offerings to. You committed adultery with your neighbor’s wife—they call that a “two-fer” in Hell. Almost everything you say is a lie.

Where did you get the idea that you can do that sort of stuff and still call yourself religious.? Morton said: “Wake up Dan! This is the 21st century. Religion’s circumference has grown. Most importantly, following outdated ‘commandments’ is no longer mandatory. You still obey the law, but porking your neighbor’s wife is ok. It’s not laudable, but it’s ok. What is laudable is hypocrisy. Being called a hypocrite is the highest form of praise. For example, people love it when you chastise a politician for stealing the peoples’ money, and then, you get caught with your hand in the til at “Burger Bell” where you work. All you have to do is point out the magnitude of the difference between your and politician’s misdeeds and throw in the accusation that Burger Bell exploits its workers and hires illegal aliens, and boom, case closed. YOUR hypocrisy is the winner, and God will forgive you. Anyway, all of us are always pretending to be something we’re not. Right now, I’m pretending to know what I’m talking about. Last month, I pretended I was a good husband, that I knew what I was doing at work, and, when I gave a homeless guy a dollar, I pretended I was charitable.

Any time we have to ‘think’ about what we’re doing, we’re pretending. When we don’t have to think about it, it’s genuine. It’s not an act. Otherwise, you’re just trying to act ‘right’. That’s a sure sign you are pretending and are fearful of stumbling over your lines or taking things in the ‘wrong’ direction. When your pretense becomes a habit, you forget you’re faking it and believe you’re being genuine, When the habits are religious, they take on an aura of sincerity. Unfortunately, for some poor souls the opposite is the case—the more a social gesture is performed successfully, the less sincere it seems to be. They grow anxious, even anomic, as ‘the social’ loses its intrinsic meaning and becomes a web of persuasion bound to belief—bound to what is in people’s heads—in there, not out there. Persuasion’s hook is tenuous, but ubiquitous and ever-present. Beliefs are replaced by other beliefs and things change as the consensus changes. Social order will always be social and ordered—shared and rule bound. Otherwise, it is chaos, and will accomplish its own decimation, unaware. There is . . .”

Ok, Morton, that’s enough of your bullshit for now. Shut up. I should know batter than to ask you a question about anything. The droning sound your answer makes always pushes me to the edge of sleep. We both know why I’ve chained you naked to the wall down here in my basement. Like I say every day when I come down here to feed you and empty your potty pot, “It’s for your own good.” I am your benefactor. After you ran over my cat in my driveway and showed no remorse, I knew your moral compass pointed nowhere and you needed help, and that’s what I’m doing—helping you. Someday you will be healed and walk out my front door a saved man, a man who sincerely believes what I believe and who is able persuade me they’re not lying and affecting my beliefs just to get out of here. Oh, and you need to do a better job of apologizing for killing Fluffa-Belle. “I’m sorry I killed your cat” will never be enough.

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.

Onedismus (on-e-dis’-mus): Reproaching someone for being impious or ungrateful.

What is this about? Where is this going? Last week you were composing a song about what a great partner I’ve been. This week you’ve stripped down the Ten Commandments to thou shalt lie, cheat, steal, commit adultery, punch out your neighbors, and have as many gods as you want—the more the merrier. What happened?

WHAT HAPPENED

Nancy put a white bag with eyeholes over her head. She began: “Do you remember the street vendor on Times Square, selling genuine Voodoo food? We laughed and so did the guy cooking and selling it. He had no teeth and his clothes were filthy. His stand was called ‘Zombie Mambo.’ Remember?” A bloodstain started forming where her mouth would’ve been on the white bag. I told her I remembered. We both had the Zombie Disco Chicken—it was delicious—I could’ve eaten ten servings.

I was becoming mildly terrified. Nancy started producing an irresistible sweet perfume smell—like jasmine and orange blossoms blended together, sailing toward me through the air, and she was gliding toward me too—slowly, almost imperceptibly. Despite the bloodstain over her mouth, I was overcome. I started moving toward her and she pulled off the bag.

There was a ball of mating garden snakes writhing where her head should’ve been. The ball had a mouth and eyes. The eyes were yellow and the mouth was still dripping blood. Strangely, I wasn’t overcome by terror.

The next thing I knew, Nancy and I were dancing to “Night Fever” by The Bee Gees streaming from the stereo. I was in another dimension feeling more alive than I ever have—focusing on Nancy’s snake ball head my heart was pulsing to the rhythm of the snakes. Nancy was making a protracted moaning sound, filling the living room with lust—but we couldn’t succumb. All we could do was dance, dance, dance. The Bees Gees played on. Nancy’s head slowly turned into a disco ball. It spun faster and faster. The mirrored reflections became streaks on the walls. We had been dancing for three hours. Exhausted, I passed out and flopped to the floor. When I awoke, Nancy was sitting on the couch looking at me affectionately. She was back to her normal beautiful self. I asked her: “What happened?” She told me she thought it was the “Zombie Disco Chicken” we had gotten from the street vendor in Times Square.

We went back to Times Square to see if we could find the vendor. We could not find him. We Googled “Zombie Disco Chicken.” Nothing. We stumbled on a fortune-teller on First Avenue who also sold charms made of stone, bone, shells, and feathers. We asked her about Zombie Disco Chicken and she shuddered. “You have done the Zombie Disco Night Fever?” We described what had happened and told her the vendor’s name—“Voodoo Mambo Chicken.” She said, “Yes you have done it. The Zombie Disco Chicken motivated it. The Zombie Disco Night Fever maintains the right relationship between life and death, as the disco ball simulates procreation, and, as Eros is excreted through its rotations, it obscures its opposite with the sacred veil of the ‘busted’ dance move.”

POSTSCRIPT

We bought tickets to Haiti. We wanted a reprise of what we had experienced. In fact, we wanted it to become an ongoing part of our lives. We wanted the “thrill” of the dance. We listened to “Night Fever” whenever we could on the flight to Port au Prince. We looked high and low for somebody who knew about Zombie Disco Chicken. No luck. It was disappointing. I looked back over my shoulder as we prepared to board the plane and there was the vendor! We turned around and went back. Together with Bob’s assistance, we worked out a nightclub act. Nancy and I would eat a helping of Zombie Disco Chicken and then dance for the punters, who thought it was all an act. It wasn’t.

After 2 years we got tired of putting on the show. It’s hard to believe, but it’s true. We went back to the US, to our normal lives, and never ate street food again.

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.