Category Archives: paramythia

Paramythia (pa-ra-mee’-thi-a): An expression of consolation and encouragement.

“At least you’re still alive. If I had been hit by a FedEx truck, I’d be dead. Soon, you’ll have those tubes out of your arms and the bandage off your head. You’ll be back at work. You’ll be knockin’ ‘em back at ‘Double-X Bar’ and hustlin’ the beautiful women. You’re a man of steel!” Mike just lay there, his respirator pounding away. He was in a coma with no hope of regaining consciousness. He was the human equivalent of a carrot, albeit, a large one.

What made this so sad was that he had run in front of the FedEx truck to save a kitten directly in the path of the truck. After the accident, I picked up the kitten at the animal shelter and took it home. I named it “Barbara Ann” after the early 60s hit song. I bought her a bunch of toys and we would play with them on the kitchen floor. Her favorite was the red plastic spring. She batted it around. I noticed she had a tic in her right eye just like Mike’s. I was drinking scotch one night. It was Mike’s favorite, “Iron Kilt.” Barbara Ann jumped up on the table and started lapping up the scotch from my glass. When I played “Journey” she would yowl like she was singing, just like Mike did when he heard “Journey,” but he called it singing.

I started to think that Mike was channeling Barbara Ann from his hospital bed. I went to visit him. He was still in a coma. They didn’t expect him to live another day. I wished him goodbye and went home.

Barbara Ann was sitting on the couch. She spoke to me! “We can be friends for a long, long time—until you die.” It was Mike! I said “What the Fu*k?” Barbara Ann said “Get used to it.” I was certain I was having some kind of nervous breakdown. I went to see a shaman.

He told me that some attachments are permanent, unless of course, the possessed party “passes away.” That would be Barbara Ann. He gave me some blue powder to feed to the cat to break our bond forever. It cost $100! He guaranteed it would be painless and Mike’s spirit would be eliminated.

I couldn’t do it. Barbara Ann, AKA Mike’s spirit, and I, are living out the future together. We don’t do much—we mainly play with cat toys and reminisce. We never talk about the FedEx truck. One of our favorite topics is our final spring break—we both got laid under the boardwalk at Seaside Heights, it still ranks as one of the high points of my life, even though I can’t remember the girl’s name.

If Mike dies before me, I’m going to have him stuffed and mounted on wheels like a pull toy.

After I told this story to my sister, I’ve been put under observation. Barbara Ann has gone mute to cover my ass. Her silence confirms that this is all a joke, as I told the psychiatrist. But, since Mike has died, Barbara Ann has shut up and I’m getting back on track.

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

Daily Trope is available in an early edition 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.

Paramythia (pa-ra-mee’-thi-a): An expression of consolation and encouragement.

“Don’t worry Billy. Your leg will grow back on.” I didn’t know what else to say. I was six years old. Billy was was my best friend and he was lying in a hospital bed, a recent amputee. He said, “Gee Johnny that’s good of you to say. I can feel it growing all ready.. I’ll be out of here and back on the playground in no time. We can play hop scotch!” Neither of us knew any better—we were too young and too stupid.

Billy had lost his leg playing “Butcher Man” down by the river. He had stolen his father’s razor sharp meat cleaver from the kitchen drawer. His Uncle Ted, who he revered, was a butcher. He had watched his Uncle dismember a leg of lamb countless times. He wanted to try chopping one but his uncle wouldn’t let him because he was too young. So, he had a temper tantrum and ran home and got his father’s cleaver. If he couldn’t butcher a lamb, he could sure as hell butcher himself!

He went down by the river, took off his pants and leaned up against a tree. He lifted the cleaver and whacked his leg with all his might. It came right off. Luckily there were two hikers passing. They called 911 and used a belt for a tourniquet on Billy’s leg.

Billy was rushed to the hospital where a surgeon saved his life. The leg was never going to grow back, but nobody knew how the break it to Billy. They did not want devastate him. His parents decided the best way to do it would be a joke. Billy would laugh and he wouldn’t feel so bad. But the joke they made wasn’t that funny: “Billy, you’re always going to be stumped.” Billy didn’t laugh, even after they told him what a stump is. When they told him, he got out of bed and hopped around the hospital room. A nurse grabbed him and put him in a wheelchair.

Everybody was sad, but when Billy saw his new leg he almost jumped for joy. His leg was strapped on and he learned how to use it. He could walk, jump, hop, and sort of run. When we were teenagers he would smuggle weed and booze inside his leg—to school dances and other social events. When he got older, he had his leg lined with lead and topped up with cocaine on his numerous trips to Colombia. He made millions in the drug business. Then, he decided to give up selling drugs and live a life is leisure in his mansion and with his yacht and his 16 Rolls Royces.

His front was his rock band “The Peg Legs.” Nobody suspected him, but I ratted him out for $750 from the police department. I hated to do it, but for $750 I couldn’t resist. I was going to go to Miami for two nights and stay in a nice hotel. This was a dream I had had for years, but with my alimony payments and gambling debts, I couldn’t swing it. Now, I was going to Florida while Billy went to jail.

Billy got off on a technicality. I don’t think I’ll make it through next week. At least I have both my legs and I can run if I have to. Ha ha!

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.

Paramythia (pa-ra-mee’-thi-a): An expression of consolation and encouragement.

“I feel so sorry for you. With the facial tic, We don’t know whether you’re smiling or “tic-ing.” I said to Don with my best tone of sincerity in my voice—a sort of whining certitude with an upward inflection. At school, when Don started to tic, he was escorted out of class by the day’s assigned student. It wasn’t so much the tic, but the noises he made—it was a whooping sound that ended with raspberries topped off by a snort. The sequence of sounds was repeated over and over until he stopped tic-ing. Ten years ago Don would’ve been tied to a chair in the school basement all day. But now, Don was “mainstreamed” in the classroom’s front row. He wasn’t even tied down! This was good for Don. He only “blew up” once a day, if at all. When the tic was unwound, Don was a great guy. We all laughed when he called himself “The Ticking Time-bomb.”

I had heard that holy water could cure things like tics. You “anointed” your target with it and they were instantly cured. I had asked my priest for some and hie told me to get lost. The fount at the church’s entrance was under CCTV surveillance 24-7. I wanted to help Don, but as far as I could see, holy water was out of reach. Then, the good news came. We were going on a class trip to The Cloisters, in New York City. I wasn’t quite clear on why we were going there, but I knew the Cloisters had Catholic religious connections. Given its location in NYC, maybe I could “score” some holy water there. New Yorkers were notoriously crooked. I had a good chance of scoring.

We left early in the morning, taking a bus we went over the George Washington Bridge. I was thinking, “After all he did, all he got was a bridge named after him.” Then I remembered Washington, DC, and corrected myself inside my head. I had recently seen “Mission Impossible” so I was ready to steal the holy water if I had to. In my backpack, I had a piece of rope and a pair of black leather gloves. I would do whatever it took to get Don cured. We pulled into the parking lot, got off the bus, and headed for the Cloisters’ entrance as a group, with me lagging behind.

When I got to the entrance there was an old man outside, he held up was looked like a Tabasco Sauce bottle and asked “Holy water?” I said “Hell yes!” He told me it was $2.00. I handed him $2.00 and he handed me the bottle. When I got inside, I looked at the bottle—the label said “Holey Water” like holey socks. I had been scammed. I looked outside and the old man was gone. We toured the Cloisters and it was awesome. As we exited we went through the gift shop. There were pictures of baby and grown-up Jesus, plastic replicas of the Holy Grail, book marks, sandals, and low a behold—holy water! I bought two gallon jugs. They were hard to get back to the bus, and even harder to get home. I couldn’t wait to dump them on Don and cure him. If he had been on the Cloisters trip, I probably would’ve doused him on the bus.

I lugged the two gallons of holy water to school the next day. I doused Don after we took our showers after gym class. He immediately broke into a classic Don tic. The I remembered the counterfeit holy water in my back pack in my gym locker. I ran and got it, almost slipping on the wet floor. I ran back and shook a couple of drops on Don’s head while he whooped and tic-ed uncontrollably.

Suddenly Don went silent, then he started whooping and tic-ing again. I shook more holey water on his head and everything stopped. Was he cured? Time would tell. Don hasn’t had a tic-fit for two years. I subsequently discovered the holy water sold in the Cloisters Gift Shop at the Cloisters was fake—it was ornamental.

People say the old man at the entrance was an angel of God, and charged $2.00 to induce a show of faith. Nobody could account for the misspelling of “holy.” Since the incident, I’ve been acclaimed as a saint—anointing Don with Holey Water and curing him is considered a miracle. I’m waiting to be afflicted by stigmata to make the grade. In the meantime, I’m selling bottled water online: http://www.holeyh2o.com. The water is called “Squeaky Springs” and it comes from a secret location in North Jersey.

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.