Paromologia (par-o-mo-lo’-gi-a): Conceding an argument, either jestingly and contemptuously, or to prove a more important point. A synonym for concessio.
There was a good reason to be a songwriter and performer—actually there were a bunch of good reasons—fame, adoring fans, millions of dollars, cool clothes, a mansion and a lot of other things. But for me, it was about winning back my wife, Trudy. She was very morally demanding. It started with the dog enjoying being scratched behind the ears. She said it was disgusting to do that with Bitty. I’d been scratching dogs behind the ears sine I was a little boy. I was shocked, but I stopped scratching Bitty. Then it was my pants. She said she was shocked by the bulge in the crotch. There was no bulge. Once again, I capitulated and started wearing baggy bib overhauls, two sizes too big.
I loved Trudy and wanted to keep the peace, but things escalated. She told me my teeth were too white and would attract sluts who wanted kiss them. She made me stop brushing my teeth and start chewing loose leaf tobacco. My teeth turned orange-brown and the tobacco made me dizzy. I almost fell down a couple of times. Then, she told me my body was too fit—I looked like a male whore, and it was dangerous—my work colleagues would be lining up for a cheap piece of me. Now, I was drinking a half-gallon of clotted cream, and eating one cup of Crisco, 1 pound of potato salad, six donuts, and 2 pounds of French fries every day. I gained 60 pounds and needed help putting on my shoes, getting out of my TV chair, and getting in and out of the car. We also got one of those seat things you can ride up and down the stairs on. I was too fat to make it up the stairs on my own, without a possible heart attack. “Look at me!” I thought. Can’t pet the dog! Brown teeth. Big baggy overhauls! Obese as hell! Home escalator! I was afraid to look in the mirror. I just couldn’t do it.
I needed to get back to who I used to be. I needed some time off from Trudy to reconstitute myself. When I told her the next day. “She went crazy” puts it mildly. “I know what you’re up to, you’ll go back to being the handsome, physically fit man I married. The sluts will swarm all over you, you’ll become an STD vector, you’ll pet dogs, and I’ll lose you forever—go slut man— spend your time between the sheets rolling and humping your life away. Pig!” I left. Trudy’s parents put her in a facility that promised to clear her of her madness—a sort of esteem thing that prompted her to make her lover as disgusting-looking as possible, so nobody else would want him, and also alienating him from his pets, so they wouldn’t like him either. Trudy gets out tomorrow. She’s supposed to be cured. In keeping with my emerging song lyric writer and musician interests, I’ve written something for our reunion tomorrow. I hope it will cement our marriage:
“Trudy baby, Trudy is your name. You almost killed me, but we know it was some kind of psycho game. You were such a nut to think I would replace you with a slut. But now you’re sane. Keep taking your medication and you won’t be crazy again. I love you and our dog Bitty too. Together, we are a family, oh Trudy-ooooh. I love you more than Bitty. Maybe we should trade him for a kitty. Oh Trudy-ooooh I love you. Oh Trudy-ooooh.”
Trudy hated the song, but she stuck around anyway. Clearly, it was the medication, not me, that kept her by my side. However, I did agree to wear a fat suit whenever I left the house.
Definition courtesy of “Silva Rhetoricae” (rhetoric.byu.edu).
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