Parrhesia (par-rez’-i-a): Either to speak candidly or to ask forgiveness for so speaking. Sometimes considered a vice.
I’m sorry, but I just need to tell you what I think of your father. I’ve been holding back for two years, since we got married. I need to tell you. We’ve got to be honest with each other. Honesty is the foundation of a solid marriage and I’ve been remiss. Basically, I don’t think much of your father.
He borrowed $50 at our wedding reception and hasn’t paid it back. He hasn’t offered an excuse—he hasn’t offered anything. I don’t get it, but it is bad. The only other time this happened was when I loaned $20 to my best friend and he got killed in a car crash on the Goethals Bridge, coming beck to Jersey after a night of drinking on Staten Island where the drinking age was 18 and it was 21 in Jersey.. Needless to say, I never saw my $20 again. Damn!
Your father dresses like a mobster at a bowling alley. He wears red and yellow shirts with his name embroidered above the pocket: “Carl.” The shirts are made of synthetic material that picks up and radiates armpit smell: polyester. He has the audacity to ask me if I smell him. He says: “It’s my signature, everybody knows, here comes Carl, get a whiff of that.” How can he take pride in his armpit smell? It’s like taking pride in mugging elderly women or beating your dog. And his “friends,” what are they about? Are they making fun of him, or are they some kind of smell-club of perverts? I’m going to ask him.
For the rest of his clothes, he wears a black t-shirt, a black sports coat and dark purple sharkskin pants. His “look” is topped off by black and white wingtips and a black stingy brim hat. In addition to looking like a mobster, he looks like an unemployed game show host on acid, or maybe a cab driver in Oz, or a thief who had stolen random clothing from a Salvation Army donation box.
And more: He won’t let anybody but him sit in “his chair” in the living room. He keeps a handgun in his lap in case anybody tries to wrest him from his chair. He belches loudly to interrupt people when they’re speaking. He will not vary what he eats: eggs for breakfast, sardines for lunch, pork chops and mashed potatoes for dinner washed down with 5 PBRs. He flirts mercilessly with Linda, the counter girl at Cliffs. I’ve heard him say “I want to jump the counter a squeeze your ass.” Linda tells him, “In your dreams, you smelly old man. Buy something or I’ll call the cops,” That usually slows him down, but he has been cautioned twice by the police.
Moving right along: His breath smells like a mixture of decaying flesh and paint thinner. I think it may be flammable. In addition to his BO, he exudes the odor of a poorly wiped butt.
There’s more, but I’ll leave it there. You know all this, and you probably didn’t need to hear it. I am hopeful that we can do something short of having him undergo deprogramming at that place in New York where Rudy Giuliani has gone.
Your mother is a saint, and so are you. And moreover, despite everything, your father is a loving man who has raised you to be a loving, confident, tolerant, and self-sufficient woman.
Maybe we should just leave well-enough alone.
Definition courtesy of “Silva Rhetoricae” (rhetoric.byu.edu)
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