Polyptoton (po-lyp-to’-ton): Repeating a word, but in a different form. Using a cognate of a given word in close proximity.
I stood for truth and my standing in the community was noted for its integrity. I was solid as a rock—solidly grounded in the highest ideals. Then, out of nowhere, a voice in my head said “Do something bad.” It terrified me. It sounded like my high school wood shop teacher, Mr. Lamp. We would have a couple shots of bourbon in the back room by the lumber racks. He was half drunk. Only a week before our first drink, he had sawed off his third finger—two on the left hand, one on the right hand, for a total of three.
I didn’t have an adult role model, so Mr. Lamp made a good fit, “mentoring” me. He taught me how to roll a tight joint, shoplift small items, and swear. When we met, we had a rule that every sentence had to have a swear word in it. I got so good at swearing that even my bipolar dad was impressed. He was a construction worker. He would take me to work and show off my swearing. Dad’s fellow workers would applaud and I would bow and say “You’re too kind. Thank you.”
Mr. Lamp ran into trouble when campus security found a half-empty bottle of bourbon hidden in the varnish room disguised as shellac. When he bent over to pick it up, 2 joints fell out of his shirt pocket along with a bottle of opiated pain killers. It was all over for Mr. Lamp. He was dismissed from Brock Stick High School. All charges were dismissed, but he was still out of a job. Then, he was hired by Nathan Trail High School in the next town. He was welcomed by students lining the halls with upraised empty shot glasses.
Anyway, when Mr. Lamp was arrested, I vowed to leave behind my “criminal” ways. For the past ten years, I have toed the line, achieving a law abiding reputation. Now, I was hearing a voice telling me to transgress. I could not ignore it—it was in my head! It told me to drink 2 shots of bourbon and smoke a joint before work in the morning. I resisted for a week, and then gave in. I went to the liquor store and bought a pint of cheap bourbon. I stole a joint out of my son’s underwear drawer.
I drank 2 shots, toked up, and went to work. I was stoned so I took an Uber. The pot was strong. I was seeing things. That didn’t go well with the brokerage firm where I worked. I saw a giant centipede on my desk. I jumped up screaming “No, no, get off!” Then it melted away. My co-workers were ridiculing me, yelling “No, no, get off,” and laughing. The boss came out of her office. I told her there had been a giant centipede on my desk. She fired me on the spot.
Now, everything decent in my life is in the past tense. The voice in my head persists. But I may have found a remedy on the internet at Secret Remedies.com. I have been instructed to sleep with a crock pot on my head, set on medium. It is uncomfortable, my hair has started to fall out, and my head smells like beef stew. Before the crockpot, I listened to a recoding of a bee hive. It did not work. My Doctor told me if I could “stick my head where the sun don’t shine” there was a chance that the voice would be exorcised. I’m giving the crock pot another week. It probably won’t wrk, So I’m starting the exercise program for sticking my head up my ass. I use a yoga mat and lubricants and exercise to the “William Tell Overture.”
Definition courtesy of “Silva Rhetoricae” (rhetoric.byu.edu)
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