Ratiocinatio (ra’-ti-o-cin-a’-ti-o): Reasoning (typically with oneself) by asking questions. Sometimes equivalent to anthypophora. More specifically, ratiocinatio can mean making statements, then asking the reason (ratio) for such an affirmation, then answering oneself. In this latter sense ratiocinatiois closely related to aetiologia. [As a questioning strategy, it is also related to erotima {the general term for a rhetorical question}.]
It was too late to be working on my wood carving. I was so tired I could cut myself with my electric carving tool. I had simply put a carving bit in a dentist’s drill and strapped a piece of wood in the dentist’s chair. I specialized in teak molars. Each one had a silver filling. Each one was about the size of a beer keg. Since the molars were made of wood, I would jokingly ask myself, what would George Washington think? I would answer: “He would love it. He would pick it up and do a jig holding on his head,” and calling Martha to come and see. But this was just a futile fantasy—the tooth weighed around 50 lbs, and George probably couldn’t hoist it up on his head.
My hand-carved giant wooden teeth were not selling well, in fact, they weren’t selling at all. That’s why I worked on my craft at night—I had a day job at “Doom Box.” We made “affordable” bomb shelters. We repurposed porta-potties, installing steel doors, burying them vertically, and fitting them with a solar powered ventilation system. You have the convenience of the sit-down toilet and a urination pipe. There’s wall-to wall carpeting, a solar powered space heater, lighting, little refrigerator, geiger counter, and a well. There’s a remote controlled machine gun mounted in the dirt above the shelter to “fend off” unruly neighbors. It has solar powered cctv so it is always “looking” everywhere. The shelters can be joined together to accommodate a family, each module containing the same amenities. There are more features, but suffice it to say to say the shelter will give you a smooth ride through the end of time! The END will be a beginning in the comfort of your radioactive resistant underground hutch: like Nero, doing a jig while the earth burns. You could play a harmonica Wouldn’t it be funny if that was how the “Armageddon Rider” was advertised? Well, it isn’t. But I don’t care. It’s a job.
I’ve been wracking my brain trying to think of what I might be able to make with my dental carver that may be more salable. I thought of teak clothespins. But there’s not much of a market there—most people use a clothes dryer. Then, I thought of teak letter openers. But, given email there’s not much of a market there. THEN! I got the idea I could carve statues of people’s pets! They would be life-sized and cost $800-$1050. My first commission was a pet beaver. The client laughed and told me it was his wife’s beaver. I didn’t laugh, taking the moral high road. He said: “What’s the matter, don’t you like my wife’s beaver?” So, I laughed. He said, “What’s so funny about my wife’s beaver you pervert?” He picked up one of my chisels. He lunged at me. I stepped aside and he landed on his face in the dental chair. My carving tool was fitted with an auger bit. I pressed it to his neck and hit the foot pedal that controlled it’s speed. He said “Bastard” and gurgled and died.
What happened was judged to be self defense. My “victim” had recently escaped from a cult. It was called “The Society of Nocturnal Remission.” They believe that forgiveness comes at night when you are sleeping, so it’s like it never happened. While the hearing was going on, I met my victim’s wife, whose beaver, in a way, had caused her husband’s death. She showed no remorse. “He was a lunatic,” she said. We dated, and I made a statue of her beaver and surprised her with it. She was joyous and asked me to move in with her. Actually, she moved in with me. I couldn’t move my studio—the dental chair alone weighed a half-ton.
So we settled in. One day she told me her sister was coming to visit and she was bringing her beaver so it could play with my wife’s beaver. That’s when I decided to take my wife’s beaver out to the swamp and turn it loose, where it would be free to eat logs and build dams. It was cruel, but all the beaver talk was driving me mad. So, I decided to get her a cat from the animal shelter. She didn’t mind getting rid of the beaver—she said it smelled and weighed 70 lbs and wasn’t fun any more. When she first saw the cat she said, “Oh, it’s my pretty little pussy.” I asked myself, “Why didn’t I get her a Parakeet? Because I love cats. So, what to do?” I decided to give the cat a name, and call it only by its name. We had him neutered and decided to name him Nonuts; and call him Nuts for short. We only call him Nonuts when he’s bad.
Definition courtesy of “Silva Rhetoricae” (rhetoric.byu.edu)
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