Syntheton (sin’-the-ton): When by convention two words are joined by a conjunction for emphasis.
“Good and plenty. Plenty good.” “Big and tall.” It’s all the same. It’s always the same: more, more, more. More is good until you get more frostbite or crap clogging up your toilet. It is the same old thing. You have to ask more of what? more plague? More famine? More worms in your belly? When I was a kid I kept asking for more ice cream. My parents gave it to me to shut me up. By the time I was four, I weighed 300 pounds. I was too big for a stroller, so my parents took me to the mall in a wheelbarrow. It was uncomfortable, but I liked going out. If there was something I really wanted, I would rock my wheelbarrow back and forth. Sometimes my father would get angry and flip me out of the wheelbarrow. He didn’t do that very often because he would have to get three or four people to hoist me back in my wheelbarrow. After Dad flipped me out one time, I rolled to the escalator, bounced down and got my pants caught. They had to shut down the escalator while the 911 rescue team freed me. I peed my pants and was very embarrassed.
Eventually, my parents sent me to a fat camp outside Pueblo, Mexico: “Hungry Dawn.” I was 18 so they thought I could handle it. First of all, the camp staff spoke only Spanish—the name of the camp was the only thing in English. They didn’t care that I could not understand anything they said. For example, when they said “si” I would start looking around for what I was supposed to see. They would laugh and go “Si, si, si” and point all over. But, with diet and exercise, I lost 150 pounds. I subsisted on water and lizards I pulled off the walls. The people running the camp were deeply impressed with my lizard-catching skills and would roast them for me. In crafts time, I made key rings out of the lizard’s skin and sold them to tourists who came to see the Aztec pyramids. I sold them for $10.00 each and made enough money to bribe my way out of “Hungry Dawn.”
I took a bus to Mexico City, and then flew home to Scranton, PA. I got home around 2:00 am. The front door was locked, so I knocked on it. Some big guy in his underwear pointed a shotgun at me and asked what the hell I wanted. I checked the address—it was the right address. My parents had abandoned me. I apologized and took an Uber to the homeless shelter. The driver told me she had just broken up with her boyfriend and needed somebody to fill in. I told her I would be happy to substitute for him. She asked me if there was anything I needed from Cliff’s. “Yes,” I said, “3 or 4 gallons of ‘Carmel Curl’ ice cream.“
Definition courtesy of “Silva Rhetoricae” (rhetoric.byu.edu)
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