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Topographia (top-o-graf’-i-a): Description of a place. A kind of enargia [: {en-ar’-gi-a} generic name for a group of figures aiming at vivid, lively description].

The Willow Harp Mall. Who the hell named this place? Willow Harp? What. Where’s the harp. Ok, there’s giant 30 foot high plastic resin harp outside the mall entrance. It has speakers inside it that play “Over the Rainbow” over and over, non-stop, day and night. But that’s not all. There are flashing lights in the harp’s sound board that flash off and on in accord with “Over the Rainbow.” And then, there is a circle of scraggly plastic willows “planted” around the giant fake harp.

Once you got into the mall you had to deal with the slew of punks that gathered there in the summer when school was out. Give our town’s total lack of anything remotely interesting to punks, they were left with the mall. They gathered in clumps, some of them making out with each other, others sitting stupefied on the latest designer drugs, or blasting Rap music about killing each other. Once you waded through the teenage throng, you were faced with a material extravaganza—all of it for sale. As you push further into the shopping zone, away from the Rap, there is Muzak playing almost imperceptibly in the background. The music is designed to make people buy things on what seemed like an impulse. But it wasn’t. The Muzak was the result of carefully controlled psychological studies. It functioned subconsciously to prompt you to purchase unneeded things. It targets the brain’s acquisition center—the pecuniary cortex, while at the same time stimulating the brain’s Eros escalation channel. The result is nearly the same as falling in love, only in this case it made be in love with a refrigerator, or a soup ladle instead of a person. People would get home with bags of crap from the mall, not being able to account for their purchase, but, for example, feeling deep affection for the salt and pepper set they bought.

Anyway, my favorite part of the mall was the fountain. It had the same lighting scheme as the harp, but without the music. People would throw money in into it to help the homeless people occasionally wandered through the Mall, if they wanted to risk being arrested by the thugs who worked as mall security guards. What that meant was the fountain would fill with coins. I would go “fishing” the fountain and give the security guards 10% of my take. Accordingly, they left me alone as I cleaned out fountain each week. If anybody asked me what I was doing, I told them I was a “Coin Raker” for Salvation Army; that I went around to shoppings malls “collecting” for homeless and indigent individuals and families.

It was a “the greatest scam on earth.” That’s what the newspapers said when I got caught trying to run $5,000 worth of coins through the bank’s coin counter/wrapper. Some skinny guy with a bowtie asked me where I got a trunkful of wet coins. I told him it was none of his business. He called the police. I was dragging the trunk out the front door when the police showed up. I told them I had gotten the coins from under the water. Well, everything came out at the trial. I was found guilty of some obscure crime from a law written in 18th century to to curtail piracy and treasure burying. I was fined $74.00 and given two weeks of community service painting the judge’s house.

Well, anyway, the Mall is the Mall. You can shop there or ruin your life there.

Definition courtesy of “Silva Rhetoricae” (rhetoric.byu.edu). Bracketed text added by Gorgias.

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Traductio (tra-duk’-ti-o): Repeating the same word variously throughout a sentence or thought. Some authorities restrict traductio further to mean repeating the same word but with a different meaning (see ploce, antanaclasis, and diaphora), or in a different form (polyptoton). If the repeated word occurs in parallel fashion at the beginnings of phrases or clauses, it becomes anaphora; at the endings of phrases or clauses, epistrophe.

I was the Head—the Head of Heads at the bank. The hierarchy was strict. Money laundering was not to be taken lightly. As Head of Heads, I was the ahead of the other Heads. In a way, it was a mistake to call them Heads—they were actually Junior Assistant Heads, and they did what I told them to do. We had to go down to the docks today to pick up a cargo container of cash: $100,000,500. It was looted from the Bank of Syria during the latest round of warfare. Before we took it off-site we had to check it out. We drove it down to the boonies to open the doors. My Assistant Head headed over to the container, unlocked it, and opened the doors. The cash was stacked up against the far end of the cargo container.

The cargo container had been refitted as a mobile home. There were six guys playing poker and drinking beer by the entrance. There were five more guys playing video games on the 70” plasma screen TV. They all had guns. “Take us to your bank,” one of them said. So, we drove off to the bank like we always did, with the addition of human cargo. When we got to the bank, the container passengers rolled out their wheeled luggage and headed down the street singing “Do You Really Want to Hurt Me?” by Boy George. Later that week, I saw a poster on a telephone phone pole advertising “The Flying Damascus Bothers.” They were acrobats, but they were also the guys we had imported into the US along with a lifetime supply of cash. We had set up an account, as instructed, for Hama Hussein. So long as nobody started poking around, the money was clean, and I guess, the acrobats are safe. They performed on the “Apprentice.” They were fired by our future President. He said their “costumes made them look like girls, which was a disaster for acrobats who already were sissies.”

“The Flying Damascus Brothers” were outraged. They let the air out of Trump’s limo tires and sailed pieces of manakish at his head as he left the studio, and Trump slipped on a small piece of cheese and almost broke his back. Of course, the police were called. But “The Flying Damascus Brothers” escaped in their converted cargo container. They drove to Las Vegas and landed a huge contract with Cirque du Soleil. They changed their name to evade detection. Now, they call themselves “The Flying Denver Brothers.”

Definition courtesy of “Silva Rhetoricae” (rhetoric.byu.edu).

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Abating: English term for anesis: adding a concluding sentence that diminishes the effect of what has been said previously. The opposite of epitasis (the addition of a concluding sentence that merely emphasizes what has already been stated. A kind of amplification).

The oak tree in our back yard was huge, but it wasn’t that big. My father told me that Abraham Lincoln planted it after he was sentenced to six months community service for chopping down a cherry tree in Norma Park, Clifton, New Jersey. He planted oak trees throughout North Jersey. They called him “Acorn Abe.” When he finished his sentence, he hitchhiked to Florida where he became one of the first professional alligator wrestlers—Alligator Abe. When he got a little older, he moved back up to New Jersey where he opened a successful guacamole stand—Abe’s El Paso Verde—on the boardwalk at Seaside Heights. There, he was called Avocado Abe. Then, one day he mistakenly shortchanged one of his customers. He rans after the customer and corrected the change. “You’re honest Abe.” “That’s it!” Abe exclaimed. “Honest Abe.” After all the stupid nicknames he had had, “Honest Abe” hit the bullseye. He thought maybe he could sell used carriages: Honest Abe’s Pre-Owned Buggies. He would make tons of money! Then, he got a telegram.

The family business in Illinois—Lincoln’s Leisure Lounge—had been raided and his Ma, Lucille Lincoln, had been jailed without bail. Honest Abe had to go home to take care of things. The first thing he did when he got there was to change the Leisure Lounge into a school for girls called the Honest Abe Academy. Abe taught lessons with a shovel and piece of coal as a blackboard. He taught English, Math, history and Rail-splitting. The Academy’s rail splitting team was the best in the state. The newspapers said “They could split more rails in ten minutes than a beaver on coca!”

The Governor of Illinois presented the annual rail-splitting award. it had been won by Honest Abe Academy every year. This year was no exception. As Coach, Abe received the award. As he handed him the award the Governor told Abe that he was destined for greatness and could win any office he ran for (except Governor). Honest Abe ran for Representative and won, and that was it. He was off and running.

Eventually, Honest Abe was elected President. His plan was to secede from the South and be done with slavery. The plan had originated in New York as the “Fuhgeddaboudit Manifesto.” However, before it could be enacted, the South started a war. The rest is history.

Definition courtesy of “Silva Rhetoricae” (rhetoric.byu.edu).

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Abbaser [George] Puttenham’s English term for tapinosis. Also equivalent to meiosis: reference to something with a name disproportionately lesser than its nature (a kind of litotes: deliberate understatement, especially when expressing a thought by denying its opposite).

I had an uncle who spent his time “cutting things down to size.” He called the Empire State Building a pile of bricks blocking the sun. He called Mickey Mantle the “Stick Swinger.“ He called President Eisenhower “Spike” instead of “Ike.” He called his Ford his “Fraud.” He called his wife (my Aunt Betty) his “Strife.” He called Wisconsin (where we lived) The “Empire of Cheese.” The list of his “size cutting” names goes on forever—there are hundreds and hundreds of them.

I admired my Uncle, so tried my hand at “cutting things down to size.” My teacher, Mrs. Grinney, had bad breath. So, I started calling her “Boiled Brussels Sprouts Breath.” I tried to get it to catch on with my friends, but it didn’t and somebody told her. I got two weeks detention writing: “I will not make fun of people with bad breath.” So, I stopped making fun of people—“cutting them down to size.” My next target was my town’s municipal building, named after somebody named Dodge. It was where the police and fire stations were, along with the town court. It was a beautiful building made from pink granite. I called it “Dodge City” after the cowboy town where everybody was bad. Our town was notoriously corrupt. The police never arrested anybody unless they were poor. The firemen sat on their asses playing poker night and day. Their motto was “The fire truck wouldn’t start, and besides, I had a straight flush.” The town judge was married to the local Mafia Don’s sister. You can imagine how that played out.

I first used “Dodge City” in a speech I made to my English class. My fellow students didn’t know what I was talking about, but my teacher did. He made me stay after class and told me if I used “Dodge City” again, there would be dire consequences and they would go “Bang, bang, bang.” He was the Don’s brother.

So, I stopped cutting things down to size, and started writing poetry instead. My first poem “Under Hot Asphalt” won the “Up and Coming New Comer Coming Up” prize from “Marginal Notes” a very prestigious literary journal. It is the oldest continuously published journal of its kind, first published in 1590. Shakespeare had first sonnet published in “Marginal Notes” in the late 16th century. I’m so glad my teacher steered me away from cutting things down to size “bang, bang, bang.” I probably would’ve ended up like my Uncle, found in a landfill two days after he called the police chief, the “Police Thief.”

Definitions courtesy of “Silva Rhetoricae” (rhetoric.byu.edu). Bracketed text added by Gorgias.

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Abecedarian (a-be-ce-da’-ri-an): An acrostic whose letters do not spell a word but follow the order (more or less) of the alphabet.

A big crow descended, eerily flying, going hurriedly into Joey’s Mangetout nursery. We went inside the greenhouse to find the Crow, but it had flown out the other end. His visit was short, but he had dropped off a newborn kitten, eyes still closed, on the soft dirt spaded around one of the bean plants. Crows had always been good to me. I loved them and my nickname was Crow. But anyway, now a Crow had delivered a newborn kitten. I asked my friend, “What’re the odds? I think they are incalculable.” Melanie told me to go ahead and take charge of the kitten—I was good at those kinds of things. As I drove the kitten home, I tried to think of a clever name for him. After running hundreds of names through my head, like Clipper, Felix, Mewbert, and Peter, I settled on Byron. I don’t know why. He hadn’t had a chance to display any characteristics to be named after. I guess I just liked Byron.

So, I bottle-fed Byron and cuddled him. He was short-haired and pure white with a remarkable marking on his forehead: a perfectly shaped black heart. As Byron grew, I trained him to walk on a leash. People would ooh and aah at his heart marking. One day I was walking along Canal Street with Byron. An elderly woman walking toward us stopped and suddenly yelled “Stop right there.” I recognized her from her picture on the flyers taped all over the neighborhood. She read tarot cards out of a small storefront. She was notoriously good at it, helping people deal with their destinies. She said: “Your cat is special.” Byron looked at her as she spoke. I asked “In what way is he special?” “You will find out,” she said, laughed, turned around, and walked away. We took the shortcut through the alley when suddenly a guy with a knife appeared out of nowhere. “Give it to me!” he yelled. I had no idea what he wanted. “Give me the cat or I’ll kill you!” I was stunned. Byron sprung into action. With a deep growl, he leapt at the robber’s head and clawed out one of his eyeballs. He dropped the knife, screamed, and fell to the ground sobbing for help. Byron and I walked away like nothing had happened. Byron’s tail was sticking straight up—a sign he was happy.

Then I got audited by the IRS. They let me bring Byron because I told them he was my comfort cat. We sat down and the agent started to speak: “We are concerned about . . .” And Byron started purring. The agent blinked his eyes shook his head and continued “the mistake we’ve made making you come in for an audit.” Byron purred. The agent continued: “In fact, the IRS owes you $60,000.” Byron purred. The agent continued: “whoops, my mistake, it’s $600,000. You should get a check in two weeks.” Byron looked at me and winked!

This sort of thing has been going for years now. Byron’s purr has some sort magical power. I often wonder where the crow had found him and why I had ended up ‘owning’ him. I don’t care if I ever find the answer. We are pals forever. We’re going to look at a new Maserati tomorrow.

Definition courtesy of “Silva Rhetoricae” (rhetoric.byu.edu)

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Accismus (ak-iz’-mus): A feigned refusal of that which is earnestly desired.

After forty years, I finally got an award. I deserved it so much that I wanted to curse the awards committee for overlooking me all these years, and maybe hit one of them over the head with the little plaque—the size of a Hershey Bar. I expected to stick around for another 20 years, so I didn’t want to ruin my chances for another award, so I faked it, saying I didn’t deserve it and I couldn’t accept it. Professor Clap, a drama professor in the front row yelled “You’re damn right! I’ll come up there and get it Prof. Bullshit Slacker.” The audience applauded and hooted, and Clap started to get out of his seat. At that point Dean Rambling intervened. He yelled “Sit down Clap! The committee was unanimous in selecting Professor Duly for the college’s Nick Belgium Treadmill Award—for going nowhere, but never giving up. As we know, Mr. Belgium, our most distinguished alum, had inherited tremendous wealth and spent prolifically on crackpot schemes, most notably, the solar-powered banana peeler. Not one of his schemes succeeded, but he never gave up. Most people considered him an idiot, but he endowed the College’s Treadmill Award—which carries a $20.00 cash stipend, divided into 20 equal payments. He also endowed the Pyramid Chair in Economics which is currently held by Prof. Bagman, who, as everybody knows, now teaches via Zoom from Rahway State Prison in New Jersey. Now, shut the hell up.”

I shook hands with Dean Rambling and left auditorium to catcalls and wadded up paper thrown at me. When I got outside, I looked at my car. It was a rusted up piece of shit. I had never been able to afford a new car, but now that I was an award winning Professor, I went to “Stony Joe’s Used Wheels” out on Highway 61. I told Stony I had just won an award, so it was time to buy a car. I didn’t tell him about the meager stipend. He said, “I’ve got just the thing—super discounted for a sharp-looking guy like you.” He took me across the lot to a nearly new Cadillac parked about 20 feet off the lot. It had about 20-30 of those pine tree air fresheners hanging around the mirror. I opened the car door and it stunk of cherries—so oppressive that I could almost feel the smelly cherries in my nostrils. Stony told me the car had belonged to a rich nutcase named Belgium who had never succeeded at anything. He had sat in his running car in the garage with the door closed. He went the way of the angels 2 months ago. Accordingly, he sat in his garage decomposing for 2 months. The warm summer days helped turn him almost into liquid. If you want his nearly new Cadillac for $1,000, it’s yours. Just change the air fresheners once-a-week—cherry works best.”

I thought “Oh the irony.” I bought Belgium’s Cadillac. I religiously changed the air fresheners and learned to like their smell. My colleagues at Aaron Burr College like my smell. I have found that this is a key to earning their respect, that, and owning a nearly new Cadillac. I am eligible for the Gerber “Spoon Fed Teaching Award” this year. It is awarded to “the faulty member who consistently adjusts their standards to assure a minimum grade of “B” for all their students.” I’ve had my eyes on this award for years. I’ve gone the extra mile by ensuring a B+ for all of my students in my signature philosophy course: “Life is a Bowl of Cherries.”

Definition courtesy of “Silva Rhetoricae” (rhetoric.byu.edu)

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Acervatio (ak-er-va’-ti-o): Latin term Quintilian employs for both asyndeton (acervatio dissoluta: a loose heap) and polysyndeton (acervatio iuncta:a conjoined heap).

Sunrise. Sunset. Mid-afternoon, 3:00 a.m. We look at the clock and we look at our watch, and everything is encompassed by time, and there is early, and there is late, and there is right on time—timeless, timely. The variations on time indicate it’s ubiquity. It passes. What does it mean?

It means we are finite beings aware of life’s eventual end—another mark of time written across the surface of our soul. It is a blessing and a curse.

I new I had drifted onto a new life course when I lost my time consciousness after a near-fatal motorcycle accident in a dust storm near Mesa Verde in Colorado. It came out of nowhere. The wind was so strong it tilted my motorcycle to a 60 degree angle. My mouth was filled with grit and I could hardly see. I tried to straighten my motorcycle. It was stupid. My hand came off the handlebar and the front wheel lurched to the right. I crossed white line flew off the highway, hit a small boulder and flew over the handlebars. I was probably going around 35 mph by the time I flew off the motorcycle. The brake lever had caught me in the stomach. I was wearing only a T-shirt, so the lever punctured my skin and gave me a pretty good gash. When I came to, I saw I was bleeding pretty bad. I pushed off the motorcycle from on top of me and tried to stand up. I couldn’t—the pain was too much. I was going to die by the side of the road, in a dust storm, in Colorado. Then, there was no time, none, zero, zip. I had lost my sense of being there. The anxiety that always threaded it’s way through my life was gone. There was no memory, no hope, no consciousness, but a small voice wishing me well.

There was a trading post across the road from where I had crashed. I reawakened as I was being pulled across the road, laying on a beautiful Navajo blanket. I felt weak and passed out again. When I woke up there was a young Navajo woman sewing up my wound. There was some yellow cream she had smeared on it that totally removed the pain.

I healed really quickly, had my motorcycle repaired and resumed my journey to anywhere. Having lost my time-consciousness I was like a leaf in the wind. Then, I called my mother and landed back on the clock: “Where are you? When are you coming home?, Do you know how long it’s been since we heard from you?, School starts again in a couple of moths! Your little sister wants you home now!” It was like somebody stuck an air compressor in my ear and blew away the quality of life I had been given.

“Whoosh! Look at me, I’m being in time!”

Definitions courtesy of “Silva Rhetoricae” (rhetoric.byu.edu).

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Affirmatio (af’-fir-ma’-ti-o): A general figure of emphasis that describes when one states something as though it had been in dispute or in answer to a question, though it has not been.

Preacher: Who said the sky is blue? Who said the earth is round? Who said climate change is a fact? Who said abortion should be safe and legal? And now, get ready to roll around on the floor spewing puke and crying: Who said people should be permitted to change their sex?

It is those demonic Democrats every time. Their diabolical beliefs are undermining our party’s self-evident truths and feeding America to a hungry Satan. He is chewing on our children and laughing in our faces as he washes them down, crying and screaming, with our warm evangelical blood.

We are at war, and in wars people get killed. We must kill enough Democrats to satisfy Saran’s hunger. If we can feed Satan enough Democrats he will surely let us ultra-right conservatives alone. Technically, we may be doing Satan’s work, but actually we are clearing our communities of sin. On that note . . .

See this man here? We’ve tied him to this flagpole flying the American flag to emphasize the righteousness of our cause. We all know him as Jack, the counterman at Cliff’s. He sells alcohol. He sells tobacco. He sells lotto tickets. But most repugnant and disgusting: he is a baby killer, selling condoms—rubber baggies that keep the little swimmers from going where they belong—going through the baby door, into Eve’s egg-crate.

We must make an example of him by burning him at the stake. Sinners will hear about what happened here and tremble with fear.

Sheriff: Not so fast Preacher! It’s still illegal to murder people around here. Drop the Bic lighter and put up your hands, you’re under arrest.

POSTSCRIPT

The spell was broken. The crowd dispersed muttering. The ground opened up and the Reverend went to meet his fate.

Definition courtesy of “Silva Rhetoricae” (rhetoric.byu.edu).

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Antisthecon (an-tis’-the-con): Substitution of one sound, syllable, or letter for another within a word. A kind of metaplasm: the general term for changes to word spelling.

I had a “cheeseborer” for lunch. I called it that because it bored right through me. It was like a cheese and beef flash flood. When I ate one, I made sure to sit by the restroom door.

Despite the trouble they gave me, I ate them anyway. Their taste was irresistible. People who ate at Stamper’s would fight over the tables by the restroom door, knowing they were going to have a torrential emergency soon after finishing their BM Burger (what I called the Cheeseborer). I started thinking about other foods where taste, not a quick poop, was the incentive for eating it, regardless of corollary consequences. The only thing I could think of was confections. Committing tubby-cide by sitting on the couch eating Little Debbie cakes all day, every day. There are probably hundreds of other examples, but what is so compelling about the BM Burger, given the risk involved—the risk of crapping all over yourself in a public place?

Most people lead a pretty hum-drum existence. Seizing on the BM-Burger’s excellent flavor as an excuse, they eat one, knowing they will experience the thrill of running to the restroom—with preliminary gas leaking from their butt, and pulling down their pants in a primal struggle, with the image of not making it pressing on every part of their body, weighing it down with terror, terror that is an incentive to pump the legs and cry out with animal sounds upon reaching the toilet intact. In one melodious whoosh, it’s over. It’s like scoring a goal or throwing everything you’ve got in a wishing well. You have to flush three times to make it all go away and prepare the toilet for the next person.

Stamper’s is at the leading edge of the emergent sport of Toilet Dashing. It is mainly a man’s sport, but some women are involved too. I think it’s just another fad like Rubic’s Cube or bell bottom pants. On the other hand, it could be a matter of mass psychosis like the dancing mania that swept across Europe from the 14th to the 17th centuries. If it takes on the scale of dancing mania, Toilet Dashing could spell the end of civilization as we know it with towns and cities awash in excrement and people hobbling around with their pant half down.

Definition courtesy of “Silva Rhetoricae” (rhetoric.byu.edu)

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Chronographia (chro-no-graph’-i-a): Vivid representation of a certain historical or recurring time (such as a season) to create an illusion of reality. A kind of enargia: [the] generic name for a group of figures aiming at vivid, lively description.

Bartender: “Happy Hour! What time is it boys and girls?

It’s Happy Hour! Drinks are half price! This is one of the last opportunities in the world to get what you pay for! Bottom shelf booze for what it’s worth!“

Me: “Bartender! Give me 3 shots of vodka and a “Big Beer.” I’m ready to get shitfaced. Here’s my driver’s license. All in good order. Although I don’t look it, I’m fifty-four. I’m from Florida. Let’s go!”

Bartender: “Here you go son! As long as you can ask, I’ll keep ‘em coming. This is the bar where Knucky Mayhem got his start, betting on himself in bar fights. Some would last an hour before some wimp would call the police. He never killed anybody, but happy hour was when he let loose. Just before happy hour ended he would insult somebody roughly his size and punch them on the shoulder. Then, things would roll. The longest fight was 2 hours—a grueling bloody, smelly, grunting thriller. It was almost Knucky’s downfall. Knucky’s opponent was sent in by the Mob to win a little cash. The Mob’s boy was a professional boxer named “Rocky Barcelona.” He kicked Knucky’s ass up and down this very floor. Knucky lost a grand that night, but he didn’t give up on barroom fighting. Last we heard, he was kicking ass at “Billy Bob’s” in Dallas, Texas.”

Suddenly the barroom door squeaked open. There was Knucky standing there. He had a patch over one eye and you could tell he was wearing an adult diaper under his black sweat pants. He had on a white T-shirt with “KNUCKY” printed on it. When he walked toward the bar, you could hear his joints click and squeak. He had a briefcase. He put it on the bar and opened it. It was filled with hundred dollar bills.

Knucky: “There’s 500 grand in there. Somebody put up a hundred against my 500 grand, and we’ll have at it for the dough.”

Me: His voice was slurred like he was brain-damaged and his body was a wreck. I had just been paid at Bartelli’s Deli. It was a cinch. I was the first to volunteer, so I got the fight. Knucky tossed his cane away and pulled off the eye patch. His joints stopped making noises. He patted his diaper and yelled “Empty!” He stepped into the light. He looked 18.

Knucky: “Do you believe in ghosts?” You better believe in this one,” he growled as he punched me between the eyes, sunk his fist in my solar plexus like a jackhammer, and pounded on my kidneys like he was making dough.

Me: I woke up on my bedroom floor. My nose was bleeding and I hurt all over. Knucky was hovering over me.

Knucky: “Don’t worry chump, you’re dreaming. This is my eternal fate. Get up off the damn floor and get back to bed.”

Me: When I got up, I felt no pain, there was no bleeding, and Knucky had disappeared. I Googled him the next day and discovered he was dead, killed fighting in Panama. It was rumored that he “haunted” bars looking for fights, putting incredible odds on a half-million dollars to suck somebody into fighting him.

I had been sucked in! I would never fight again.

Definition courtesy of “Silva Rhetoricae” (rhetoric.byu.edu). Bracketed text added by Gorgias.

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Intimation: Hinting at a meaning but not stating it explicitly.

A: Something smells. Do you get it? Do you smell it? I think it may be somebody right here in the room, and it isn’t me. Hmmm. There are only the two of us here in the room. I don’t smell. I know for sure. I’ve been using specially scented soap that masks all human odors. It’s called “Erasure.” After using it, my dog does not recognize me and barks incessantly. He bit me on the ankle yesterday, so I can assure you that my Barbara-body-smell is gone. If I smell at all, it’s like the Arctic wind that blows through here in January. You might want to consider adopting my dog, Curly. He won’t bite you if you keep your usual body smell, if it is acceptable to family and friends (which it probably isn’t—I have talked to your mother). Anyway, another source of repugnant odor is the mouth—wooo—can it stink, or what? I used “Mask” toothpaste and “Odor Burner” mouthwash this morning, and last night too. My breath smells like bottled water in a glass container.

Next, is diet. This is very simple: stop eating beans and cabbage. We have it on good authority that it was not an apple eaten by Eve in the Garden of Eden. Rather, it was a bean and cabbage casserole cooked by Old Nick himself and left steaming on a picnic table under an apple tree with a bowl and spoon, with a folded paper napkin alongside. Eve dug in and we know the rest. She brought the woe of farting to Humankind, and clothing became mandatory to help filter the smell, deaden the sound, and assuage the shame. The Fart is Satan’s voice—it feels good to blow one, but it destroys social harmony by inducing revulsion, anger, unwarranted finger pointing, and fleeing from hearth and home.

The most import measure you can take to achieve perfect odor control is anus emissions monitoring and adjustment (AEMAA). As you know, the anus emits farts, and farts smell. You can purchase and take “Gas-B-Gone” tablets. They are an excellent help, but every once-in-awhile a fart will squeak out, no matter how careful you are regularly taking the recommended doseage . You need a back-up plan. One thing you can do is sphincter control exercises. A well-controlled sphincter will allow you time to relocate—perhaps outdoors—before you relax it and let the wind blow harmlessly into the great outdoors. I have written a book titled “Sphincter Control, Mental Health, and Social Responsibility.” The book is an in-depth study of the sphinctural mechanism. It includes exercises you can use to cultivate your sphincter’s place across a spectrum of life-enriching potentialities specifically addressing the dysfunctional mind-body dualism engendered by seeing the sphincter as separate from the mind, and vice versa. The aim is to take a holistic approach, overcoming the mind/sphincter opposition so there is a seamless singularity: mind is sphincter/sphincter is mind. Now YOU, Mr./Ms. Mindsphincter, are ready to utilize your new incarnation in accord with ideals of human happiness, to reduce the world’s stink and transform it into the Breath of Venus.

So, I’ve taken you on extended voyage over the hills a valleys of human odor. Maybe, at this point you understand that I am disclosing this important information to you for a reason beyond filling your head with crucial facts. What do you think?

B: I think you are crazy.

A: Well, ok, the truth is you smell. No! Actually, you stink.

B: You need help. I’m wearing the “Kamikaze Kologne” my grandmother gave me. If you don’t like it, buzz off sphincter girl.

Definition courtesy of “Silva Rhetoricae” (rhetoric.byu.edu).

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Tasis (ta’-sis): Sustaining the pronunciation of a word or phrase because of its pleasant sound. A figure apparent in delivery.

My mother was obsessed with Pandas. For her, they were “the cuuu-test creatures on God’s green earth.” She had a bamboo garden in the basement, lit by purple grow lights. She called it “Panda Acres” even though the “Acres” were growing in a 3-foot square box. She fervently hoped to feed a Panda in the basement some day. She had a gallery of “famous pandas” hanging on the living room wall. Andy Panda was most prominently displayed. In one picture Andy, and his sidekick Charlie Chicken, are pictured hoisting beer steins with their chests puffed way out. I always thought it was because they were proud of something, but my mom was convinced they were doing “healthy” breathing exercises.

She was concerned with panda health. Whenever a new panda was born in China, or at the zoo, we would hold a vigil, praying for the baby panda’s survival. Mom had a portable shrine mounted on roller skates. She would pull it out of my bedroom and make bamboo offerings and say brief prayers. My favorite was “Dear baby panda, listen to your mother, stand up straight, and don’t j-walk.” Sometimes we’d sit up all night, burning incense, drinking tea, and making up panda stories. Dad made up “The little panda who got a tattoo.” It was about a panda who joined a biker gang and raised hell all over New York. He had a tattoo of a devil-horned pangolin on his butt and swore a lot. For obvious reasons, my mother hated the tattoo story and would go “na, na, na” whenever my father started telling it.

One of my earliest memories is riding in a stroller on a warm spring morning wearing my panda suit. I wasn’t allowed to talk. I was only allowed to grunt like what we thought a panda would sound like. I was expected to hold my hands out too, like I was begging for bamboo. People thought I looked cute, but they did’t know what hell it was inside the suit. The worst was that the panda suit’s eyeholes weren’t lined up with my eyes. So, everything was sort of cut in half. When I got older, I had to wear a panda snowsuit when I walked to school. Mom made me carry a piece of bamboo and swish it around like a fly swatter. One day I couldn’t get my snowsuit off at school. After that, everybody called me Poo-Poo Panda. I didn’t like it.

But then the seventies came. I finished high school and moved away from home. I formed a rock band called “The Primo Pandas.” We wore panda face paint and had back-up dancers in full-on panda suits who frequently fainted in the middle of a set. The audience expected it, so the fainting always got some heavy applause. Our biggest hit was “Bam-bam-boo-boo, I’m gonna’ Chew ya’ Right Down.” John Lee Hooker’s lawyer told us he would’ve sued us for infringing on his “Boom, Boom,” but we were too pitiful to mess with. Despite that, John Lee sat in on a gig with us in Oakland, CA. He was truly a great man.

When things opened up further with China, we made millions touring—Hong Kong, Shanghai, Beijing, etc. We merchandised the hell out of the panda suits and other items, like panda eye masks. When it was all over, I opened a Chinese restaurant back in New York with Xiu, the woman I had met (and married) on the tour in Shanghai. Along with other pictures (for example, me and Ringo waving bamboo branches) mom’s panda gallery graces the restaurant’s wall. All the staff wear panda suits, and the name of the restaurant is “Panda’s Trough,” and it’s themed like an upscale zoo cage. People love it!

Xiu and I are going to have a baby in about five months. She’s afraid it will look like a panda. So am I.

Definition courtesy of “Silva Rhetoricae” (rhetoric.byu.edu).

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