Acoloutha: The substitution of reciprocal words; that is, replacing one word with another whose meaning is close enough to the former that the former could, in its turn, be a substitute for the latter. This term is best understood in relationship to its opposite, anacolutha.
I wanted to be normal. That was the only thing normal about me. I tried to hide my weirdness by wearing skinny Levi’s, Birkenstocks, and t-shirts with slogans on them like “I eat my Spinach,” “I Floss,” and “Can I look in your window?” The t-shirts were white with black block lettering. I only had three, so I had to do my laundry twice a week. I didn’t mind. I would do anything to fit in. Well, actually, anything I was able to do.
I had certain “issues” that were out of my control too. One, was eating boogers. If I didn’t have at least twenty boogers a day I got homicidal. The proof is that there are two Jehovah’s Witnesses buried in my back yard. I took care of them with a kitchen knife. It could’ve been hard killing two people at once, but they wanted to go to heaven together, so it was easy,
I am so lucky that my mother works as a cosmetician in a funeral home. She picks boogers from the dead people and collects them for me. She packs them in a Tupperware container for my school lunch. She sprinkles then on my PBJ sandwich and nobody’s the wiser. I get my daily dose and I feel normal. It’s gross, but I don’t want to kill anybody ever again.
I know my mother won’t be around forever, so I’m preparing to be a mortician too so I can pick boogers on my own. I’ve decided to use a Coke spoon to scoop out the boogers and then put them in a baggie and take them home, or just eat them nostril-fresh from the cadavers. I’ll figure that out when I come to it.
My other problem was “Blurter’s Syndrome” (BS). BS is a speech problem where you say whatever is on your mind—you have no filter. I discovered I had it when we were discussing the “Gettysburg Address” and I raised my hand. My teacher called on me and I said “Let’s fu*k baby.” I was suspended from school for one week. My mother and I discovered that if I was drunk, my thought process narrowed and controlled my Blurter’s Syndrome. The only problem was I would be drunk in school. Mom loaded me up with breath mints and gin in a water bottle and told me never to raise my hand. But the breath mints didn’t work. My teacher smelled alcohol on my breath and sent me to the principal’s office. I was suspended for a week. Then, my mom found the solution. My mom found these things called “ball gags” on the internet. I started wearing one. It was a godsend. It controlled my Blurter’s Syndrome. People looked at me, mostly with repulsion, but I also met a few women who liked to restrain me on a table in their basements, or hanging from the wall. It was richly rewarding. I was humbled and I’m grateful that mom found my ball gag on the internet.
With Mother’s Day looming, I want to let mom know how appreciative I am for the boogers and the ball gag. She’s wanted to kill dad for a number of years. So, I will be giving her a Smith & Wesson so she can realize her dream. I will be hiring 2 men from “Forensics-Be-Gone” to clean up after the shooting, run dad through a wood chipper, bag him up, and dump him to the fish.
We do not have to be victims of our genes. Together with people we revere and who revere us, we can bypass our defects with innovative measures borne by the harmonious beating of our hearts. I love you mom!
Definitions courtesy of “Silva Rhetoricae” (rhetoric.byu.edu.
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