Diacope (di-a’-co-pee): Repetition of a word with one or more between, usually to express deep feeling.
“No! Get that out of here. No! Not that! No! Not me! No! No! No!“
My mother was trying to brush my hair. I suffer from “Chronic Adversitis Syndrome.” I reject anything that is offered to me, no matter where, when, or why it is offered. My malady is sometimes called “Rugged Individual’s Disease.” It first appears in print in Ayn Rand’s “Atlas Bugged” a book about fascist opponents of the welfare state. The protagonist Frank Peardon has invented a hot dog made out of recycled table scraps, that would usually be saved for the family dog. He refuses to take product development funding from the soft socialist state. Instead, he turns to the manly art of crime, stealing hot dog casings from government-funded Oscar Myer, along with meat grinders. He does all of this completely on his own, with no help whatsoever.
Although he was a fictional character, there is a park in Rhode Island named “Peardon Park” with numerous hot dog vendors selling their wares. In some circles, when a person does something on their own, it’s called “a Peardon.”
I was clearly a rugged individualist, rejecting all help of any kind and “going it alone.” It has been determined that “Rugged Individual’s Disease” is not genetic. Rather, it was induced by environmental factors. In my case, it was clearly my reading and re-reading of Rand’s “Atlas Bugged.” At the age of 14, I had turned to petty crime like Frank Peardon did to eliminate as much as possible being smothered by wages in the twisted game of “something for something” constituting the illusion of independence provided by work. I stuffed packs of chewing gum in my underpants in the grocery store and sold them half-price at school.
I was committed to the belief that I needed no help—I was a rugged individual.
My mother got wind of my criminal activities from my commie sister. My mother sent me to “Cliff Hangers Academy,” a day camp teaching dependence on others. Some of the exercises were: being tripped, falling down and being helped up; being put in handcuffs and being released after 15 minutes; having my back scratched; being led blindfolded across the freeway. There are 25-30 more exercises, but the capstone is the “cliff hanger” that the camp is named after.
You hold onto the edge of a cliff 300 feet above a boulder-strewn field. Your “minder” sits in a chair by you at the edge of the cliff. Just as your grip is giving out and you’re yelling for help, he grabs your hands and pulls you to safety, saving your life, and showing you that dependence on others is central to your survival.
A few people have died from the cliff hanger who were too proud or too stubborn to cry for help to their minder. They ended up like bloody rag dolls twisted grotesquely on the rocks below.
I am grateful that my mother sent me to “Cliff Hangers Academy.” Now, I’m a groveling, needy, whiny teenager. I ran my copy of “Atlas Bugged” down the garbage disposal and broke its blade with the book’s hard cover. Mom paid to have it fixed.
Currently, I am begging my mother for a motor scooter, new trainers, and a TV for my bedroom. Also, to make my conversion perfectly clear, and, to my my conversion perfectly clear, I believe in the Affordable Care Act with all my heart.
Definitions courtesy of “Silva Rhetoricae” (rhetoric.byu.edu.
Daily Trope is available in an early edition on Amazon in paperback under the title of The Book of Tropes for $9.95. It is also available in Kindle format for $5.99.
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