Epitheton (e-pith’-e-ton): Attributing to a person or thing a quality or description-sometimes by the simple addition of a descriptive adjective; sometimes through a descriptive or metaphorical apposition. (Note: If the description is given in place of the name, instead of in addition to it, it becomes antonomasia or periphrasis.)
Billy was the bane of my existence—a combination of pain in the ass and my sister’s boyfriend. He was five feet tall with size 14 boots, no neck, a Fu Man Chu mustache, perfectly round bald spot on his head and a tattoo of Sponge Bob on his neck. He was 19 years old and was destined to be a loser in life. He was taking my sister with him.
My sister was no beauty, but she deserved better than him. She was 6’8” and had a mole on her cheek the size of a peanut butter jar lid. She was born with one breast, three fingers on her right hand, and her ears were the size of pennies. She had a tattoo of Sponge Bob on her neck, just like her boyfriend. They had gotten them together when they were high on meth.
Billy was obsessed with sex. When he was visiting, he would ask my sister every ten minutes when they were going to “do it.” He said this in front of me and my mother too during dinner. My mother would say “Now, now, eat your peas first Billy.” He would gobble up his peas and my sister would yell “Clear the dining room table” as Billy stood up and started unfastening his pants. Their behavior was hard to deal with.
I decided to lay down some rules. I told Billy he had to quit coming to my house just to have sex with my sister, no matter how compliant she was. I told him he needed to take a shower before he visited. I told him he smelled like King Kong’s asshole.
His response was disconcerting. He said “Fu*k you Führer. I’ll bang your mother too if want to. Also, I smell just fine—you got a problem with rotting meat? If anything, I smell like Godzilla’s asshole, not King Kong’s.” He pulled some rat poison out of a box and dumped it into the raspberry kool-aid we were drinking on the porch.p. He drank it down and threw his empty glass out into the yard. He leaned toward me and said in a menacing voice “I’m immortal. Don’t fu*k with me.”
I was stunned. I was stuck with this guy. So I tried to make peace. When he came to our door, I’d welcome him in and ask if he wanted fu*ck my sister. He’d say “Yes my friend. Where is she?” I’d tell him where she was and he’d go off to fu*k her.
We got to be quite good friends. He told me he had awakened in a Salvation Army Family store stark naked 10 years ago. He crawled around on the floor pulling clothing off the racks and getting dressed, and finding a pair of size 14 boots. He couldn’t pay for anything so he ran out the entrance doors. He went back 10 minutes later and got a job as a sorter and stole a lot of “things” that he sold at the flea market on Sundays.
Although he looked 19, he was actually 65. He discovered he was immortal during a low point in his life. He looked at himself in the mirror for the first time in years. He tried to kill himself in a number of ways—from shooting himself, to a plastic bag over his head, to drowning, to standing in front of a train. He failed.
He said, after all he’d been through, in his “own way” he loved my sister. Eventually, they got married.
Billy robbed a few banks in New York and they stole enough money to start their own business. They sell sea shells in their store “We Shell” near the beach in South Miami Beach, Florida. They have a little daughter, my niece Conchy, named after their best-selling shell. She is off the charts ugly, but she has a kind and loving demeanor. However, her beautiful character doesn’t make up for her world-class ugliness. Nevertheless, her life trajectory is like a saint’s tale. She is currently seeing a “boy” who has all his body parts and aspires to be a foot-dragging monster in horror movies.
POSTSCRIPT
I’ve been told this story is heart-warming and moving. When I hear this, I flinch. This story makes my blood run cold and the only “moving” I get is out my ass. It has been hell dealing with these people all these years. Conchy is pregnant. God help us.
Definitions courtesy of “Silva Rhetoricae” (rhetoric.byu.edu.
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