Aetiologia (ae-ti-o-log’-i-a): A figure of reasoning by which one attributes a cause for a statement or claim made, often as a simple relative clause of explanation.
“We’re off to see the Wizard
The wonderful Wizard of Oz
We hear he is a whiz of a wiz
If ever a wiz there was
If ever, oh ever a wiz there was
The Wizard of Oz is one because
Because, because, because, because, because
Because of the wonderful things he does
We’re off to see the Wizard
The wonderful Wizard of Oz”
We have “because” posited seven times in a row in the “Off to See the Wizard” song from “The Wizard of Oz.” As the movie unfolds we come to see the Wizard probably could’ve used 20-25 because’s to establish his credibility. If it’s the quantity of justifications that counts in the Wizard’s case, people like Trump could use 250,000 because’s. Their quality will always be in question, so it’s quantity that counts. Trump is probably guilty of anything you can imagine, but the repetition of his version of “because,” drowns out the truth, and maybe silences it. It is effective with the kind of people he wants on his side.
I tried it myself last week. It was a job interview where I gave it a test run. Instead of making up lies about my checkered employment history, I tried the justification-word strategy. The interviewer asked me why my employment at my last job only lasted three weeks, I said “because, because, because, that’s the way it was”and shook my head sadly. The interviewer was wearing a MAGA hat so I figured the “because-word” would work.
Actually, I had blown up the hot dog stand I ran for my employer. I had broken the knob on the sauerkraut heater and the gas leaked out, starting a fire. It caught on to the hot dog heater, and everything exploded. The explosion littered the sidewalk with hot dog fragments and little steaming sauerkraut piles. I was able to save the buns and condiments. A pack of stray dogs ate the hotdogs. The cart was destroyed, however, it all happened because the gas tanks weren’t properly maintained back at the garage. But there’s more.
Now, as a consequence of being blown up, I have a piece of shrapnel sunk deep in my left leg. When the weather changes it hurts like hell. Also, somehow my accident has affected my sexual “abilities.” My doctor thinks that seeing those hot dogs blown apart made me feel guilty for being intact, which, in turn, makes my “hotdog” feel dead. My doctor has given me a little prayer to say every day to try and resurrect my hot dog: “Dear hot dog, please point to the North Star and guide me back to the promised land.” So far, no go.
I have to find a way to unsee the blown up hotdogs. Next, my Doctor is having me do immersion therapy. His nurse will rip up 50 packs of hotdogs and dump them in my bathtub. I will get in my bathtub with the hot dog pieces. The nurse will add mustard, ketchup and chopped onions. I will close my eyes and imagine I am an exploded hotdog feeling the same pain as my comrades, crying out, embracing them, and trying to make them whole again. The nurse will hold a warm washcloth to my forehead and we sing “Tomorrow” from the musical “Annie.” Maybe this will work. I am desperate.
So, as you’ve probably guessed, I suffer from PTSD. The words “hot dog” trigger me. I can’t go to baseball games or any sporting events serving not dogs, or 4th of July, or Labor Day gatherings. If I get anywhere near a street vendor I yell “Why me?” and start running and run for a block and collapse in tears and sometimes wet my pants.
You can see, if I ever told this story in a job interview I wouldn’t get the job and I might be escorted out by a security guard. Especially given my latest attempt at becoming whole. I have built a small nesting box out of a milk crate, I have stuffed it with straw. I have placed a hot dog in the nest and I sit on it, like a chicken on an egg, only I’m trying to hatch healing, not a baby chick. The intimate contact with the hotdog opens portals of empathy, that slowly induce me to feel capable of being forgiven. At the end of my roosting exercise, I eat the hot dog, assimilating its soul to mine. It is a sort of a semi-religious hot dog communion with beer and no bread. Sometimes, I can hear angels singing when I chew. They have a sort of pleasant squeaking sound, like running a wet finger across a piece of glass.
By the way, I didn’t get the job. They said I was too “promiscuous” with “because,” when one or two would’ve been sufficient.
So, I’m reading a book now: “How to Be a Homeless Man in the Northern Hemisphere.” The major advantage to becoming a homeless man is there’s no interview to get through. You just sit down on the pavement and you’re in business. I’ve already made up a name for my business: “Concrete Capitalist.” I’m investing all of my earnings in scratch-off lotto tickets.
Definition courtesy of “Silva Rhetoricae” (rhetoric.byu.edu)
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