Inopinatum (in-o-pi-na’-tum): The expression of one’s inability to believe or conceive of something; a type of faux wondering. As such, this kind of paradox is much like aporia and functions much like a rhetorical question or erotema. [A paradox is] a statement that is self-contradictory on the surface, yet seems to evoke a truth nonetheless [can include oxymoron].
I can’t believe anything—not even my own name. “Dolly Mitten.” But really, I do believe it: my parents call me Dolly Mitten, my teachers call me Dolly Mitten, my friends call me Dolly Mitten, and the so-called “authorities” call me Dolly Mitten. So, I’m Dolly Mitten. I guess I can still say “I can’t believe it.” I can’t believe that my parents named me Dolly Mitten. What the hell were they thinking? Did they think I would be teased? I guess they did, because they teased me. Yes, it’s true. That’s why I came to think of them an abusive parents. My father would as me if he could wear my “little”Dolly Mittens. It humiliated me and made me want to hide in the hall closet. Mom didn’t help. She’d ask me if I was a hand truck because she needed help moving some boxes.
When I turned 21 I was going to change my name and escape the ridicule. I like bringing things together and planned on opening a smoothie shop when I graduated from high school. I had stayed back a few years due poor study habits and poor attendance, and worse, having a very public affair with my woodshop teacher, Mr. Plane. He was 60 years old. He got fired and I had to go into therapy. But, due to my screwing up, I would be 21 when I graduated. I put up a “Go Fund Me” site to raise money for my smoothie shop “Mix N’ Mingle.” I had to go to court the complete my name change.
I petitioned to change my name to “Blenderella” a combination of blender and Cinderella. No more “Dolly Mitten.” Blenderella was the perfect name for the owner/operator of a smoothie shop. The judge disagreed. He told me he couldn’t believe I wanted to be named Blenderella. I assured him I did and I was granted the name change. I kept my last name: Timbersquat. My dad traced “Timbersquat” back hundreds of years to 16th-century England. It was granted by royalty to my great-grandfather five generations ago.
He discovered that if you sat on a log with your naked butt hanging over it, you could poop in so much more comfort than simply squatting. It was an especially beneficial discovery for elderly people who would often fall over in their own poop due to weakening leg muscles brought about by aging. He became a “Hero of the Shire” and sold poop logs throughout the land and installed them in little huts on the commons for peasants, for free. Royals paid handsomely for his poop logs and installed them in the woods adjacent to their manors.
Anyway, the grand opening of Mix N’ Mingle was at hand. It was situated in a high traffic area of the mall. My first customer was my dad. I almost started puking as he studied the menu. He said, “although it sounds dangerous, I’ll have a large strawberry banana Blenderella.” I was pleased that he used my new name. I whipped the smoothie up and handed it to him and told him it was on the house. He said, “No. take this.” He handed me a gym bag with some random high school’s logo on it—it was a Tiger surrounded by stars. I put it on the floor and spent a very busy day making and selling smoothies.
I brought the bag home. I made myself a vodka tonic, sat down with the bag on my lap, and unzipped it. It was filled with little dolls and mittens. I yelled “Fu-kin’ asshole!” and threw it on the floor. A small gold-colored bar flew out of one of the mittens. It was real gold! I emptied the gold bars from all of the mittens. The bars were imprinted with their weight. I googled the price of gold. I couldn’t believe it—each bar was worth nearly $10,000.
My father had given me a shitload of money. I was shocked. I called him to find out what the hell was going on. Mom told me he had disappeared.
I’ll never understand what this was all about. I just can’t believe it.
Definitions courtesy of “Silva Rhetoricae” (rhetoric.byu.edu).
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