Epanorthosis (ep-an-or-tho’-sis): Amending a first thought by altering it to make it stronger or more vehement.
I think I will achieve fame if I just keep going. No, by god, I will achieve fame! I’ve tried to become famous for so many things: running over baby ducks with my truck, hiding my mother’s leg brace in the woods underneath a big log, eating a Black Widow spider, going to church naked with a golf club up my ass, standing on the roof of my cousin’s car while we were riding around village green, and eating the tip of a cat’s tail—that was painful and noisy, There are at lease 100 additional amazing deeds, but let’s stop and think for a minute.
Part of being famous is the buzz. But “buzz“ isn’t exclusive to fame. When I was arrested, ridiculed, and the subject of a story titled “There’s a Whack Job in Town,” in “Porta-Paper,” word spread, but it wasn’t because I was famous, it was because I had become infamous: “well known for some bad quality or deed.” So, I stopped right there and determined to do something righteous that would generate the buzz I so desperately craved.
I decided to save somebody’s life. I learned basic first aid, CPR, and mouth-to-mouth resuscitation, and I carried a six-pack of NALMEFENE HC to bring OD’d herion addicts back from the dead.
So, I was leaving a party at a friend’s house. There was this guy laying face down on the sidewalk. “Woo-hoo! It’s get famous time! I’m gonna save this guy.”
Out cold: Clearly, he had overdosed. I pulled out my six-pack of NALMEFENE HC and stuck some needles in his leg. I didn’t call 911 because I wanted all the credit for saving him. He didn’t move, so I stuck 3 more needles in him. Someone else came out the door and saw what was going on and called 911 and the police. I yelled “You’re ruining it!” He looked puzzled.
I was arrested.
The man on the sidewalk hadn’t overdosed. Rather, he had too much to drink and passed out. I had killed him with all the NALMEFENE HC I had pumped in him. Now, I am serving a 3-year prison sentence for involuntary manslaughter. I am remorseful for what I did, so I may get out early.
My quest for fame has not ended. Here in prison I’m writing poems for the other inmates to send to their loved ones. The inmates give me a general sense of what their love is about and I write a fitting poem. I take a portrait photograph and include it with each poem.
I hope to become famous as the “Prison Poet” and be a guest on daytime TV shows broadcasting over ZOOM. I have a laptop in my cell and the lighting is really good.
Definition courtesy of “Silva Rhetoricae” (rhetoric.byu.edu).
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