Epanorthosis

Epanorthosis (ep-an-or-tho’-sis): Amending a first thought by altering it to make it stronger or more vehement.

“I’m going to teach you a lesson son. Your grounded for two years—NO—I ‘m gonna beat your brains out you ungrateful little bastard.”

My father was very strict. He had given me an electric train set for Christmas and I had sold it for $20.00 to Little Timmy Stout, who was called “Little” because he was only three feet tall at the age of twelve. We lived in the heart of oil refinery country in Linden, New Jersey where birth defects and deformities were normal. I had a club foot and six fingers on my left hand.

My father started beating me with a metal rug beater and switched to a bull whip when I started to bleed. Then, he twisted my arm and hit me over the head with a brick. The brick on the head knocked out cold.

When I awoke I was a prodigy—a boy genius.

I became a philosophy professor at Rutgers University and was acclaimed for my 400-page book entitled: Brick and Brain: Toward an Ontological Vestibule. My book tells the story in blinding detail of my ascent to genius and subsequent acclaim as the most brilliant eleven-year-old in the world.

My followers carried bricks wherever they went, and would beg me to hit them over the head at book signings. I refused because I I knew it would possibly make them into geniuses too. I did not want rivals. Hospital emergency rooms began to be overwhelmed by patients with self-inflicted head injuries.

Then, I opened a string of salons called “Head Bim Bop.” Patrons paid $200 to be hit over the head by a trained “Whacker” wielding a specially blessed brick. Patrons signed a release of liability and willingly received a blow to the head, usually producing mild concussion.

Not a single genius was produced but my followers were undaunted—because I was unique, they elevated me to the status of Chosen One. While I was making money hand over fit, at the same time I produced line of inventions named Chosen One Kitchen Appliances.” There were solar-powered frying pans, pressure cookers, cookie sheets, and kettles, navy bean peelers, fish-skinners, brick measuring cups and meat tenderizers, gasoline-powered blenders, food processors, and mixers and much, much more.

All of the appliances were advertised as “personally blessed” by the Chosen One. There was also line of “Chosen One “ t-shirts picturing me taking a blow on the hear with a brick.

It was too good to be true, but I didn’t care. I was engaged in brazen self-promotion. I wanted my name on buildings. I wanted my image projected on clouds in the sky. I wanted there to be songs about me. The Ford “Chosen One” produced to my delight. I trademarked my name and sold it the brand anything from toilet bowl cleansers to cathedrals.

Jealous capitalists tried to assassinate me. I was wounded in the ear, my pinkie, and my big toe. Each time I took a bullet the values of my stock doubled. I was invincible and decided to become a Savior, clearing people from their sentence to hell. I did mass Zoom healings, sometimes cleansing over 100,000 people at once. I was pronounced “Vice Pope” and took up residence in the Vatican. I advised the Pope. The future was wide open. The sky was the limit. I could do no wrong.

POSCRIPT

The Chosen One formed a cabal with the Vatican’s Swiss Guards. He staged a coup and demoted the Pope to Parish Priest in Lansing, Michigan. He started selling indulgences to billionaires, as well as last rites for $125.00 to family members or friends of deceased people.