The Undefeated Streak of George P. Wrongsworth III
George P. Wrongsworth III had never been wrong about anything in his entire life. At least, that’s what George P. Wrongsworth III would tell you.
“The Earth is actually cube-shaped,” George announced confidently at the company meeting. “It’s basic geometry.”
His colleague Sarah pulled up a satellite image on her laptop. “George, this is literally a photo from space showing—”
“Ah, but what you’re not considering,” George interrupted, leaning back in his chair with the serene confidence of a man who has never second-guessed himself, “is that space cameras have round lenses, which naturally distort cube-shaped objects into spheres. It’s called the Wrongsworth Effect. I discovered it.”
“That’s not… George, that’s not a thing.”
“I’ll send you the research paper I wrote. In crayon. On a napkin. Very prestigious.”
This was Tuesday. By Friday, George had defended seventeen additional indefensible positions, including his claim that penguins were “just fancy pigeons” and that the word “library” was pronounced “lie-berry” because “books contain lies and they grow on trees, ergo, lie-berry.”
The breaking point came during the disastrous camping trip.
“We should head east,” George declared, pointing confidently toward the setting sun.
“George,” his friend Marcus said gently, “the sun sets in the west.”
“Common misconception,” George replied, already marching toward certain doom. “The sun actually sets wherever I’m not looking. It’s shy. Follow me.”
Three hours later, the group was hopelessly lost. George stood atop a rock, surveying the darkening wilderness with the same unshakeable confidence he’d possessed that morning.
“According to my calculations,” he said, studying his compass upside-down, “we are exactly where we need to be.”
“We’re lost, George,” Sarah said.
“Lost is just another word for ‘exploring with commitment.'”
“We passed that same tree four times.”
“That tree is a government clone. They make thousands of them to confuse hikers. Wake up, sheeple.”
Marcus sat down on a log and looked directly at George. “George. Buddy. What would happen if you just… said you were wrong? Just once. As an experiment.”
George’s eye twitched. “Wrong? Me? I don’t understand the question.”
“Three simple words: ‘I was wrong.'”
“But I’d have to be wrong first, which creates a logical paradox because I’m not wrong, which means—”
“GEORGE.”
The forest fell silent. Even the birds seemed to be watching. George stood there, his mouth opening and closing like a fish that had gotten its degree from the University of Stubborn.
“I…” he began.
Everyone leaned in.
“I… was…”
A squirrel paused mid-scurry.
“I was… wr… wrrr… wr-rong.”
Thunder didn’t crack. The earth didn’t open. Bradley’s body didn’t dissolve into a cloud of ego particles. Instead, something miraculous happened: Marcus pulled out his phone, opened his GPS app, and within fifteen minutes they were back at camp.
“Huh,” Bradley said, staring at the campfire. “That was surprisingly easy.”
“Being wrong?” Sarah asked.
“No, admitting it. Although…” He paused, a dangerous glint returning to his eye. “I was actually right about being wrong, so technically I’m still on my undefeated streak of—”
“BRAD.”
“Fine, fine. I was wrong. There. Happy? It’s actually kind of liberating, in a horrifying, ego-shattering sort of way.”
From that day forward, Bradley P. Wrongsworth III admitted when he was wrong approximately 3% more often, which his friends calculated was an improvement of approximately 3%. He still insisted that Antarctica was “just a hoax invented by Big Penguin,” but Rome wasn’t built in a day, and Bradley’s capacity for self-reflection wasn’t going to be either.
The important thing was that he’d taken the first step on the long journey toward occasionally admitting basic facts about reality.
It was a start.
A wrong start, Bradley would later insist, but a start nonetheless.
Moral: Admitting you’re wrong doesn’t kill you. Not admitting you’re wrong might get you lost in the woods arguing with squirrels about compass orientation. Choose wisely.
