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Thursday, 14 April
Lies, Lies, Lies, Yeah

This is simply a very abbreviated document of some of the various lies I have told over my current lifespan. I have rated them, and I admit that these ratings are wholly subjective, but I think it's interesting to note the "Flowers for Algernon" arc that they take in terms of how they started out just terminally dumb, then got slightly more sophisticated, and then just got dumb again. Great. I have a bright future.

---

[Youngster]

Father: Did you lock the chicken coop?

(Pause.)

Skot: Yes.

(Several chickens get murdered by animals.)

Rating: 0.1

---

[High School]

Skot: The car was parked at the supermarket. I guess someone ran into it. I didn't see who!

Mom: Really?

Skot: I swear to God!

Mom: Lynn already called to say you ran into her car.

[Silence.]

Rating: 2.0, because it's just so stupid.

---

[Skot and his Girlfriend are, horribly, groping each other in the back of his heroic Chevy Monza, possibly the worst car ever. Girlfriend, it should be noted, is six feet tall. Also, Depeche Mode's Black Celebration is playing, which is great fuck-music, assuming that one has no will to live.]

Skot: Muh!

Girlfriend (helplessly kicking at everything in the car): Fur!

Skot: Lip!

Girlfriend: Uh . . . do you have . . . protection?

(Pause.)

Skot: Yes.

Girlfriend: Oh, good.

(Interminable silence. Finally:)

Girlfriend: You don't.

(Interminable silence. Finally:)

Skot: No.

[End of date. She ended up being caught by her Dad anyway.]

Rating: 2.5, if only for audacity.

---

(College. The Capitol Market was known for its extremely lax ID checks. I was nineteen and trying to buy a case of beer.)

Store guy: Can I see some ID?

Skot: Sure! (I hand him my very real driver's license.)

Store guy: This says you were born in '69.

Skot: (Slight pause, then half-belligerently) Yeah. '69, '79, '87 . . . sounds like twenty-one to me! Do the math!

The guy pondered this bit of horseshit for a moment before ringing me up. It was, perhaps, my finest hour.

Rating: 8.6

---

Skot, to his future wife, God help her: I think you should come home with me.

Future Wife: I'd better not. I'd better go home.

Skot: But it's my birthday!

Rating: This is in the Kelvin range.

---

(Now:)

Friend: I hope you can come see my [awful] show.

Skot: I wouldn't miss it for anything.

(Later.)

Wife: Do you want to go see that awful show?

Skot: I would pay money to miss it.

Wife: Thank God.

Rating: 10.



Note: Comments are closed on old entries.

Comments

"But it's my birthday!!" should enter everyone's lexicon.

Comment number: 005210   Posted by: Steve on April 14, 2005 05:05 AM from IP: 69.215.232.182

Oh dear. *wipes tears from eyes* Thank you, Skot.

Comment number: 005211   Posted by: Dave Adams on April 14, 2005 07:26 AM from IP: 146.7.42.75

Don't knock the Chevy Monzas, man. We had two of them - Mom's was burgundy, Dad's was Silver. Dad's played Clapton and Chicago and Mom's played Doobie Brothers and Kenny Loggins.
ALL the kids wanted a ride home in my parents' car.

Of course this was in Amishville, Indiana, but I take my props where I can.

Comment number: 005212   Posted by: dayment on April 14, 2005 03:00 PM from IP: 64.105.86.146

I learned to drive stick shift on my dad's '79 Chevy Monza. Pushing that clutch down was a workout! It's also the reason that 16 years later, my left calf still fits into knee high boots a lot snugger than my right calf.

Comment number: 005213   Posted by: Mickey on April 14, 2005 07:32 PM from IP: 65.1.97.75

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