TALES FROM THE BARSTOOL
By: Clint Lien

"Bob the Liar"

I know this guy who lies all the time. I'll call him Bob. I've known Bob for years. He's a good friend and a lot of fun to be around, but he's a liar. I've always found it amusing because he's not good at it. After all these years you'd think he'd be proficient at the art of the untruth, but not Bob. His lies are so outrageous and preposterous that no one with an IQ above room temperature could buy into them.

Another friend of mine (I seem to attract dishonest friends) confessed to me that she was guilty of embellishing the truth with increasing frequency and it bothered her that she did it. I'll call her Pamela. Like the drinker who can't put down the bottle, Pamela couldn't help but exaggerate the facts in the hopes of making the story more interesting. In her case she was pretty good at it and usually the stories came off with more color and zing. One year she came up with the most amazing and original Halloween costume I'd ever seen (decency prevents me from describing it here.) Everywhere we went she attracted comments, stares and howls of laughter. At one point in the evening I stayed at my favorite watering hole while she carried on down the strip. We hooked up later and she regaled me with stories surrounding her costume and its effect. She added that she'd won $500 dollars at a bar contest. I didn't doubt the story because I thought it completely likely. The next day she confessed she had, in fact, won $50.00, but that $500 sounded better. I thought so too and whenever I tell anyone about that costume and that night, I usually find myself throwing out the higher number. It just sounds better.

I think everyone, except my father, does that kind of thing now and then, but it was different with "Bob." The thing is, Bob would tell a lie when the truth would do - outrageous lies that no one would ever believe to be true. Despite the sincerity in his voice, no one believed that Bob's father was a hit man for the CIA or that he'd spent four years with the Dalai Lama when he was just a boy. And when we're all sitting around eating Chinese and Bob recounts the seven weeks he was locked up in some sociopath's basement - until he dug his way out with a spoon, no one bats an eye. We listen, eat and drink. The story ends, someone will say something like "Cool," and then move the conversation back to firmer ground. Bob will smile like a kid who just got away with the cookie.

To my knowledge no one has ever called Bob on one of his notorious stories. Probably that's why he keeps them coming. I myself can't imagine the nerve it must take to come up with the doozies this guy throws out there. One day someone will call Bob on his bullshit but the truth is, I don't want to be there. Instead of copping to it, he would probably become indignant and protest his innocence far too much. That would only incite the crowd to greater prosecutorial zeal, and soon everyone would get in on the crusifiction. I could just see it. The members of the mob would throw back their favorite lie and demand to know things like exactly how Bob managed to talk the 747 pilot into altering the scheduled course so that he and a few others could check out some recent flood damage north of Vancouver. It would get ugly. I think when that day comes, poor Bob, after some weak efforts in his own defense, would probably dissolve into a quivering puddle of protoplasm - and that would mean the end of the stories.

I have no desire to crush Bob like that, but I would like to know why he feels compelled to tell such fantastic tales. I can understand Pamela, and the rest of us who tell our little white lies, but with Bob I'm completely stymied. Maybe there's an expert out there who can cast some light on the situation. In the meantime I'll just sit back and enjoy the never-ending hyperbolic stream that runs from his mouth.

I'd have more to say on the matter but I have a date with Uma Thurman and must run.

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