In my teen years, I was briefly friends with a pathological liar. It didn’t take long to realize he lied about everything, and once I understood, his lies became hilarious.

He once told me and another friend that he had tickets to see some band in concert (I think it was The Who). The other friend, who had known this guy longer than I had, started questioning him on the claim:

Other Friend: “Where’d you get the tickets?”

Liar Friend: “John sold them to me.”

OF: “When did John get them?”

LF: “Last week.”

OF: “I talked with John a few days ago, and he didn’t have them.”

LF: “Oh, he paid for them last week, and they just came in yesterday.”

OF: “He told me he couldn’t get them.”

LF: “Well, he figured out a way.”

OF: “He told me he wasn’t even interested, and wasn’t trying to get them.”

LF: “Yeah, he told me someone else who had gotten them. So I went to the other guy.”

OF: “Who?”

LF: “Mark.”

OF: “Mark Harrison?”

LF: “Yeah.”

OF: “Mark doesn’t even like The Who.”

LF: “That’s why he gave me the tickets.”

OF: “Why’d he have tickets in the first place?”

LF: “He got them from his sister.”

On and on. The other friend had done this kind of thing with the liar before, and he could go on and on making the liar fall back and make more lies. And the craziest thing about it was that the lies were completely unnecessary. Sometimes we knew the truth as he was lying to us, and other times we’d know a few days later that he’d been lying. Like with the tickets – in a couple days, we’d know he didn’t go to the concert. And we didn’t care. He didn’t impress any of us. He just had the pathological need to tell a lie.

I’ve only known one other regular liar, and she was just the friend of a friend. I had no regular contact with her, so I never witnessed her lying. But I’m told she told lies to hurt people. She’d stir things up with her friends and enemies just to be mean. I’m glad I’ve never had to deal with such a person.

My lying friend didn’t have an ulterior motive for lying, he just did it. I don’t even think he realized he was lying. And he never gave in, even when someone, like the other friend, pushed back on his lies. That’s a sadly twisted mind. I wonder how he came out as an adult.

Bullgrit
bullgrit@totalbullgrit.com

In my high school days, I waited tables for spending money. One Sunday, a group of ten middle-aged and older men and women came in from their church service. They were all dressed for church—the men in coats and ties, the women in dresses. They had been pleasant and polite, right up until they threw me a curve ball.

Their table was along a wall at the back of the restaurant, so four had their backs to the wall, four were facing the wall, and two were at either end of the table. As usual for a Sunday lunch, the restaurant was packed. When I brought their food, I started with those on the outside and ended with those against the wall. They were not right up on the wall, so there was enough room for me to squeeze behind them to place their meals before them.

As I was setting down the last of the plates, they were deciding who would say the blessing. “So who will say grace, today?” A couple of the men offered to speak, but then the apparent matriarch of the group looked directly at me, catching my eye, and said, “Why don’t you say it for us?”

I had only barely heard what the short discussion was about, as I was placing the last plates and getting ready to leave the table. But when the request clicked in my mind, time slowed down. Every head at the table turned to look at me, and one of the men at the end of the table said, “Yes, that would be nice.”

I was still behind four of the group, between them and the wall. At least one of them would have to shift forward a bit for me to squeeze back out, but no one moved. I was literally trapped. It felt like a full minute passed as I stood there like a deer caught in headlights, and then they all bowed their heads for the prayer.

I’d never been one to say blessing even at my own house. My father or grandfather always did that honor. And here I was just their waiter. For a moment, while their heads were bowed and they were folding their hands in front of them, I thought maybe I could jump out from behind them and slink away. But the whole area was
too crowded for any kind of quick stealth.

It felt like another minute passed, and then the matriarch lifted her head just enough to look up at me again, obviously prompting me to start the blessing.

“Um, . . . God is great, God is good, let us thank in for this food. . .” It was the only thing that came to mind right then.

When I reached the end, they all repeated, “Amen,” and lifted their heads. “That was very nice,” the matriarch said. Then those blocking my escape shifted to let me out, and I left the table as quickly as I could without bolting.

A waitress and the hostess were standing near the kitchen door staring at me. “What did you just do?” the hostess asked.

Red faced, I explained the situation. They both laughed heartily, and I asked the waitress to take over that table for the rest of lunch.

Bullgrit
bullgrit@totalbullgrit.com

I’ve been collecting some funny anecdotes over the past couple years with the intention of sending them to Reader’s Digest. They pay a couple hundred bucks for such, but the process is so black box that it’s not satisfying. You basically just fill out an online form with the anecdote, then click the Submit button. Unless they use the anecdote, you’ll never get feedback about them. And even if they do use them, it may be many months before you hear about it. Hell, if I wanted to post something and never know if someone even read it, I can post to my own blog.

So, here’s the true anecdotes:

* * *

I was needing some meds for a backache after a day of yard work. Looking at the bottles in the medicine cabinet, I asked my wife which I should take: ibuprofen or acetaminophen.

“Ibuprofen is an anti-inflamatory and for pain,” she explained. “Acetaminophen is for fever and pain.”

“So, they’re both for pain?” I asked.

“Yes, but different kinds of pain,” she answered.

“How many different kinds of pain are there,” I asked with just a bit too much attitude.

She paused only a moment, and said, “Come here, I’ll show you.”

* * *

My wife was putting lotion on her leg, and I asked, “You’re putting lotion there?”

“I’ve got a spot of dry skin,” she answered.

Seeing an opportunity to flirt, I said, “You want me to kiss it and make it better?”

Without even looking up at me, she said, “That would just make it more dry.”

* * *

I decided to shave off my mustache and leave my goatee, just to see how it looked. I liked it. My wife did not.

“You look like a character from Star Trek,” she said.

“Cool,” I said.

She shook her head and walked away, mumbling, “I should have known better than to say that to you.”

* * *

I was having difficulty reading an old comic book I’d found in a storage box. I asked my wife to look at the pages.

“I can read it fine,” she said.

“I thought maybe it looked blurry because it was old and getting faded,” I said.

Handing the comic back to me, she said, “It is getting old and faded. But it’s not the book.”

* * *

As we were walking out of a home improvement superstore, my then 4 year old son mentioned the signs on the glass doors. He couldn’t read yet, but he said, “I know what those signs say.”

“What do they say?” I asked without looking back at the doors.

“No bare feet, no animals, and no silverware,” he said.

* * *

I still don’t know how he came up with “no silverware.”

Bullgrit
bullgrit@totalbullgrit.com

The Grocery Boy Jr. is a store on the main parkway in my town. I’ve driven past it at least once every day for the 6 years we’ve lived in this area, but I’ve never been inside it. It’s the size of and has the look of an old convenience store, with a couple or four gas pumps at the side, but its name suggests a more interesting business —something with a local history.

It’s a rather bland building, but that’s how a lot of old mom-and-pop businesses look. It was probably built in the 70s, and I doubt it makes enough money for real renovation or a cosmetic upgrade. I always imagined the stored as owned by an older couple, with their adult son managing the day to day operations. The “Jr.” in the name says that it’s at least the second such store in the family’s chain, but I’ve never seen the original Grocery Boy. Maybe it was in a bad location and eventually closed, or maybe it was in a great location and sold out to a bigger business.

My imagination has really built up the history and significance of the store. I knew the inside must be full of fresh farmer’s market produce—maybe some ripe strawberries, corn still in the shuck, and bright red tomatoes. Probably also a small selection of various grocery store type goods, too. Some stuff that people could walk to this store and pick up without having to drive all the way to a big grocery store—cereal, bread, and cheese.

Although, in this town, there’s a grocery store within a couple miles of any home, the Grocery Boy Jr. was here first, and served the neighborhood well before the big stores arrived. So I resolved to actually go in the store one day. Once I made the resolution, it still took a few days to stop in.

My imagination was much better than the reality. It’s a convenience store. Just like the Amoco and BP stations down the street. It sells the same packaged snacks, soft drinks, lottery tickets, and beer as every other gas station/convenience store. How sadly disappointing and boring. Although, it does sell porn magazines. Good thing I didn’t have the kids with me when I dropped in. But that situation probably would have made for a more interesting post today.

Bullgrit
bullgrit@totalbullgrit.com