Lies, Damn Lies, But No Statistics

Posted on October 26, 2010

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DISCLAIMER: The following piece has been authored by C-Murda.  Its contents may, or may not, offend you.  Please utilize discretion when reading and contemplating taking anything written to heart.  Thank you:

We’ve all done it.  Some in greater frequency then others.  Some regarding absurd topics, gargantuan even, in nature.  Still others by omission.  One sex doesn’t own a monopoly on it any more then the other (although in my experience it’s the females who do it more).  In either case, within the past few years I have slowly begun to come to the realization that it actually doesn’t help out as much as I initially thought to tell a lie.  As a teenager I would have said, and did say, literally anything and everything to hook-up.  The over/under on L-bombs alone from age 15-20 would be easily placed at 926.  Some lies worked, most didn’t, but they still flew out of my mouth a rate even a hooker would respect.

Like most people, I’ve been on both ends of a lie and on both ends of the ramifications they usually entail.  Take for example one trip to Morgantown with BJC to visit a certain soccer player turned sailor during our youth.  For some unknown reason, or maybe it’s just the people from that fine institution of (allegedly) higher learning, we convince a bar that BJC was the lead singer of Puddle of Mudd (thank Jewness he changed up that look or else he may still be tagging along on my dates trolling for loose ends while I blackout).  It was obviously a blatant lie and yet it worked for some time.  We were behind the bar passing out bottles, unbeknownst to us, foreshadowing our very lives in B-town.  Since we always have been a class act, after every shot BJC took, he would slam the living shit out of the shot glass back down on the bar while I ordered like 4 pitchers at once.  Of course one finally broke and cut him causing him to leak all over the place, which made the felt on the pool table look like Seth’s jeans in Superbad after grinding with the chick who was having her period.  Fast forward to me being tossed around like a Raggedy-Andy doll in a steel cage match by the bouncer leaving me with the scar above my left eye. Mr. Chappelle speaks the gospel, ” when keeping it real goes wrong” and I kept it real, and shit went wrong.  Did I tell the truth when asked by a chick “what happened?” Usually not.  I had a solid back up story about the “truth” from that evening involving how “chivalry isn’t dead, it’s just in hibernation” and how I went to defend a broad’s honor and so on and so forth.  All you really have to do is just tell a story right.  It’s funny how one lie to get drunk and laid turns into another and on and on.  It is a vicious cycle.  However, the past 30 months or so I realized I’m not a very good liar to begin with.  It takes more effort to think shit up and then remember who you told what to, then to be truthful from the get-go.  On top of that, between my “over intoxications,” my kamikaze approach to females and the law of averages that I champion, I never have any clue who are friends and which angle is in play where.  I have attempted to take the high road and had some surprising success.

The clincher occurred when I hung out with “Arkansas” whom I recently met.  We had gone out once or maybe twice before and it was time to decide if I was going to keep her in the rotation.  No big deal, I’ll figure it out in the morning.  Since we were downtown, I assumed we wouldn’t come back to my spot.  I came to the wrong conclusion.  I felt like Shooter McGavin’s caddy when I made that that suggestion…… “5 iron, well, you’re fired.”  We made our way through the seemingly endless number of beer cans and clothes strewn all about the room, when she cried out “eeeeewww”.  Before the light is even on she asked if I had a used condom on the floor.  She had stepped on it barefoot.  I thought for sure my 5 iron call was gonna cost me and I’d be on my way straight to masterbationville.  Then because of a combination of being too drunk to sort through the roll-a-dex of excuses in my mind and realizing any futile effort ahead would ultimately fail, I just go with the truth about the night before.  Arkansas was shocked.  All geared up to shoot down my lie, she wasn’t ready for an honest answer.  Oh and yes she still stayed the night.

Did I just have a Fletcher Reede epiphany?   Will this truth thing actually set me free?  I have no inclination on how long it will last and am certain I will most assuredly lie again.  Maybe I’ve been doing it wrong.  Maybe I’m missing something all together.  Maybe writing this will trigger me to hone my skill set, but the work being put in no longer seems worthwhile.  Don’t get me wrong, I BARELY respect females at this juncture in my life, but when lying again, a difference there will be.  I suspect it will be more for sport and a good natured laugh at a drunk broad’s expense, rather then a means to an end.  Even if I do revert back to outlandish falsehoods with bar skanks, I do so with knowledge that I had my Little Giants “1 time in a 100” moment when I took my first baby steps.  So the next time you go out traversing the city to wrangle snootch or play “tourist” in D.C., just so girls know it’s a one night freebee to smash before you “leave town,” remember it’s just as easy to get laid without a lie and ten times easier on your memory.

postscript:

Unless you’re bored, in a slump or have zero game, then f**k it.  All is fair in love, lust and war.  Happy hunting

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