On Boys and Their Wolf-Crying Ways...

Ok, the cat is out of the bag (but I’ll be damned if I know who put it in there).

My co-workers seem to have realized that I have a slight tendency to exaggerate. For example, if someone asks me how long I was waiting for a ride, I might say, "An hour and a half," where I probably should have said, "Three minutes." And no one can ever guess my age, so I usually say something like, "42" just to see what happens (believe me, that's backfired a few times).

But really, you can’t blame me. After all, when you get a post-graduate degree, all you’ve basically proven is that you’re a better bullshitter than most (For example, I would often nod my head thoughtfully and say, "Oh yes, Queen’s University has a great English Department, very inspiring.") So I'm fully trained in the art of Bullshit. By the end of a Masters degree in English Lit. you’re writing 30-some pages of Bullshit about some subject that you don’t give a rat’s ass about every time. They should call it an M-BS.

So, one of my co-workers recently said, "As if we can trust you Dave, you always lie." Now, she must have been kidding around, because I’m no liar. I’m a bullshitter. The differences are subtle. For one, if I carry on about some bullshit story, I always fess-up a few moments after the laughs. Liars are out to convince… not me, I’m out for the laughs. And secondly, I usually stretch the story so far that it can’t even be feasible. My technique usually starts with the truth, and then begins to veer into the plausible, and then careens off into wacky-land.

So, some may warn that I should be careful, because I might become "the little boy who cried Wolf." But I think it would be more appropriate to call me "the little boy who cried Apache attack helicopters launching rocket-propelled Moose with laser-beam vision."