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This is a question Pathological Liars

Friz writes, "I recently busted my mate who claimed to have 'supported the Kaiser Chiefs in 2001' by gently mentioning that they weren't even called that back then."

Some people seem to lead complete fantasy lives with lies stacked on lies stacked on more lies. Tell us about the ones you've met.

BTW, if any of you want to admit to making up all your QOTW stories, now would be a good time to do it.

(, Thu 29 Nov 2007, 12:17)
Pages: Latest, 19, 18, 17, 16, 15, ... 1

This question is now closed.

Seats on the Tube
First some background.

A few years ago, I came off my motorbike and ripped a chunk out of my knee. All superficial damage, but it left a rather nasty scar.

For the strong of stomach, here's a before picture before they stitched it up.

www.theedgeofmadness.com/before.jpg

And an after

www.theedgeofmadness.com/after.jpg

(If anyone is really desperate I can take a 5 year after picture sometime this weekend. It's just a 15 inch long, 2 inch wide curving scar on my knee).

Now it's purely cosmetic, itches slightly sometimes, but no damage to the knee at all. I'm in no pain, can stand, walk run etc 100% fine.

Anyway, I hate standing on the tube. And when I get on, I'll rush past anyone to sit down. (Well almost anyone, the extremely old (past 70), the pregnant and those on crutches I'll give up my seat).

So one day, I'm standing in my usual spot, and I see a middle aged woman getting ready to get on. And I can see it in her eyes, we're going to have a race here.

Get on the tube. There's a seat closer to me. The other woman goes for it. I beat her there by about 2 seconds.

She turns and stares at me. Then starts muttering under her breath. Now there is nothing physically wrong with this woman, she just ran for a seat. She's just as lazy as me.

Without saying a word, and with her staring at me and the other commuters glancing over, I roll up my jeans leg to reveal the nasty scar.

The woman starts to blush. And if I left it at that, it would have been enough. But I couldn't resist being a complete and utter cunt.

"I got that defending my country for ungrateful cows like you!"

(Note, the closest I have been to being in the army is Paintball, so I'm now being a lying bastard of the highest degree). Half the carriage now started to stare at this poor woman, who turned bright red, and bailed down to the next carriage at the next stop.

Yep I'm a lying bastard, but don't get in between me and a tube seat.
(, Thu 29 Nov 2007, 15:52, 6 replies)
I'm a liar
I'm always lying, even when it is unnecessary.

I'm told that when I was 5 I was asked why there was half a chocolate cake missing from the fridge.

"fridge birds", I said, and left it at that.
(, Thu 29 Nov 2007, 17:22, 6 replies)
Totally off Topic.
Right.
Recently you all seemed to have a laugh at poor little me, bunged up to the eyeball with peanuts.

Recently I've been cooped up with "Vinterkräkssjukan" Literally translated to "winter vomit illness". Yes, That's right: Besides having Saunas, Volvos and Suicide as national passtimes, Swedes also have a traditional winter illness that causes you to hoy your guts up. It's tradition: one must comply.

So. Sat at home with a sore throat I've got an empty fridge. No more milk, the bread is out, the butter went two days ago, and to cap it off I'm out of coffee beans. Last night I rounded up my spare change and togged up to brave the vile weather.

You know how it is: you're ill, you're feeling sorry for yourself and you drift around the supermarket in your own fuzzy world. I treated myself. I found Dates and Figs, and the coconuts were on offer - 2 for 16Kr - very resonable. upon reaching the checkout I noticed I'd forgotten to get bread, but who fucking cared, I had dates.

Half an hour later, giggling like a happy mong and sipping whisky I raised the hammer and whalloped the freshly drained coconut. YAY!!! I rekon there's stilla small bit under the sofa somewhere... no bother. I like dried coconut too.

A couple of determined knife-wielding Tongue-out-of-the-corner-of-mouth minutes later I had a bowl of BIG coconut chunks. More joy than I'd had for days as, with a bowl of dates, Figs and coconut I sat with a Fondu fork infront of the TV and chilled. If you've neglected to eat coconut since you were kid, go do it. Its excellent.

A good while later, and a few minutes into the umpteenth episode of South-Park, Ms Humpty rang to ask if I was feeling better. "Yep, I've got me some Coconut" I said, my grin most likely audible over the phone as - fiening sophistication - I skewered the last bit and chomped loudly on it to prove my point.
"Be careful with coconut baby, It's a laxative"

*Humpty mentally replays the last hours of dietry idiocy*

Fuck.

Double Fuck.

I surveyed the bowl. No dates. No figs... the only testament to my sugar-laden dried-fruit feast was a pile of date stones and the bit you bite off the figs. Not cool. Dried Fruit... Life flashes before you at these moments, and I then recalled my grandmother eating 3 prunes at breakfast time to ensure she crapped....

You know the bit in films when - sporting a face of pure horror - people back slowly away from the evil creature? ... Good. Ever seen anyone try to back away from their own ass? That was me: about 24 hours ago. Evidently I failed to get away.

I now have an ass that is the anotomical equivalent of Sarajevo, My bathroom is a warzone, and I've run out of toilet paper: When the day started I had 2 rolls left. I think it's over now, but by God it was a rough ride.

Things to eat in moderation
Figs
Dates
Coconut
Peanuts.

As you start your festive season, I suggest you follow my advice. The result of failing to do so will end with liquid going though your anus in one direction or the other.

It's hard to measure the length of liquid: especially when it's going that fast.
(, Wed 5 Dec 2007, 13:54, 8 replies)
Bi-lingual? Tri-lingual? Quad-lingual? Keep trying...
My dad never had any time for religion. But he still didn't like being rude when various god-botherers stopped bothering their (g/G)od and came bothering him instead. Before WW2, he'd been in the Egyptian police, so he spoke Arabic like a native. He'd been in France and Germany and spoke both those languages pretty well too. He'd picked up bits and pieces in his travels, some Hindi in India and god-knows what in Burma, and amongst the Gurkhas (Nepalese/Gurkhali). Perhaps not good enough to make dinner-party conversation about politics, but enough to get by on a daily basis and command a troop of Gurkhas. He also 'spoke' some very basic sign language, and knew the British sign alphabet.

So one day there's a knock at the door, and when he answers it, there's two guys there, who immediately kick off in american accents, so I reckon they had to be Mormons. My dad stands there for a few seconds, then says in French: "I'm sorry, I don't speak any English." Well, Mormon no.1 looks at him, and starts struggling to reply in halting schoolboy French.

"Oh dear," says my dad in fluent German, "I'm sorry, I don't speak French either.". Mormon 2 starts in with some German (got to give 'em credit, the poor sods were trying real hard to save his irredeemable ass).

"No, sorry," says my dad in flawless Arabic, "German's no good either. Maybe you should try another house?" At which point the god-botherers spot me behind my dad in the hallway. "Excuse me, sonny, but do you speak English? We're trying to talk to your dad about Jesus.".

Dad turns, sees me, and starts signing to me. "No, no," he says, in what he later assured me was Hindi, "the boy's deaf and dumb - can't hear a word you're saying. - not right in the head, the poor lamb." Meanwhile, I've heard the J-word, so I've sussed what's going on and am keeping quiet.

At this point, the guys figure out they're not getting a straight answer, and it's time to cut their losses. "We'll be going now. Sorry to have bothered you." they say in that way people do when they're talking to the elderly and insane.

They'd turned away by this point, so I couldn't actually see their faces when my dad closed the door, saying "Not at all, old chap, good day to you!" in his best BBC english accent, but damn I'd have paid serious money to have done so.
(, Sun 2 Dec 2007, 2:35, 1 reply)
"Harry Faker"
My Dad recently retired from teaching at a private Prep. School (ages 6-13 for those unfamiliar with the system) He was the head of the French department, and had an un-blemished record of getting his students through scholarships and the like.

The school itself is in a sleepy little village in Shropshire and is attended by the children of people who have *big* money. People who - on sports day - will turn up in their helicopter to pick the kids up. Names like DeFerranti, DeLiupis and so on were the norm, as were ferraris and - in the case of one Nigerian Prince (I kid you not) - a fleet or Rollers and body-guards.

Dad had been there for Eons it seemed, and had watched PC, Health and Safety and the Children's Act take all the fun from teaching. Handing out exercise books was always a speciality: he could throw them at people's desks from accross the room with pin-point accuracy, and only rarely did he miss the desk. If the books had been left open overnight on the freshly marked page, more often than not they'd land and then open: in the latter years he dreaded the effect of little Tarquin or Flora getting a paper-cut: the fun had to stop.

It had been the small things like this made him enjoy teaching: it wasn't the language or the success, but more the "being looked up to" by the kids. This - as any modern teacher will tell you - is slowly draining away.

******************************

Christmas at that school had a Tradition: the Christmas Meal. This was the one time when dishing out the food was done by the teachers and ALL the clearing up was left to the staff. The kids loved it, the Teachers hated it, yet they managed to fight through the meal with steely determination. My Dad however had a little Christmas Tradition of his own: Each question he was asked during this meal would be answered with a bare-faced lie: this is where it really all started.

"Thir, thir, How many turkieth doth it take to feed the whole thkool thir?"

"Well, Did you see the JCB in the school yard Two days ago?"

*Chorus of "Yeth Thir"*

"That was knocking a hole in the kitchen wall to bring in the Industrial Ovens from Domindo Tool-Hire"

"Reaaallly Thir? What For?"

"Well, You've heard about GM foods and Geneticly Modified animals yes?"

*Another chorus of "yeth"*

"Well, They've recently managed to make turkies with 100 wings and 80 legs. So, Naturally the School only needs Three of these Turkies to feed us all: They have one oven each because they're so huge and it takes 2 days to cook them."

"Thir, Why has it only got 80 legs?"

"Ahh.. Well the legs need to move to allow it to swim so they bred them to have twenty less legs than wings and the... Yes Joshua?"

"But, Thir, turkieth don't thwim"

"No, not usually, but these ones were crossed with octopi to get the genes needed to get them to grow more than one leg. It crossed over to the wing side of things too, and that's the way you get so many bits.. but they have be supported in liquid to support their weight. Besides, it's only the top head that needs to be able to breath"

"Top Head thar?"

"Yes Terrance, the Top head. The others are around the edges, I think they have 6 in total, but the others drink the liquid that they float in: Again, inherrited from the octopi genes. They managed to adapt the liquid to hold all the nutrients a growing "turktopus" needs, and even managed to make the ink-glands produce soy sauce!!"

"REALLY THIR???"

"Absoloutely. And you know what else?...."

He'd carry on until someone at the table found one point to be a little too tough to digest, and then he'd set about proving it, before switching subject.

**********************

His favourite on-the-spot story was the Shepherd's Pie one: though not a Christmas one. This was levelled at one of the older classes with slightly more world knowledge....

"Saar, Saar, Why is shepherd's pie called "Shepherd's Pie" Sar?"

"Ahh. Well Now. Have you noticed how you've only started getting it recently, and you used to get cottage pie?"

"Yes Sar"

"Well, Shepherd's pie is relatively new. It all started when the Russians messed up and Chernobyl and caused radioactive fallout to poison all the sheep in the area... you all know about Chernobyl don't you?"

*Chorus of agreement and general brief discussion*

"Weeeel, All the sheep died from radiation poisoning, and suddenly there were no need for all the shepherds. Russia was in need of food - they couldn't eat the sheep- and so all the Shepherds were rounded up, Shot and fed to the people as minced meat"

*General noises of disgust as plates are pushed away*

"No no no, That's not what you're eating. What you're eating is made by Findus. Findus and McCains have huge factory ships and since the late 80's have been using them in the Fjords of Norway during the lulls in fishing seasons. Acid Rain has caused massive de-forestation in Norway, and this has killed all the pine trees that Norway is famed for"

*Brief discussion about acid rain*

"Now in Norway there's a special type of sheep ... Yes Laurence, That is the kind of sheep that gives us polyester wool ... and these sheep live under the trees and feed on the moss and lichen that grows on the ground. The Shepherds would sit happily and watch the sheep day and night, and due to the large amount of wolves in Norway, there were nearly one shepherd to only five sheep. All of this has come to an end: since the acid rain killed all the trees, the lichen has become covered with old pine needles, and baked in the direct sunlight. In a matter of weeks the sheep were dead, and suddenly there were literally thousands of unemployed shepherds roaming wild on the shores of the Norwegian Fjords."

"What did they Do to survive thir?"

"Well, Norwegians are able to swim very well, and they quickly learned to eat fish that they'd caught, but the fish stocks were being terribly depleted: This is when the Norwegian government made a deal with Findus and McCains. For the last four years, The factory ships have been moored on one side of a Fjord, and the workers from the ships have release packs of German Shepherd Dogs on the other. These dogs - as the name suggests - are especially bred .... yes Jennifer, I know your Corgis are specially bred too.... are especially bred to herd shepherds. The dogs herd the enemployed Shepherds onto the factory ships and - when full - the ships set sail for England".

"But Thar, What happens to the Shepherds??"

"They're usually shot - very painless - and then processed, cooked and frozen, and offloaded when the ship Docks in England. Som instead of the nasty Russian version, this is quality Norwegian Shepherd's pie.... Now... Who wants more?"

Pathological? No.
Genius? I'd like to think so: I still look up to him for his ability to seamlessly blend fact into fiction.
(, Fri 30 Nov 2007, 9:05, 8 replies)
my first (and only) published work...
I went to a school that had a kid's newspaper delivered daily... and in there was an "agony aunt" section. It provided us with much amusement.

I got bored one day and penned a little letter and sent it off.. the next week it was printed. I was overjoyed.

"Dear Sally,
I'm 13 years old now, and many of my friends have already got their periods. Some of them have been having them for 2 years!
I feel stupid asking this, but is there anything wrong with me?

Yours sincerely,

Micheal"

(, Wed 5 Dec 2007, 22:13, 6 replies)
Pony Girl
My boyfriend and his best mate managed to convince the mate's little sister, aboout 8 at the time, that when she reached the grand old age of 10 she would have the opportunity to choose whether she wished to spend her remaining years as a human or a horse.

She couldn't wait to become a horse, and was devastated when she remained human and realised that you should never trust an elder sibling, as they are all bastards.
(, Sat 1 Dec 2007, 18:53, 3 replies)
Have A Rant
Homeopathy.

People who practise this or market this or sell homeopathic medicines are either pathological liars or so self-deluded that they should be locked away for the publics saftey.

Homeopathy doesn't work. It's Junk-Science, bad science and it's right up there with voodoo, witchcraft and faith-healing. (And before anyone jumps in with "it works for me", so does witchcraft and faith healing)

Have any of you believers actually looked at what homeopathy actually is? It's rules, laws and principles? They're fucking laughable.

The first, and most important principle of homeopathy is "The Law Of Similars". This says that "like cures like". So if you have a set of symptoms, say a headache, then something that, in a healthy person will produce a headache, then thats what will cure your headache.

The rational behind this is that the body will not allow two identical diseases or imbalances and that by introducing an artificial set of symptoms, this will somehow "push out" the bad symptoms and you'll be cured.

Of course, it's a little more complicated, because the remedy or homeopathic dose has to be diluted. And it is. It's diluted by placing the remedy, let's say Ducks Liver, a common homeopathic substance, (apt for quackery) into a solution of water. 1 part duck to 100 parts water. Then it's shaken up and down ten times (the magic number). Then shaken side to side ten times, then backwards and forwards ten times. (I'm sure there should be some chanting here. Something like "hubble-bubble, toil and trouble..). And there you have a first dilution. But that's still too strong. So it goes through another dilution. One part diluted duck to 100 parts water. This is called succession. And it's a succession in the C scale.

Anyway, this dilution goes on and on and has a scale. A 1C is the first dilution. A 2C is the second and so on and so on. The founder of homeopathy reccomnds a 30C dilution for most ailments. Think about that. That's a dilution of 10 to the power 60. 10 with 60 zeros after it. To give you an idea of scale, 1ml of a solution which has gone through a 30C dilution would have been diluted into a volume of water equal to that of a cube of 1,000,000,000,000,000,000 meters per side, or about 106 light years.

Let's put it another way. If you take a 30C homeopahtic remedy that claims an active ingrediant of Ducks Liver and subjected that to the best chemical analysis possible, and let's throw in physical analysis using the most powerful electron microscope available, you wouldn't find a single molecule, a single atom of Ducks Liver. Why? Because it doesn't fucking contain any.

So don't claim homeopathy is a science or deserves to be treated as a form of medicine because it isn't. It's faith-healing. And anyone who claims differently is a fucking liar.

Cheers
(, Sat 1 Dec 2007, 1:00, 17 replies)
Here We go...
I live in Sweden.

And while the majority of IQ-related blonde stereotypes are truly blown out of the water here, you occasionally meet a winner.

I will on occasion - in the time-honoured tradition of a story-teller - take someone elses' story and re-tell it. This has given me hours of entertainment while feeding vacuous bimbos outrageous un-truths.

While most lies told to bimbos are of the "I'm hung like a horse and have no diseases" nature, I have no intention of bedding them as I'm not interested in brain-dead boxes of assorted creams. I like my lasses to be intelligent and with a sultry smile and a gleam in the eye.... I digress.

My usual pub-haunt is a well known Irish bar in Malmö. The Pub is by no means a meat-market, but "english men" (try not to laugh) are considered "exotic" in Sweden. We're known to be good lovers and apparently appreciate the "Nordic Form" better than Swedish men do. We have - if you'll pardon the crudeness - a Season-Ticket to the cock-wash.

A friend and I regularly prop up the wall while the other absentmindedly treats the darts board and surrounding furniture to some neolithic acupuncture. The regulars might be sat drinking quietly, and a few might be watching TV, and then there's us: Two Rock-climbers, talking english and throwing darts. We tend to draw the attention of the curious and the horny. We offer no complaint, but every now and then I have to play wingman and deal with the "bimbo" in a duo of girls.

I play with rumours of english culture... I don't enjoy footbal per say... "I just go for the fighting"
I also say I want to bring my kids up in the UK so that I'll be allowed to Beat them.

I even once managed to convince a lass that English people only inherrit their family name until they get a job: At which point their name is changed to the job title. My first job - for example - was working in a Bakery... hence my surname being "Baker"... i explained that Until I was 12 (I got the job at 13 like most other english people do) I was called SensibleNick Fitz-Windsor the 3rd.

Current favourite Bimbo-fired amusement is to use and old gem that I may have first read here.
"What do you do for a living?"
"Well, I'm a naturalist by trade, but I'm currently on sebatical" (words like "sebatical" seem to confuse drunk Scandinavian bimbos and make them believe you)
"Oooh... so, What are you doing before you go on Seba-tickle?"
"I worked for an Antarctic climate review panel, as a penguin-righter".
"A what?"
"A Penguin-Righter: you see, I'd go with the scientists as they flew around in their helicopters, and we'd record the positions of groups of penguins we flew over. Once we'd landed and the scientists started to do their tests, it'd be my job to put no the CrossCountry Skis, and go back to the penguins and put them back on their feet".
"But why did they fall over?"
"Well, there are no other big birds in Antarctica so the penguins never see things go over them... so when a Helicopter flies over them, they look up, and up and then fall over backwards as they try to follow the helicopter's path through the sky... And as we all know.. Penguins don't have knees, so they can's stand themselves up again: That's where I come in...."



The list goes on. My Father taught me well =)
(, Mon 3 Dec 2007, 14:45, 5 replies)
He probably only wanted to fit in…
In this short time of the QOTW opening, we’ve already has multiple stories of the kind of nob-rots who insist that whatever you have, they have two of them, that are twice as good as yours, and cost half the price. God I hate them…and I know fucking hundreds of them (ok then, maybe about a dozen).

When I was at school, there was one of these such ball-aches called Nathan. In our circle of friends he was the well known first-class exponent of spouting unadulterated one-upmanship bollocks. Our tolerance for his bullshit would depend on the lies themselves.

His ‘Oh yeah, I’ve got a ZX Spectrum, a Commodore 64 AND and Amstrad…but I can’t buy any games ‘cos my dad uses them for work’, would be greeted with a tut and an ‘oh dear’; however, his ‘I’ve got a 50 speed mountain bike that cost 12 Grand and is made out of graphite so it’s so light that if I didn’t chain it up it would float away’ would be greeted with a unanimous ‘FFS’.

In the presence of a larger audience (particularly including girls), Nathan’s porkies would swell and mutate before our helpless ears until we were all devoured under his metaphorical quicksand of uberwank. He just couldn’t help himself.

We were about the age when we were being allowed to go to concerts unsupervised. Of course, if anybody amongst us was lucky enough to go to one, Nathan had been too, he had the best seats in the house, met the band afterwards, went to the aftershow party, where they signed all his records and he could help himself to the pick of the groupies etc etc blah blah. Of course, any specific details of the gig were a bit sketchy because he ‘was soooo pissed man!’.

A couple of mates and I had a few gigs lined up over a period of a month or so. We had saved up bloody hard for the tickets. Unlike Nathan, who was a heavy metal fan, we were big fans of the bands concerned (The Cure etc)and all looking forward to them. Suffice to say it was pretty much always the topic of conversation when we all got together.

Up steps Nathan with a pretend interest: ‘Oh yeah, I’m going to ALL of those gigs…’course it won’t be as good as when I was guest of honour at Live Aid etc etc’ (please note the irony that I am now lying about the actual lies I was told because I can’t specifically remember…Anyhoo).

Now here’s where he had crossed the line. I wish I had thought of the idea…but it was a mate of mine…with a sly wink in my direction he says to Nathan:

“Have you got tickets to the Jimi Hendrix gig next month?”

Nathan, using that almost Jedi-like sense that all Billy Bullshitters have, half realised something was wrong: “Ermmmm” he said. You could see the cogs going round in his head – Jimi Hendrix was dead wasn’t he? Was he? What could this lad be talking about? Why mention a gig? There’s gotta be something going on...”Ermmmm”

Sussing that I had a chance to blast the bastard wide open, I jumped in.

Me: “Oh I have. I reckon it’s gonna be the gig of the year…you know…considering the circumstances.”

At this point Nathan makes his choice, takes a deep breath and says:

“Ermmm no, not yet”

‘Fucksocks’ I thought to myself, hoping that he would fall straight into our trap and we could take the piss like the relentless bastards we were.

However, that didn’t stop us telling all of our friends and the rest of our class about how we ‘nearly’ exposed Nathan as the blag-happy, bollocks-spouting clag-nut that we all knew he was.

But happy fate was to deal us a hand.

The next morning we were all sat around with that knackered-out hush just before our first lesson when in bounds Nathan.

With a shit-eating grin, he proudly announces before a 30-strong class:

“Hey everybody! I was on the phone all night to the booking office…but I finally got my tickets to see Jimi Hendrix LIVE!!!”

Cue a stunned, mouth-open few seconds of silence….then:

“HAAAAAAAAAAHAAAAAAAAHAAAAAAAHAAAAAHAAAAAAAAA” Screamed the whole class. “NATHAN YOU TOTAL BULLSHITTING WANKER, HE’S BEEN DEAD FOR YEARS”

At this point, Nathan starts to fill up. Bright red and sniffing, he desperately tries to dig his way out of the hole by declaring “Oh…yeah….I knew that…I had you all going, didn’t I? a-hurr-hurr”

But his game was up. I’d like to think that even now, if that twat thinks twice before spinning his fibs in future, then that day would have had something to do with it.
(, Thu 29 Nov 2007, 14:30, 5 replies)
Students
Most of my contact with liars comes in the form of students passing off others' work as their own. A particular favourite was a student who produced a couple of paragraphs that I was sure she hadn't written. There were three reasons for my certainty:
1. I had recommended the paper she ripped off.
2. I had sent her a .pdf of the paper she ripped off.
3. I had written the paper she ripped off.

D'uh!
(, Thu 29 Nov 2007, 12:45, 2 replies)
Post Office
I used to work at a fantastic local pub in a quiet street in suburban London. It was about five minutes away from anything anyone could possibly want; shopping centre, local business, office, so it's evenings were packed and the pub made good money, but was still a locals establishment with a great stock of characters.

The best of them was it's own Manager. He would lie about anything, since his job was to sit, drink and entertain anyone with his enormous collection of enormous stories.

Because some of his stories were credible, Phil Taylor had challenged him to a game of darts - I've seen pictures, celebs from Eastenders have been regulars in the pub quiz - my eyes have seen it, it gave him the upper hand in the game of lying.

I worked there for about a year and a half or so, pretty much constantly. I'd work a couple of nights a week, as well as opening up during the days. Over that time I learnt the unspoken rule.

If he said he was going to the Post Office, that meant he was off to shag his bird and we should cover for him when the wife came home. I don't know whether he expected us to tell his wife that exact reason, because he would disappear for hours, sometimes out for the whole day. We joked with the punters, who said there must have been a pub in Newcastle called 'the Post Office'. Sometimes he'd mix up the routine and say the Dry Cleaners instead, but quickly dropped it when he came back empty handed.

I remember my favourite night at that pub. The boss had disappeared at lunch, I finished early, stayed there drinking, and had a couple after hours with the other staff. We were just finishing the last inches when Boss came staggering through the door, in boxers with his trousers draped over his arm, cigar to top it off.

There was a pause, he looked at us slightly confused, his brain taking its time processing the situation. Finally he shrugged and muttered the magic words "Post Office."
(, Sat 1 Dec 2007, 23:01, Reply)
Proxy story: Going to New York
A chap I used to know used to tell the story about how one morning as a young lad his dad got him out of bed dead early because "We're going to visit New York!"

He ran down stairs and had breakfast on a wave of excitement, and his old dad took him along to the pier where they got on a boat and - true to his word - visited New York for the day.

It was not until the following Monday when he hold all his mates at school about his New York adventure that the awful truth had dawned.

He lived on the Wirral. His dad had taken him across the Mersey to Liverpool, where they'd done a bit of shopping. He hated his dad.
(, Thu 29 Nov 2007, 16:06, Reply)
Not a habitual liar, but definitely in a world of his own.
A very good friend of mine is a fellow I affectionately refer to as my mad artist friend, as that sums him up quite well. He's very talented- I've seen his sculpture and his paintings- as well as phenomenally intelligent. He can play chess like no one else I've seen, knows more about computers than anyone else I know, and has a memory that's truly frightening in its depth and accuracy- he can tell you, off the top of his head, the serial number of a copy of Windows 2000 he got as a bootleg, and can list the minor characters in Norse mythology in the next breath.

He's also madder than a box of frogs, lives in a basement apartment, chain smokes and lives on frozen pizza, Doritos and Diet Coke.

I've witnessed him telling the most outrageous bullshit to people, and because he's so brilliant he can almost always get people to believe him. He talks at machine gun speed, and always reminds me of Tom Waits' character in "Mystery Men", the mad inventor living in the abandoned carnival, because of his ability to weave in a lot of technical speak until you have no idea what the fuck he's talking about.

Anyway, he had a girlfriend who was also an artist of sorts, although her talents were considerably lesser than his. Apparently one day she showed him the painting she had just completed, and he was complimenting her on it profusely. So when she asked him to frame it for her, he agreed readily.

"Yeah, just go to Lowe's [a national hardware and lumber chain in the US] and get some wood for it. But don't get pine or some other crap wood like that- we need something special to make the frame. Go to the lumber department and ask the guys there if they have morning wood."

She returned a half hour later and started beating him.
(, Mon 3 Dec 2007, 17:34, 2 replies)
A year ago I celebrated my 21st birthday
by throwing a party. There was a guy there who was a right porky pier. He told me that his father had died and left him £3000 and his house. Like as if that was true, the bullshitting swine. Anyway, being a gold belt in all the martial arts I gave him a propper good thrashing.

He fell a bit awkward and hit his head on the floor, splashing blood on my brand new shoes that had cost me £2000 that very day. I thought I had better do the decent thing, so I decided to take him to casualty in my car. I wrapped a towel around his head so as not to get blood on the white leather seats of my Bugatti Veyron, I got him inside and drove to the hospital. At one point we were doing over 200MPH on a B road and went through dozens of speed cameras but I wasn't too bothered as I have revolving number plates like James Bond had on that Aston Martin in Goldfinger, which incidentally, my sister directed. We soon made it to the A&E department and I helped the fibbing fucker out of the car. He had lost over a galon of blood, and some had gone on my carpet, but I wasn't too bothered as I employ my own cleaning team. They clean all of my cars, helicopters and yachts.

As soon as we got there they called the crash team and just before he passed out they were able to ask him what blood type he was. He told them he had a rare AB blood type and the chief doctor got on the phone to the blood bank. I was able to avert a tragedy as I informed them that he was a filthy lier and he was really O. Now unconcious, he was unable to tell any more fibs and the chief doctor was very grateful for me being there. Poor sod died a few hours later but the police couldn't do a thing as I work for the secret service and have a licence to kill, like James Bond in Goldfinger, which incidentally, my brother directed.

Sorry if there are any spelling errors in this only I'm getting a gobble off of my wife who you may have heard of. Keira Knightley. I alway get to shag good looking women as I've got a 12" cock, a bit like James Bond in Goldfinger, which incidentally, my dad directed, except my cock is bigger than his, James Bond's that is, not my dad's, his is 13". I fucking hate liers.
(, Fri 30 Nov 2007, 23:11, 1 reply)
Oh For Fucks Sake
.
.

This QOTW week is for me, isn't it?

Fuck off.

Cheers
(, Thu 29 Nov 2007, 14:05, 5 replies)
Winding up the younger pupils
One rainy day at school, 5th form I think, I was sitting indoors on my own and noticed a few first-form boys hanging around. Aha, a chance to mess with their heads.

I form two fists, and start striking my knuckles against each other in the manner of someone trying to start a fire with a flint. After a minute or two, one of them notices and says "What are you doing?"

"Trying to strike sparks off my knuckles."

"No, go on. Don't be daft. You can't do that!" Quite right, of course. But I'm the science spod and everyone knows it.

"Yes you can," I say, matter-of-factly. "Small flakes of skin are heated by friction and burn, but you've got to get the right conditions."

After a few more exchanges of plausible bullshit, I have a small circle of half-a-dozen younger boys sitting around striking their knuckles together for no reason.

And then, we hit gold. One of them starts backwards and explains: "I got one!"

I congratulated him and left, leaving them all enthused by this mythical success, and more eager than ever to waste this lunch break, and for all I know many others, learning the harsh lesson that the wages of gullibility is sore knuckles.
(, Sun 2 Dec 2007, 21:41, 2 replies)
fantasy death?
one delightful colleague of mine lies constantly, to the extent that none of us are sure if she even exists. For example, she claims to be a post-doctoral researcher to anyone she meets, despite the fact that she has no PhD, and when questioned futher it turns out that her PhD took 1/2/3/4/5/6 or maybe 7 years to do, but she ran out of money/didn't write up in time/was beaten to a publication by another lab/fell out with her supervisor/was abducted by aliens* etc etc

That's a minor thing though. What gets to me is her Zelig**-like ability to know everyone in the world, and to be everywhere something of interest has happened.

This was best exemplified on July 7th 2005, and for many months since then.
We work in a central london research lab, and found ourselves close by the bus and russel square bombings on that day. Both this colleague and I were in the lab at about 9 am, when we heard about the 'incidents' on the radio. 'bummer!' we think, assuming this is yet another london undergound colossal failure, and thinking of our friends who have to travel in on no doubt crowded and delayed trains. Oh well, let's get back to work. So we kept working. Then we heard a 'boom' from outside. Must be a skip being dropped by incompetent builders we think. again, oh well. back to work. Then we heard on the radio what had actually happened. Cue ashen faces, shocked voices, and all of us in the lab trying to contact friends and colleagues to make sure they are all right.

Twenty minutes or so later, I hear my colleague talking to a mutual friend, going 'oh, it was awful this morning at king's cross, so delayed, I had to walk in eventually'. Strange i think, she was in early today. whatever.

an hour or so later, our boss is in the lab. deluded colleague is now saying 'of course, i heard the bang, and felt dust being sprayed out of the tunnel, and just ran away. now i realise it was a bomb - scary!' I was a bit confused, as i was talking to her in our lab when the bomb on the picadilly line train went off. neither of us was in a tube station...

Then at lunch i heard her telling someone 'oh, thank god i wasn't in the bombers carriage, it was so scary walking down the tunnel though, thank god i had clean clothes with me to change into, i was so covered in dust!' I had to query this. 'but you were in the lab when the bomb went off?!'
'oh, when the TUBE bomb went off, but I had to run away from the BUS.'
me: 'wha?! we were talking to eachother when the bus went up, we heard it!'
her: 'yes, but look at this cut on my hand, that was from the bus shrapnel!'
me: 'oh FFS'.


More recently, i have heard her telling people that she was on a train that blew up in IRA times, in a pub that some nailbomber attacked when that went off, in new york on 11th september 2001, in madrid etc etc.
if this is the case, then maybe i should publish her travel plans from now on to prevent more deaths - she is clearly bad luck...

I'm just not sure what she gains from this fantasy world, apart from shellshock and breathing problems. weird.

Apologies for length, everytime she lies, it gets bigger.

* this is one excuse not used so far. we have a sweepstake going for its first use...
** maybe not that zelig-y, but i'm young, and don't really know any other way to describe it. sorry :-)
(, Thu 29 Nov 2007, 13:13, 1 reply)
Lying to the death, almost
Back when I was at middle school, the whole class used to go to an old victorian swimming pool for lessons. The very first time we went we were buzzing and as we were getting into our trunks there was a great deal of bragging about how great we all were at swimming. The proof of this was the many badges that held our tiny speedo's together. I was adorned with 10, 20, 50m badges that my mum had lovingly stitched on over the previous year. Some kids had taken the bronze and silver awards and were proudly thrusting their heavily decorated crotch at anyone within earshot. As we were getting undressed in the cold communal changing room there was one set of trunks that caught everyone's attention, Nathan's.

Nathan was what was known as the class scruff. He smelt a bit funny, his jumpers were full of holes, he lived in a rough part of town and was a bit odd. Every class had one, and he was ours.

Every inch of his trunks were covered in badges. You couldn't actually see a pair of trunks, just badges. Golds, silvers, bronzes, 1 mile, 2 mile, this was Duncan Goodhew with dandruff. He was showing them off but for a ten year old was being pretty modest, fair play, I was pleased for him. He was regularly taunted by some of the bigger lads in class, yet finally he was getting some long overdue respect.

As we lined up on the pool side the instructor asked us all who couldn't swim. About eight kids sheepishly put their hands up and were smirked at by the rest of us as they trudged of into the shallow end to play with the floats. At the edge of the pool us men inflated our chests and one by one jumped in and swam to the side. Nathan was one before me, I felt humbled to be stood next to such a natural, his inevitable swan dive would put my feeble technique to shame. I remember him hesitating before the jump, and then he went.
HUGE SPLASH,
then nothing....



...absolutly nothing.
I looked down and he appeared to be stood on the bottom of the pool looking one way then another. Was this an exhibition of lung capacity? How long could this human eel stay underwater?

After what seemed like an eternity the silence was broken by the instructor kicking of his trainers and diving in. Nathan came to the surface clinging onto the instructor like a baby gibbon, coughing, eyes full of chlorine and tears. He was given a dressing down and sent to the non swimmers.

It seemed his lie had gone too far. Faced with a group of boasting boys how could he come clean that he couldn't swim? or even worse, that his mum had got his speedo's at the local jumble sale?

He had two choices - admit the lie or drown.
An easy choice for a 10 year old.
.
(, Fri 30 Nov 2007, 12:43, 2 replies)
The Shadow
I used to work with a man named Dave, who despite being a big fat nobody from Doncaster (imagine Max from Phoenix Nights, but much fatter), thought he was a bit of a ladies man. He would bore us endlessly about all the (fictional) women he had shagged and all the women that fancied him.

One day a load of us were down the pub and Dave was going on about his Casanova status back up north, "I love 'em and leave 'em me, they used to call me "The Shadow" because by the morning...I was gone", at which point an elderly gentleman at the bar who had overheard turned to Dave and said in a thick northern accent, "Y'sure it weren’t ‘cos you’re such a fat cunt y'blocked out the light?”
(, Fri 30 Nov 2007, 15:12, Reply)
Bus lies!
Even the bus companies are lying to us now.



Had it said Cuboidal I'd have believed it.
(, Mon 3 Dec 2007, 13:13, 4 replies)
my best friend
my best friend all through school was a girl called joanne. we met when we were 5 and were practically inseparable.
as we grew older, it became clear that joanne was a bit of a slapper. she would shag any lad she could, probably looking for the affection she never got from her dad(evil cunt that he is).
one night, when we were 15, we ran into some guy she liked who was a couple of years older than us. i knew what he wanted and i knew she would give it to him, but he was an arse and so, to protect her, i dragged her home. well, most of the way. there is a hill between our houses, so i walked her to the top of the hill and watched her walk down the other side and(or so i thought) straight home.
next day, i found out that she'd run around the bottom of the hill and met up with this bloke again, shagging him on a park bench. she thought it was hysterical.
for 5 months.
then she realised she was pregnant and unable to hide it from her parents anymore. how does she deal with this? she cries rape, obviously. now, the guy in question may have been a complete arse-hat, but i knew for a fact that he didn't rape her and i wasn't going to see him go to prison for a lie. it cost me my best friend, but when the police questioned me, i told them the truth. i may lie myself at times, but not about something as serious as that.

length? she had her second kid 10 months after the first.
(, Tue 4 Dec 2007, 23:34, 5 replies)
Roar
This bloke said he'd deliver a ton of horse manure for my garden for free, turns out it was a load of bullsh!t.
(, Thu 29 Nov 2007, 12:34, 1 reply)
Not so much Pathological as stupid
My ex husband. Well, the truth be told (a phrase he couldn't quite get his head around) he lived in a parallel dimension to our own. A dimension where the wildly unrealistic, truly terrifying and frankly absurd scenarios happened all the time.

I liked to call it "The I-Lie Zone"

He lied about EVERYTHING. My personal top 3 favourites on the bullshit monitor are:

In at number 3 - As he fell through the front door at 3.00 in the morning, covered in vomit and with what can only be described as a cokebleed running from his not inconsiderable nostrils his opening statement was " Sorry, I had to finish a wall off and it took longer than I thought" (He was a plasterer - in more ways than one)

Number 2 - After a particularly heavy night, I overheard him and his best mate talking about the women they'd pulled that evening. When I confronted him about what I heard (Actually I opened the bathroom window and screamed "I CAN HEAR YOOU" out of it) he told me that he'd observed the bathroom light going on and "said it to wind you up babe, I knew you were listening" I was 6 months preganant at the time.

Number 1 - Ooh this is a doozy. He had an endearing habit of being late for everything, family parties, weddings, funerals, sex, you name it he'd show up late and drunk/coked out of his tits. He was late for my grandshires' funeral. His excuse/lie? "I was in a terrible car accident (car looked fine) I nearly died (He looked fine) I saw a woman burned to a crisp, she was running up and down the motorway, on fire, until she was hit by a car..It's been a terrible morning.." He's crying by now, so utterly convinced by his own lie. He forgot that the guy he was out drinking with that morning was my dad's mate. He told dad the truth 3 weeks later. The truth? Ex drank 3 whiskeys, went to toilet and came out quite "animated", then went upstairs with the landlady for an hour - hence missing the beginning of his wife's grandparent's funeral.

Ah well, it was all a long time ago. It turned out that in the end I was the liar - I promised to stay with him until death did us part.

Apologies for length - but fuck me the man lied like a rug.
(, Wed 5 Dec 2007, 19:05, 6 replies)
Evilscary reminds me...
My friend E told us that his middle name was Jesus. It was pointed out to him that his middle initial was "M".

"Yes", he said. "It's a silent M".

Fair enough, I suppose.
(, Wed 5 Dec 2007, 15:32, 8 replies)
Sleep
In year 7, I told my friend George that when you go to bed, all the energy you didn't use in the day, is pushed out of your eyes in the form of sleep.

So if you eat your sleep, they are effectively little energy pills.

Well, he believed me, and ate his sleep every morning. But because I didn't see him wake up every day, I soon forgot.

Fast forward 4 years later, we are now in year 11, and I went camping with him. Well one morning we woke up and I saw him pick his eyes and eat the sleep.

Because I forgot, I asked him what the hell he was doing.

"Oh, energy is released through your eyes as sleep. Eat it and its like energy pills"

He responded with the exact same rubbish I told him 4 years earlier, and then it clicked.
(, Sat 1 Dec 2007, 15:13, Reply)
My ex-partner is a pathological liar,
she has been telling the same stories for some years now, frequently in family court affidavits, or just anyone who will listen. At first telling , one might almost believe what she is saying, however if you have heard them before, you notice that they have become more embellished/serious as time goes by. I find that the hardest thing to deal with is that she seems to honestly believe every word that falls out of her mouth as if it were gospel.

One of her more minor(less damaging) stories, was to inform all my neighbours (mind you, we were still together at this point), that I had raped her, and then whilst she was pregnant, dragged across the room by her hair and then thrown her down the stairs, because I had found she was pregnant with a girl. In the same story she also told them about our huge fairytale wedding, down to fine detail about the dress and ceremony. All of this was , of course completely false, as I realized shortly after she became pregnant that she was absolutely crackers, I had made a mental decision that I would not ever consider marrying this person, but I did remain (stupidly) in the relationship soley to try to keep my young daughter sane.

Anyway, if you ask her, I am a murderer, a rapist, a wife beater, a child molester, I kill most types of animal, as long as it is hers, I have stolen her daughter(at the hands of the Federal Magistrates Court), I phone her employers to have her sacked, I made her work 14 hour days for years( our contractor receipts show less than 20 full days, for the year), I have tried to blow up her car, and apparently I have shagged thousands of women whilst in a relationship with her( I wish), and forced her to engage in group sex activities.

There are others bit these are the ones that spring to mind, and I can actually prove these ones, as she has submitted them in affidavit to the magistrates court, so I have copies.

Fuck I hate her, now I know why my neighbours used to look at me weird.
Oh and I guess I learned a very hard lesson
1.Dont fuck psychopaths.
2.I you must fuck psychopaths, do not make them pregnant.

This is good and free advice to anyone who owns their own penis.
It may just save your life.
(, Fri 30 Nov 2007, 10:13, 3 replies)
Ok here goes…

I am a pathological liar…of the very worst kind.

I lie to myself. Every.single.day.

Some absolute doozies I have spun in my own stupid head in some preposterous effort to press my own self destruct button leave me flabbergasted.

Examples include (and most of these lines are normally proceeded by the words ‘Right…THAT’S IT’)!:

This will be my last drink tonight.
I’m not going to drink tomorrow
I will start to eat healthier.
I’m going to turn off the TV and go to sleep
I am not going to watch [insert totally pointless shit-arse programme that’s on really late here]
5 minutes more and I’ll get out of bed.
Nobody at work will be able to tell that I stayed up all night drinking…AGAIN
I’m going to spend more time with the people I care about.
I will make sure that I never drink and drive again – I’m lucky I haven’t killed anybody including myself and never lost my licence.
I will endeavour to sort out the crappy little jobs that (even thought they’re boring), desperately need to be done.
I’m going to make more of an effort at work.
I will achieve something and better myself.
I will apply my intelligence to something worthwhile.
I will NOT spend all day on B3ta.
I will sort out my priorities and not waste my life doing shitty little favours for useless fuckspots who couldn’t care less about me and only take advantage.
I will STOP trying to impress everybody.
I will grow up.
I will live past 40.

This is a cheery little number for a Friday isn’t it?
(, Fri 30 Nov 2007, 9:19, 6 replies)
Still don't know about this one...
My grandmother was not a liar in any way, as far as I know- she was one of those formidable old women that scare the hell out of people, a force to be reckoned with, like Margaret Thatcher, Janet Reno, Susan B. Anthony and Catherine the Great rolled up into one. For a fact she was one of the earliest female MDs- I have her diploma on my wall at home. Definitely a remarkable woman by any estimation.

Grandma also happened to come from a family that lives practically forever- despite having eaten eggs every morning as far as I can remember, smoking for 50 years and drinking coffee with every meal, she lived to be 102. Unfortunately the last ten years or so of her life her mind deteriorated badly and she became increasingly senile- heartbreaking to see someone with a mind like that gradually lose it and become increasingly vegetative...

Anyway, when she was in her mid 90s and still had lucid times she related the following story to my sister:

During the 1930s my grandparents lived in NYC. Grandpa was a hotshot pathologist working for NYU at the time- he was one of the people who discovered the West Coxsackie virus- and Grandma was working as a General Practitioner. Apparently Grandma got involved with the orphanage there, and one of the people who helped direct the orphanage- although she had to do so quietly- was Eleanor Roosevelt. So Grandma used to spend a lot of time with Eleanor.

Apparently Eleanor was a terrible driver, but had a convertible and was very fond of driving around in it. One day she and Grandma were going somewhere and discussing something about the orphanage and Eleanor got very agitated and excited and kept turning to look at Grandma as she was talking- and ran off the road into a ditch. In the crash her front teeth were knocked out, so she had to get dentures- and as she had been terribly buck-toothed, the nice straight dentures improved her smile quite a lot.

Grandma concluded this story by commenting, "Well, I did my part for the Beautification of America."

My sister asked Mom if this was true, and Mom replied that she had never heard this story before, so later she asked Grandma about it, and Grandma repeated the whole story to her as well.

Since then I've found out that Eleanor was indeed involved with an orphanage in NYC, had had a car crash and gotten dentures, and that there was a passenger in the car at the time.

I don't know if it really was Grandma or not, but either way it still makes me grin...
(, Thu 29 Nov 2007, 20:07, Reply)

This question is now closed.

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