pants on fire.

Dear i+i:

This has been asked world over, but I haven't found the right answer, because there HAS to be one: WHY DO GROWN MEN LIE? 

Seriously, if you're over the age on 21 you officially have no reason to lie. Well except maybe murder, by all means deny that shit. But a grown man will sit in your face and say he's interested in you and getting to know you and of course putting it in you, and then stand you up TWICE! Why? Obviously you: 1. Don't have the time. 2. Your wife's schedule went from 3rd to 1st shift this month so the bitch is home at night now. WTF! If you don't lie in the first place you wouldn't have so much juggling and lie renovations. I just don't get it. These games are too much. - Mad About Mendacity

ian: MAM, you're conceiving of the situation all wrong. You correctly conclude that the overarching goal of male life is increased dick friction and moisture (both amount and frequency). Where you are wrong, though, is when you assert that "if you're over the age of 21 you officially have no reason to lie" - it has nothing to do with age. Or gender, in fact. It's the intrepid spirit of the adventurer - the restless heart of that prompts Man to conquer lofty mountains and brave the deepest seas. It is this questing and indomitable spirit that put heroes on the moon. Let me explain:

Men lie because reality sucks ass. If you don't agree that reality sucks ass,  you're either not paying attention, or you're George fucking Clooney. Because for anybody who is not George fucking Clooney, reality not only sucks ass, it eats it. Fucking ravenously. So, to put it in a bit of mathematical perspective: the ratio of awesome reality (George fucking Clooney) to suck-ass reality (the rest of the world's population) may be expressed thusly - 1:6,999,999,999. That's math. There's no arguing with math. Unless you're like these nerds HERE. And do these nerds seem happy? Of course not. They're fucking desperate like the rest of us. If you think reality doesn't suck ass, take a look in the mirror. Is there anything even FAINTLY Clooney-esque about the misshapen gargoyle you see before you? In a word, no. There is not. Look around you. Is the shitbox you're living in a fucking mansion on Lake Como? No, it is not. Look at your girlfriend. Would Clooney touch her with a stick? No, he would not. He'd be polite about it - he's actually quite gracious, but he'd fucking avoid her like she was a werewolf. Which, compared to the world-class trim he's got stacked like cordwood on the fucking veranda outside his fucking bedroom of his fucking mansion on Lake fucking Como, she is. Clooney pities us. For we fuck werewolves.

So, if you accept the hypothesis that you are not George fucking Clooney - and I think that you must, for you are a werewolf-fucking gargoyle - then you must do something.  The surest way to fix things:
A.) Deny current reality.
B.) Make a new one.

Each lie we tell is a rung on the ladder that takes us up and out of the dank subterranean cesspit of our sick-ass reality and up toward the sun and fun of that shimmering Clooney dream up above the surface. In the first lie, we're not a gargoyle, and the next you're not a werewolf, and our house is not a hovel, and so on. In our minds, we are thereby better able to attain the life we long for - we can jump out the window, parkour down to our waiting GTO, pausing only to bend Sarah Palin over some garbage cans to spank her with a fly swatter, hop into our thundering cock on wheels, swing by the governor's mansion to blend in at the party when really we are a dashing jewel thief pulling a heist, steal a Bentley for no other reason than its owner reminds us too much of Ted Knight in Caddyshack, plunge it into the gubernatorial swimming pool, lay down rubber in the driveway to hunt bears with Ron Swanson, enjoy a bracing pre-supper stewardess three-way, power down a bear steak off the grill, hit the firing range to shoot skeet with Bin Laden body parts, head downtown to hit the taverns, punch the dude who does the voiceover for Spike TV's Manswers so hard he pledges to tone down the douche-iness forever forward, and then hit a club where Jay-Z might be stepping out on his pregnant bride, but you'd never hear it from us, and on the way to a quiet out of the way spot for a nightcap, stopping at a house fire to rescue a chocolate lab from the arms of the banker holding hie out the window, and help the firefighters to push the banker back into the flames, to end the night with whiskey, sad Irish songs while getting a tattoo, a quick knife fight, and a girl that looks a little like Time Travel Linda Carter. And this would just be like a typical Wednesday.

But we know you're not like us. We want different things. So our lies are a SACRIFICE - for you.  It's only because we are so sensitively attuned to the fact that we do not share the same goal of our receiving The Blowjob That Saved Christmas (lotta backstory to this one - can't really go into it here) that we try to incorporate what we imagine to be your desires into what to us is a Shimmering New Life Brimming With Possibility, but to you is a Teetering And Precarious Tower of Needless Deception. Our lies try to incorporate YOUR VIEW into the story we're constantly improvising. So we're trying to track the inventions that we're always layering on to the epic narrative we're spinning WHILE incorporating your little feelings or whatever you call them. So REALLY, you should basically be super grateful that we're trying to include you.

Now quit it with the questions. For fuck's sake. Jesus.

irby: oh man, I LIE ALL THE TIME. and i'm not going to be like this liar right here and pretend that i'm doing it as a concession to someone else's fragile ego or feelings. as a matter of fact, i never lie for anyone's benefit other than my own. fuck people. quite simply, lying is the best tool to get through this life while suffering the least amount of possible irritation. for example: question "irby, would you like to go to my church talent show at seven on friday to watch the baton twirling routine i've spent months working on? it would mean a lot to me." answer "you know, i would really love to. but i have an appointment for a lobotomy scheduled for that exact same time. what an unbelieveable coincidence." and i'll say it with a straight fucking face with my hand on a stack of bibles.

i don't ever do a goddamned thing i don't want to fucking do. never motherfucking ever. i think it's totally weak to find yourself in the middle of some bullshit you knew was going to be goddamned awful and saying to yourself, "man, i can't believe i agreed to spend the day volunteering outside in this intolerable ninety-degree heat." or whatever the fuck it is some jerk bullied you into that you were too moist and soft to lie your way out of. everyone has that bitch in his life who only calls to ask THE WORST FAVORS EVER. you know the one, the motherfucker that always needs help moving a truck full of textbooks or wants you to come visit her grandmother at the nursing home for five goddamned hours. i'm not doing that shit. and this active imagination facilitates about 99% of that. SOME BITCHES JUST WON'T LET YOU TELL THEM THE TRUTH. for instance, if i honestly told you that i don't want to come to your house for dinner because the rock is going to be on television tonight and i've had a cheesecake calling my name from the freezer that i've resisted for an entire week and it's finally cold enough to wear my new slipper socks and i haven't had a date with my vibrator for a week your reaction would be one of unbridled rage. bitches don't want you to have time for yourself, and they most certainly don't want to know that the shit they've suggested is boring or not fun, or that you'd rather screen all of the other offers before committing to theirs. which is why you have to tell a bitch your "head hurts" or you have to "work late."

but that's not what we're talking about, obviously. as a person who's survived a million and a half "i really like you but i don't" interactions with stupid dudes, i'm an expert in the reasonably well-intentioned lying male. and i love how ian, like most of these assholes, is all "WE LIE BECAUSE WE CARE." yes, babycake, they lie because they care. about themselves. and because we let them. so rather than trying to change a leopard's spots what you should do is face the truth that all he wants is to get his candy cane sucked for christmas and instead of bitching about it vow to never tell the fucking truth when you are talking to a goddamned man. and never believe anything he says unless it's said under duress. if a dude has time to think he has time to lie, sister. don't go for that shit. i tell a dude what the fuck he wants to hear half the time and what the fuck i want him to know the other half. if they don't feel like they have to abide by any sort of honor code, why should we?

because lying only sucks when it's one-sided. guaranteed you wouldn't be mad if your were tricking off on your boyfriend to hang with this lying-ass piece of garbage. that's right, you're salty because YOU LIKE HIM and HE KNOWS IT. you probably told him all your deep dark secrets and admitted how he makes your heart skip a beat, and how that you've discovered his penis isn't the only thing that grows you're pouting and threatening to turn poor pinocchio into kindling. if you had just LIED LIKE A BOSS you wouldn't even care. and i know, it goes against everything cosmo ever taught you about relationships to lie and deceive some knuckle-dragging mouth-breather. "communication," "honesty," and all that magazine shit, OMG. so try some little lies at first, like "i don't eat potato chips" or "yes, this basketball game is interesting to me." as you get more and more comfortable with the idea of it, big lies like "of course, i care about your feelings!" and "you really are the best sex i've ever had!" will ROLL RIGHT OFF YOUR FUCKING TONGUE. that way, when he leaves you stranded in a restaurant for two hours waiting for his lying ass you can console yourself with the knowledge that he doesn't know you had chlamydia in college.

"lie renovations" is genius, by the way. i like to call it "the apology dance." it's too goddamned bad men are so fucking stupid, they're awfully nice to cuddle with. ps, you are TOTALLY NOT allowed to have sex with that young man when he comes crawling back. because he totally will. and when he eventually asks you to, just lie and say you have your period.