Can’t Stop Lying!

Park Square Theatre’s 2016-2017 season begins with the area premiere of The Liar from September 9 to October 2.  Playwright David Ives’ laugh-out-loud comedy centers on the escapades of Dorante, a gentleman who cannot tell the truth, and his servant Cliton who cannot tell a lie.

In the spirit of the play’s hilarious premise, we asked people to share their own stories about lies with humorous results. Here are three from an individual who wishes to remain anonymous.  Hmmm . . . wonder why?

Who's lying?

Who’s lying?

When I was 15, I went to see The Graduate with Hoffman and Bancroft. I was standing in line at the box office, and my buddy Ernie showed up. Ernie was twice my size and played lineman on the football team. I let him in line ahead of me. When he got up to the box office, a severe-looking old lady with pointed spectacles snapped, “How old are you?”

“Uh, I’m 15,” stammered Ernie.

“You must be 16 to see this movie,” she said.

And so Ernie was turned away.

I stepped up to the box office window.

“And how old are you?” she barked.

“I’m 16,” I lied boldly.

She narrowed her eyes at me and said, “That’ll be four dollars.”

I paid for my ticket and opened the door to the theater, looking back to see Ernie grinning and shaking his head at me. I waved and went inside. Mrs. Robinson was waiting for me.


When I was in high school, I never wore shoes during the summer. It was hot in my home town, and my feet toughened up over the summer.

So you can imagine my disappointment when school started and they passed a “no-bare-feet” rule. I cut the bottoms out of an old pair of sneakers and wore them to school. Hey, I had on shoes of a sort; it looked like I had on shoes, until I crossed my legs in class and flashed my friends with the bottom of a foot.

Hey, we thought it was funny. I could also twirl my reverse-flipflops around an ankle for extra yuks.


When I was in the 11th grade, I was buddies with a guy who always got C’s on his English papers. I usually got A’s.

One day, we got the idea to switch names on our papers; and, of course, the paper that I had written, with his name on it, got a C. The paper he wrote, with my name on it, got an A.

When we got our papers back, we compared grades; and he grinned ruefully and said, ” I guess I know what grade I’m getting in English this year.”


(If you’d missed them, consider going back to read the blogs “Lies! Lies” and “And More Lies”)


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