Ever Since You Can Remember People Have Been Lying To You

Think about it: ever since you can remember, people have been lying to you. When you were a kid, riding in the bottom of the grocery cart, your mom would mistakenly drive down the candy aisle, and you would instantly start whining about getting some candy. “We’ll stop and get a treat on the way home,” your mom would say. You would shut up, but you never did get that treat on the way home, did you? Santa Claus, The Tooth Fairy, and years later, when you girls got an obviously bad haircut, your friends at school would say, “oahh mah God, it looks, like so good!” And seconds later, they would laugh, and make up some insult that rhymes with your name. Years after that, you boys would be lied to by girls you liked about why they couldn’t go out with you. “My Grandmother’s in town,” “I’m Sick,” or “I have to work,” were such popular excuses. And a few years after that, it’s “We will keep your resume on file for twelve months and contact you if a position opens up,” and “You’ve been pre-approved for a Platinum Master Card!” We have been conditioned to being lied to, so much so, that we even want to believe seemingly trustworthy sources of obvious lies.
“Read my lips, no new taxes,” “I did not have sexual relations with that woman,” and “I smoked, but I didn’t inhale,” are some popular examples. When politicians lie to us, many people fall all over themselves, trying to stick up for the obvious lie. It is very similar to how we treat our favorite sports teams, or, our favorite drink. It runs in ten steps:
Step One: Obsession: You are consumed with romantic intrigue. You begin to daydream about the person or team, politician, or drink. A Kessler’s billboard gets you thinking of the end of the day, a woman you pass on the street reminds you of that gal you never got over, or the mention of Gary Anderson, drives you into nostalgia or self-pity about 1998. A magazine cover at the newsstand reminds you of how proud you are of your vote.

Step Two: The Hunt: buy as much paraphernalia as you can. Maybe it’s a bumper sticker on your car, a T-shirt, a case of beer, a search for that jersey you never bought back then, or the commemorative plate or coin, or chia head, you saw on T.V.. If you’re really obsessed, it’s a picture with you in it, a ticket stub or a brush with fame. It’s anything that lets you say, “I was there.”

Step Three: Recruitment: Misery loves company. Convince everyone else that your obsession isn’t really that bad. They should also drink your favorite drink, root for your favorite team, or vote for your guy (or gal). Depending on what your obsession is, you might be scared to run into someone you know, while you are buying a “Hootie & The Blowfish” CD, a case of Zima, or a Carlos Gomez poster. Tell everyone who you can’t recruit that they are idiots, or that they are close-minded. If only they were smarter, you could recruit them. It’s not your fault that you can’t recruit them: they’re stupid, born in Wisconsin, or are they are just used to drinking cheap whiskey.

Step Four: Gratification: “Ahhhhh, this is the stuff.” “My autographed Brett Favre cutout is the best!” “My picture of obama’s house is one of a kind!” “This plastic jug of Smirinoff is just the thing!” “I have the best authentic jersey in this bar!” Eventually, you run into something that leads you back to Step One. If you don’t, it’s on to Step 5.

Step Five: Return to normal: “I am so satisfied.” “The Vikings finally made the playoffs.” “I finally got that promotion at work.” “I got a date with that gal who never used to laugh at my jokes.” “My guy got elected.” Eventually, the stresses and pressures of the real world send you back to Step One. But if they don’t, it’s on to Step Six.

Step Six: Justification: “It’s not my fault that Gary Anderson missed that field goal.” “If Joe Nathan only would have struck out that last guy,” or “If only the media didn’t poison everyone’s mind along the way, my guy wouldn’t have lost.” “What’s my guy supposed to do? He’s faced with an impossible situation, and he had to vote that way.” And, “What am I supposed to do, pick a new team?” “Pick a different guy to vote for?” “Move to a different state?” “It’s just the way I am.” “You get the team your dad hung on you,” which leads you to Step Seven.

Step Seven: Blame: “The refs screwed us.” “The recount cheated us.” “The Supreme Court is biased.” “The cops had no reason to pull me over.” “I paid that credit card bill a week ago, why was I declined?” “That bartender served me a drink I did not order.” “Why in the hell did Childress call a sweep on third-and-one?” “If you didn’t give me sh*t all the time, I wouldn’t be like this.” “This week’s game is on Monday night, I don’t make the schedule.” If you make it past here, there’s always Step Eight.

Step Eight: Shame: “I can’t believe I have invested my whole season and countless hundreds of dollars in these jerkoffs.” “I’m throwing that yard sign away. I didn’t vote for that guy.” “I’m burying that pen in the backyard.” “I loathe myself that I ever drank such cheap scotch.” If you don’t get send back to Step One, you are lead to Step Nine.

Step Nine: Despair: “I don’t care what happens, I’m picking a new team in September.“ “If they aren’t going to try and win, I’m not going to try and watch.” “My party will never get elected.” “Why can’t someone help me?” “If only she wouldn’t have cheated on me.” “If I only could have lost that weight.” “If only I had a different boss.” “Opening Day can’t come soon enough.” If despair doesn’t send you back to Step One, you make it to the final step: Step Ten.

Step Ten: Promises: “I’ll never vote in an election again.” “I swear, I’ll never go and see them play again.” Or, the ever-popular, “I swear to God, I’ll never drink this much again, and this time, I mean it.” If you are lucky enough to make it to this step, you either go back to Step One, or, maybe you were one of those who actually got a treat on the way home way home when you were in the bottom of the shopping cart.