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{the bullshit artist} eric lawson The Bullshit Artist ©1998 Eric Lawson The history books should be rewritten. History, after all, is only the most popular lie told by the winner. The leaders on the winning side depended on heroes to rally the troops and tip the scales in battle. Heroes who would sacrifice themselves, in a heartbeat, for the greater good. But heroes are not always the honest, upstanding citizens we make them out to be. In fact, they usually needed help in accomplishing their heroic/selfish goals. Often times, our heroes got themselves into sticky situations they couldn’t fight their way out of. That’s when they called for the bullshit artist—a man or woman who could talk their way out of anything. The circles they babbled around their opponents would confuse casual onlookers to the point where philosophy books were burned and ritual suicides became frightfully common. On and on through the ages, the art of bullshitting was carefully passed. However, not all bullshitters were successful. There were countless occasions when no one bought into their bullshit, and this made the situation much, much worse. So there was a horrible plague here and a world war there. So what? These overblown setbacks mean very little in the grand scheme of this story. What does matter is that you, the common man, are not one-upped by these fast-talking, silly-walking, sly masters of vocabulary. There are several important signs to watch out for. Unfortunately, they cannot be printed on these pages for fear of alienating the intended core audience of perverted six-graders. The following recreation of an imaginary tale, based on true facts by a thoughtful, diabetic leopard and his overindulgent pet flea, Herman, may answer some of your questions or it could just be something to read while holding this book open. The scene: a small bank in Anytown, USA. The time: two-fifty-three PM. The milk: lactose-free chocolate. Mmm-mmm. Ruby-Joe Bishop let out a long, relaxing sigh as she realized her shift was almost over. Her first day behind the counter at Jean Tres-Gullible’s Bank of America had gone by without a hitch. The cat-shaped clock with the wagging tail informed her that she only had seven minutes to go before punch-out time. She heard the familiar chime of the door sensor and raised her head. She scanned the room and was relieved to see that only one customer had entered. 2 He was short, but rather dashing with a strange walk and an air of impatience about him. Nothing unusual there. He casually approached the counter, let out an exaggerated sigh, smiled a wide, toothy grin, and then suddenly whipped out a business card and held it bare inches from her startled face. In bold letting, the card proclaimed: Contractor For Bland Industries Department of Redundancy Department B.S. Division Hi! The man, whose card named him John, clamped his hand tightly over her mouth. He looked extremely nervous. He glanced around the room for anyone else and then returned his gaze upon Ruby-Joe and her nametag. “Easy now, uh, Ruby-Joe. Don’t let another hair on that fragile, mousse-covered head of yours fall out of place while worrying over this horrendous situation.” “Situation?” she attempted from behind her blocked mouth. “You betcha, sister,” he stated while removing his hand. He sighed loudly again and placed his hands on the counter. His eyes always seemed to be darting around the room. “Yeah, I’d say what we have here is what’s commonly classified as a...Green Goat Seven. Yeah, that’s it, all right. Definitely.” “Oh. Is that bad?” she asked, still trying to catch her breath. He rolled his eyes and pulled his arms away from the counter, crossed them, and glared at her with a look that seemed to say: you’re in deep Dutch now, lady. His gaze halted on her new blouse and he flashed an all-knowing grin. “You can bet that adorable, green blouse with those adorable, little frogs on it, accenting that swath of green mascara its bad, Ruby-Joe.” She tried to rationalize the situation, but the mousse in her hair seemed to gain an enormous amount of weight and her temples 3 began to throb painfully. “Oh my! What can we do about it?” she whined, her voice not sounding like her own. “Well, first of all,” he started while checking behind the counter and straining to see into the offices down the hall, “we’re going to have to evacuate everyone immediately.” He looked over his shoulder twice before waiting for her reply. “But, they’re all out to lunch, sir” she blurted out and wrapped her arms around her waist, worriedly. He uncrossed his arms and the smile returned to his face. “So much the better.” Her hair started to feel like a helmet and the throbbing of her headache seemed to be in sync with the heartless ticking of the evil cat-clock. Its beady little eyes were not only following her with every tail wag, they were mocking her. “I’m sorry. I’m afraid I don’t understand what’s going on here.” “Sorry, Ruby-Joe,” he said calmly. “I don’t know the details yet myself. I only know what they tell me.” This only added to her confusion. “Who’s they?” He chuckled and seemed to delight in the chance of explaining it to her. “Well, honey, they is who I work for. Now, before I can tell you anything more, they would like you to write three checks of five-hundred-thousand dollars apiece for me.” He flashed the familiar toothy grin. “Why on earth would I—?” she started. “Shh!” he hissed. He leaned over the countertop and kept his head low. “We don’t want them to hear, do we?” It was all starting to sound like some annoying nursery rhyme she couldn’t quite remember. “Who exactly are them?” He seemed disgusted and insulted to have to explain it to her. “We,” he whispered and pointed to himself, “are trying to keep the money from others. We’re the good guys, okay? It’s very cut and dried. We must prevent the bad guys from pocketing all that precious coinage that you most certainly would rather give to me, free of charge. This is very, very serious. It’s a matter of life and death. Work with me here, Ruby-Joe.” She hated the way she was being talked down to. She was absolutely not going to stand for it. No way. No how. She massaged her helmet hair and looked John right in the eye. “Is that so? Well. I’m sorry, sir. I’m afraid there’s no way in Hell you’re walking out of here with—“ John began to twitch and gasp for air. “AHHHHH!” he screamed and fell to the floor, convulsing and clutching at nothing. “I can feel THEM turning up the power pulse on the PAINFUL implants! Oh, no! AHHHH! Help me, Ruby-Joe! Only YOU can save me! It’s in your hands! Give me the money! It’s the only way they’ll stop! AHHH! Oh, please hurry!” He then began to smack his head on the floor in sync with the vile wagging tale of the evil cat-clock. Everything instantly came to a head. Her mind raced frantically, but her body didn’t hesitate. She pulled out three cashier’s checks and went to work. “Okay, okay here we go. Just hold on! All right, and...done!” She looked up and was surprised to see him standing in front of her, smiling like nothing had happened. He quickly swiped the checks from the countertop and slipped them into his suit pocket. “Thank you, Ruby-Joe. You’ve been most helpful.” “My pleasure, John.” She sat down in her chair and wiped the stinging sweat from her eyes, smearing her green mascara. “Oh, and I truly hope you can keep the money from others.” “Me too, Ruby-Joe,” the man who’s card named him John replied, “me, too.” He touched his head, lips, chest, and gave the most eloquent bow ever attempted at this particular bank. “Oh my, what’s that for?” she asked, impressed. “I like to think it puts a nice accent on the entire performance.” The confusion started to creep back in. “Performance?” “Goodbye, Ruby-Joe,” he said over his shoulder as he walked through the door. He strode out of the Gullible Bank of America, stopped to soak in the vibrant sunshine, and with the prospects of a good days bullshitting ahead, he merrily made his way down the street towards the Our Money Is Your Money Credit Bureau for the third time that day. Six seconds later, when the overpowering glare forced him to take his sunglasses from his suit pocket, a stray seagull emptied its bowels onto John’s upward glancing face. The seagull cawed, but it might as well have been laughing right in his crap-caked ear. He thought about crying out in sheer revulsion, but he knew, deep down, that he actually more than deserved it. Karma is indeed a vengeful mistress. And that’s no bullshit. |
