I have a scar on my left arm that looks like an abuser put a cigarette out on my skin. The truth is fortunately nothing so horrid. All that happened was that when I was a teenager, an overzealous dermatologist burned off a wart with too much enthusiasm, leaving a nasty scar. If I were the sort to tell manipulative lies, I could definitely generate sympathy by claiming that a bad ex-boyfriend or evil parent had used my arm as an ashtray.
My 1976 high school yearbook includes the profile of a non-existent student, Walter Zimmerman. The imaginary Walter was invented by our class early on in our senior year. There were only 33 real students, and everyone from the popular kids to the jocks to the nerds got along pretty well out of necessity, since we were such a small group. Hence, we were all co-conspirators with regard to Walter. But anyone consulting the yearbook today would have no way to know that Walter didn’t exist. As someone with a penchant for chic-lit mystery novels, I’ve occasionally contemplated using Walter’s yearbook appearances as proof that a totally imaginary, nefarious character existed.
What falsehoods could you support with evidence that would survive at least an initial scrutiny? Be creative. It’s fun to be (harmlessly) devious.
I have a slightly protruding wrist bone because it was dislocated at age 12 and apparently never fully put back in place. I injured it while riding my bike, but no doubt could invent all sorts of fibs about how someone had forcefully twisted my wrist or whatnot. I could also invent fibs about the burn scar on my right leg (it had touched the hot steel of a rice cooker but the fictional stories could be a lot more dramatic.)
To a casual audience that doesn’t know the trade, I might be able to pass myself off as an “accountant that works for an (NFL team) and helps manage the salary cap” or some non-doctor medical professional or airplane pilot. I have enough superficial knowledge to sell it well enough.
I have a scar from a 38 caliber bullet slug on the back my leg. It’s rather prevalent when I wear shorts or swim trunks. It really stands out.
When I was 16 I worked in a drug store. One night it got held up. After taking the cash from all the registers instead of just leaving the robber started shooting. There was a small child with his mother standing there in the line of fire. I pushed them down to the ground and shielded them with my body. They didn’t get hurt but one of the robbers bullets hit me in the back of my leg as we were going down to the ground. My act of heroism almost caused be to bleed to death.
But I was rushed to the hospital and saved. The hold up man was eventually caught and got 65 years for robbery and attempted murder. The woman and her son are forever grateful.
Ha! Chicks actually bought that horseshit. Including the one that became my wife. When she learned the truth she was not so happy. Truth is when I was a kid I was walking home and got bit by a German Shepard. It was a very deep bite and even after multiple stitches it just healed up like a bullet wound.
I can never pull off such stories, alas. But my brother…
Eons ago, he was a brand new CPA and his roomie was an aspiring med student (who eventually became an orthopedic surgeon.) One of my brother’s earlier jobs was for a hospital, so between his roomie and his job, he learned a LOT of medical jargon, and when he and the future doctor went bar hopping, my brother was able to pass himself off as a physician.
Somehow, one of the women he’d encountered a few times learned the truth, and word got back to my brother that she had, so he came up with a follow-on story. The next time he ran into her, he took her aside for a private conversation to “confess.” It went something like “I’m not really a doctor. In fact, I’m an airline pilot.” at which point he flipped over his jacket lapel to reveal the plastic wings then used to give kids when they flew alone!
OK, not exactly fitting with the spirit of the thread, but I still think it’s a hilarious story, and I’ve often envied my brother’s ability to keep a straight face while spinning such stories.
As for me, I usually sport several bruises because I’m klutzy. It’s worse when I’ve spent time working in the yard - between thorns and stray branches and who knows what-all, I can look pretty banged up. And the weird thing is, if I’m really involved in what I’m doing, I may not even notice getting hurt till I see blood or later in the shower when the bruises appear from under the dirt.
Were I so inclined, I think I could convince someone that I’m a battered spouse. In fact, I used to worry when I went to my doctor that she might question the bruises. But she knows our family well enough that I’m no longer concerned about that. Still, I can see an issue convincing someone I’m not in denial.
I play guitar sitting, and the edge of the instrument leaves a deep, purplish groove on my thigh that disappears after 10 or 15 minutes. It shocked a friend who very reluctantly asked, and I said it was from a knife fight.
Like others upthread, I rarely play these kinds of jokes, although it’s occurred to me that they’re especially fun for the prankster because you get to watch the pranked react in stages: notices and says nothing, finally works up the question, is mortified by the con, laughs in relief, resents you for a while and eventually gets over it.
Remember the episode of X-Files where there was a guy impersonating Mulder? There’s a scene where he’s standing in front of a bathroom mirror practicing his “FBI. F-B-I. F…B…I.” A guy I worked with was also an X-Files fan and we used to walk around going “F…B…I” to each other. Another coworker had a business trip in DC and bought us a couple of FBI caps from a street vendor as souvenirs.
I also had a Polaroid of myself shaking hands with a Bill Clinton look-alike at a trade show.
So, the woman who used to do our bi-weekly house cleaning at the time saw these two items and thought that I actually worked for the FBI. My wife set her straight, but I’m sure I could have strung her along.
I am not even vaguely Hispanic looking, but I like music and weed. I once casually mentioned to someone that Freddy Fender was my uncle. A bunch of folks overheard me saying it.
You would think everyone hearing this would shout, “Bullshit”, but instead everyone believed it and it became part of my official biography. I’ve had strangers at music festivals ask, “so, which of your Uncle’s songs do you like the most?” Of course I answer that there were a few he never recorded that I loved as a boy, but of those he released, Until The Last Teardrop Falls.
Something similar has happened to me but it wasn’t exactly my lie, just a wild story that I didn’t bother quelling.
Some years ago I acquired a key lanyard that was from one of the U.S. Embassies in a prominent foreign country. I keep my school keys on it because it’s bright blue and easy to spot on my desk.
I also have a scar on my neck from the removal of a mole. It was performed by a dermatologist who was in a hurry so it looks very much like a bullet wound scar: misshapen, puckered, ragged edges, and much discoloration across its surface.
Anyway, many moons ago when I was younger and much less wise to the ways of the classroom I had a mouthy student challenge me about something – I don’t remember what – and I told him that I’d seen shit and been through shit he couldn’t imagine. I was referring to my years as a hospice worker but the student started eyeing my neck when I said that. Another student piped up and mentioned the key lanyard that was hanging out of my pocket and suddenly they put two and two together.
Apparently I had been a CIA agent and once survived a gunfight.
I rolled my eyes and went on with the lesson. Because I didn’t immediately disabuse them of their theory it became fact among the students – and to this day my students are convinced I’m a former CIA agent.
Not really lie but an omission of fact is that I a white person who is half Mexican with over 1/4 indigenous people heritage. My last name is a “normal” English name and I am not overly tan, although I do have dark hair and eyes. Nobody thinks of me as anything other than white unless I tell them. And when I do tell people I get all sorts of strange reactions, like feelings of guilt over what they may have said in front of me before or people going around letting others know that I am not white (watch what you say!).
I know how they really talk when they think they are only among themselves. Been called a traitor to the white race more than once.
I’ve shown this picture to people as proof our German Shepherd Kali is super-smart. People with dogs laugh, but people who have zero dog experience believe that the dog stacked the rocks.
Years ago I was visiting my (small) hometown. It really is true—if you ever learn that you have a short time to live, move to a small town because every day there is like a lifetime. So it was, being home.
It almost goes without saying that at some point during such visits, you’ll end up in a bar. There, you see locals who never escaped (cause), explaining why they’re there (effect).
There was a woman in the bar whom I recognized from high school. She was a year or two older; our paths didn’t cross back then. She introduced herself and started chatting me up. No, really—she approached me. In a bar. On purpose. I can only guess that I’m fresh meat, not one of the regulars and I carry the scent of possibility (which disorients me).
That little devil popped up on one of my shoulders and I’m tempted to mess with her. I could say, “Sure, I remember you. You were really mean to me! I asked you to the dance and you laughed at me.” Etc. It’s untrue of course but I could have sold it and the only evidence needed is that she was a little snooty and probably had shot some guys down a few decades ago, can’t remember them all.
But I am a kind and loving god. So instead I “let it slip” that I was returning home, hundreds of miles away, in a day. “Well, it was nice talking to you again,” she finished and moved back to the table with her friends.
I remember that she had a sister who bore a strong resemblance to Linda Ronstadt. If she had been the one in the bar that night, who knows?
I’m still working on my story. I’m currently building an exact duplicate of the famous French sniper rifle - the FR-F1. Used to great effect in one of the most successful hostage rescues. 5 terrorists downed simultaneously as they held a bus load of children hostage.These were never available in the US although a few have made it through various means. Even now when I have it mocked up it is a jaw dropper to anyone who knows what it is and how hard it would be to get one. Now I need a good story.
This is similar to my situation. I can pass for a lot of different nationalities / ethnicities. I was incarcerated for a short time many years ago. The Black girls thought I was black, so BAM! I was Black. Ditto the Hispanic population.
I can remember being in a bar and pretending I was Pilar from Chile and didn’t habla much English
They lost a little girl, with five children wounded. It is covered also in the Forgotten Weapons episode on the FR-F1.
Back to the OP, a girl told me her appendectomy scar was from a knife fight.
I have a dueling scar on my cheek reminiscent of General Burkhalter’s. Despite the best the plastic surgeon could do, there is still that thin line of a scar.
It’s been there essentially my whole life and I have no idea where or when or how I got it
For those who may not know who the good General is, here is a Link to the imdb cast list page for Hogan’s Heros, the tv show where he made the occasional appearance.
THE LIE: Back on the evening of October 9, my husband was out of town, and three intruders broke into the house. We struggled, and I grabbed the poker from the fireplace. I stabbed each of them, but that didn’t stop them. They escaped to the kitchen, where we wrestled some more, before they escaped through the back door. That’s why there’s blood on the living room and kitchen floors.
THE TRUTH: I tripped over the vacuum cleaner, resulting in a deep laceration in my leg. I bled in the living room and kitchen, before going to the E.R.
This thread reminds me of the scene in Jaws with Hooper and Quint showing their scars and telling how they happened.
I have a scar on the inside of one wrist that has two distinct lines running down, about a quarter-inch apart. I’ve always wanted to tell someone it was from my days in a fundamentalist snake-handling sect. Really it’s from a large pitcher broken while washing dishes.
I have a history of depression, and when my sister came to visit while it was bandaged, I quickly said, “It was an accident! I swear!” She was not amused.
