Last weekend I did something new and different. I tried a new adventure called an Escape Room. For the uninitiated, escape rooms are the latest fad activity in which they lock 8 to 14 people in a room. The group is given clues and puzzles to solve in order to make their escape. I’m a puzzle person. Sounded like a fun outing.
I invited thirteen of my closest, soon-to-be-ex-friends to join me. The theme of our escape room was Jules Verne’s classic novel, 20,000 Leagues under the Sea. Our mission: Find the key to escape before our submarine, the Nautilus, ran out of air.
Being a natural-born leader, I assumed the part of legendary Captain Nemo and immediately took charge of this mission. I’m not sure precisely when the mutiny began. It might have been when I ordered my crew to report every five minutes with any new clues they had unearthed. Or maybe it was when I ordered them to swab the decks. Group morale is such a touchy thing.
Turns out escaping from an escape room is an extremely difficult challenge. We had to solve a myriad of puzzles to unlock boxes, only to find inside even more enigmatic puzzles. As the Captain, I quickly came to two important realizations: 1) getting out of this escape room was going to require enormous brain power and concentration, and 2) I did not bring nearly enough money to bribe the staff to tell me what the clues meant.
Dear Mrs. Queen, Your Royal Highness, Exultant Majesty, and Fellow Corgi Lover,
I don’t want to get ahead of myself, but things are looking quite promising that I shall take Harry’s place as a member of the Royal Family. Be honest: Does the crown make me look fat?
Hi. I’m Tim Jones, your biggest fan. You probably know me from my world-famous humor blog, View from the Bleachers. Not ringing a bell? No worries. My wife’s never heard of it either.
Hey, I read on Twitter that Prince Harry and his American wife, Meghan Markle, have decided to bail on the whole Royal Family thing. That royally sucks! Is it okay to say “suck,” Your Holiness? (No, wait, that’s the Pope. My bad, Your Majestiness.) Apparently, Harry will forgo the titles of His Royal Highness, The Duke of Sussex, Earl of Dumbarton and Baron Kilkeel. That’s a lot of titles to forgo.
I understand Harry was sixth in line to the throne, after Prince Charles and a few other princes, dukes and a possible viscount. I imagine you’re in quite a tizzy about what to do in the event – God forbid – Prince Charles and the lot of them are wiped out in a horrible cricket mishap, now that Harry has gone AWOL.
I understand your anxiety over this regal scandal. I suffer my own disgrace every time I admit to being a common humor writer. But not to worry. I’ve come up with a win-win solution to both our problems. Just spit balling here, girlfriend, but how about you appoint me to replace Harry. Prince Tim. It has a nice ring to it, don’t you think? I hear ye – Not another American in the Royal Family! But I would be far less annoying than Meghan (let’s face it – she IS a bit of a “princess,” if you know what I mean). And my clothing allowance alone would save the British people millions.
Personally, I believe I’m extremely well qualified to step into Harry’s riding boots. With a little stuffing, they would fit me grandly. And I have often thought of myself as being 6’1”, just like Harry is.
I should mention that my last name is Jones – of common Welsh origin. From what I hear, the English have always gotten along famously with the Welsh – almost as cordially as they’ve co-existed with the Scots, not to mention the Irish. One big happy family. Also, my wife is Canadian, so I’m pretty sure she qualifies for partial credit as a British subject. She told me that as a child growing up in Toronto, she was required to sing the British national anthem, God Save the Queen in school. She still remembers most of the first verse.
Full disclosure, I do share part ownership ofan ancient castle in Scotland, being of the Clan Hannah (on my father’s side). I promise, I will not fortify the ramparts, nor will I use this strategic locale to rally the Scottish opposition. I remain a loyal subject in service to my Queen. However, if you don’t see fit to bestowing upon yours truly the title of HRH (that’s short for His Royal Highness, in case you weren’t familiar with that term, Liz – or do you prefer Beth?), I can’t be responsible for any plans on the part of my fellow clansmen to storm Buckingham Palace with catapults and battering rams.
I don’t want to make a big fuss about my castle. All I need is a modest 20,000 sq. ft. hangout with a drawbridge and turrets. This one isn’t bad, but the movie room is cramped and the Wi-Fi is rather unreliable.
I know you Brits love your pomp and circumstance. So, do I. In fact, I attended an all-boys’ private military prep school. I still have my uniform with lots of medals I earned (or borrowed), a sash and even a sword – consider all the pounds and pence you’ll save on my costume for parades. (I could use the name of a good tailor, as it might need to be taken out a tad.)
The more I ponder it, the more it’s crystal clear I’m your perfect replacement for Harry. At age 65, I’m almost the same level of maturity. I know how to drink tea, and I’m pretty sure I know the difference between a scone and a crumpet. I’ve visited London once and I am almost fluent in your foreign language. And, not to brag, but I can do a pretty spot-on drunk Harry Potter impersonation.
I am a little fuzzy on what my duties will be. Can you flesh this out for me? From what I read in People Magazine, it sounds like Harry’s role required him to represent the Royal Family at ceremonial occasions, like hospital grand openings, ribbon cuttings, charity fundraisers, chasing foxes on horseback and dressing inappropriately at late night costume parties. I can do all of these. I also read that Harry has often been a bit of an embarrassment to his family. Me, too! Just ask my wife and kids.
Speaking of my wife, her name is Michele. What title would you recommend for her? I was thinking something like Princess of Cambridge, Duchess of Gandalf, Baroness of Hogwarts. But I’m totally open to your suggestions.
I also have a question as to my official residence. Is Downton Abby available? If not, I am humbly open to your recommendations. However, if you can swing it, I wouldn’t mind a castle with a moat and a drawbridge – to keep the Irish riffraff out. Nothing fancy. I’m a man of simple tastes.
By the way, can you explain what you call your country? Is it England or Great Britain or the United Kingdom or Camelot? Why can’t you all just pick one name and stick with it? It’s horribly confusing to your humble servants on this side of the pond. Also, I kinda’ need to know the name of my future kingdom, for when the time comes that I take your place.
Which reminds me: When I become Prince, will there be a coronation for me? That would be awesome. All I ask is that at the reception, you not sit me next to the Earl of Norfolk or his wife, Lady Astor. They can be such intolerable bores, always talking about their prize-winning primroses.
I’m still unclear how many of these soldiers will be assigned to my personal protection. I shan’t need more than 100, to be sure. I’ll definitely swap those stuffy tops for Seahawks jerseys.
I look forward to hearing from you regarding next steps. Please call my cell. I’m never at my landline. I know we will get along famously – and besides, you won’t have to put up with that annoying Princess Meghan anymore.
On a related topic, do you have any problem with my riding around in the royal carriage when my poker buddies from the states come to visit? I’ll make sure they don’t puke on the upholstery.
Let me know if you have any questions, Your Majesty. Did I mention I have a friend who owns a corgi? I love corgis.
God Save the Queen, and with any luck, God Save Prince Tim, as well. Toodaloo.
That’s the view from the bleachers. Perhaps I’m off base.
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People lie all the time. Take this couple that recently met through an online dating app. She told him she’s an aspiring actress (she waits tables at Red Lobster). He told her he’s a hedge fund manager (he’s a day trader living in his parents’ basement). And this article recently won a Pulitzer Prize for outstanding investigative journalism.
I have a PhD in psychology and four years of medical school under my belt. I played major league baseball for the Phillies back in the 80s. And I recently won the Nobel Prize for Literature. The reason I rarely mention any of these incredible achievements is because they’re all lies. None of these happened – except for the bit about playing for the Phillies. But I only lasted one season, so hardly worth mentioning.
You see, I’m a professional liar. I make my living by lying, by which I mean humor writing. Last year alone I grossed $3 million as a humor writer. (It’s possible that the previous sentence was a slight exaggeration.) So, when it comes to deceiving others, trust me. I know what I’m talking about.
Everybody lies – unless you’re a dog. Dogs rarely lie – unless they can blame it on the cat. Actually, dogs lie all the time – on the couch, on the bed… But we humans deceive without even thinking. Case in point: When my wife asked if I liked her blouse, I gushed “Oh yeah!” That was a bold-faced lie. I hate the color mauve. (Or was it a bald-faced lie? Or barefaced? Beats me.) My point is that people lie – all the time. But why?
Lying is as old as mankind. Harvard researchers believe the first documented fabrication took place over 20,000 years ago, as evidenced by a cave painting depicting a man extending his arms wide to indicate the size of the fish that got away. (Okay, I fibbed. It was actually University of Phoenix researchers, but Harvard sounded so much more impressive. My bad.)
Our country was founded on falsehoods, starting with George Washington, who famously uttered, “I cannot tell a lie. I did cut the cherry tree.” Well, turns out that story was fake news. It never happened!
Scientists believe early man may have looked something like this. They also think he probably lied as a way to gain an advantage over his adversary. But there’s one thing that this caveman would not lie about: You can save 15% on your car insurance with Geico.
People mislead and falsify to gain advantage over others or collect unjust rewards, such as Bernie Madoff with his Ponzi Scheme, or Lance Armstrong in the Tour de France, or me anytime I golf with my buddy Kevin. But in my defense, I only cheat when we’re playing for money.
Some people lie to exaggerate their achievements and inflate their image. To explain this increasingly common phenomenon, read any random tweet at: @realdonaldtrump
Sometimes people prevaricate to cover up bad behavior, like during the 2016 Summer Olympics, when American swimmer Ryan Lochte claimed he was robbed at gunpoint at a gas station. In reality, he was drunk and urinated outside a gas station bathroom where he got caught in the act by a security guard. Lochte used extremely poor judgment. He should have bribed the guard to back up his cock and bull story with free passes to his Olympic swimming events. Problem solved.
From my own extensive investigations, I’ve concluded that spreading disinformation is deeply woven into our DNA. In a typical day, Americans lie six times. The average Frenchman lies ten times. And the Russians? 37 times. Or you could just pick a number – like I just did above because I ran out of time to research it.
A Danish study on the human proclivity to deceive found that kids master this skill as early as three years of age, usually to avoid punishment or gain favor. This just shows that Danish kids must be developmentally delayed, because my kids had figured out how to lie to my face by eleven months.
We dupe our co-workers, our friends, and even our kids – but often for very good reasons. Parents perpetuate the Santa Claus myth to fill their children with glee (I still can’t fathom how he gets by our burglar alarm system). Kids tell tall tales to test their independence. And God forbid we should hurt someone’s feelings by saying what we really think. And I lie to my wife about my back acting up again to get out of mowing the lawn. My point is these are all perfectly good reasons.
While people have been mendacious ever since Eve told Adam, “Try the apple. It’s perfectly safe,” it appears that our vulnerability to dissembling has never been greater than it is right now, thanks in part to social media, Chinese hackers, and my dentist, who said repairing my crown wouldn’t hurt a bit.
Our ability as a society to separate fact from fiction is under unprecedented attack. For example, I just read a 500-page book that says that 75% of Facebook posts containing a political message have factual inaccuracies – which, of course, is a lie – I’m way too lazy to read a 500-page book. But it’s true that much of what you see on the internet is an exaggeration or an outright falsity. I just read a post on Twitter by some dude claiming – wait for it – that he’s directly related to Jesus. Ludicrous! Who concocts this kind of nonsense? Um, wait a minute. Now that I think about it, that might have been me.
Researchers have discovered that many people are highly prone to believe even the most outrageous lies, even when they are unambiguously contradicted by clear evidence. These people are easy to spot. Just look for the red MAGA hat.
Some people’s jobs require them to lie. These people are known as Members of Congress. Others who deceive as part of their work include spies, lawyers, and anyone in the claims department of a health insurance provider. On the other hand, some people delude others (and themselves) because they simply can’t tell the difference between a lie and the truth. These people are called President Trump.
Every day, most of us are on the receiving end of a barrage of dishonest, disingenuous comments – sometimes from people we trust deeply. What can be done to stop this epidemic? To find out, simply buy my best-selling, award-winning advice book, The Lies About Truth.
But there is one thing you can bank on with 100% assurance. And that is that I care about you, dear reader, very deeply. I consider you my best friend. If you could just email me your bank information and social security number, I would like to make a large deposit into your checking account to show you how much your friendship means to me. And that’s the truth.
That’s the view from the bleachers. Perhaps I’m off base.
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When you’re on a beach vacation and approached for the umpteenth time by one of these guys, don’t despair. Have fun instead. Feign interest, smile and then, in faux German, start talking gibberish, gesticulating wildly. He’ll soon depart.
One of my many slightly odd character flaws is that I seem to be a perpetual target for pushy solicitors who don’t know me from Adam and want to sell me some ridiculous product. Some of these guys are so aggressive. Another personal flaw is that I cannot resist messing with them. Something just goes off in my brain that says, “It’s time to have a little fun with this pest.”
I know what you’re thinking: Why don’t you just politely hang up, delete the email or walk away from the guy on the street trying to shove a flyer into your hand? Of course, that’s what a normal, mature person would do. And then there’s me.
While on vacation in Rome, my wife and I were strolling towards the Vatican, when out of nowhere, dozens of street vendors bombarded us, pitching identical guided tours of Saint Peter’s Basilica. Each assured us that his was the absolute best tour and the only one that would bypass the long lines.
My initial strategy was to avoid eye contact, a tactic I realized was futile after the 25th assault. So, I put on my best foreign accent of indeterminate origin and started excitedly pitching to the next vendor MY own incredible guided tour. Every time he described some unique aspect of HIS tour, I exclaimed, “That’s amazing! MY tour offers the exact same feature!” Then I proposed to purchase his tour if he’d buy mine. A tour swap. I wore him down with my friendly but unwavering badgering until he finally shuffled away in utter confusion.
The key is to always feign enthusiasm. You need to appear über excited about whatever annoying offer they’re pushing on you. For example, a while back, a telemarketer told me I was selected to win a fabulous five-night – two-day stay at an exotic tropical resort destination. Sure, most people would have cut them off with a curt, “I’m not interested.” But what is the fun in that? Though I could tell it was a time share pitch disguised as a free vacation, I started shouting to my wife, “Hey, honey, we won two whole days and five whole nights at an incredible resort!”
As the rep continued to read from their script, I gave off obvious buying signals: “Wow! How do I sign up for your unbelievable offer?” When they went for the close, I paused, and said, “I’m not sure those dates will work. Let me see when my parole hearing is scheduled. Hmm, nope. Looks like I won’t be out of the joint for another three years. Sorry.” That wrapped up the call rather abruptly, I must say.
Another intrusion I experience with disturbing frequency is the phone survey. A few years ago, I received this phone greeting: “Good evening, sir. I was hoping you could take just a few minutes to answer a brief survey on how you feel Donald Trump is doing to Make American Great Again.” Oh my, I thought to myself. How could I possibly resist such an opening? “Sure, happy to help. Let me start by saying I think President Trump has been the greatest leader since Adolf Hitler. He did an incredible job of protecting our nation by rounding up those dangerous five-year-old Mexican kids and locking them in cages, where they couldn’t hurt us. And thank God he sent all those nasty Muslims back to Syria.” That’s about the time the caller figures out I’m being sarcastic and interrupts, “Um, thank you. I appreciate your time. Bye.”
I have a special place in my heart for brazen scammers. My column is called View from the Bleachers. So, when a few years ago, a fraudster emailed me in fractured English, inquiring whether he could purchase some bleachers, of course I felt compelled to oblige this potential customer. After all, this could result in a highly unexpected financial windfall. The fact that I don’t actually sell bleachers at this humor website in no way deterred me from my mission. I immediately wrote back – in my own heavily fractured English, “This week we do big special of pink bleachers. I throw in cup-holders free for you, boss. We have deal, yes?” That began a delightful series of emails back and forth until he gave up in frustration. You can read the genuine exchange in my piece titled My Fleeting Friendship with an Internet Scammer.
The next time you get what sounds like a call from the IRS demanding you give them your credit card number or the police will arrest you, relax. It’s a scam. Tell them you will cooperate, then ask if it’s okay if you record this call for police officer Reyes, who is in your living room. >CLICK<
Then there is the classic email scam in which a highly placed Nigerian Prince has died and your name miraculously surfaced, apparently in the Nigerian – American Yellow Pages, as a reputable person to turn to, to help them get the money out of the country by depositing it into your bank account for safekeeping. When I recently received this urgent plea, I waffled, then remonstrated myself: What kind of Good Samaritan would I be if I refused my assistance in their hour of need?
So, naturally, I graciously replied that I would be delighted to help any way I could. I gave them my (fabricated) name, social security and bank account numbers, and just for good measure, I provided a detailed, heartwarming back story about myself, which bore an eerie resemblance to the plot line from Forrest Gump.
When two days later they emailed again to inform me that the social security and bank account numbers I had provided did not work, I apologized profusely, explaining that I had not been wearing my reading glasses at that time. I then furnished new account numbers, which I conjured up using a Ouija board. I never heard from them again. Not even a Christmas card.
So, the next time a phone call from a suspicious number interrupts your family’s dinner to inform you that you’ve won a too-good-to-be true vacation in Cabo, just know that it is. But don’t hang up. Be polite. Hear them out. Then, in a warm, friendly voice, explain, “Before I accept your incredible offer, one question: Do you know anything about CPR? My grandfather just collapsed on the floor and he’s not breathing. What do you recommend I do?” You’ll be back to your dinner in no time. Trust me.
That’s the view from the bleachers. Perhaps I’m off base.
PS: If you enjoyed this week’s post, let me know by posting a comment, giving it a Likeor sharing this post on Facebook.
[Author’s note: I meant to publish this article earlier, but I simply could not find the time. There were eleven college football bowl games I had to watch, plus four NFL playoff games. A man has to prioritize. – TEJ]
Like millions of other American males, I love to watch football. My wife thinks it’s a total waste of time. She’d rather watch a nature program or a documentary about Marco Polo. Who would want to learn something when you can spend quality time yelling at your TV over the officiating?
In recent years, there has been a national crisis brewing. No, I’m not talking about climate change or the latest measles outbreak. It’s the bane of millions of wives that their husbands are watching far too much football and totally ignoring the little lady (I’m not being chauvinistic. My wife is truly a little lady at 5’0″).
Recently, this topic became a source of strain in my own marriage. After many heated discussions, we decided to visit a marriage counselor to help my wife work through her silly problem. Below is a play-by-play transcript of how our first session went.
Dr. Robert Taylor: Good afternoon. I’m Dr. Taylor. I understand that there are some concerns you have about your marriage. Who’d like to begin?
Michele: I will. I’m convinced that Tim cares more about football than he does about me.
Dr. Taylor: Tim, care to respond to your wife’s assertion?… Tim? … Tim, did you listen to what your wife just said?
Tim: Sorry, doc. I was just watching highlights from last weekend’s Saints – Vikings game on my phone. Could you believe that non-call in the end zone in overtime? Um, what was the question again?
Dr. Taylor: Your wife feels that you care more about football than you care about her. Care to comment?
Tim: About what?
Michele: ME! And put down your stupid phone. See, Dr. Taylor. This is what I’m talking about. Tim sits back in his recliner every Saturday and Sunday to watch his dumb football games. Tim, in a marriage, we’re supposed to be a team. Do you understand the problem our team is having?
Tim: I sure do. The Seahawks have absolutely no pass defense. They rank 25th in the league. That’s not gonna get them far in the playoffs.
Dr. Taylor: Tim, I don’t think that’s the problem your wife is talking about.
Tim: She could be right. Their pass blocking is equally suspect.
Michele: Tim, for God’s sake, can you hear yourself?!!? The problem is not the Seabirds’ pass blocking.
Tim: You make a salient point. I agree, their play calling is so predictable. But it’s not the Seabirds. It’s the Seahawks.
Michele: I don’t care if it’s the SeaWEEDS! You’re not listening to me. Every weekend, it’s like I’ve lost my husband to that stupid game. What exactly is so important about that ridiculous sport anyway?
Tim: You think football is a ridiculous sport? Might I point out that your parents love to watch curling? Now THAT’S a stupid sport.
Michele: Don’t change the subject. I’m talking about how on weekends you spend more time watching football than you spend with me!
Dr. Taylor: Tim, is that true? Do you even talk to her during these contests?
Tim: I talk with her all the time as I’m watching. I’ll say things to her like, “Did you see that incredible catch?” and “What a horrible call by the official. Can you believe that call?” And “Can you make me a grilled cheese, honey? More cheese than last time, okay?”
Michele: You just don’t get it! All you talk about during these games is football, football, football.
Tim: That’s because I’m watching football. Would you prefer me to provide a commentary on the finer points of Badminton instead? Why would I do that during a football game?
Michele: ARGH!! How about talking to me about something – ANYTHING – other than sports? Like the last book you read.
Tim: I could do that.
Michele: Really? That would mean a lot to me.
Dr. Taylor: And what book was that, Tim?
Tim: I just finished the pro football classic, “America’s Game”.
Michele: Unbelievable! What is so important about watching a bunch of over-sized men pound each other in pursuit of a little ball? I don’t get men’s obsession with this sport!
Tim: It’s football. Men like football.
Dr. Taylor: Tim, what I’m hearing from Michele is that, come weekends, you don’t seem to care about her interests. Am I understanding you, Michele?
Michele: Yes. Exactly. I mean, would it be so difficult for him to take a break from the flat-screen TV and go on a hike with me?
My wife says I never talk to her when I’m watching a football game on TV. That’s not true. Why, just last weekend, we discussed the possibility of her making me another plate of nachos and getting me a beverage. Her reply: Over my dead body.
Tim: I hear you. The center really needs to work on his hikes on punts. Last week, he sent the ball over the punter’s head.
Michele: Dr. Taylor, see what I’m up against? He thinks any game on TV is more important than spending time with me.
Tim: Not if it’s the Dolphins – Bengals game. You can hardly call that football.
Dr. Taylor: Tim, I think you may be missing the point.
Tim: What point? Did someone score? Let me check my phone.
Dr. Taylor: No, Tim, you’re missing Michele’s concern, that you’re so engrossed in football that you forget to focus on her needs. What would happen if, just for once, you turned off the TV and missed a game?
Tim: I believe the answer is obvious. As you said, I’d miss the game.
Dr. Taylor: And so what if you did? Is that so bad? What if you went out for a walk with your wife instead?
Tim: Could I still listen to it on the radio with just one ear bud? She could listen on the other.
Dr. Taylor: Tim, are you willing to make any sort of compromise in your viewing habits in the interest of helping your marriage?
Tim: Okay, okay. I get it. How about I only watch football every other Sunday. And the other weekends, we do a fun outdoor activity together that Michele likes, say kayaking?
Michele: Well that’s a start, I guess. And I do like kayaking. Thank you, honey.
Tim: In fact, how about we start this new plan on February 3rd?
Michele: Let me guess. The Super Bowl is on the 2nd, right?
Tim: Wow! You know when the Super Bowl is?! I think you secretly like football.
(Michele leaps from her chair but Dr. Taylor intervenes.)
Tim: Nice block, doc. You’re a natural.
Dr. Taylor: Well, I did play left guard in high school. (Whispering to Tim) Say, who do you think will win the Super Bowl? I’ve got $100 on the Ravens. Their quarterback is unstoppable –
Michele: Not you too, doctor. Unbelievable!
Dr. Taylor: Uh, um, well. I think we made some progress. Unfortunately, I have to wrap up early. I’m catching the playoff game with a few friends of mine. Oh, and one last thing. Rest assured that everything we’ve discussed today will be held in the strictest of confidence. – that is, unless your husband decides to publish the details of this session in an upcoming blog post.
Tim: I would never do that. Why would you even think such a thing, doc?
Michele: Oh no…..
That’s the view from the bleachers. Perhaps I’m off base.
PS: If you enjoyed this week’s post, let me know by posting a comment, giving it a Likeor sharing this post on Facebook.
Last weekend I did something new and different. I tried a new adventure called an Escape Room. For the uninitiated, escape rooms are the latest fad activity in which they lock 8 to 14 people in a room. The group is given clues and puzzles to solve in order to make their escape. I’m a puzzle person. Sounded like a fun outing.
