All right, here we go. I’m so bad at these icebreakers, and you all had such interesting facts.
First one: I’m a Beyoncé superfan, and I’ve seen her in concert seven times. One time, my friends and I waited behind the venue for like two hours after the show, and she signed my T-shirt before getting on her tour bus.
Second: I went to middle school with a guy named Dennis Shroder. He plays for the Cleveland Cavaliers now. I’m not a big NBA fan, so I don’t know how much he plays, but I shared a few classes with an NBA champion.
And the third one: When I was twenty-two, I visited my sister in Louisiana. We were heading to some party and must’ve gotten turned around because suddenly we were out in the middle of nowhere. The sun was going down, there were no street lights, and, of course, her car broke down. No warning. The car just turned itself off. As we got the car to the side of the road, thunder clapped, and it started to pour. That’s when we met the Bog Rat.
Yes, Gary, Bog Rat. B-O-G-R-A-T, just like it sounds. They call it the Bog Rat, but it was more like a five-foot-tall capybara that could stand up on its hind legs. Sort of like Splinter from the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles if he were fatter.
At first, we were freaked out, but he was actually very friendly. He reared up, looked us in the eye, and said, in a slight English accent, “Car trouble, is it?” We just sort of nodded, and he goes, “That’s too bad. Let’s get you out of the rain, Tyler and Samantha.” Mind you, we’d not said anything to him yet, much less told him our names.
Gary, can you wait until I finish the thing about the Bog Rat before you guess which one is the lie?
So we followed the Bog Rat down this path. He held an umbrella over us for the half-mile walk, sort of like if the butler in Gosford Park had been a large, nude, anthropomorphic rat. The path ended at this enormous Gothic mansion. He led us inside, and there were floor-to-ceiling bookshelves crammed full of books, but all the books were written in Bog Rat.
Yes, Gary, Bog Rat was the name of the beast and also the name of his language. Just like Smurfs, where they are Smurfs but they also speak Smurf.
Anyway, he had several guest rooms, and he let Samantha and me stay there overnight. When we woke up, he’d cooked us this wonderful Bog Rat soufflé. We walked back up to the path, prepared to try to fix my sister’s car. But in the spot where we left my sister’s beat-up Honda Civic, there was now a jet-black Rolls-Royce. The Bog Rat was like, “Here’s your car.” And we’re both like, “This isn’t our car.” But he opened the glove compartment and pulled out the car’s title and, sure enough, there was my sister’s name. “A gift,” the Bog Rat said and then disappeared back down the path.
I’m sorry, Gary. I didn’t realize that I’d opened the floor for stupid questions. No, the Bog Rat did not make us a soufflé made out of Bog Rat meat. It was a traditional Bog Rat soufflé containing carrots and Stilton cheese.
Nevertheless, we got into the Rolls-Royce and drove off.
The next day, we came back to the exact same spot with some flowers and candy for the Bog Rat as a thank-you. We found the path and followed it for over two miles. No mansion. It was gone. Vanished.
After searching for two hours, we went up the street to a gas station to get some refreshments. As we walked in, the wizened old lady working there looked out the window, saw the Rolls-Royce, and said, “Don chu assochiate wit no Bog Rat. He’s no good.” We’re like, “No, we met him. He’s nice.” And she shakes her head and goes, “Bog Rat ain’t no good.” Then she nodded toward the window. Outside, the Rolls-Royce was suddenly surrounded by cop cars. “This Rolls Royce, with this license plate, was seen leaving a crime scene three weeks ago,” the cops told us. Samantha and I were both like, “No, we just got the car yesterday from the Bog Rat,” which of course sounded insane. Anyway, they opened the trunk and found a bag containing the severed remains of a lady who had gone missing several weeks prior. Since the car was in my sister’s name, the cops hauled her away. She’s currently serving life in prison.
Anyway, I guess that’s it. Put your guesses in.
Okay, the lie was number two, the Dennis Schroder one. He is from Germany, and I’m from Kentucky. People forget he’s German, because his name is Dennis.
