Well, you guys have been responding with great flair to our lie-a-licious contest. It’s going to be so much fun to give these soundtracks away. The stories you guys are sending in are fantastic, real side-splitters. I’m going to post the first winner today (because today is going to be a short one for me…this is my last post of the day). I’ll do more tomorrow and the rest of the week as more winning tall tales come in. Some of these are so great, who knows? I may even up the ante on the amount of Sex.Lies.Murder.Fame. soundtracks I give away. You people are a riot. This stuff is hellagood.
Just remember to adhere to the rules:
The most moving, funny, or powerful personal experiences (outrageously fictitious), no more than 200 words (I may be a little flexible on that, but definitely no more than 350), e-mailed to me at email@example.com (NOT in the “comments” section on this blog) will receive an autographed copy of the soundtrack signed by both me and the yumtastic actor, Mel Jackson.
And now…*drumroll*…the first winning entry in our “I Can Lie Just Like James Frey” contest goes to Lo Zone reader CandaceK. Remember, this is a personal experience that reads like outrageous fact, but is really pulled-outta-one’s-ass straight-up fiction. Her winning tale is called “Worst Case Scenario“:
…And the microphone came down in front of the camera while our President attempted a somber, yet uplifting live speech. And he said “Do you have your helmets?” And later he said “You’re trying to horde!!!”
Oh wait. This is supposed to be fictitious. Ahem.
I decided to try yoga for the first time to change up my routine and get a jumpstart on shedding the umpteen pounds I had packed on after too many M&M cookies and countless cups of eggnog. I wasn’t looking for the local health club variety. No, I wanted the real deal, the get-your-Buddah-in-gear sort. After being referred by a friend, I found the perfect class. I walked into the large, nondescript building and it exuded an overwhelming, yet somehow fascinating, blend of incense and booty sweat.
There were about twenty students in all, and I followed the assumed veterans into a large studio that strangely resembled what I imagined a champagne room to look like. I took my place in the back and stretched out my mat.
Much to my surprise (and, to be honest, chagrin), the yogi came in doing back handsprings while wearing a silver stripper bikini with Lucite heels and offensive coral lipstick. While I was expecting a taut, slender instructor, the woman had booty for days and implants so big that Pamela Anderson would blush.
“C’mon, you bitchazzzz! Let’s get those fat asses in shape!” she yelled as I tried to quietly slip out before she noticed me.
“You too, lard ass!”
I looked around before painfully realizing she was speaking to me.
“Ummm, I think I have the wrong class.”
“This is yoga for strippers, bitch! This ain’t preschool!” she yelled as she did a split-slash-downward-facing-dog as a Bengali translation of “Tipsy” by T.I. began blaring over the speakers.
Remind me to kill my friend and never to puke in her car again. Especially after drinking eggnog.
Keep lying, y’all. More winners tomorrow!!