Three Little Words...

As most of you may know: I, Slim Gillian, am a story teller.

My life is crazy. The most insane things happen to me...

I like to recall these tales of my journeys to friends and strangers alike. This is why I talk a lot.

People, most of the time, assume that these simple narratives are but mere lies, exaggerations at best. While I must admit that there are some mildly embellished pieces to the puzzle of my life, I assure you that those elaborations are quite minimal.

I like telling stories.

I like captivating an audience, whether they be great in number, or simply the handful of people who read the ramblings that are my blog posts.

More than telling true stories, I love calling on my thespian training and creating stories on the fly.

I love it when a simple question is asked of me, and I can respond with a twisted tale of castles, dragons, hookers and the like.

I could simply lie: a nonchalant "yes" or "no", perhaps even a "maybe" here and there.

But what's the fun in that?

Sometimes it's not even important things. Consider this scenario:

My older brother, Brad (or as he is more affectionately known: The Bishop) and myself look nearly identical. Only a mere 11 months apart, an inch or two away in size, fairly close in weight and build... similar facial hair styling... some even say that we talk alike. Obviously, we're brothers.

Man: (to my brother and me) "Man, are you guys brothers!??!"
Me: "You would not believe how many times I've heard that..."
Man: "You must've heard it since you were kids!"
Me: "Yeah, not so much. Surprisingly we're not related. We started playing in a band together in Chicago back in 2003, and just kinda moved around together since. But we get that ALL the time."

You ask "Seriously!?"

"But why!?" you continue to think...

The answer?

The story.

This guy will now walk away... thinking "Man, I've known Brad for some time and he's never mentioned that he's from Chicago." or "Man, it's crazy.. they look JUST a like."

Now this may seem insignificant to you... but imagine my amusement. Not just in the immediate situation, but when I get a phone call from my elder sibling informing me that some guy is has been confused for days about some 'Chicago' story.

I laugh.

Now that was merely an example of an insignificant story... my tall tales are normally much more extravagant... much more elaborately decorated.

I've told some whoppers in my day....

Some have made people laugh...

...others cry...

Some weep...

Some have even made people questions everything they about me, themselves, and life in general.

I wont post those here. Primarily because you don't got that kinda time.

I'm sure that Laura wouldn't mind telling you some of the horror stories that I've put her through.

These are not simple stories... there's entire backgrounds for the story, its location and every character involved.

Why do I do it?

The sport.

If weaving tales of misguided youth, morbid obscenities and cows was an Olympic event, you could consider me Michael Phelps.. not just because of my witty talent, but rather my goods look and killer physique without a shirt on.

Anyway... I'm getting off subject here....

You know... the reason for this post...

Being that I'm a story teller, I like to put people on the spot. To see how they react when put into certain situations. To see if they tell the truth, see if they'll lie... maybe even see if they dare to tell a story.

Now, the point:

Today I had to pick my sweet wife up from work. We drove to the bank to drop of the daily deposit for her job, and promptly headed to Tijuana Flats for an early dinner.


I got the usual... so did she.

As is my typical fashion, I always ask the people taking our order if the cookies there are "fresh baked".

I know the answer to the question: "no".

In fact, they are purchased in... unwrapped... and put into NEW wrapping that reflects the branding of 'The Flats'.

Laura laughs at me ever time and asks why I ask the question.

But no amount of explanation will ever make non-story-tellers understand the concept.

Well, today at the 'Flats' I approached the portly fellow (we'll call him "Ol' Dude") on the other side of the counter (as I held a white chocolate chip cookie in my right hand up to my nose, to take in the odor of it's tender, goodness) and simply asked: "Do you freshly bake these?"

A question that I've asked dozens of times since LoBeth and I started dating.

Every time, I get the standard response "No. We actually buy them from a company and re-wrap them."

But not this time...

This time it was...

...different.

Ol' Dude calmly, bravely and confidently proclaimed three little words "Yes, we do!"

Laura's jaw dropped, however I played it cool. Seeing that he took the bait, I wanted to push him a little.

I held up another cookie and snuffed it like a fine summer wine.

"How 'bout these? You fresh bake these too?"

"Sure do!" his response.

"Hmmmm..." a simple noise was my retort.

I went on to ask "When do you bake them? In the morning? Night?"

"Every morning." he muttered.

"Wow... It must be tough to be in here when the cookies are baking... freshly?" I state.

"Oh man! It's the hardest part of my job!" he says.

I think to myself "Wow. He's a story teller... albeit a bad one... but a teller none-the-less".

Now that you've read the 833 words in the post (up to this point anyway... [yeah, I counted them]) you should be asking yourself "Why? Why such a long post for so little actual content?"

But for the story, of course.

And they all lived happily ever after,
The Slim