why you should always tell the truth

Es­ti­mated reading time is 5 min­utes.

AFTER LANDING A HUGE CONTRACT, John’s com­pany gave him a four-day/three-night weekend for two at a fa­mous golf re­sort in Scot­land. As he was single, he in­vited me along, de­spite my having nei­ther knowl­edge of, nor love for, the game of golf. John knew this as I was forth­right about these things and I al­ways tell the truth!

Of course, I ac­cepted but I had to get the go-ahead from my significant-other E. She okayed the arrange­ment. John picked me up at our old house on Tokay Lane and E kissed me goodbye with a typ­ical warning:

“Go ahead! Enjoy your­self, hon! But if any­thing happens—and you know I know you and Scot­tish accents!—remember, al­ways tell the truth.”

The two of us drove down to San Fran­cisco from St He­lena and then flew to Heathrow on Friday. At the air­port there, we picked up a minivan, headed north, and quickly found our­selves in a rainstorm.

I was dri­ving and pulled into a nearby estate.

John knocked on the door.

A woman an­swered. A re­ally good-looking woman.

John ex­plained our sit­u­a­tion and asked if we could spend the night.

The woman looked at John and sorta frowned. Then she looked at me, smiled briefly, and nodded her head. She ex­plained, “I re­alize it’s ter­rible weather, and I have this huge house, but I’ve been wid­owed a while now.

I’m afraid the neigh­bors will talk if I let you stay in the house. How­ever, I have an apart­ment that my hus­band’s driver kept over the garage. I haven’t changed any­thing since I let him go, so it should be clean and dry.”

“Ma’am, we’ll be happy to sleep there. If the weather breaks, we’ll be gone at sun up,” John said and turned to go.

The widow agreed.

Thank you, ma’am, I said.

As I closed the door, she smiled again.

And I understood.

We ran through the rain to the garage, get­ting bloody soaked! When we got to the apart­ment, there were warm blan­kets and small elec­tric floor heater. We even found a bottle of 10-year-old Laphroaig!

Always tell the truth: a bottle of 10-year-old Laphroig Scotch whiskey.
“Like the is­landers, Laphroaig may seem a little aloof at first, but make the ef­fort, broach ac­quain­tance and we can guar­antee you’ll have a warm and gen­uine friend for life. Take it neat or with a splash of soft water. Roll it around on your tongue. Re­lease the pun­gent, earthy aroma of the blue peat smoke, the sweet nut­ti­ness of the barley and the heathery per­fume of Islay’s streams.” (from the makers of Laphroaig, naturally)


I’ll bet she was a looker

After a few whiskeys, John said, “My God, she’s a good-looking woman! What’s she, like fifty? No more than fifty-five. Man, I’ll bet she was a looker when she was younger!”

I couldn’t say any­thing about the widow’s smile, so I just nodded my head. Not feeling the least bit guilty—Hell, I knew how much John loved single-malt whiskey, es­pe­cially those dark peaty ones from Islay—I filled John’s glass to the brim while leaving mine untouched.

When morning ar­rived, the weather was clear and we were on their way. When we got to the course, we found that the storm had bless­edly missed the greens.

Need­less to say, we had a hel­luva weekend!

A year later, John re­ceived a letter from an at­torney in Ed­in­burgh. He was a bit baf­fled at first, but he fig­ured it out a few mo­ments. (I learned all this af­ter­ward, of course.) He called me up: “Hey, Nealie, buddy boy! Do you re­member that good-looking widow we stayed with in Scotland?”

Yeah, sure. Of course, I do. Elspeth.

“Uh-huh, you know her name. Right. Did you happen to get up in the middle of the night?” John asked. “And, you know, pay El­speth a visit?”

Uh oh, I thought. Well, um, yeah. Yeah, I did.

“Um, buddy boy,” John in­quired, “did you give her my name in­stead of yours?”

Look, I’m sorry, man! But I couldn’t risk Elaine finding out. Not even 5,000 miles away! You know we have a sorta open-relationship thing, but I’m trying to stay, you know, monog­a­mous! And I promised I’d tell her the truth and I didn’t. I can’t!

“Why not?” John replied.

Be­cause it was so bloody amazing! I mean, it was in­cred­ible! She was the best I ever had!

John knew all about E and how great she was in bed. He was im­pressed. “And how about her?” he asked.

Oh, man, you wouldn’t be­lieve it! It was wild! We did things I never done be­fore! She made sounds I didn’t know a woman could make!

“Wow! But was there any­thing else,” he wanted to know.

Well, she said her hus­band had been a good man. A rich man. But all they ever did was the mis­sionary po­si­tion. That this was the first time in her life she had ever felt like a real woman! That she could die con­tent now. Stuff like that. Like I said, it was amazing! Why are you asking me this stuff?

“She did, Neal,” smiled John. “Oh yes, she did.”

Did what?

“Died,” replied John.

Huh! She’s dead?

And John just smiled and said, “She died. Con­tent. And she left me everything . . .”


Scotland Turnberry 800

FEATURED IMAGE: From the Turn­berry golf course lit­er­a­ture: “Imagine rolling hills, sandy dunes, a stiff breeze blowing off the Ayr­shire coast. Be­fore de­signer courses, be­fore man­i­cured greens and major cham­pi­onships, these lands in­spired local Scots to play the game of golf. Beloved since its first formal course was built in 1901, Turn­ber­ry’s fair­ways have been shared by the game’s elite and ca­sual en­thu­si­asts from around the globe. Even the con­ver­sion of its links to run­ways during two world wars could not di­minish the de­sire to play here, a place made for golf, where count­less com­pe­ti­tions have been waged that shall never be forgotten.”

In 2014, Donald Trump pur­chased Turn­berry and, in a turn that most as­suredly pissed off everyone in Scot­land, re­named it Trump Turnberry.


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I could wish that being a cronic truth teller had got me a for­tune amassed, but then I’d be a liar.
On the other hand, five fin­gers, and I sleep very well, when I do!

Great joke

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