Liar’s Bar

A kind simile would be – ‘like bees around honey’.
An accurate simile would be – ‘like flies around a dog turd.’

The dog turd is my friend Zack*. The flies are the scantily clad, perfume soaked nymphets currently swarming around him. Every weekend it’s the same. Zack the mild mannered quantity surveyor is transformed into Zack, the fork-tongued lady-killer, roaming the clubs and bars of Jo’burg, sworn to protect gullible honeys from the evils of sexual abstinence. Zack has more tales than the SPCA.
I get no forewarning…I just have to keep up.
Tonight we’re two doctors out for a quiet drink to discuss some intricate medical procedures. Zack says his patient presented with Hypertrophic Cardiomyopathy.
He said there was evidence of Subdural Haematoma. He ordered a Cardiovascular Panel and a Full Blood workup. He couldn’t rule out Arteriosclerosis.

Medical jargon rolls off the conveyor belt that is Zack’s tongue, and onto the eager ears of the three young ladies sitting around him.
When the waitress stops at our table, he orders “two beers and three tequilas – stat.”
I feel like I’m an extra on an episode of E.R.
My contribution to these performances is limited. I don’t have the imagination or the confidence required to deceive. It’s a character flaw that I have to work on.
I nod in all the right places and say, “Mmm…”
I put my finger over my lips, close my eyes and nod my head thoughtfully.
Every time he winks at me, I have to bite the inside of my cheek to keep from laughing.
Sometimes I pick up some action from the scraps that Zack leaves. It’s the same as getting the Oscar for best actor in a supporting role.
Most nights I go home alone.
I crawl into bed with integrity and dignity. Zack crawls into bed with Ingrid and Brittany.

Tonight’s looking promising though. Apparently, I plan to specialize in Paediatrics.
Zack says he can’t decide between Gynaecology and Obstetrics.
If one of these girls had half a brain, she’d see his story is absolutely full of holes.

I’ve been working in the same office as Zack for a little over a year and we’ve been cruising smoky bars and pubs for all that time. As a quantity surveyor, his talents are completely wasted. This is not his true calling. What he actually should be doing – I really can’t say, but I suspect he’d make a decent politician. Pardon the oxymoron.
I can’t tell you what he is, or what he should be, but I can tell you what he isn’t, and what he wasn’t, from what I’ve picked up since I’ve known him.

Here then, a survival guide for all attractive, naïve young ladies.

Zack is not a cameraman for the reality TV show ‘Survivor’ and he isn’t flying out next week to meet with Jeff Probst and the producers of the show, to negotiate his salary package for the next series.
The producers aren’t looking for a South African contestant for the next series, and Zack has no influence over who gets selected.
He didn’t coin the phrase ‘…the tribe has spoken…’
Brad Pitt hasn’t asked Zack to be the best man at his next wedding.
Zack wasn’t the only national serviceman ever to achieve the rank of Major in the former SADF.
When his eyes fill with tears and he says he’d rather not speak about the army, don’t assume he has post-traumatic stress disorder. He struggles to even spell ‘Afghanistan’.
The scars on his back aren’t from shrapnel. They’re from acne.
He isn’t currently training new members of the Hawks.
Zack was not working on the thirtieth floor of the World Trade Centre when the first plane hit.
He didn’t co-ordinate rescue operations from ground zero.
He isn’t an honorary member of the New York Fire Department.
Zack is not a talent scout for Sports Illustrated Swimwear models.
He isn’t currently recruiting for their next photo shoot in Hawaii.
He can’t ‘fast track’ the screening process by getting a close look at the skin tone on your thighs and torso.
Zack isn’t related to any of the following people; Brad Pitt, George Clooney, Johnny Depp, Richard Gere, Sting, Lance Armstrong, Bill Gates, Stephen Hawking, Nelson Mandela or Ghandi.
Zack doesn’t love cats.
Zack doesn’t find housework ‘therapeutic’.
Zack doesn’t prefer shopping to watching rugby.
And finally, Zack doesn’t love to cuddle and chat after sex.

One of the nymphets returns from the toilet with a chunky girl who’s clearly in distress. She’s sweating, her heart’s racing and she says she has pains in her left arm.
Can we help her?
Operating purely on instinct, Zack springs into action. He quickly sinks the rest of his beer and says he has some diagnostic equipment in his Mercedes that he wants to fetch. I say I have some medication in my BMW that might come in handy.
The fat girl collapses into a chair.
We make our way through the crowded club like Batman and Robin rushing out to the batmobile.
We leave skid marks in the parking lot and then we’re cruising down the M1 in Zack’s Uno, looking for a McDonald’s.

I mention that we’re running out of pubs we can go back to.
I say I hope the fat chick is O.K.
Zack* sighs and says he thinks maybe we should go to a church service on Sunday night.

He says those holy roller babes will believe any old shit.

*Not his real name.