The Art of BS

So how’s your morning commute to work going?” I once asked my brother-in-law just to make conversation. He crossed his legs, lifted a finger in the air and began, “Well, of course, traffic is merely a study in fluid dynamics.”

Three minutes later, he ended his long-winded response, and I was left utterly amazed by the grace, confidence, and ease with which he had shoveled me a huge pile of BS. I had never before witnessed such courageous use of random statistical figures and unnecessarily ostentatious vocabulary. I was impressed.

But, I wondered, isn’t BSing a bad thing?

BSing might loosely be defined as “the act of pontificating loquaciously on subject matter with which the orator has wholly derisory expertise.” However, such a stuffy definition might ironically exemplify that with which I am attempting to define, so allow me to rephrase:

BSing is when some annoying schmo, who has no idea what he is talking about, won’t shut up.

Now, I do not mean to cast BSers in a disparaging light. To the contrary, it is a fine Art, one that requires skill, dedication, and a healthy dose of raw talent.

For example, anyone who has ever been to a golf course has undoubtedly been in the midst of a BSer. Or two. Or twenty-seven.

Ex: “Now, unless you want to chili dip that thing into the frog hair and risk army-putting another triple bogey, you oughta milk the grip and let the big dog eat,” Chaz quips to his golf partner between swigs of Bloody Mary while leaning heavily on his Cobra driver just before duffing two balls into the pond.

Even though the Golf BSer is most certainly not very good at the sport, no one can deny his dedication to the craft of BSing. Imagine the hours spent perusing Golf Digest in the proctologist’s waiting room so that he can memorize golf terminology.

What about the thousands of dollars spent on trendy golf equipment to overcompensate for his complete lack of golf skills? Not to mention the over-priced, brand name, insignia-embroidered, moisture-wicking golf apparel.

And think about the sunburns the Golf BSer must endure while secretly tanning in his backyard wearing his golf glove, just so he can sport a characteristic golfer’s pale left hand. Now that’s dedication.

Of course, there are other classic BSers — lawyers, politicians, car salesmen, accountants, stockbrokers and their ilk ÔÇô who are paid to have all the answers whether they do or not.

Ex: “You see, George, your mutual funds tanked last quarter due to the unprecedented negative rumors of predicted speculations, so I’d be inclined to take the long view here,” a financial advisor might BS as a way of keeping his client confused enough to continue forking over his life savings.

But BSing is not reserved for the fast-talking lucrative professions alone. Sometimes, even the well intentioned must learn the Art of BSing. My own mother mastered the skill of BSing over the course of 30 years as a first grade teacher prior to the advent of Google and Wikipedia. Saying “I don’t know” in answer to the incessant questions of her curious students was simply not an option, so my mother quickly learned to just make stuff up.

Ex: “Why is the ocean blue, Mrs. Smith?” “Well, you see, Little Johnny, the tiny microscopic organisms swimming in the water have blue scales,” my mother has said with authority.

Grad students must also BS in order to maintain their reputation in society for knowing everything there is to know about everything. Why, take a stroll through any campus quad across this nation, and you will see them with their longish hair, graded term papers in hand, leaning against ivy covered walls, arguing over whether or not the international relations theory of “holistic constructivism” is a useful tool in analyzing the efficacy of post-war US foreign policy.

And let’s not forget all those people in Starbucks. Every single one of them deserves some recognition here, from the grungy-looking employee with the nose piercing who steams the non-fat milk for your double espresso skinny caramel macchiato, to the metrosexual with the European scarf in front of you in the line who ordered a chai tea, to the to the yoga-pant wearing mom out in her SUV yelling into the drive-thru window. Essentially anyone who has uttered the word “Vente” or referred to something with 20 grams of sugar as “skinny” is a card-carrying BSer, whether she likes it or not.

Surprisingly enough, even parents are masterful BSers. Think about it ÔÇô what does a Dad say when his six-year-old daughter looks adoringly into his eyes and asks, “Daddy, where do babies come from?” And what baloney must Mom come up with to explain what happened to Gus the Guppy who was last seen napping on the bottom of the tank?

Let’s face it ÔÇô we are a nation of BSers, and it’s about time we wake up and smell the Grande iced latte. Why don’t we finally give BSers the respect they deserve?

Now, if you believe that, I’ve got some really nice swampland in Florida to sell you.