Lying works on a scale, of course. The small lies we tell to spare feelings and to expedite situations are mostly harmless and mundane. Somewhere further down the line are lies like "Of course I paid the electricity bill" as you sit in the dark and try to ponder what could have gone wrong. And it's in this neighborhood, this singles mixer of the untruthful and untrustworthy, that you'll find the worst liar in the world: the Indignant Liar. For even a liar who claims to have traveled to Mars and impregnated vast numbers of supermodels and pop stars while he was there is not quite as hard to deal with as the liar who says, "I didn't eat the last cookie," with a fearsome, defensive rage and accusing glare that translates to "How dare you accuse me of such devilry," even as chocolaty crumbs tumble from his lying f*****g lips.

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"Go ahead, call me a liar to my face."

Yes, the Indignant Liar is the liar who backs his lies up with attitude designed to make you feel like s**t for calling out the lie. You're the fuckstick here, not him. You're the a*****e who dares cast such aspersions, not him. And if he's really good, he'll actually make you second-guess yourself. And if he's really bad, he'll enrage you because you will have caught him red-handed and still -- still! -- he'll indignantly deny the entire debacle and offer the alternate suggestion that maybe you're stupid.

The Indignant Liar is literally the worst human on Earth. Donald Trump has proven himself to be one of these over and over again, a man caught in lies who never admits wrong, merely offering stupid alternate theories. I never pretended to be my own PR guy! I never accepted support from racists! I don' t suck souls from the asses of the elderly!

The Skilled Ignoramus knows one thing and only one thing. That's why you need them or may find yourself dealing with them. You will soon learn that they have traded all the excess real estate in their brain for knowledge of whatever their one area of expertise is. This is dangerous for any number of reasons. First and foremost, they have nothing to share of any interest beyond their one area of expertise, and you can only listen to a roofer talk about roofing for so long before you want to throw him off one. The other issues is that, nine times out of 10, they don't realize they're dipshits in pretty much very other arena of life, and that makes them highly dangerous.

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File your own taxes. It's not worth the second-degree burns.

I had an art teacher in high school, and in retrospect she clearly had issues with alcohol abuse, but at the time she was just the drunken idiot art teacher. And she was as dense as fog. She'd try to teach art history but get dates vastly wrong, and names, and even art styles and influences. She tried explaining art in Ancient Egypt once to the class by insisting it had been very much influenced by the Italian Renaissance, which struck me as so abominably stupid I may have audibly snorted and said something along the lines of, "Are you shitting me?" She could freehand draw a circle like some kind of robot circle-drawer, mind you, but dammit if she had no clue about anything else in life.

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It did explain our final exam, however. I failed.

The Skilled Ignoramus hates being wrong, and your derisive snorts and claims of being shitted will go over poorly. Remember this. Remember it and, when hunting for a skilled individual, try to find someone who knows at least two things to minimize the chances you'll end up with someone who passed only this one class in college because they were too drunk to do any others.

The Expert Lifer is tolerable when you have no real ties to them. An a*****e co-worker explaining why you're doing your job wrong is easy to fix with a few shots of the Irish in your coffee and a daydream that turns them into an affable, talking baboon. The family expert is another sack of turds and one you can't so easily ignore. These are the people who keep your spirits down from around the time you learn to master language right up until their funeral. The people who let you know your choice of major isn't going to lead to a good job and that by your age they had already gotten married, had a career, and one time punched out Mike Tyson in a bar fight because it seemed like a good idea at the time.

The worst person in the world to be an expert lifer is your mother or father. I pity all of those who were burdened with this growing up, for it is a soul-crushing exercise in deciding when and where to lose your mind and how loud the volume should be when it happens. There's no greater disappointment for a kid than to come home with your first A on a science test or some such and be met with something like, "That's good. I used to get straight A's in every subject." And then you make a completely unreadable face and say, "Hey, bully for you, have you considered shoving your head up your ass today?"

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Then they tell you that when they were grounded they used the time to solve the crisis in the Middle East.

For added spice, Lifers can and will work together. Say you're lucky enough to have two parents or some siblings who fall into this category so the first one can point out how they achieved whatever your achievement is first, and faster, and better, and then the second can go in for the deathblow. This is like the scene in a zombie movie when someone gets hold of the jejunum and you get to see a few meters of guts pulled out and chewed on. In context it's when, proud of your ninth-grade science achievement, the other Expert Lifer asks you some kind of master's level physics question that you can't answer so they can smugly stare at you and your ineptitude as the zombies chew through your colon.

I once dated a girl who probably had a few warning signs ahead of time that I should have taken note of. Things like a penchant for Hello Kitty despite being an adult, an all-pink room, a curious abundance of stuffed animals in said room, and the fact she still lived with her parents in her mid 20s. It wasn't until the day I saw her older sister, a woman who taught math at a local grade school, accidentally get her finger caught in the screen door that I discovered I was in the Twilight Zone.

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Because I dropped my glasses and realized there was a monster on the wing with a pig's face, but I digress.

This woman, in the latter half of her 20s, stood in the doorway after getting her finger scratched on an errant piece of bent screen and held her hand out in front of herself, balled into a fist, save for the single scratched finger which pointed outward at nothing. And she screeched. The screech of a child on an airplane when you just want to get some sleep, or the kind of dread caterwauling when a toddler has left its favorite blankie in the car. Face all scrunched and red, cheeks puffed like someone with the mumps, eyes screwed tight as the tears plopped free, she cried wordlessly and loudly. This adult woman, a teacher, a real human being. Finger held out to no one in the desperate hope someone, anyone could make her boo-boo better. I nearly shat and vomited at the same time. And no one else present was even remotely surprised. Not her sister (whom I was dating), not her husband, and not her mother or father. Her mother just pulled a Band-Aid from her purse and put it on her adult daughter's scratched finger as though this s**t happened every Sunday. The tears stopped immediately, and we continued like nothing happened.

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Guess what that f*****g Band-Aid looked like.

Now, my girlfriend never cried like a baby with a skinned knee, but she got weird, and she did cry. Boy did she ever. Whenever we were faced with more than two straight hours with anyone from my family, she'd cry. Holidays and that sort of thing, she'd just stay in our room instead of socializing, because she "couldn't handle" my family. So instead of being a normal human, she opted to be a weepy lump of jelly, just quivering and stinking up the joint.

This routine repeated itself whenever we were confronted with literally anything that wasn't her idea, eventually. Hang out with my friends, go see a movie I wanted to see, try a restaurant I liked the sound of. All of that led to lonesome weeping. The last straw was the day I didn't have enough change on me to buy a large Orange Julius instead of a medium Orange Julius and she threw the medium on the ground and stomped away.

Some people aren't meant to be happy, and it's because they're pieces of s**t. This is a hard-learned lesson for many of us, but you'll be happier in the long run once you figure it out. Pieces of s**t can't be happy, you see, because they're always going to be s**t.

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And that means more Orange Juliuses for the rest of us.

For those curious: No, I didn't follow her back home. I walked to a friend's house and spent about six hours playing PlayStation with my phone turned off. Then we had some beers and watched a horror movie, and sometime that night I went home and she wasn't there. Days later I just deleted my messages without listening to them, and by the end of the week when I came to visit her with a tray full of four medium Orange Juliuses, even she got the idea that I was done. She didn't cry, but she swore a lot. I could only finish two of the Juliuses.

What's The Best Fictional School To Attend? In the muggle world, we're not given the opportunity for a magical hat to tell us which school we should go to. Usually we just have to go to the high school closest to where we live or whatever college accepts our SAT scores and personal essay. This month, our goal is to determine what would be the best fictional school to go to. Join Jack, Daniel, and the rest of the Cracked staff, along with comedians Brandie Posey and Steven Wilber, as they figure out if it's a realistic school like Degrassi or West Beverly High, or an institution from a fantasy world like Hogwarts with its ghosts and dementors, or Bayside High, haunted by a monster known only to humans as Screech. Get your tickets here!

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