During the first week of my journalism ethics class (no oxymoron jokes, please – I’ve heard them all), I asked the students to keep track of all the lies they told.

Most of the lies were both predictable and forgivable:

“A guy asked me for my phone number. I told him I had a boyfriend.”

 “I told my mom that I went to all my classes this week when I actually didn’t.”

 Some of the fibs were actually kind of sweet: 

“It was a friend’s birthday. My other friend and I were decorating her door and she texted me asking where I was. I told her I was in class so I wouldn’t ruin the surprise.”

“My neighbor's 4-year-old was messy while eating a banana (he had it all over his hands and shirt). When I saw that he looked upset about the mess, I told him ‘That's okay, sometimes I get messy when I eat bananas, too.’”

Some lies, though harmless, were indefensible:

“One of my roommates asked me to take out the trash.  I really wasn’t in the mood to take it out, so I said I was doing homework, when in reality, I was browsing the Internet.”

“My English teacher…asked the class to define ourselves through a piece of literature. I said ‘The Fountainhead’ because I knew enough about the book to talk a little about it and it is also extremely popular and acclaimed.  However, I have never actually read the book.  I lied to impress the teacher...”

 (“The Fountainhead?” Nice try.)

And some of the lies were craven, mean or otherwise ill-advised:

“My roommate from last year was telling me how happy she is that she is finally dating this guy.  I told her I am really happy for her.  In reality, I think that the guy she is dating is a complete scumball and freeloader who is only dating her because she is rich.”

 “A guy I have class with asked me to hang out with him over the weekend. I told him I would when I really had no intentions of doing so. To top it off, I realized he had my number from a previous class. He called and text messaged me, and I told him that I'd meet up with him but didn't.”

 But the only lies that really appalled me were these:

“I told my mom that I spent $100 on groceries, and I needed more money for books, but I really spent the money over the weekend at the bar.”

“I told my mom my books cost $320 instead of the actual $270 price so that I could have $50 extra dollars in my bank account.” 

“I told my dad I needed $250 dollars for books, but I only needed about $150 more.”

 Yep, they stole from their own parents, the very people who are forking over $25,000 a year for their (in-state) education. When I expressed my dismay, the class grinned sheepishly.

Part of the reason I get worked up about this is that I’ve had kids in college myself (six years down, six to go). I haven’t guilt-tripped my scholars about what their education is costing me, but I think it’s important that they know it’s not cheap or easy. What’s an extra 50 or 100 bucks? I could use it to drown my own sorrows, thank you very much. 

This business of lying to parents may reveal deeper problems with our higher-ed system. Since most of the kids are not paying for their educations themselves, they don’t feel a compelling need to get their money’s worth. Note the liar who skipped classes during the first week. Or this one:

“My dad called to ask how my first week of classes had been going and what I had been up to.  I did not want to tell him that I had spent every night drinking since I had gotten here, so I told him we had just all been hanging out.”

 Far from ending childhood, the college experience prolongs it. With someone else picking up the tab, students are able to spend four years playing, which at their age takes the form of partying.

This may help explain why, in a nation where more than half of us—about 150 million people—have at least some post-secondary education, so many are so susceptible to the silver-tongued liars who dominate the airwaves. It all adds up to too much drinking and not enough thinking.