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Here is one story retold, albeit with a pithier ending:

From Sillandra:

Little White Lies

What happened: Okay, so I admit it. I'm what you could call a "creative" person (which an sometimes be translated to read: pathological liar). I've always had a way with stretching and bending the truth until something pleasing and acceptable emerges. So here I was, sharing a really great story with a bunch of co-workers, and adding my usual creative spin. My audience was mesmerized, and I brought it all home with a clever and spicy close. Everyone smiled and laughed. Except Jonathan. No, Jonathan felt compelled to ask, very loudly, "Is absolutely E-V-E-R-Y-T-H-I-N-G that comes out of your mouth a lie"?

What I said: Blushing twelve shades of mortified pink and red and purple, I mutterred something to the effect of "Well, yeah, most of the time..."

What I SHOULD have said: "Well, no, Jonathon. Sometimes when I'm bulimic, I spew chunks of bitter bile from these sparkly lips. But for today, how about we just enjoy the tale, huh?"

on the stairs

L'esprit d'escalier

The French call it l'esprit d'escalier, "the wit of the staircase," those biting ripostes that are thought of just seconds too late, on the way out of the room-or even, to tell the truth, days later. It's happened to you: you've suddenly thought of just what would put your foe in his or her place, but past the time when the arrow could sting its victim. You've stewed in your own juice ever since, and the chance for singeing repartee is gone forever.

Or is it?

Dorothy Parker or Oscar Wilde may have had the rapier wit to tweak their tormentors on the spot, but for the rest of us, we offer the Internet's only L'esprit d'escalier web site!