You miss the point of liberal charges of lying. Lying is simply disagreement. What liberals say is True because liberals say it and it is so obviously True that when conservatives differ they are necessarily lying. To a conservatives a lie is a statement contrary to a fact known to the speaker. The liberal does not accept the existence of facts so the whole concept of truth and lying is radically different. That is why it is not possible to have an actual sensible discussion about much of anything with a liberal.
To leftists, the greatest sin is "hypocrisy". Eighty years after the cult of Heideggerian "authenticity" was revealed as an excuse for brutality, they are still shouting down opponents as "hypocrites".
Saul Bellow captured the tension between the older, rationalist/modernist liberalism and what replaced it (disregard this long passage if you don't like classic fiction):
Sammler, with growing interest and confidence recalling all this, lectured on Cosmopolis for half an hour, feeling what a kindhearted, ingenuous, stupid scheme it had been. Telling this into the lighted restless hole of the amphitheater with the soiled dome and caged electric fixtures, until he was interrupted by a clear loud voice. He was being questioned. He was being shouted at.
"Hey!"
He tried to continue. "Such attempts to draw intellectuals away from Marxism met with small success...."
A man in Levi's, thick-bearded but possibly young, a figure of compact distortion, was standing shouting at him.
"Hey! Old Man!"
In the silence, Mr. Sammler drew down his tinted spectacles, seeing this person with his effective eye.
"Old Man! You quoted Orwell before."
"Yes?"
"You quoted him to say that British radicals were all protected by the Royal Navy? Did Orwell say that British radicals were protected by the Royal Navy?"
"Yes, I believe he did say that."
"That's a lot of shit."
Sammler could not speak.
"Orwell was a fink. He was a sick counterrevolutionary. It's good he died when he did. And what you are saying is shit." Turning to the audience, extending violent arms and raising his palms like a Greek dancer, he said, "Why do you listen to this effete old shit? What has he got to tell you? His balls are dry. He's dead. He can't come."
Sammler later thought that voices had been raised on his side. Someone had said, "Shame. Exhibitionist."
But no one really tried to defend him. Most of the young people seemed to be against him. The shouting sounded hostile. Feffer was gone, had been called away to the telephone. Sammler, turning from the lectern, found his umbrella, trench coat, and hat behind him and left the platform, guided by a young girl who had rushed up to express indignation and sympathy, saying it was a scandal to break up such a good lecture. She showed him through a door, down several stairs, and he was on Broadway at One hundred-sixteenth Street.
Abruptly out of the university.
Back in the city.
And he was not so much personally offended by the event as struck by the will to offend. What a passion to be real. But real was also brutal. And the acceptance of excrement as a standard? How extraordinary! Youth? Together with the idea of sexual potency? All this confused sex- excrement-militancy, explosiveness, abusiveness, tooth-showing, Barbary ape howling. Or like the spider monkeys in the trees, as Sammler once had read, defecating into their hands, and shrieking, pelting the explorers below. He was not sorry to have met the facts, however saddening, regrettable the facts. But the effect was that Mr. Sammler did feel somewhat separated from the rest of his species, if not in some fashion severed--severed not so much by age as by preoccupations too different and remote, disproportionate on the side of the spiritual, Platonic, Augustinian, thirteenth-century. As the traffic poured, the wind poured, and the sun, relatively bright for Manhattan--shining and pouring through the openings in his substance, through his gaps.