The manner in which the corruptor deals with his personal life is an important aspect of the entire operation. There a few guidelines which should be carefully followed in order to insure as little interference as possible. Since the smooth functioning of the society depends heavily on successful corruption, the corruptor should consider it his patriotic duty to do the thing right.

The wife:

Primary rule: Never tell your wife anything about your business activities. It is generally a good policy to plead poverty at every available opportunity. This usually serves to improve one’s personal relationships, since she will believe that anyone working so hard and earning so little must love her very much.

One close friend and corruptor, for example, drove his Honda from home each day, parking four blocks from his house where he was met by his chauffeur driving his Mercedes 680. This maintained the proper appearance at both ends of the trip, poverty at home and affluence at the office. Be careful that a casual glance by your wife at the mileage doesn’t engender suspicions when she wonders how come after two year of owning the family car, you=ve only driven it twenty miles. Better disconnect the thing altogether.

If your wife is particularly astute, however, she may wonder about your wardrobe of eight hundred dollar suits. After all, it would be too inconvenient to change clothes four times a day! This can usually be handled by granting her the use of a new credit card. Wives who can be kept occupied by shopping usually display a remarkable tolerance for any unusual behavior on the part of their husbands.

Speaking of credit cards, there is an obvious circumstance that should be watched for. This is particularly true if the wife pays any of the bills. Carry cash! This avoids considerable difficulty in explaining an American Express charge for Joe’s Motel on the other side of town.

In choosing a wife, the astute businessman will pay special attention to her high school grades, which can be obtained from any guidance counselor for twenty bucks. She’s ideal if she failed math, and this can be extremely useful should there be a need for alimony payments at a future date.

The Daughter

Daughters are particularly easy to handle. They believe in the honesty and integrity of their fathers under the most humiliating circumstances.

One girl, for example, was convinced that her father was a world renowned brain surgeon in spite of the fact that he was missing three fingers of his right hand.

Doubts can always be dispelled by a few dollars for a new dress. They can be counted on to be the staunchest allies in times of stress.

The Son

Sons are a different problem. They are much more variable and unpredictable. One never knows how they will turn out. In general it’s probably better to spoil them unmercifully with gifts and toys when they are young, and cars when they are older. Never give them cash since they will usually blow this by flying to California to join a cult.

The Mistress

 Choosing the proper mistress can be a particularly tacky problem. The first rule is never to pick one on the basis of sexual prowess alone, since this can often be arranged for more cheaply at any good massage parlor — with a hot shower and sauna to boot.

A mistress must be cultivated slowly to be sure that a communication of minds exists that makes the whole thing worthwhile. Never discuss business or sources of income. In fact, it is best if she is convinced that you are a shoe salesman from Detroit.

Under no circumstances must she know any details of your activities in keeping society going. Her wrath will be unbridled if she ever finds out that you really are married.

If she wonders how you can afford the apartment and lovely gifts, just tell her that the shoe business is great this year.

A relationship with one’s mistress must be based on mutual understanding, cooperation and vigorous bedtime activities. Never fall into the trap of becoming a >schmuck, which is a quaint term impossible to translate but easy to define :

>Schmuck : A man whose mistress doesn’t understand him.

The Secretary

She should know everything that is going on, since she may have to handle your affairs while you are in court testifying. The whole relationship must be built on loyalty. This can be engendered if you select a thirty four year old, blue eyed, single,  blonde who is convinced that at any moment you are going to leave your wife and marry her. It’s easy to establish this relationship since it’s what she wants to believe. Just don’t do anything to discourage her.

By all means, don’t hesitate to invite her to Sunday barbeque where you can criticize your wife for her extravagances and thereby convince your secretary that she would make a far better mate. This will ease your wife’s suspicions also, since she will be convinced you would never invite your mistress home. Thus neither of these important women in your life will suspect that on Tuesdays and Thursdays . . . . . .

  1. Uncles Aunts and Cousins

These relations should be kept in the dark about all your business affairs since they would only want a piece of the action. Keep repeating that business is already twenty percent ahead of next year. That will keep them guessing.


The Son-in-Law

George Hines Albertson III paced across the rug that centered his forty- foot living room. He glanced at the elegant furniture, each piece designed from similar models he had seen in museums on his many European trips. Portraits of elderly provincial ladies and gentlemen hung throughout the room. He pretended these were his relatives from colonial America. He had adopted the III after his name when he entered college, on a lark, for no reason, but this  immediately led to his being rushed by the best fraternities on campus and led to a rash of popularity lasting the entire four years.

He now lived in a 20,000 square foot home, part of his forty acre estate on the North Shore of Long Island, overlooking the Sound. From the road, passers-by would obtain glimpses of a large stone house through the hedges lining the estate. This was actually the servants’ quarters.

Further down the landscaped lawn stood his home, flagstone front, ivy climbing alongside the huge wooden doors. The central hall led to a white circular stairway lined by paintings of horsemen in red and blue uniforms in various equestrian poses, some carrying guns and others with long, thin, metallic trumpets. Tall Irish wolfhounds roamed at the feet of the various stallions.

His wife sat calmly, relaxed in a high backed Hepplewhite chair staring at the pacing figure before her. She finally looked up, sipped a sherry from a thin crystal goblet.

“George, it won’t do any good to pace around that way. We’ve got to think of something. She’s starting to eat more and more. She ‘ll be dowdy in a few more years.”

“I know. You’re right, of course. I can’t bring myself to tell her. She really looks up to me.”

“That’s part of the problem. She’s never been able to find anyone who could match your. . .   charm.”

“Don’t be snide, Gladys. It’s not becoming. She loves me because I’m her father. Isn’t there someone she likes? She’s been sulking for months. There must be someone responsible for that.”

His wife placed her glass gently on a slender side table. “Twenty-six years old” she said, “and she still sulks when she gets a crush on somebody. . . . Why at her age . . .”

“Gladys” George cut in, “let’s not repeat ancient history. Just make sure it stays ancient.”

Mrs. Albertson III lifted her glass, taking another sip, and looked casually around the great room. “I think she likes that fellow, Jim something-or-other at your office. You know, the one that’s always pinching the secretaries. What else does he do anyway?”

“He functions, he functions. He has a bright streak, too. College graduate, but a real horse’s ass when it comes to women. Are you sure that’s who it is?”

“Yes, pretty certain. I mentioned him the other day at lunch and she stalked off crying. I’d say it was pretty certain.” George hesitated a moment, then asked “Where did she meet him?”

“Oh, don’t be stupid, George,” his wife hissed, “That girl has been up to your office ten times in the last month. You certainly don’t think she’s that attached to you.”

“So that’s the reason. I wondered why she’s made so many shopping trips to the city. I should have guessed.”

“Well if we don’t find somebody soon,” Gladys continued, “she’ll never get married.” There was a moment of silence, Gladys rose and faced her husband. “Can you do anything? Surely he must have some attraction to your money, — even if nobody knows where it came from.”

“Don’t start that again, Gladys. If you need anything just ask”

“You know I don’t need anything, except maybe you, – – once in a while.”

“Okay, okay, – – I’ve been very busy.”

“Can you do anything?” she repeated.

“We’ll see, we’ll see.”


Jim Dibella sat quietly at his desk, afraid to move, slowly contemplating the swelling against his right thigh as he stared at Velma across the room. Her long red hair hung loosely over her shoulders. She wore a simple peasant blouse, filled by her large breasts, and cut low enough to produce his current arousal.

“Gotta stop,” he thought.” I won’t be able to stand up in a minute. What a piece.”

He had tried for months to impress her without success. It cost him a fortune to get his hair styled just right, long in front and carefully trimmed in back. He shopped for new clothes that would allow his muscular build to shine through. He threw away all his t-shirts, wore ‘Canoe’ under his arms everyday — all to no avail. He could not get her to budge.

Must be a lesbian, he thought. But this excited him even more. Christ, I better think of football players again. I can’t even make to the water cooler.

“The boss wants these accounts completed.”

He barely looked at the papers thrust at him. He closed his eyes. Jerry Rice, Jumbo Elliot, Dan Marino. He saw Dan Marino fading back to throw a long one. What the hell was that receiver doing with long red hair. Christ, he thought.

Jim lived in a small East side apartment since college. He was ambitious, but found he had a weakness in constantly thinking about the many short-skirted girls surrounding him. He’d scored several times, but usually had a hard time finishing a good play. People, girls, just didn’t take him very seriously.

After a light dinner and a change of clothes each night, he would try his luck at one of the local bars. Usually he ended up watching late night TV by himself.

On this particular night he found himself more excited than usual. He couldn’t get Velma out of his mind, and began to real off football players to get himself back on track: John Elway, . . . Reggie White . . . Oh my God.

He wandered aimlessly at first and then into Fat Fannie’s on Third Avenue. Each of the bars followed a similar formula. Unusual name, few seats, weird decor, cheap drinks, and hopefully a few gay waiters.  The attraction, however, was the crowding at the bar. No one ever seemed to eat anything, but the body contact was ferocious.

Every girl tried to look as though she had just wandered in from Ohio, by mistake, and the men as though they were auditioning for a role as an adagio dancer, — open shirt, casual hairdo, something metal hanging around their necks.

Jim stood at the bar looking over the field. Where to start, where to start? He fingered his shirtfront. His medallion kept slipping into his shirt. He knew it had to show. He couldn’t get the collar to lie straight. Every time he opened another button, the collar curled. This bothered him, but not as much as his lack of thoracic hair. He’d thought about going for a hair transplant on his chest, but couldn’t find anyone that would do it. He opened the next button and the disc flew out and hung loosely. He straightened his collar and looked around.

It was almost a full minute before he could believe his eyes. She stood at the other end of the bar, still wearing the low cut white blouse, but now with tight black pants outlining her soft round buttocks. He noticed the outline of her thigh, firm and full.

“Velma,” he said. He painfully edged his way through the crowd, trying to whip his medallion from side to side for effect as he moved. He felt the back of a small blonde girl as  he moved along. “I’m from Canton” she said as she turned around.

“Velma,” he said again, ” I can’t believe it. What are you doing here?”

“Hi Jim.” she smiled, her long hair flowing loosely as she turned. ” Why I just thought I would stop in for a drink.”

“Let me buy it for you”, he said as he turned to the bartender. She ordered a scotch sour. Jim thought a moment and then ordered a Tanqueray martini, which was the most sophisticated drink he could think of at the moment. He forgot the twist of lemon.

“Gee, Jim, you look very good tonight.”

“I don’t believe it,” he thought, “she’s not really here.”

They spoke quietly for a few moments as each sipped their drink.  Jim swaggered slightly as each asked the usual questions concerning the latest SRO play, a new Greek restaurant on second avenue, the inner meaning of a recent article on the Op Ed page of The Times.

Jim noticed the olive sitting in the bottom of his glass. He bit hard on it. The pit was still in. “What the hell do you do with an olive pit,” he thought.

The crowd at the bar swelled. The decor in Fat Fannie’s resembled the living room in an African hut, covered with swinging fake leopard skins, masks, some smiling as though they had just devoured an enemy chieftain, and the odor of the menagerie at Barnum & Bailey’s Greatest Show on Earth, which was sprayed in by an atomizer every hour to maintain the proper atmosphere.

The swell at the bar surged and Jim felt a soft breast against his chest. The damned pit, he thought, as he swallowed hard.

Velma touched Jim’s hand as the evening drew on. He felt something metallic in his hand as she brushed closely to him. He could smell her perfume. She said goodbye. — he looked down as he opened his fingers. It was a key.

Three weeks had passed when Jim got the invitation. It was simple — dinner at the boss’ home. He hadn’t seen Velma since that night. It was rumored that she had been promoted to another department.

Jim thought about but couldn’t fathom the reason for the invitation. Probably had something to do with his daughter. She was always hanging around. “Pudgy kid………… No kid,” he thought.

He arrived by taxi from the railroad depot. He knew Albertson was rich but he never imagined anything like this. The house — the mansion — was imposing. Must have married money. Surely business wasn’t that good.

He was ushered in by the butler. The huge central hall was imposing with its crystal chandelier, circular staircase, and huge doors leading to the library or living room or dining hall. It was truly a hall – mahogany paneled, eighty feet long, huge leather chairs facing the gleaming table set with fine lace and sterling silver.

Cocktails were served by a white-gloved maid and followed shortly by a formal march into dinner. Only the four of them were present. Mr. and Mrs. Albertson and Deirdre. Short, blonde and pudgy.

The conversation was all inconsequential. He reviewed his educational and family history, traded college stories, and a few current event quips. “What’s it all about,” thought Jim. He knew he carried a fair amount of responsibility at the firm, but not enough to warrant this.

After dinner the women disappeared and Jim and Mr. Albertson were left alone in the dining room.

“Jim,” said the boss, “come along with me, I’ve a bit of a surprise I’d like to show you.”  They walked through the lengthy room and out through a door to another paneled room. The house was quiet as Albertson lifted a key from his pocket and opened still another door.

Jim was surprised as they entered a small movie theater, equipped with cushioned seats, fully draped to protect the sound, with a projection area in the rear.

“My wife and I occasionally entertain here,” said Albertson, “but it also has additional uses.”

Jim was silent. The whole scene was leading somewhere, but he sensed he’d better just observe for a while and be quiet. They slid calmly into the plush seats.

“Ever go to any of those x rated sex movies?”

“Once in awhile,” answered Jim, who was actually embarrassed at the query.

Albertson raised his hand and the lights dimmed gradually. A curtain parted and a large screen slid into place. Jim sat back as the movie started. The name flashed on.

Overexposed Tonsils rated xxx

Jim flushed as the picture ran on. It was a sexy comedy about a poor girl whose neck glands enlarged following each series of certain sexual exploits.  She was diagnosed as having cancer when she’s saved by a Viennese surgeon who performs a tonsillectomy. The post operative follow up examinations were sensational. Jim remembered the film now. He had heard that the divorce rate among Ear Nose and Throat doctors tripled within three months of the first showing.

Jim was hot and began to sweat throughout the final scenes.

“I don=t understand why you’re showing these to me,” he said.

“Because I make these films.”

“You what?”

“I produce them, sell them, market them. It’s worth a fortune if handled properly.”

“But the business?”

“Just a front. The real money’s here. I’m not really English. I’m Italian. Just like you.”

“You mean you’re a Long Island Porno King?” Jim was incredulous. He had no idea.  Now it seemed simpler since he had doubts about the sales of the business producing this kind of wealth.

“I suppose.”

“But why tell me all this? And why show this film? I know it’s a big seller and all . . . . ”

Albertson interrupted, “Oh it’s not this film I wanted you to see, Jim. It”s the next one.”

Jim felt a weakness in his knees as he sunk back. Albertson raised his arm again and the lights dimmed.

The movie flashed on. Without titles this time.

Jim sunk deeper into his seat as the scenes flashed by. His face reddened as he saw Velma, the red hair covering him as he tripped trying to get his left leg out of his pants. Her, falling all over him as he vainly tried to pull his shorts over his pants. The whole scene was comic except for the fact that he was the unwilling agent of the comedy.

“Oh my God,” he said, “they got the whole thing.”

“That=s my next hit, Jim.” said Albertson “It’ll be a riot.”

“You can’t.”

“Do you want to sue?”

Jim lowered his head further. “What do you want?”

“Jim, I never had a son, and I want one, . . . by marriage of course. I think with a bit of reflection you’ll see the advantages. They could be considerable.”

“Why me?”

“Well, Jim you meet the classic requirements. First of all, my daughter likes you. Second, you know enough of my business to become a valuable partner. And thirdly, if I should decide to retire, your first hand knowledge of the business should make it easy for you to take over.”

Jim let his face drop into his hands.

“Fourthly, I am sure you will agree in view of this evening’s activities, that I can be assured of a significant amount of loyalty . . .”

“Oh my God!” said Jim.

“Now the only thing we have to decide upon, is the date.”