Confidentiality Agreements

I agree in this distasteful pre-nup not to reveal that in the likely event of a divorce I will be entitled to no more than one million dollars for each year of my putting up with you, up to and including ten years, even though your net worth is approximately $300 million and even though the state’s law calls for an equal division and distribution of a couple’s property, and—yeah, yeah, yeah—you get to keep the bed Jayne Mansfield used to rollick and rhumba in.

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I agree that as the acquisitions curator for this museum I will not reveal to this museum’s distinguished board, nor will you inquire, how I came into receipt of various antique paintings, pottery, and sculptures, especially that Greek-Siceliot vase from near Catania that depicts a rather comely prostitute arguing with a window shopper in a white toga (and never mind the unfortunate resemblance to John Belushi in Animal House—after all, his name does suggest Club Med genome stuff).

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I agree that as a United States Marshall I will not reveal what unsuspecting community I sprung this former member of the Gambino crime family on, this moronic serial killer, this asshole, even though he murdered thirty-seven people—albeit other O.C. morons and killers (except for that neighbor whose cocker spaniel peed one bright morning on his white Ferrari)—before agreeing to turn state’s evidence.

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I agree that as an agent of the Central Intelligence Agency not to reveal to anyone, on the record or off, now or in the future, the methods of interrogation I use on my prisoners, including any type of torture or sexual abuse outlawed by the terms of the Geneva Convention, though I really thought the Tunisian babe, who had not a bomb but just an old ceramic vase hidden under her sequined abaya—okay, mea culpa, I’m contrite—I really thought she was getting into it before she choked on her niqab (you know, the full-facial veil thing) (and please, the genital mutilation stuff happened way, way earlier, back in her own diehard, ass-backward culture).

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I agree that as a procurer of wild animals not to reveal to this zoo’s board of directors where I acquired the following endangered species A-list animals—the Giant Panda, the California condor with its nearly ten-foot wingspan, the furry Bagheera (that priceless fur is why the damn thing is endangered) (unlike the thriving Xoloitzcuintli, aka the Miniature Mexican Hairless yapper, which I wish would just disappear off the face of the earth), and that Asian elephant (how I trotted it past customs while distracting the agents is ho ho ho! another story…and one you probably don’t want to know).

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I agree that as the publicist for a famous blonde heiress not to publicize that when she continues to drive her gray-market Maserati Ghibli drunk, and over the speed limit, and with a license that was suspended after two previous DUIs, and says shit like, “I just sign what my handler tells me to sign. Like, I’m a very busy person,” that in fact she is not a very busy person but, like, a professional fucking asshole.

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I agree that as a low-profile, high-end Beverly Hills cocaine and heroin dealer, whose product is always A1—thanks to my topnotch Newport Beach import/export guy—not to so much as even hint to anyone that you, my smack-slamming, ten-lines-at-a-time BFF, are among my rich and famous clientele (love that big bouncy Jayne Mansfield bed).

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I agree that as an employee of this archdiocese, never mind as a priest in this archdiocese, that of my own free will, and under threat of excommunication, not to mention legal termination of my medical benefits, rectory housing, and alcohol allowance, not to reveal to prosecutors that I once saw Father X, disguised in civies, drag a weeping ten-year old boy by his collar into that creepy old Westchester manse; and I further understand that what I hear during confessions—whether it’s I shoplifted a six-pack or I screwed my best friend’s wife, or the more exotic My great grandpa, fresh off the boat from Napoli, helped build the Bronx Zoo, so that elephant I boosted ain’t really a sin, right?—I understand that what I hear during confessions remains between me, the penitent, and God; but what I agree to in this document, more importantly, remains between me and the archdiocese’s attorneys (may God forgive me).

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I agree that as a former member of a New York Mafia family now in Jehov—uh, Witness Protection—not to reveal to no one in my new California coastal alternating lifestyle who I used to be, nor to contact anyone, or contract out on anyone, from my old life including relatives and mistresses—not through mail drops, reorbited phone calls, burn cells, emails, my Donnybook page, tweets, squawks, clucks, carrier canaries, nuthin’—and I further agree to work on my anger mismanagement issues, that is, not to clip no one, even if I catch ‘em keying the wing-door on the driver’s side of my irradiated silver Lamborghini in the South Plaza shopping mall, and—what’s that?—oh, all right already, I also agree, from here on in, to keep the fuck away from South Plaza because otherwise you folks will foreclose on my Get out of jail free card, and yeah, yeah, this time you really mean it.

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I agree that as the mistress of The Very Important Man that for $100,000 I won’t reveal how he once confided to me that his third mail-order bride looked way, way better in the air-brushed Photoshop Digital 3D IMAX catalogue; that for $500,000 I won’t reveal how his first ex-wife once confided to me, giggling, that John Gotti, a real gangster, was ten times better in the sack; that for one million dollars I won’t reveal that nowadays making the aging pudge-ball’s penis hard—yuck!—is a hundred times more difficult than making bricks from straw; and for a cool ten mil I’ll continue not to reveal (did you think I worked pro boner?) that once I get the damn thing up, keeping it up is an uphill struggle, indeed, makes me work a thousand times harder than poor old Sisyphus pushing that goddamn rock, again and again and again, up that fucking hill.

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