"I'm just sick and tired of spending the whole blasted summer indoors with my nose to the grindstone when I could be off playing golf," I told my wife, as I arranged for my tee time at Deep Hole Creek.

So I dialed my office promptly at 7:30. I knew Elaine would answer.

"I'm sick and feel unusually tired this morning. I'm not going to be in today."

"Don't worry," she said, "I'll let Umberto know. Rest up and feel better."

I had "lied," but I had a clear conscience. I had deftly avoided using any words that I had not, in fact, actually uttered. I just, well, sort of rearranged them slightly. There were a few strategic omissions. You might call it "honesty lite."

Or, let's say you haven't quite started on that tedious project yet. You've been surfing the net, downloading kick-ass 3D games, and exchanging e-mail with Heidi at the CyberSpace Institute in Oslo. No problem. Here's how you handle it.

"Boss, just wanted you to know I've been researching that project of yours on a variety of databases, applying gaming theory algorithms to the problem, and I'm even drawing upon some international resources."

Or suppose you are in the habit of habitually frequenting that "gentlemen's club" on 9th street, always parking in the garage at the Galleria because it's only 3 bucks after 4 PM. The spouse asks where you've been. No problem.

"Honey, I stopped off at the Galleria, did some window shopping, saw some real classy outfits, and then came straight home." (Note: be sure to remove the usual signs of cigar smoke and liquor before offering this explanation).

You get hit with an IRS audit and threatened with a stiff penalty. The auditor asks how come you "forgot" to list all those cash tips you received.

"Honestly, I never collected any tips. Must be some mistake!" (Note: "collection" implies an activity; "received" connotes a passive act. I mean, the money just came your way, right? You didn't actually "collect" it.)

Let's say you come home to find the dog has woofed cookies (real nasty chunks just to add insult to injury) all over your wife's favorite white sofa in the living room because you forgot to close the gate when you left. Not a problem.

You say: "Dear, I think Max has learned to circumvent the gate, even though I found it in position. Of course, you conveniently don't clarify what position it was in.

Or let's say you totally botch that Windows 98 installation, accidentally deleting your wife's business files and all her family tree research. No sweat.

"Dear, there was an interruption while the install program was in progress. I think the hard disk suffered a "glitch." (Note: this works better if you show her the setuplog file, adding a few hard disk "errors").

Once you master the technique, you can lie like a trooper with a perfectly clear conscience. Like the kids learn to do in school at a very early age. Unlike their clumsy, unsophisticated and overused oligosyllabic phrases like "I dunno," or "I'm only going out for a while," or the classic "of course I studied for that test," you will soon develop a ready repertoire that flows off the tongue like the breakfast syrup at McDonalds.

Forget to pick up the milk on the way home? No problem. Lie. Another anniversary forgotten? Relax. Fib. Out with the guys and coming home a little late and more than a little polluted? Don't worry! Prevaricate. Drop that priceless crystal pitcher while mixing screwdrivers for Oriole's wide-screen TV night? Be happy. Tell a whopper.

Pretty soon you will actually be merging fantasy with reality in your own mind. Your "explanations" will take on a life of their own. People will respect you more. You will develop "credibility." You will be valued for your "integrity." You will display all the right "he's-telling-the-truth" body language. Even a trained interrogator will be bamboozeled. You might even be able to fool that nasty truth serum and the bright light in your eyes. Well, maybe not when they tear off your fingernails. But who said anything about torture?