F-list celebrities (and the bitches who birthed them)

Many celebrities remain gracious long after fame sets in. They use their pull only when absolutely necessary, and rarely as a don't-you-know-who-I-am affront for free stuff. With the exception of that Proactive-peddling cake-faced crooner Jessica Simpson and her wacky family of fundamentalist right wing Christian sycophants, most celebs in the A and B list tiers know it's not cool to go Sharon Stone in public (Ms. Stone was rightfully relegated to C-list status after America discovered she couldn't act her way out of an orgasm).

From the C-list down (reality TV stars, talk show hosts, most people on the WB), people stop being polite. In an effort to claim that piece of the pie, some stars forget their place. Worse yet, the family members of those barely recognizable actors boost them up the latter. Yesterday at work I met the mother of all show business moms. Had she been forced to pick up all the names she dropped, she'd be on her knees all day, and for once not in a casting office.

She came into the health club as a prospective member, no doubt impressed by our lengthy list of A-list clientele. She approached the front desk and informed me, "Hi, I'm so-and-so's mother, I want to work out today."

"I'm sorry, our club is for members and their paying guests only," I replied with a devilishly insincere look of regret.

"Oh," she replied undaunted, "Well I came in here last year and this guy gave me a guest pass. Is he still here?"

She thought I'd find the vagueness of her comment to be cute. Needless to say the look on my face reflected otherwise.

"Did you happen to catch this gentleman's name?" I asked.

"No," she replied with a tone of voice that said "I do not remember names. I am the mother of an actor. Greatness flows from my vagina."

"Well," I replied, baited, "even if you had been insightful enough to remember his name, I'm the only one in the office, and I can either let you speak with our sales director about purchasing a membership, or I can tell you to have a nice day and see you later."

"Ugh," she replied. "My son's very busy, and I have to be discreet because he and I are both hounded by the paparazzi. I need to get in today."

"Unless you speak with a sales director, I will not let you into the club."

"May I speak with the manager on duty?"

"Hi, I'm Chase, the manager on duty, may I help you?"

"Nevermind. I'm going to tell my son and his attorney that this club is below our standards. The service is obviously not suited to celebrity needs."

"I'm sorry, I wasn't aware you're a celebrity. Even if you were, we treat all our members the same. Have a nice day, see you later!"

The exchange continued with her volume increasing proportionately to the sick look of satisfaction on my face as I subjected her to the celebrity treatment she deserved. Our sales director, whose sole objective yesterday was to leave early, emerged from her office after hearing mommie dearest shouting obscenities at me, the polite reception boy at the front desk. Mommy continued her quest for pampering, but was now rejected twice. She left the club in a huff, promising that a call to our corporate manager would prove the end of our worthless careers at "this shitty club."

Our corporate by-laws state, "...Furthermore, no member or prospective member shall be given privilege or preferential treatment over another member based on career, income, appearance, or presence in the public domain" and "No member or prospective member shall remain in the club if he or she uses obscenities or makes a staff member feel uncomfortable."

So not only am I not going to lose my job, I'm probably going to be named employee of the month for being such a model paradigm of anti-celebrity justice.

P.S. - The aforementioned mother is the mother of someone on The O.C., whose name I had never heard before and probably won't until he's discovered in bed with Adam Brody.