“We’re tracking customer frequency of visits; the average number of people in their party; their average spend per event; their favorite waitresses; their favorite location; what time of year they like coming.  And by building the database, not only are we able to offer great customer recognition for their spending habits because we track everything, we have liquor companies that are going to help us create gift baskets to send for birthdays, we’re going to send [night club] clients to the hotels for a weekend as a thank you when they spend $100,000 with us in a year. . . ,” Daniela Danilovic, in charge of VIP service for an L.A. night club conglomerate, quoted in the Los Angeles Times.

SCENE I

Brett Boltcutter, the legendary club promoter sits in his office.  Arguably the most important club and event promoter west of the Mississippi (and east of the Mississippi, if you go far enough), Boltcutter is guarded by a bevy of beefy bouncers.  His private sanctum is approached by none other than Petra Petroglyph, his VIP coordinator.  She is promptly throttled by two hip thugs, wearing the uniform of a Buckingham Palace guard.

        Raised into the air by the guards’ massive strength, she kicks and screams.

PETRA: For God’s sake let me go, I’m Brett’s VIP coordinator.  (Boltcutter looks up from a chess board littered by models of future hotels and clubs. Including a Nazi-themed casino which has insiders whispering it will raise the bar on tastelessness to new lows.)

PETRA (straightening her dress): How are you, BB?

BOLTCUTTER: I’m feeling rather listless today.  I lost my A-list Rolodex.

PETRA: I’ve encountered a huge problem leveraging one of the gift baskets.   That the Matisse was fine, but it wasn’t the right color to go in Charlize’s living room.  Too much yellow.  It’s really hard to be nice to people who are so picky…

BOLTCUTTER:  Those are firing words, Petra.  I got where I am by catering to picky people’s whims and illusions.  The picky customer is God. . .

PETRA: I always had a more paternal image of God. . .

BOLTCUTTER:  How much did Charlize drop with us last year?

PETRA: A quarter of a million…

BOLTCUTTER: You’re certainly stressing a lot for such small potatoes.  Don’t bother me any more.  I’m exclusive, I’m unattainably unattainable.  And when you walk out the door, put the “Go Away,” sign on the doorknob.

PETRA: I have an idea, boss. . . According to focus groups, Charlize would really like a baby to adopt.  If the painting doesn’t work out maybe we can find a baby for her.

BOLTCUTTER: Baby in a basket.  That’s a real cute idea.  Of course it’s been done before—Moses.

PETRA: B.B., how do you get a baby?

BOLTCUTTER:  Didn’t your parents tell you that? 

PETRA: Don’t be silly.  Everyone knows about the stork.

BOLTCUTTER: Honey, try a fire station.

SCENE II

Petra goes to the nearest fire station:

PETRA: Hi there, fire chief, sir.

FIREMAN: Yes, how can I help you?

PETRA: Do you have any babies left recently in the fire station?

FIREMAN: Not today.

        (Some goth-looking teens, in a T-shirts touting “Cheap Sex” run up.  One among their number gives birth, and off they ride on skateboards, leaving a defenseless newborn on the sidewalk.)

FIREMAN (to Petra): Looks like today’s your lucky day.

SCENE III

PETRA (tearfully): Sorry Brett. Charlize didn’t like the baby.  After two hours of caring for it, she’s on the verge of a nervous breakdown.

BOLTCUTTER: What happens to the baby?

PETRA:  She’s putting it up for adoption to Angelina Jolie, but Charlize is so strung out, now she wants to sue us for mental cruelty.

BOLTCUTTER: We’ll get the legal department to handle it.

PETRA (bawling hysterically): I’m so sorry it turned out this way.

BOLTCUTTER: Things happen.  We move on.  Don’t let it ruffle our feathers.  Now I really like this idea of yours of employing celebrity doubles to leverage our preeminent position as clubs with cachet.

PETRA: Thanks, B.B.

BOLTCUTTER: Who needs Paris Hilton when we’ve got her lookalike?

PETRA: Best of all, if they’re doubles, we don’t have to worry about those darn “thank you” baskets.