Joan Jedell, Pres. Bill Clinton at the PAL event.

Why do the Rich & Glitzy never get flu shots? Because, dah-lings, along with their mega-fortunes they inherit TOTAL IMMUNITY! Face it, A-listers don’t know from the nasty bugs that fester and sicken ordinary humans in sardine-packed subways, sweatshop-crammed offices or moldy salad bars. In the quarantined vacuum of their private limos, jets and yachts, and at VIP (Very Immune Persons)-ONLY gala bashes, there are NO AMOEBAS ALLOWED.

One sneeze, not to mention Tennis Elbow, is enough to send any A-lister into intensive care at Lenox Hill (and hope they survive the hospital).

So imagine the horror at a new outbreak that has suddenly contaminated the Billionistas: “Whine Flu”! Medical experts have nailed its cousin swine flu as a type-A virus, but Whine Flu is exclusively a type-A-list strain. And docs are hot on the case: they KNOW the source is the Caviar Crunch—which as we all know has reduced more than a few of the Rich & Glitzy down to their last billion. (Some experts think Whine Flu may be transmitted even faster by one too many air kisses.) But the chief symptom is clear: incontinent grumbling and mumbling, moaning and groaning! Take a recent charity fundraiser at the Pierre. When I approached the event’s chair-queen to snap a photo, she started shivering feverishly. “Are you ill?” I asked. “I’m positively SICK,” she replied. “I’m wearing LAST YEAR’S de la Renta. I couldn’t AFFORD a new dress!” Her shakes were a dead giveaway: she was infected! Another A-queen stood quaking as she held a measly appetizer plate: “One lonely scallop per person!” she cried. “Last year there were four!

I can’t survive these cutbacks!” Diagnosis: Whine Flu. And at a guest table I was stopped in my tracks by the strange condition of one of Manhattan’s ultra-power couples: The wife sat on her husband’s lap and together they shared the entrée. They were dangerously pale. Begging me not to photograph them, the husband whispered between chills, “We could only pay for ONE ticket. How much humiliation can we endure?”Then at lunch at one of the Upper East Side’s heavyweight haunts, signs of the epidemic were everywhere: The owner nearly keeled over when I walked in. “What’s wrong?” I asked him. “Food sharing. One appetizer and main course for a table of six!” At one table two arm-candy wives sat like death warmed over. Their faces, usually tighter than Saran Wrap, drooped like wet sushi. One saw me notice and said through clenched lips, “Less fillers.” She didn’t mean her dinner—or lack of. “Things are so bad I do Botox only once a month.” The other had empty Barneys and Bergdorf bags by her chair. “What’s with the empty bags?” I inquired. She replied, “I carry them to remind me of the days when I shopped till I dropped. Now I’m just a bag lady.”But my lunch date­­—a friend wiped out by Scumdog Madoff as in zilch! —had the most severe case of Whine Flu of all. “So what did you learn from your huge loss?”

I asked him. He crowed: “I learned to turn off the lights and the heat. I learned that taxis cost as much as the driver I let go. I learned that I don’t care anymore about what table I sit at in a restaurant. I learned that I don’t need to eat more than one meal a day and I’ve lost 10 pounds. I learned to become more humble, to appreciate Central Park, and the museums, and everything free ... and I learned that I HATE my life!”Hey, all you Whine Flu victims: Get OFF your WHINE and DO something in a different way. IT’S TIME TO THINK OUT OF THE BOX! Even if you’re down to your last mil, it’s only paper. Besides, what goes down must come up (think Viagra) and it won’t be long before you’re rolling in it once again, happy as a swine in s**t!

Enjoy The Sheet!

Joan Jedell appears on national and local TV.
Her photographs are syndicated worldwide.