Take my advice, Beverly Hills kids

MOST MORNINGS I wake up at 9:30, make an inordinately complicated breakfast, read two newspapers, go to the gym, take a shower sometime around 3 p.m. and, if it happens to be a Sunday, write penis jokes for this column for two hours before making dinner. So it made sense that Beverly Hills High School asked me to be the keynote speaker for its career day. Who else has time to talk to high school students in the middle of the day?

The answer, it turns out, is Omarosa Manigault Stallworth. She’s the reject from Donald Trump’s first “Apprentice” show who TV Guide named the most hated reality star of all time (which is particularly impressive since that list includes Donald Trump). Omarosa and I would be co-keynote speakers, each doing two shifts in front of an auditorium packed with 400 kids. I was told that the public high school added Omarosa due to pressure from the Beverly Hills Chamber of Commerce.

As I drove into the high school at 7:30 a.m., I couldn’t believe my ego was so big that I was willing to wake up early to mentor some of the richest children in the nation. Walking in a daze around the school looking for the auditorium, I was pleased to find the student body was racially diverse. There were Ashkenazi Jews, Sephardic Jews and Persian Jews.

After some brief student council announcements about “senior pajama day,” reassuring me that even in Beverly Hills the student council is full of dorks, I was on. I was supposed to hit the stage after Omarosa, but she was stuck in traffic, leaving me with an entire hour to kill. To talk about careers. Which I only tenuously have. I decided to start by delivering Omarosa’s speech for her. I figured it started with “I am a proud black woman.”

Switching gears, I said: “I know who you are. You are rich, don’t study too hard and have probably done cocaine -- in short, you’re well on your way to being president.”

Forty minutes in, tapped out of any career advice (“follow your heart,” “try lots of stuff,” “seriously, stop using cocaine”), I started taking questions. This is when it became clear that career day for Beverly Hills High School students is the lamest charity invented since the Michael Douglas and Catherine Zeta-Jones wedding registry.

From their questions, it was obvious that these kids already knew about the intricacies of journalism, television writing, publicity and on-air work. I was basically giving guidance about whether to work for daddy’s production company as a producer or as a development executive. After much thought, I told them I leaned heavily toward producer. No one slips strippers fake business cards that say “development executive.”

After a horribly inappropriate joke about masturbation, and another really unsuitable piece of advice about how being an adult is easier because women have sex on the third date, Omarosa showed up for the last five minutes.

The second hour was much easier because she used nearly the whole period to ooze wisdom pro bono. You wouldn’t think Omarosa’s life would require a PowerPoint demonstration. You also wouldn’t think she’d bring her mother. Or that she’d call her Momarosa. Or that Omarosa would have just done an on-air diary for “Entertainment Tonight” about her breast augmentation surgery. Or that she would tell the kids that she made her first million by the time she was 25. She had so much going on, I couldn’t believe my entire bag of tricks consisted of masturbation jokes.

After the assemblies, I spent the rest of the day with Omarosa and Momarosa, checking out some of the more than 100 speakers speaking to classrooms of interested kids: “Sex and the City” actor Willie Garson, public relations legend Warren Cowan, talent manager Steve Fenton and a woman who throws parties for Los Angeles Confidential magazine. Beverly Hills was a high school I could network at.

At first it made me sad that all these resources were being deployed here, instead of at a more normal school. But as I listened to speakers give useful advice to kids who asked smart questions about what kind of internships to apply for and whether to work at a large agency or a boutique firm, I realized the saddest part was that, at a poor high school where a lot of kids may not graduate, we’d be fairly useless. Those kids need real help. All I’m suited for is helping kids with producer fathers. And, in case they’re reading this, vice versa.