My VIP exclusive information begins with a garden-variety snail. My own deep sea wisdom — sharpened in the Rockaways — brings me to this heavy-duty situation. Not my usual-type problem that barks, pees and gets rich in DC, but pay attention:

Two snails were just “rescued.” Size of your pinky. Escargots cost heavy if ordered in a high-class French restaurant. A ruler determined this patient’s length was smaller than a folded-up C-note.

Mike Bloomberg’s daughter cares for them as pets and one’s shell was decaying. Medics determined the problem as bacterial or fungal. The hospital’s exotic team X-rayed both to see what the healthy shell looked like versus the unhealthy. So they put a control animal there — do not ask me where one grabs a control snail.

Why Bloomberg’s daughter treasures such creatures or her need for snails is not clear. This bacterial or fungal infection was decomposing one’s shell.

The patient turned out to be male — though how you tell, this I’m not sure. Afterward they compared shells. Resin was applied. Also high doses of antibiotic and antifungal agents. Mixed with a resin it’s painted on the shell.

Listen, some of us did that with husbands.

Touching the medication to the snail itself? Not safe. The stuff needs to be meticulously applied to the shell — and stay there. It was determined that this antibiotic fungal infection presumably comes from congestion.

Instantly I receive advance information on its well-being, I shall report it. For now I thank the Animal Medical Center’s Dr. Doug Palma for sharing this information. Sometimes you can go a whole week without a good snail story.

Why’s New Yorker magazine — which I’d devour cover to cover if each issue’s piece didn’t last longer than my hair tint — feel a need to pee on me regularly? One recent issue tinkled on me saying they heard I was in a dermatologist’s office. This past week — they peed on me again.

Once more and I either send them a horse’s head or a real live snail with measles.

Maria Cooper’s dad was movie star Gary Cooper. Once she said: “Both of us were in line to be blessed by the then-Pope.

“It’s very formal. His Holiness walks in, everyone genuflects. Kneeling, my father lost his balance and dropped all his rosaries on the floor. Some rolled onto His Holiness’ velvet slippers, which my father could not exactly reclaim. He was very embarrassed.”

Broadway’s Tonys are upon us. Here’s a famous story:

George Bernard Shaw once sent Winston Churchill two tickets to his play “Pygmalion.” His note said: “Bring a friend — if you have one.” Churchill replied: “Sorry I cannot come to the first night — but will come to the second — if there is one.”

Only in New York, kids, only in New York.