Diary of a Mad Diva

by Joan Rivers

  APRIL 27

  Dear Diary:

  The dumb parade continues. I went to the bookstore to buy the Jewish version of Fifty Shades of Grey, Thirty-Three Shades of Grey (we always get a third off), and the guy at the Help Desk was helpless. I asked him if my favorite author, Ann Rule, had any new books coming out. I said, “True crime.” He said, “Is that the title?” I said, “No, the genre.” He stared. So I said, “Category,” and he went on the computer to look. I then asked him if they had Paul Anka’s new autobiography. He said, “Who’s the author?” I said, “Mark Twain.” He said, “Is it new?” I explained who Mark Twain was and he said, “Well, how should I know that? It was before my time.” I said, “The Stone Age is before my time, but I’ve heard of it.” He said, “Cool.”

  APRIL 28

  Dear Diary:

  Damn, I was woken up today at 6:50 a.m., and it’s my day off. Why? Because the gardener, Jose, that adorable wetback who’s in this country illegally, thought that would be a good time for mowing and blowing. I don’t get it. Even John Travolta doesn’t start blowing until noon.

  I love illegals, mainly because they can’t complain. Who are they going to complain to? Having illegals is as close to slavery as we can get in this country since Abe “Boy Did I Make a Mistake” Lincoln messed it up for all of us. Okay, fine, I agree: slavery was totally wrong for the African Americans, but why shelve a great program because it didn’t work for one group? Believe me, there are a lot of Kazakhstanis who would love a free trip to this country in accommodations similar to the Carnival Cruise ship, The Commode of the Sea. And when they land here they have a warm bed in a perfectly nice closet and three delicious meals of leftovers a day in exchange for twenty hours of labor. (Yes, twenty hours—it takes time to really brush down a vintage Chanel suede cape.)

  APRIL 29

  Dear Diary:

  Thought for the day: Words of kindness are wildly overrated. Someone today in the Piggly Wiggly said, “Let this old lady go first. She looks like she’s fading.” Everyone moved and let me though and I thought, “Too easy, Jell-O heads. Kind words are cheap; if you want to be nice to me, pay for my fucking groceries.” You can tell me I’m a piece of human garbage, a complete waste of good skin, one of God’s worst efforts, and as long as your check clears, you and I are pals. I’m thinking of doing a needlepoint on this. I already have a pillow that says, “Don’t expect praise without envy until you are dead.” I keep it on the bed in my guest room, right next to the pillow that says, “Don’t sit on my face if you have dandruff.”

  You know what they say: “Once you go Jew, there’s no other screw!”

  MAY 1

  Dear Diary:

  Today is May Day and we’re supposed to celebrate it by dancing around a May Pole. I’ve never actually seen a May Pole, let alone people who danced around one. The closest thing like that I’ve ever seen was a group of soccer fans surrounding Victoria Beckham, marveling that she had the strength to stand up.

  MAY 2

  Dear Diary:

  Saw Sally Field on TV tonight selling Boniva, the pill for osteoporosis. This is a commercial I not only wanted, but would have been so right for, as my bones snap so often people think I’m doing a commercial for peanut brittle. Sally says, “I’m too busy to take a pill every day, but with Boniva I only have to take one pill a month.” Too busy? Doing what? Pulling a baby out of a pit bull’s mouth? Sitting at the table with Israel and Palestine trying to negotiate peace? The woman makes one movie every nine years. Big Sal’s got nothing but time on her hands. When did she become so fucking busy? I—who am actually busy—took time off to figure out how long it takes me to take a pill. Two minutes, tops, including getting a glass of water. What has Sally Field got to do that’s so important besides making her daily call to her agent—collect—sobbing and begging for work? I think Sally should stop taking Boniva and just let her bones break. Then she could get an endorsement deal for Rice Krispies, pull in a much younger demo and inspire a new generation of fans who’ll like her, really, really like her. I should call Sally and tell her. But the bitch probably doesn’t have the time to pick up the phone.

  MAY 3

  Dear Diary:

  I read a story in some rag today (the New York Times) about Chaz Bono, who is still talking about her sex change. Chaz says she “identifies as a man.” Excuse me, Chaz, you still have a vagina. Hold a mirror between your knees and point it up! I don’t care if she lopped off her tits with a Garden Weasel and has mats of hair plus a battleship tattoo on her chest; if she has a vagina, she’s still a woman. What if I decided to identify as a coffee table? Even if I have my legs polished and put a lamp on my head, technically, if I have a vagina, I’d still be a woman. And why give it up? When was the last time a man pulled out a chair for a coffee table? If you want to add a penis, fine, but if you’re any kind of an athlete, don’t give up your vagina. Figure it out! If you’re a runner, how fabulous is it to have a rainproof inside pocket? You can keep your hands free and still be able to have your phone, your mints and even a Kleenex, or if you’re Octomom, a nightstand, a skateboard and a Honda Accord to drive home from the meet in. Also, if you give up your vagina, think of all the pet names you can no longer use for it: Hooha, Vajayjay, Daddy’s Little Clam, Momma’s Twitchy Friend, Whisker Biscuit, South Mouth, and if you’re in the cast of Duck Dynasty—Uncle’s Best Girl.

  MAY 4

  Dear Diary:

  I saw some old musical show on TV last night and I must confess, I still don’t get David Bowie. Since he first broke onto the scene in the ’70s, I’ve tried to figure him out but couldn’t. Even his gorgeous wife, Iman, crosses her eyes and makes faces behind his back. In the ’70s, I wanted people to think I was hip so I pretended to get him. I’d act like I knew what the fuck Ziggy Stardust was all about and only called him Bowie—cool people just called him Bowie. He was like the Bono or Cher of his day except he could actually sing, and even if he couldn’t he was a seminal influence on the music. You want a seminal influence? Talk to Madonna; she considers it a food group. I can’t figure out if David Bowie is straight, gay, bisexual, trisexual, quadrisexual or maybe just a Minotaur. Elton John, I got right from the get-go. He could sing, he could write, he could suck a dick. You always knew where he stood. Or knelt. And I still get Elton today, now that he’s a cutie-pie, rich old queen with a husband, a family, a castle and a bunch of wiglets. But Bowie, even with that stunning, bulimic African supermodel wife . . . not a clue.

  MAY 5

  Dear Diary:

  My birthday is coming up next month and I think Melissa and Cooper are planning a big surprise party because they keep looking at me and then whispering to each other, “How much longer? When is it going to happen already? It’s time, I’m telling you, it’s time.”

  I know they care about me and my quality of life because when I complained about having a bad hair day over the weekend, Melissa went to court to fight for my right to die.

  MAY 6

  Dear Diary:

  I was watching some TV news magazine tonight and they did a story on prostitution that infuriated me. They were against it. In today’s tough economic climate, I find that unconscionable. Why would some self-righteous, Manolo-wearing “journalist” begrudge a gal for trying to pay the rent by giving hummers to tire salesmen in an alley behind a Dumpster? (1) Who’s she bothering? (2) In kneepads and mouthwash alone, she’s putting plenty of money back in the economy. (3) There are a lot of tire salesmen who won’t be so stressed out that they ruin their lives by turning to drink.

  The report said prostitutes were nothing more than sad, lonely women who had bad sex with unattractive bald men in exchange for money, jewelry or rent. They sound exactly like housewives to me, except they don’t have to take care of his pasty, fat children from his first marriage to the woman who supported him when he went to college.

  MAY 7

  Dear Diary:

&nb
sp; I saw the Broadway show Annie tonight. It was cheerful, and if there’s one thing I hate, it’s cheerful musicals. Bo-ring. Annie would have been a lot better if Miss Hannigan, the head of the orphanage, killed at least one of the ethnic kids, or Daddy Warbucks was brought up on child molestation charges.

  MAY 8

  Dear Diary:

  Flew back to L.A. to film episodes of Joan & Melissa: Joan Knows Best? I love having a reality show. I feel like one of the Kardashian girls except I don’t have a sex tape or back hair.

  Speaking of sex tapes . . . one of the story lines on JKB this season is that I made a parody sex tape with Ray J. The scene came out very funny and Ray J was great to work with—he’s really smart and very sweet. If Ray J and I ever really made a sex tape, we decided the possible names could be:

  Dry Hard

  On Golden Shower

  I Am Curious (Brown)

  Last Bingo in Paris

  Pile-Driving Miss Daisy

  Brown & Out in Beverly Hills

  or

  To Drill a Mockingbird

  MAY 9

  Dear Diary:

  Had a moment in the supermarket today. I told Melissa I’d pick up dinner tonight, so on my way home from the studio I stopped in at Ralphs to buy some food. As I’m checking out, the cashier says, “Paper or plastic? And remember, due to L.A. laws, next year there will be no more plastic bags and paper bags will be twenty-five cents apiece.” She said it’s because they’re trying to conserve trees. Bullshit. Someone’s making a profit. If you really want to conserve trees, make us all become Muslims and, instead of using toilet paper, we’ll wipe our asses with our left hands.

  I went nuts. I held up the entire checkout line and demanded to speak to Ralph. “What do you mean we have to pay for the bag? If we refuse, how are we supposed to get all the food home? Eat it right here on the counter, like Mama Cass did?” A supermarket not having shopping bags is like a restaurant not having plates. What do they do, just have the chef throw the food in your mouth? It’s like the proctologist who makes you pay extra to have the hose pulled out of your ass. Some things should just be free, like shopping bags in the supermarket or VD tests after a date with John Mayer.

  MAY 10

  Dear Diary:

  I’ve had it with Facebook. I woke up this morning and I had sixty-three “pokes.” I may not have much feeling down there anymore, but if I’m poked sixty-three times I’m pretty sure I’d notice either a tickle, a trickle or some mild chafing.

  I’m tired of having my computer clogged up with messages from idiots with nothing to say. “Norma is at the Laundromat fluffing her whites.” “Jesse B. likes Denny’s blueberry waffles.” “Tim is at the Coffee Bean with Aaron and he’s having an espresso.” The only way I’d care if Tim was at the Coffee Bean would be if he was there with a locked and loaded AK-47 and was having an episode. If Tim opened fire on the bunch of pretentious assholes who were sipping their Double Venti Chai Green Teas, then, and only then, would it be worth my time to read angry Timmy’s post.

  MAY 11

  Dear Diary:

  Got rid of Facebook today and I feel as free as the woman in the tampon commercial who can go swimming, surfing or cliff diving in spite of her heavy flow.

  MAY 12

  Dear Diary:

  Reread my entry from the other day and I realized I made a mistake—maniacs with AK-47s don’t go into Coffee Beans, they go into schools, which is an ugly phenomenon I really don’t understand. My third grade teacher, Mrs. Gotbaum, was a malevolent cunt, but it never dawned on me to pull an Uzi out of my purse and mow down the entire cafeteria. I was perfectly happy just urinating on the apples I left on her desk every day.

  If these crazies feel the need to gun down strangers, might I suggest they leave schools alone and reroute themselves to local nursing homes or assisted living facilities? I don’t mean to be callous (if Melissa had her way I’d have been in Shady Pines years ago), but all those whiny widows are waiting for the white light anyway, so why prolong their damp diapers and clicking dentures? No one likes a long good-bye. This would also be good for their families because it not only saves money, but it takes away the stress of playing “Who’s Going to Smother Grandma?”

  MAY 13

  Dear Diary:

  Took my darling thirteen-year-old grandson Cooper for a haircut today and the stylist kept asking him if he wanted some “product” in his hair. What the fuck is “product”? If it’s gel, call it gel. Product could be anything—liverwurst, chocolate pudding, uranium . . . Beauticians need to be more specific. When I go out for dinner, I don’t order “mammal” or “aquatic vertebrate.” I order a Porterhouse steak or Flipper au Gratin. When I go shopping at Bergdorf, I don’t say, “Gimme cloth.” I say, “I’d like a couture Dior gown, black with gold trim, sewn together by an old-before-her-time Colombian peasant-woman named Carmela.”

  When we left the salon I paid in “product.” I gently placed my gum in his hand. Mick Jagger’s brings in fifty bucks on eBay.

  MAY 14

  Dear Diary:

  Took the red-eye back to New York last night as we have a co-op board meeting today. We’re hiring a new doorman. Everyone in the building had some specific thing they wanted. I wanted someone who can keep a fucking secret as to who comes in and out of my apartment. I’m lobbying hard for Marlee Matlin. The woman in #13B wanted someone very tall and imposing who would understand that being a doorman is a service job and would be required to service her twice a week whether he wants to or not, even when she keeps her braces on her legs. The gal in #12G wanted someone who speaks at least three languages, as she works for the UN in human trafficking and has taken her girls out of a horrific life and now runs a lucrative business, Maids Without Passports.

  MAY 15

  Dear Diary:

  I can’t believe it. In only twenty-four hours we hired a doorman and nearly everyone in the building is happy. (Except for Alan Alzheimer’s in #12F who thinks he’s in Hawaii and is demanding hula girls and leis every time he comes downstairs.) We hired a six-foot-seven behemoth who can speak nine languages fluently, none of them English!

  MAY 16

  Dear Diary:

  It was all over the news that Angelina Jolie had a double mastectomy to prevent getting cancer. What a role model Angie is. How courageous! I think Paris Hilton should take a page from Angie’s book and step up to the plate and try to prevent STDs. It would be so easy for her. All she would have to do is have her knees fused together. I would be glad to write the first check for a welder’s mask.

  MAY 17

  Dear Diary:

  There’s a new commercial on television that’s really annoying the shit out of me. It’s a military recruiting ad and it says, “Are you strong or Army strong?” Not to diminish our soldiers, because “Army strong” is good, but it’s not the benchmark for strength. Broccoli farts are. C’mon, face it, what do you think will clear out a cave full of terrorists faster: ten well-trained soldiers or one old man with an explosive lower intestine? I rest my case. Broccoli fart strong trumps Army strong, every time.

  MAY 19

  Dear Diary:

  Watched a Discovery Channel special on squirrels tonight. Fascinating. Who knew they were good for anything but sprucing up an old jacket with collars and cuffs? For example, the average squirrel can keep nuts in his mouth for months on end and everyone’s impressed. And yet, when poor Clay Aiken does it, everyone’s nauseous.

  MAY 20

  Dear Diary:

  I don’t know why but I woke up this morning feeling depressed. Maybe because it was raining and dreary, or maybe it’s because I’ve gained five pounds, or maybe if I really want to look into my heart, it’s because Betty White’s career is doing so much better than mine. Whatever. None of my usual pick-me-ups worked (shopping, berating staff, giving orphans the finger), so I tried something new. I put on my f
inest Chanel suit, grabbed my best jewelry, stuffed my purse with cash, went down to Skid Row and rolled my eyes at the homeless. In less than an hour—actually, forty minutes (remember, I’m Jewish so, as I said before, I always take a third off)—I felt better about myself and limoed over to Tiffany’s to buy me a little “you did good, Joan” diamond bauble. I tried the same “I want a third off” shtick in Tiffany’s but they wouldn’t buy it. Anti-Semitic bastards. (I’ll bet somewhere in the basement, i.e., bunker, they have drawers of diamond-studded swastikas they only show to tall, blond, blue-eyed Aryans.)

  MAY 21

  Dear Diary:

  I hate the spring. One day it’s cool and lovely, the next day it’s cold and blustery, and the day after that it’s a million degrees and humid. Today was muggy. It was so muggy I was sweating like R. Kelly at a Girl Scout Jamboree. I went through two pairs of pants, three Spanx and the Depends I keep in my purse for “special occasions.” I decided to stay only in air-conditioned places, so I went to the Museum of Modern Art and looked at the pictures. To amuse myself I bought a bag of M&M’s, which I spit all over the Jackson Pollocks and nobody noticed.

  MAY 22

  Dear Diary:

  On my flight back from L.A., I wound up sitting next to a Holocaust survivor. We exchanged stories about the camps. She told me about how at Auschwitz she had no food and no hot water and she never knew if she was going to live or die. I told her about how at Camp Kinnekineck in Connecticut I had no makeup and no jewelry and I never knew if I was going to have a boyfriend or not. We commiserated with each other and then decided that even if our lives sucked, at least we weren’t desperate losers like those needy whores on The Bachelor.

  MAY 23

  Dear Diary:

  I’m back in L.A. for a “minor cosmetic procedure.” I’m having a brow lift, tummy tuck, chin job and lip implant—or as my plastic surgeon likes to call it, “the usual.” Should be all healed in forty-eight hours. If not I’ll just tell people I spent a romantic weekend with Chris Brown.