Diary of a Mad Diva

by Joan Rivers

  MAY 24

  Dear Diary:

  My agent, Self-righteous Steve Levine, called and asked me if I wanted to do a PSA for child abuse. I asked him how much, and then said, “Great, no problem. Will I be for it or against it?”

  MAY 25

  Dear Diary:

  It’s the day before Memorial Day weekend starts and wow, my bandages are off! Although my face is totally lopsided and puffy and I look haggard and hungover from the anesthetic, several fans kept asking for my autograph. I signed, “Much love, Sharon Stone.” Off to the store for a few last-minute purchases. I don’t know which colors will go with my bruises and scars, but he may have pulled a bit too much this time; I find I am talking through my part and shitting through my ears.

  MAY 27

  Dear Diary:

  I normally don’t write in the morning but the day started with such a jolt I feel compelled. Today is Memorial Day. I love this holiday mainly because it’s the easiest holiday to dress correctly for. I don’t have to do anything. I simply emphasize my pasty white old lady legs by wearing short shorts, and then add a touch of red with my red spider veins and a smidgen of blue with my big varicose numbers. It’s great! I can just fall out of bed and be ready to march with the Old Veteran Geezers. If I sit on a float and kick my legs fast enough they’ll think it’s a flag.

  Just had my coffee and Restylane and I opened the paper and what do I see? There, on the front page, is a picture of the Pope . . . in his red outfit. And on Memorial Day! And you wonder why people are leaving the Church. Pedophilia’s one thing, but there’s no excuse for bad fashion. The man spends half the year wearing white out of season and then, on the first day he’s allowed to wear white, should wear white, he’s in a scarlet gown with matching tam and slippers. I’d say, “There is no God,” but I believe there is. I just believe he either doesn’t have any fashion sense or he has his priorities fucked up, and he’s mistakenly more interested in saving children than in dressing for the season.

  I love the new Pope, Francis. I was there when they were naming him. I was worried because the man is not an American and I was scared some jokester cardinal would opt for the name Sandusky. I should cut the Pope a little slack; he’s new at Poping, and with the old Pope hanging around the Vatican looking over his shoulder, counting the jewelry, maybe he’s too nervous to pay attention to detail. A lot of people don’t realize how hard it is to be a Pope. It’s not all just good times and wearing fabulous rings and waving to no one in particular. So I made a list of potential papal troubles:

  Those snappy hats cause baldness.

  There are no pockets in the vestments. Where does he keep his Altoids? No one needs a pontiff with altar boy on his breath.

  He always makes the sign of the cross with his right arm, which means the left one has no muscle tone and it just lies there doing nothing, like Katie Holmes’s vagina on her wedding night.

  He’s constantly saying “bless you” to people. What does he say when somebody sneezes? “Bless you, bless you”? He can’t say, “Jesus Christ, you got snot on my scepter!”

  MAY 28

  Dear Diary:

  Just got back from doing a benefit for U.S. war veterans and I’m exhausted. Once a year I try to entertain our wounded warriors, but frankly I feel the government is inflating the numbers a bit. I know all about Photoshopping. It’s like Princess Diana walking through the land mines. Yeah, right. I knew her. The only time that bitch left Kensington Palace was to bang her Arab boyfriends in the back of their cars. If she was really walking through mines, how come she never got blown up? It’s not like she was so careful; she wore heels. Diana was never in peril and died as an oversexed, drug-addled princess should—decently, in a tunnel in Paris.

  I spent forty-five minutes at the Old Soldiers’ Home trying to explain RuPaul’s Drag Race to a bunch of shaky old men who suffer from post-traumatic stress disorder. All of them spent the entire show hiding under their wheelchairs because my voice reminded them of the Vietcong Tabernacle Choir.

  Seriously, I truly believe Memorial Day is important. It reminds me of how great America is, and that it’s well worth putting other people’s lives on the line to protect and defend it. If it weren’t for America, Mexicans would have to tunnel to Japan to find day labor picking fruit or trimming hedges or saying “You finish?” to customers in restaurants who appear to be in no way done with their meals. (How often I want to say to these guys, “Back up, Jose, I’m not even chewing yet.”)

  MAY 29

  Dear Diary:

  I did something I’ve never done before because of Memorial Day weekend. I bought a mattress and box spring half off. I love holiday sales because nothing reminds me of what Memorial Day truly stands for like a mattress sale. I didn’t really need a mattress, but the opportunity to get a nice nap in was too good to pass up. I laid right down in the store and lulled myself to sleep with thoughts of how the gooks tortured and brainwashed our boys. Besides, how could I miss the chance to get a big-ticket item at 50 percent off and leave DNA samples on a store full of mattresses for strangers to roll around in? One more thing I can cross off my bucket list.

  MAY 30

  Dear Diary:

  Flew into Las Vegas tonight to do a show and our plane was two hours late because some fatso—in coach, mind you—collapsed from an “irregular heartbeat.” Blimpy doubled over and seized when the flight attendant told him they’d run out of sandwiches. And because of this we had to make an emergency landing in Ontario, which really pissed me off because there’s no good shopping there and I don’t bowl. The paramedics came aboard and tried to revive Chunky Charlie. Nothing worked. He was turning blue and swelling and actually starting to get that telltale “I’m dead and you’re not odor,” until I suggested putting a brisket under his nose. This always works very well in my family. This is a very good story: Tanta Rose literally had the formaldehyde needle in her ass when she smelled the undertaker’s meatball sandwich. She sat up and lived for another twenty years, kinehora. The same happened with Chubbo and we were soon back on our way.

  I love Las Vegas, all the glitz, the glamour, the great shows, but I’d forgotten how stupid showgirls are. And I swear to God they’ve gotten even stupider. In the old days they were so dumb you’d stump them by asking, “Quick! Spell MGM backwards.” And they couldn’t. Now they can’t even spell O. Magicians are still all over the place and I’m glad. I have always loved magicians. My first job after college was working as an assistant for Kuda Bux. He was more than a magician. Rumor has it that in India he had been a gynecologist. I believe this because his finale trick was to pull a hat out of a rabbit.

  But even the plain magicians aren’t what they used to be. They used to do a couple of card tricks, bend a spoon or saw a person in half. (Jeffrey Dahmer closed that theatrical feat, didn’t he?) Nowadays their tricks are so huge, many of them don’t even fit into showrooms. David Copperfield carried on and got huge applause because he made the Statue of Liberty “disappear.” Big fuckin’ deal—Mohammad Atta made the Twin Towers disappear and not only did he not milk it for applause, he didn’t even have a cape.

  The granddaddies of magic of course were Siegfried and Roy. I ran into Siegfried today. Actually I didn’t run into him, I tripped over him. He was sitting on a curb mumbling to himself the words to “Deutschland über Alles.” Ever since their act broke up when Roy got mauled by a tiger, Siegfried has been a shadow of his former magical self. I was coming out of a restaurant in the hotel, having eaten the delicious Wayne Newton sandwich—ham on fat bread—and there was Siegfried, cracking a threadbare whip and meowing mournfully. He started crying and singing “Edelweiss,” so I slipped him a couple of bucks, and I walked away. And as I left I heard him say, “Five dollars?!?! Who am I, Lance Burton? Do you know who I am? We were the first. We were the first to make lions sit; we were the first to make tigers beg. We were the first to have anal sex onstage—and not jus
t with each other, but with our favorite snow leopard, Cindy. And you give me five dollars?” He was totally right. I felt so guilty I went back and dropped another fiver in his hat and said, “Buy something nice for Cindy and the kids.”

  MAY 31

  Dear Diary:

  Got to thinking: what kind of a fucking idiot was Roy to get mauled the way he did? Even a fearless immigrant like Roy should have known he was looking for trouble. You unlock the cage of a huge tiger and let him run free and then act all pissy when he tries to eat you? The mauling was Roy’s own fault. (1) He and Siegfried should have fed the tiger before the show. (2) He and Siegfried should not have worn shiny sequins. (3) He and Siegfried should never have used butter as a lube.

  When I popped out of the cake, there was no shadow. Hooray! Six more weeks of nagging!

  JUNE 1

  Dear Diary:

  My birthday—ugh—is around the corner and all I keep thinking about is where and how they will find my body when I die. Since I’ve achieved some fame (I’m being modest here because you paid for this book and I don’t want you to hate me), when I go, probably—if it’s a slow news day—it will be in all the papers and on TV (that cute little Selena Gomez ought to thank her lucky stars she won’t have to worry about that), which means I’ll have to produce the event so that it is not only newsworthy but will set Melissa and Cooper up for a ninety-minute HBO special on their grief and/or happiness at my passing.

  Since I’m old there won’t be any “she died so young” beats to play, and since I don’t have any major drug or alcohol addictions we can’t use the “I’m surprised she lived this long” card. Which leaves either natural causes or freak accidents. Cancer, heart attack and stroke are boring, and at my age . . . uh . . . uh . . . uh . . . you know the thing where you forget . . . oh yeah . . . Alzheimer’s is not unexpected. The only way Alzheimer’s becomes interesting is if it causes someone to take a bath with the toaster or mistake a wood chipper for a Jacuzzi.

  Because of the birthday I’ve been thinking a lot about my funeral. Death does not scare me. My father was a doctor so I saw death often—mainly because he was not a very good doctor. I think funerals should be memorable. For example, I went to a beautiful gay funeral for my gay neighbor who died after having a heart attack while trying to get to his stress management class on time. It was so elegant; all the men were dressed in black and pearls and they had his body, in honor of his homosexuality, lying on his stomach. The only negative thing was the poor choice of music. Instead of Mozart’s Requiem Mass in D Minor, his husband chose something he thought would be more relevant: “Don’t Get Around Much Anymore.” So I thought of making a list of what Melissa should and should not do at my funeral:

  Make sure the guy who cuts the tombstone is a good speller.

  Don’t break the news to my friends by singing, “A-Tisket, A-Tasket, Joan’s Finally in a Casket.”

  Even though we spent winters in Mexico, do not list my next of kin as Poncho the Donkey.

  Please make sure no one knows Melissa’s last words to me were, “Just sign this.”

  To make my cold-as-ice WASP friends cry like the rest of the mourners, Melissa and Cooper should just tell them they’ve “run out of Wonder Bread.”

  Death doesn’t scare me. I just want to leave a legacy—something sexual would be good. Take David Carradine. David became world famous for his starring role in the hit TV series Kung Fu, but what he’s remembered for is being found dead in a Bangkok hotel, stark naked, hanging from a leather harness with a ball gag in his mouth. To this day, whenever fine acting is being discussed, Meryl Streep and Daniel Day-Lewis don’t say, “David Carradine, the grasshopper guy.” No. They say, “David Carradine, the asshopper guy.” That’s the kind of legacy I want to leave.

  JUNE 2

  Dear Diary:

  Today I did something I’ve always wanted to do: I went shoplifting with Lindsay Lohan. Ha, ha. No, that’s not a joke. In my own way I have been stealing for years. I have bath towels with big Ns on them from the Ark. However, I would never steal with Lindsay Lohan, as she is not smart. She keeps putting things down the front of her dresses even though she wears see-through dresses. Once I was told she stuffed a sofa into the back of her Spanx but was caught when she waddled out of the store with a huge butt. They thought she was Jennifer Lopez.

  What I did do today was I got a tattoo! To honor the six million Jews who died in the Holocaust, on my left forearm I had them tattoo a little blue “6M.” Surprisingly it hardly hurt, so next week, I’m planning to get a “12M” to honor the twelve million Jews who refused to buy retail, and if that doesn’t hurt, I’ll get a “261/2M” for all the Jewish businessmen whose second wives are blond shiksa goddesses.

  JUNE 3

  Dear Diary:

  I woke up feeling yucky: headaches, coughing, chills, vomiting . . . Kind of like Amanda Bynes feels every day when she comes to. I’m fighting a cold. I called my doctor, who told me to stay in bed. So here I am at 4 p.m. watching Judge Judy berating minorities and chastising poor, white trash. No matter how sick I am, a little bit of Judy makes me feel a whole lot better.

  All my friends keep calling me and saying, “Oh my God, aren’t you bored doing nothing?” As it turns out, the answer is no. I am loving lying here like a lox, eating Cheetos, thanking God I was wise enough to buy a caftan in no-guilt stretch fabric.

  I hate people who say, “I love my work. My work is my vacation.” Bullshit. Unless your “work” is lying in bed, having nude cabana boys feed you grapes and do reflexology on your feet, it is not a vacation.

  And don’t give me, “Oh Joan, you’re so smart, you’re so well-traveled—you’ll be bored.” Sunny von Bülow, a brilliant woman of international renown, a woman who traveled so extensively she had to renew her passport four times a year, lay in one place for twenty-eight years and not a peep, not a complaint. Never once in her 10,220 days in bed did anyone hear her murmur, “I have got to get going here; I’m bored. I have to do some volunteer work; let me go talk to some orphans at the Y.”

  JUNE 4

  Dear Diary:

  Got an early birthday card from my agent, Stunning Steve Levine. It said, “Happy Birthday, Jo . . .” He took off 10 percent; what a kidder. I also got a “Wish You Were Here” card from Forest Lawn Cemetery. I love their go-get-’em attitude.

  JUNE 5

  Dear Diary:

  Today I was supposed to be at a surprise birthday party Melissa was throwing for me, but instead I buried my neighbor. (Later I found out she was only dozing, but I’d had enough.) In truth, my neighbor Elaine was a nice woman who had suffered from a bad case of ugly, so not so much for her, but for the people who had to look at her in the elevator and not wince, it was a blessing.

  JUNE 6

  Dear Diary:

  Okay, I hate myself for the last entry. I said, “It was a blessing.” I hate people who say that when a sick person dies. How do we know it is a blessing for them? No one wakes up from a coma and says, “Finally, I’m dying; what a blessing.” What my friends say when they wake up from a coma is, “Where the fuck is my purse?” or, to the sobbing people leaning over them, “Jesus, Nana, take a breath mint. If this illness doesn’t kill me, your breath will.”

  Elaine loved attention, which is why she flashed from her front window well into her eighties, and the saddest part is, because she was in a coma she missed all the attention. Elaine’s funeral was packed. I’m not sure if it was because Elaine was truly loved or because her children used a five-star caterer and when Jews hear that there’s a to-die-for buffet in town, they show up.

  JUNE 7

  Dear Diary:

  Flew back to L.A. today to get ready for Fashion Police and some concerts. I’m planning to do five shows in five days. I figured out I’ll be spending more time with gay men than Liza Minnelli did on her wedding nights.

  Dear Diary:

&nb
sp; Today’s my eightieth birthday. I made a list of the interesting things about being eighty:

  I can bully seventy-nine-year-olds by telling them to shut the fuck up and respect their elders.

  I can still call Betty White an old whore.

  I’ve started a new business using my old tampons as party favors.

  The dogs are blaming the smell of pee on me.

  When young people ask me if I have started “hooking up,” unfortunately they mean to life support.

  When I reach orgasm I yell out Dr. Kevorkian’s name.

  I can put on my bra with a shoehorn.

  I can land a big endorsement deal with industrial-strength Depends.

  When I watch the History Channel, my name comes up six or seven times a night.

  John McCain is sexting me pictures of his junk.

  JUNE 9

  Dear Diary:

  Poor John Travolta. There’s another story in the tabloids about how gay he is. I have no idea if he’s gay or not. On one hand he has a wife and kids and does macho things like fly planes. On the other hand, he’s a fabulous dresser, a great dancer and likes to be called “Miss Phillips” when he goes shopping in Talbot’s Big Gals section. Maybe he and Kevin Spacey can just get married and have a very hetero honeymoon on whatever planet it is John’s Scientology guru thinks we all come from.

  JUNE 10

  Dear Diary:

  I could never be in a cult. For starters, they never accessorize properly. David Koresh had no fashion sense; Jim Jones wore leisure suits; and I don’t care how charismatic Osama bin Laden was, an AK-47 and an insulin drip do not take the place of drop earrings or a well-placed brooch.