by Joan Rivers
In Branson, they had a museum called Barbara Mandrell Country, which was a shrine to the most talented yet least attractive of the Mandrell sisters. There was an exhibit of exact miniature replicas of all of her houses, complete with little barns and little animals. And in the little bathroom there’s even a little toilet with teeny tiny turds.
The most incredible item in the museum was the nightgown Barbara wore on her wedding night with her husband “Kinny” (“Kenny” to the rest of us), which is prominently displayed in a glass case right next to the fender they pulled out of her head from that car crash in ’84. That nightie was shredded and tattered like she’d been attacked by a pack of wolves. I wonder if she and Kinny met on Christian Mingle?
Another museum I visited was the Ferlin Huskie Wings of a Dove Museum and Prayer The-ater. In addition to having all of Ferlin’s memorabilia on display, every day they do musical shows based on Bible stories. I loved every minute of it even though I was very surprised to find out that the Lord had serious pitch problems.
I’m a huge country western fan, in fact I’m a bit of a C/W connoisseur and I know almost all of the original lyrics and titles. Tammy Wynette, happy at a tax break she received, originally wrote “Stand By Your Jew Accountant.” Johnny Paycheck’s wife, furious that his mistress got a genuine mink stole for Christmas, screamed, “Take This Cloth Coat and Shove it.” But perhaps my favorite is one that Willie Nelson sings only in private or at special parties, “I’m Cryin’ in My Sleep ’Cause I Found You with My Sheep.”
JULY 22
Dear Diary:
The shows in Nashville were great. I love that all the shows in town were performed at 3 p.m, this way a couple can get up in the morning, hose down the double-wide, gun down a couple of defenseless animals, burn an abortion clinic, see a terrific show and still get out in time for Lupper.
Now off to New Orleans, another fave of mine. Love, love, love the Big Easy. (I’m talking about the city, not what they call Taylor Swift behind her back.) The people of New Orleans love me as much as I love them. Even during Katrina they came out and supported me. I don’t want to brag, but they gave me a floating ovation.
JULY 23
Dear Diary:
Concert went fine but the VIP meet and greet was a horror show. By the way, the term VIP means different things to different people. To casino owners, VIPs are high rollers—usually Arabian businessmen who gamble away the millions they’ve made screwing small American businesses. To me VIPs are those casino owners who can book me for private parties for those businessmen. One of the VIPs had really bad gas, and every time he began to speak he’d let one go. I don’t know how much falafel he’d eaten, but he nearly blew the flowers off their stems. And because he was a high roller I couldn’t say anything, even something subtle like, “Excuse me, Camel-ass, while we’re together is there any chance you could stuff a burka up your bunghole?” So I just smiled, dabbed my eyes with my scarf and flapped my arms like one of Jerry’s kids who’s been at the telethon too long and is starting to act out.
JULY 25
Dear Diary:
Just got home and I can’t wait to take a bath and hop into bed. There’s nothing better than curling up in your own bed with a dog you love. Now I know what Justin Theroux must see in Jennifer Aniston.
JULY 26
Dear Diary:
I love my dogs. They make me smile and laugh the way pretty-colored candy makes slow children grin and drool. I think the world would be a happier place if everybody had dogs rather than slow children—except for Koreans. If they have a dog it’s usually on a bun, with a house salad and a side of fries. Yesterday at the nail salon my manicurist offered me half of a Bacon, Lassie and Tomato sandwich.
Now let’s talk lesbians. They should not have dogs, and if they do, the only dog a lesbian should have is a Pit Bulldyke. Lesbians are much more comfortable around cats. And it’s not just the meowing they like; they take comfort in the fact that even if their pretty young girlfriend has left them for a middle-aged, mannish crossing guard named Stella, someone in the house is still licking pussy.
JULY 27
Dear Diary:
For purely business purposes, I went to a party tonight with my agent, S.S. (Shifty Steve) Levine. Actually, I went with Steve’s cousin Ruth’s morbidly obese stepson, Geoffrey. I can’t stand people who spell Jeffrey “Geoffrey.” It’s so pretentious, just like people who spell Steven “Stephen.” The biggest offender in the pretentious name game is Pink, whose real name is “Vagina.”
Geoffrey’s having a midlife crisis and wants to give up his semi-lucrative podiatry practice to become a cowboy. Geoffrey, who tips the scales at three hundred pounds and can no longer bend down to touch his patients’ toes, said he’s always admired the Lone Ranger.
This is insane. I don’t know how Geoffrey—or anybody—ever looked up to the Lone Ranger. He was a liar. Just calling himself “lone”? The man had a fantastic love life. Are we all forgetting about his unusual friendship with Tonto? Hello?? Yes, he could have been alone; he had that odor from his discharge coming from his bleeding anal fissures (Silver was a very rough ride, and after three days in the saddle even the best of us gives off a slightly sour grapefruit odor). And true, any man who wears a small black mask all the time, even to book signings and PTA functions, is not someone to idolize or hang out with on a regular basis—he’s someone to put on Megan’s List—but he had no right to go whining about how “lone” he was.
I’ll give you lone. My elevator man, Manolo, has the right to call himself lone. Every time I get into that car I hear the same thing. “No one really cares about me, Señora. They get into my elevator on the third or fourth floor and say, ‘How ya’ doin’ today, Manolo?’ and just as I start to really explain why I have that rash on my hand, we hit the lobby and they’re out like a bullet and I’m left talking to an empty car.” That’s lone.
JULY 28
Dear Diary:
Geoffrey has called twice to see if I’d like to go out with him again. How do I politely tell him “It’s not you, but the cheesy smell coming from under your folds reminds me of milk and I’m lactose intolerant.” It’s not that he’s fat; a lot of thin people smell, too. Mother Teresa never used deodorant. The only ones who could stand to be around her were lepers, because they had no noses. I wonder if that’s why Taylor Swift can’t keep a boyfriend. Maybe she’s a “naturalist” and believes nature secretes its own washboards. Or maybe she’s so busy touring she doesn’t have time to douche. According to the tabloids (which I need more than water, air, or Botox), Taylor’s been dumped more often than a vegan on a cabbage cleanse. Maybe she should stop composing, drop her pen, pull down her thong and take a sniff. If she doesn’t, she’s going to end up lone.
JULY 29
Dear Diary:
On the plane back to L.A. to see Melissa and Cooper and am watching Into Thin Air, the movie about climbing Mount Everest. I never understood why people do that—not climb mountains, that’s the easy part; it’s the schlepping all the way to Nepal I don’t get. It’s eighteen hours. The only mountains I was willing to schlep to were the Catskills, and that was only in their heyday, and only at the Concord Hotel, and only for a weekend (Friday one show, Saturday two), and only for really good money. And I didn’t need a yak and a Sherpa and oxygen tanks to get there. Just a limo, a driver, and a tight forty minutes.
The idiots who climb Mount Everest say they do it because “it’s there.” Which is exactly what Pam Anderson said about Tommy Lee. And all of these rich, country club pricks who reach the summit carry on like they’re the first person to do it and that they did it alone. Excuse me, don’t the Sherpas do this three times a month, on foot, carrying your equipment because you wouldn’t be able to pat yourself on the back if your hands were full? Why don’t the Sherpas get any credit? Behind every good man may be a woman, but behind every good climber is a Sherpa, just as behind every g
ood chorus boy is another chorus boy with a couple of poppers and a eight ball.
JULY 30
Dear Diary:
Melissa and Cooper took me to dinner tonight at a new, hip Chinese restaurant, Madame Mao’s Moo Shu Mansion. The place is uber-Chinese. When I asked for a fork instead of chopsticks they were horrified. You’d have thought I’d asked them for their two smallest children to ship back to New York to work in my jewelry factory.
Melissa said, “Use the chopsticks, the duck tastes better.” I said, “Better than what? When it was alive and quacking?” She said, “Using chopsticks enhances the experience.” By that logic if I go to an Icelandic restaurant should I beat the fish against a rock before I dig in? Or if I go to an Ethiopian restaurant should I scavenge the floor for crumbs and then go to the American restaurant next door and beg for food?
JULY 31
Dear Diary:
I was watching the local news this morning and the cap-toothed, overly-bronzed anchorman said, “Today is July thirty-first, Wednesday, which is Hump Day.” I had no idea what he was talking about. Hump Day? I didn’t know if I was supposed to ride a camel, hunt down and mount a strange man or send a birthday card to a hunchback. Who talks like this? I can’t imagine Brian Williams suggesting that I “get me some loving” during his live broadcast from a bombed-out airfield in Kabul. I’m sick of friendly news anchors with their inside jokes and coy asides. They try to humanize the news. Don’t. Just tell it to me. I don’t need Savannah on the Today Show saying, “The forest fire destroyed three hundred homes, and yet little seven-year-old Billy Simpson managed to find time to play with his toys in the smoldering rubble.” That’s not the story. Just give me the facts, don’t try to give me the emotional pull or happy ending. In my day, after JFK was shot in Dallas, Walter Cronkite did not turn to the camera and say, “On a happier note, Jackie found a twenty-four-hour dry cleaner who got the stains out and she amortized that expensive pink suit and was able to wear it on the plane home.”
Speaking of what annoys me on TV, at the end of concerts or sporting events, I’m tired of the directors cutting to shots of cheering fans. I don’t need to see the fans. I want to see the big moment, when in victory, Roger Federer gives Rafael Nadal the finger, or when Elton John thinks the curtain’s down and opens the piano and pulls out a gigantic sandwich. I don’t need to see fat-ass Lenny from the Bronx cheering when Alex Rodriguez hits a home run. I want to see A-Rod try to hide the syringe in his pocket while he rounds the bases.
This ain’t the first time I’ve been on top of Teddy Roosevelt’s face.
AUGUST 1
Dear Diary:
Tomorrow starts Grandma Week and I can’t wait. Every year I hit the road with Cooper for ten days, and August is the perfect time because all of the psychiatrists, psychologists and social workers in New York City take the entire month off, leaving their wacked-out, crazy patients to roam the streets freely in hot, humid weather without counseling, supervision or Xanax.
AUGUST 2
Dear Diary:
Cooper and I are headed off to see some of the oldest and most famous historic sights in America: Mount Rushmore, the Grand Canyon, Arches National Park and my kindergarten class.
AUGUST 4
Dear Diary:
We’re at the Grand Canyon. One of the other tourists said he’s “never seen a hole that big.” I’m guessing he’s never seen Michelle Duggar’s uterus.
I may not be writing much this week—Cooper and I are just going to enjoy driving through the heartland of America watching people with no chic toiling away on their farms and growing stuff.
AUGUST 6
Dear Diary:
Today we went to Mount Rushmore and the place was mobbed with tourists. I had a scuffle right away. The tour guide told us it was open seating and suddenly hundreds of Asians with cameras rushed to the front. It was very upsetting to me. I tried to explain to a forest ranger that this is an American monument and I think Americans should sit up front—unless they’re very tall and they want to sit in front of me, in which case, fuck ’em. I finally played the Famous Face card and moved to a front-row seat. Loudly. I pointed out to everybody what the monument is all about (and by “everybody” I mean a guy named Ming Na and his family who I felt were Asians, because of their bound feet and funny clothes with strange fasteners instead of buttons):
George Washington was our first president who crossed the Delaware River and was able to do it uninterrupted because it wasn’t a Carnival Cruise.
Teddy Roosevelt, who charged up San Juan Hill in record time because there was a Jehovah’s Witness running behind him badgering him to buy copies of Watchtower magazine.
And Abe Lincoln and Thomas Jefferson, who were probably our two greatest presidents . . . one who freed the slaves and one who fucked them.
AUGUST 8
Dear Diary:
We’re in Utah today. I wanted Cooper to see and press the flesh of all the people who buy Marie Osmond’s doll collections. We drove directly to Arches National Park, which turned out to be a huge disappointment. Not one rock collection in the shape of a foot. What are they talking about?
Our tour guide was wearing shorts, boots and turquoise jewelry in the blazing sun, and looked stupid. I hate straight men who wear turquoise jewelry. If I see that I know he’s either an alcoholic Navajo or he’s toe-tapping in the men’s room just off the beaten path.
AUGUST 10
Dear Diary:
Today was our last day of Grandma Week and Cooper wanted to go whitewater rafting down the Colorado River. I’d have been much happier sitting in the Four Seasons watching Deliverance on Netflix, but whatever, it’s his vacation.
Turns out the rafting trip was great—we got soaked and bumped and bruised but Cooper had a blast; and even though I’m a little battered from the rough waters and the rocks, I know I have a nice insurance claim and negligence lawsuit to file when I get home. Another win-win!
FYI: If I have to hear one more story about how brave the Western pioneers were . . . how they had to get their rafts across the crocodile-filled swirling rapids; how they had to figure out which snakes were poisonous and which ones would make lovely handbags; blah, blah, blah. You want a pioneer? Helena Rubinstein: she invented hypoallergenic, waterproof foundation and cover-sticks, so all of those Brokeback Mountain cowboys could “pioneer” each other in the back of a tent without having to worry about blackheads or combination skin.
AUGUST 12
Dear Diary:
I’m a reader. Often I’ll read an entire book cover to cover in one sitting in the bathroom, which really annoys the other passengers on a plane, but as Count Vronsky said when Anna Karenina begged him not to leave her, “Too fucking bad.” Apparently word of my voracious reading habits got out, and so yesterday I did an interview about my last book, I Hate Everyone . . . Starting with Me. I was asked who my favorite and least favorite authors are. For my favorite I said Ann Rule, the great true crime writer, even though Edith Wharton was a close second. Both are so similar. In Wharton I can watch rich society people suffer, but Rule wins because I can watch trailer trash not only suffer but get brutally murdered, sometimes hacked up or left totally unrecognizable when they’re fished out of a marsh.
Both are great, cozy, good bedtime reading after a difficult day.
Again, when it came to naming my least favorite author, I had to say, “I have two!” Charles Dickens and little Anne Frank. Let’s start with Dickens. What a bore. Charlie could spend eight pages describing a street in London. His novel David Copperfield is 1,016 pages—and no pictures! And as for Anne Frank, go back to the January 4 entry.
AUGUST 13
Dear Diary:
This is why I hate L.A. I saw a $400,000 chauffeur-driven Bentley in front of a Supercuts. I didn’t even know Phil Spector was out on bail.
I am very careful about where I go to get my hair cut
in Beverly Hills. I only go to regular hair salons because if you go where stars go you might catch something. I’m not saying she’s dirty, but I heard that when they cut Helena Bonham Carter’s hair, it made three rats homeless.
AUGUST 14
Dear Diary:
Flew back to New York last night. Didn’t need an Ambien, a glass of wine or a seat next to an actuary to fall asleep. The movie on board was All Is Lost with Robert Redford. Other than seagulls cooing and waves splashing—and my snoring—it was basically a silent movie. Eight minutes in I was hoping the boat would capsize and Big Red would get eaten by a school of sharks that don’t mind moles or bad plastic surgery.* The only thing worse would have been if Bobby were trying to pass time on the boat by reading a Dickens novel out loud.
AUGUST 16
Dear Diary:
Today is Madonna’s birthday. Now I know why they refer to August as “the dog days of summer.” I wasn’t sure what to buy her, but I finally settled on Fifty Shades of Grey for her so she can read it, and a box of crayons so her boyfriend can color it in.
AUGUST 17
Dear Diary:
I can’t stand people who don’t pick up after their dogs. It’s filthy, it’s disgusting and it’s unsanitary. It makes the sidewalks unsleepable for the homeless, and even worse, it forces me to wear high heels on occasions that desperately call for flats.
