Diary of a Mad Diva

by Joan Rivers

  I’m a giver.

  DECEMBER 12

  Dear Diary:

  Rumor has it that Adele complained that I did a joke about her being heavy on Fashion Police, and her lawyer wants a written apology that will say, “Dear Adele, I am truly sorry if my words, spoken in jest, have in any way upset you, offended you or hurt your family. I think you’re a wonderful singer and artist and have brought joy and happiness to millions of people around the world. And you are not in any way heavy; in fact, little lady, you’re slim, lithe and winsome.” I told the lawyer that unfortunately I’ve run out of stationery, but I’d be delighted to write this long apology and that she’s not obese where there’s plenty of room for it—on her big fat ass.

  What’s all the fuss about? If a celebrity is fat, chances are it’s because they want to be fat—it’s part of their “look” and they’re using it to make a fortune. Melissa McCarthy is brilliant; Rebel Wilson is hilarious—and both of those plus-sized gals are using their heft to pull in hefty salaries. Even Kirstie Alley, the sensitive Scientologist who hates being made fun of, had no problem doing a series called Fat Actress, so long as her paycheck matched her calorie count.

  DECEMBER 13

  Dear Diary:

  Just watched TMZ and the big story of the day? Charles Manson is engaged! As they say in the New York Post’s Page Six, “Yes, THAT Charles Manson.” Apparently Chuckie’s met a woman and fallen in love. I am so jealous! Not that I’d ever even think of marrying him. I’m Jewish and he thinks he’s Jesus. But still . . . we’re about the same age, yet Charlie, who lives in an eight-by-ten cell and showers once week—with other men—has found someone, and I, who lives in a large apartment and goes to the theater nightly, am all alone. I may not be gorgeous, but for God’s sake, when I have my face carved up it’s done by a doctor and the scars are behind my ears, not on my forehead. Life is just not fair. I don’t know if I’ll be invited to the wedding but I hear they’re registered at Bed Bloodbath & Beyond.

  P.S. The fiancée, a woman known as “Star,” looks just like Susan Atkins, the late psycho who killed Sharon Tate. Star’s twenty-five, has brown hair, brown eyes and an X carved into her head. It’s nice to know Charlie has a “type.”

  DECEMBER 14

  Dear Diary:

  I’m going through that wonderful SkyMall catalog yet again, and I’m finding fabulous Christmas gifts. They have two whole pages dedicated to garden gnomes! How wonderful for my Mexican gardener, Jose. How many times can I give him a piñata filled with breath mints? Jose is Mexican, and might I remind you, the Mexicans are not a tall people. Now he won’t feel lonely as he mows.

  DECEMBER 15

  Dear Diary:

  As I’m totally still into the Christmas mood, I went shopping today at that famous toy store FAO Schwarz. I went with one of my gayest gay BFFs, Jason. We walked in and there was Santa, sitting on a huge chair with a hundred kids waiting on line to sit on his lap and tell him what they wanted for Christmas. Jason joined them and when it was his turn, he jumped onto Santa’s lap just like the kids, happily bouncing up and down. When Santa said, “So, young man, what do you want for Christmas?” Jason said, “Don’t worry about it, fat boy. I’m getting it.”

  DECEMBER 16

  Dear Diary:

  I did an LGBT (Lesbians, Gays, Bisexuals, Transgender) benefit tonight. Show went great but the after party was really interesting. They all seem to hate each other.

  The lesbians hate the gay men because the gay men are pretty and giggly and well dressed and fun. The gays hate the lesbians because they’re not. They both hate the bisexuals because they think bisexuals are nothing more than homos who think that “bi” makes them sound European and taller. And they all hate the trannies because they muck up the LGB fund-raising pool. Wealthy donors don’t donate if they can’t figure out what the fuck their money is going to.

  I also learned that trannies don’t like to be called “trannies.” They take themselves very seriously and prefer the medical term “gash jockey.”*

  DECEMBER 17

  Dear Diary:

  Too busy to write today—I have to go to City Hall where Pingpong is applying for U.S. citizenship. She needed somebody to show up in person to attest to her good character and steady employment in the United States. I told her that as long as she covered her wrists and arms so the handcuff scars and radiator burns didn’t show, I’d be more than happy to be her witness. Being of service like this makes me proud to be an American.

  DECEMBER 18

  Dear Diary:

  Went to a very formal dinner party, and of all things I was seated next to a doctor who does transsexual operations. I told him I had done the LGBT benefit and he said many of his patients were there. Turns out he was a Nobel Prize winner who was known for both his penis deletions and labia load-ins. Over the most delicious pheasant-under-glass and wonderful Chateau Marmont ’53, I asked him, “C’mon, doc, tell me, does a new penis really look like a penis? Does it work? Or are these guys just happy to have something slapping against their thighs?” He moved to another table.

  DECEMBER 19

  Dear Diary:

  I’m starting to get depressed but not because of the holidays. All of my friends are in really good spaces in their lives and it’s killing me. I don’t have one friend who’s suffering, in financial distress or sexually confused. When I get off the phone with someone I want to be able to say, “Well, at least I don’t have to sell my house and live in a box,” or, “Thank God my second husband didn’t leave me for a small Romanian houseboy named Chechy,” or “I’m not the one with no health insurance and a boil on my lip the size of Cleveland.” These are the phone calls that make me feel good when I’m blue.

  I’m thinking of taking one of my gay AA friends* out drinking and encouraging him to have unprotected sex with Haitian street hustlers. Then, when I get his teary call of regret in the morning, I won’t feel so bad about gaining two pounds.

  DECEMBER 20

  Dear Diary:

  Getting ready to go back to Mexico for the holidays. I’ve got to get industrial bug spray, a magnum of Imodium and $50,000 in cash to pay the ransom when a drug cartel kidnaps me because I had the effrontery to step sixteen inches outside of our compound walls.

  DECEMBER 21

  Dear Diary:

  I am so tired of the homeless. They are always asking for things like food and shelter. Food, okay—I’ve always got a couple of Doritos in my pockets. But shelter? What am I supposed to do, bring Mr. Stinko into my guest room? What if Michelle Obama drops by and wants to use it as a love nest for a clandestine tryst with Bill O’Reilly? Yes, Michelle! Who knows what goes on behind closed White House doors? There is so much sex in Washington, the house whip is leather.

  Anyhow, back to the homeless. I have several questions I ask myself about them. I am very aware of them, as I see them daily while I’m carried from my foyer to my limo.

  QUESTION 1: Why are there no pretty homeless? God knows they have time to fix themselves up; they don’t work. No roof should not mean no makeup. There is no direct correlation between physical beauty and housing. Halle Berry was on food stamps, while Eleanor Roosevelt lived in the White House. I rest my case.

  QUESTION 2: Why do the homeless just lie there and beg? You want money? Make a fucking effort. I’ll happily toss you a couple of shekels, but do a little trick for me—juggle, tell a joke, pretend you’re in the talent competition in the Miss America Pageant and do a dramatic reading of The Cat in the Hat. There’s one guy in my neighborhood who stands on the corner with a picture frame around his neck telling people, “I’ve been framed.” I always give him money—clever idea and funnier than 37 percent of my act. There’s another guy on the corner of Fifty-Eighth and Madison who’s been singing Ave Maria for years. I always give him money. I’d give him more if he had a better arrangement.

  QUESTION 3: What’s with the shopping c
arts? Haven’t you moved past that yet? Get a Valpak or a suitcase or buy online like everyone else. Shopping carts are so 1983. For God’s sake, catch up!

  LAST QUESTION: Why do charitable organizations always say “Feed the Homeless”? The homeless don’t need food; the fatter they get, the more they’ll have to cover in cold weather. As a matter of fact, they have plenty of food—there’s a Dumpster on every corner. (Freddie once told me that if it weren’t for Dumpster diving he never would’ve met Nick Nolte!)

  DECEMBER 22

  Dear Diary:

  On the plane to Mexico where I’ll meet Melissa, Cooper, my one friend, and hangers-on.

  DECEMBER 23

  Dear Diary:

  I’m glad I’m in Mexico for the holidays. In New York, I get depressed because everyone’s coupled up and I’m all alone. I’ve never appealed to men, not even my husband, Edgar. The only compliment he ever gave me was, “Joan, in bed you’re like Marilyn Monroe. Dead.” The only way I can get a man to touch me these days is if I walk through the casino where I’m performing and say, “Hey, high-roller, wanna rub me for luck?” I hate to complain, but I have to face it, I have no sex appeal. I’ve yet to find a gynecologist who has the nerve to examine me twice.

  DECEMBER 24

  Dear Diary:

  Got my first Christmas gift today from Melissa and Cooper: a beautiful diamond-studded sombrero. They hid it in a place I’d never look—the kitchen. Melissa and Cooper spent a lot of money and it’s making me rethink my gift-spending policy. I always believed that I should give till it hurts, but I find that my pain threshold is about a buck fifty these days. Which reminds me, I haven’t bought them anything and I better hurry. As Winona Ryder called to remind me: there’s only one shoplifting day left until Christmas.

  DECEMBER 25

  Dear Diary:

  Christmas in Mexico is terrific. The people are so inventive. They don’t waste money on decorations. If they want something red and green in their living rooms, they just go out and steal a traffic light.

  Yes, yes, I know we’re Jewish, but I still think Christmas is the best holiday of all. I make my Nativity scene a Jewish-Christian event. For example, I have the three wise men bringing Jesus their gifts: gold, frankincense and Myrna, Beverly Hills’ most famous hooker. Speaking of Jesus, I had him in a manger, but being Jewish I put an electric blanket in with him. And when it comes to Mary, I have a beautiful little figurine, but instead of that blue schmata she usually wears, I dressed her in a Chanel suit, Manolo Blahnik shoes and a Gucci bag. The way I feel is: You’re the mother of God. Look it!

  DECEMBER 26

  Dear Diary:

  Melissa got me a new diary for Christmas. What is she, crazy?? I hate it!!! I think I’m going to go knock on her door and really upset her. I’m going to strip naked and say, “Surprise! This is what you’re going to look like in twenty years!”

  DECEMBER 27

  Dear Diary:

  I have no idea where the staff has gone. I didn’t want to insult them by giving them monetary gifts for Christmas, so instead I gave them big hugs and wished them all Feliz Navidad. They, in turn, gave me the finger.

  DECEMBER 28

  Dear Diary:

  Not a good day. I got the runs. I was on the toilet so long my ass took root.

  DECEMBER 29

  Dear Diary:

  Still sick. I’ve thrown up so much I feel like I could audition for the lead in The Nicole Richie Story.

  DECEMBER 30

  Dear Diary:

  Getting ready for New Year’s Eve. A lot of people get nostalgic at the end of the year, and they like to reminisce about old times. Not me. As a matter of fact, I always refuse to join in the singing of “Auld Lang Syne.” If I want to sing a classic old song, it won’t be “Auld Lang Syne.” I’ll sing a classic old song that speaks to me, like “Money Makes the World Go Round” or “Push, Push in the Bush.”

  DECEMBER 31

  Dear Diary:

  It’s New Year’s Eve and the five of us left here in Mexico who haven’t died from dysentery are making our New Year’s resolutions. I make the same three resolutions every single year:

  Only make faces at blind people.

  Tell crying orphans to suck it up. Nobody wants to hear them whine. Nobody wants them, period; that’s why they’re orphans.

  Lose weight. I love to eat. I bought a picture of the Last Supper just to look at the food.

  Anyway, it’s almost midnight in New York and we’re all heading to the living room to watch the ball drop and watch Anderson Cooper and Kathy Griffin ring in 2014. It’s one of the best moments of the year. But I’m always hoping that a huge gust of wind (from Dr. Phil’s ass) will come along at 11:59 and blow Kathy and Anderson off the roof and into the Hudson River. So, at this time next year, Melissa and I could be on top of that building dropping the ball and counting down to 2015! Wow!

  Happy New Year!!!!

  Please send all hate mail to my editor, Hermione Schwartz, at the Berkley Publishing Group. You can look up the fucking address yourself. If you have the time to write a stupid letter, you have the time to go through a phone book.

  * Denny’s real name is Milton Glick, but he likes to be called Denny because it rhymes with Lenny and because they both love the metered whimsy of Sondheim and Cole Porter.

  * For those of you who don’t know, Florence Ballard was one of the original Supremes. She died penniless. Would it have killed Big D to toss her a couple of shekels, or at least let her keep her dignity by sending her a sandwich? Flo could have had the choice of eating it or using it as a pillow. When you don’t have much, options matter.

  * Farm people have cellars where they keep tools, canned goods, camping gear and rifles. Jews have basements where we keep artwork, golf clubs and illegal kitchen help.

  * I say “used” mink coat, not “pre-owned.” “Pre-owned” is bullshit. That’s like serving leftovers and calling them “pre-chewed.” Used is used—like an old car, antique furniture or Marilyn Monroe’s vagina.

  * Maybe it’s just me, but in my eighty years on earth, I’ve never once dated a man who wanted me on my knees so I could pray.

  * “Big Red” is actually a misnomer for Robert Redford. Robert Redford is not big. He’s short. He’s my height if I’m in heels, but I can’t call him “Little Red,” because that name’s already been taken by Mickey Rooney’s penis.

  * I know, I know: The River Kwai is in Thailand, but I’m not good at geography. Up until last year I thought Apocalypse Now took place in Flemington, New Jersey.

  * Just a note that on the East Coast a “landfill” is a term used by the Department of Sanitation when they refer to a garbage dump. On the West Coast, a “landfill” is a term used by the NBA when they refer to Kim Kardashian’s uterus.

  * I put my hand under the faucet and said my first words, “Wawa.”

  * I can drive; I’m not handicapped, I’m handi-capable.

  * Polly.

  * J. Edgar Hoover and I were very close. In fact, we were the same size. I used to lend him my clothes for special occasions. He looked especially fetching in a simple summer shift with matching cloche and open-toed shoes.

  * FYI, Miley Cyrus’s mother is theoretically only fourteen years older than she, and Miley claims that she was a virgin until she was sixteen. Big deal. It’s not that she was “good.” She simply could outrun her brothers.

  * I’m sure that Cooper will never want gender reassignment surgery, but one can hope. Why should Cher be the only entertainer to get years of free publicity for something she didn’t have to lift a finger for?

  * FYI, Emily was known to be a little mannish in her appearance because of the mustache, furrowed brow and Adam’s apple. How times have changed. Hillary Clinton has the same characteristics and no one’s calling her butch . . . to her face.

 
* None. They don’t have opposable thumbs. Or: None. They don’t have electricity in hovels. Or: None. They don’t need electricity; they just set fire to an old wife, for light.

  * “Charming” is a euphemism for broken cups, sullen waiters and cockroaches.

  * Shout-out to Brad: “Hey, Brad, if Rin Tin Tin and Lassie can lick their balls clean, so should you.”

  * Last year on my tax return, I took $225,000 off for makeup. The IRS called me down, took one look at me and okayed it.

  * Super Steve Levine did his job. As of January 1, I’ll get $50,000 and two-ply toilet paper for life (I rash easily). I’m so happy. You can’t see me now, but I’ve got a shit-eating grin on my face.

  * Capitalized, out of respect.

  * I hate couples who take their names and combine them when they’re naming their child. Sometimes it works, like Dee and Ann had a darling little girl named Deanne. But most of the time it doesn’t. Jewel and Derek were obviously drinking when they cut the umbilical cord and named their little girl Jerk. (It could have been worse; they could have named her Jew-e.) Tyrone and Kitty made a huge mistake when they named their bouncing baby boy Titty. But the saddest case I’ve heard was when two very dear Chinese friends of mine, Fiona and Chuck Yu, took their darling little Fuck to Disneyland where they were physically ejected when they called out the baby’s full name in front of Mickey Mouse.