Diary of a Mad Diva

by Joan Rivers

  I’m not saying it’s so (and in fact, I don’t believe it), but one of the great Hollywood myths is that Liam Neeson hadn’t had a decent role in years when he ran into Spielberg on a red carpet. One men’s room and twenty minutes later, he’s Oskar Schindler saving any Jew who was good at making pots and pans.

  My favorite red carpet look of all time was worn by Tatum O’Neal. She was ten years old and dressed in a tuxedo. She was adorable. Winning that Oscar was just the first of many wins. She went on to win day passes, conjugal visits, time off for good behavior and occasional partial custody of some of her kids.

  How You Can Tell It’s Award Season in Hollywood

  You can’t get an appointment with any plastic surgeon in Beverly Hills for the three months prior.

  All the ladies’ rooms smell of vomit.

  All the leading men suddenly show up with beards . . . on their arms.

  FEBRUARY 2

  Dear Diary:

  Today is Groundhog Day, which is a holiday celebrating a brownish, bucktoothed rat. The old wives’ tale is that if the groundhog sticks his head out of the ground and sees his shadow, we’ll have six more weeks of winter. Great, it’s better than having Sam Champion stick his head out of his boyfriend’s ass to see if we’re going to have six more weeks of Glee.

  FEBRUARY 3

  Dear Diary:

  My assistant, Jocelyn, just walked in, saw me writing and said, “Are you aware it’s 2 p.m.? Get up. We have to change the sheets.” She’s so rude and it’s my own fault. I should hire illegals. You can slap ’em around and who are they going to complain to? Not the police. (It’s a win-win, except on Cinco de Mayo, when they get cheeky.)

  FEBRUARY 4

  Dear Diary:

  Happy Birthday, Rosa Parks! In her memory, I decided to sit all the way in the back of my limo on the way home tonight. Rosa was such a pioneer. She refused to give up her seat to a white person. Truth be told, she refused to give up her seat to anyone, black, white, yellow, red, octoroon . . . People think Rosa was such a rebel; she wasn’t. She didn’t plant her ass on the seat and not move because she was making a point; she didn’t move because she was fucking lazy. Did you ever hear about her doing anything else? Did you ever read a headline that said “Rosa Parks Finds Cure for Juvenile Diabetes”? Or “Rosa Parks Wins Celebrity Apprentice”? or “Rosa Parks Hits Thirty-Six Home Runs for the Dodgers”? No. Rosa just sat. And sat and sat and sat. But, as I said at the beginning of this entry, she was a pioneer; she opened the door for generations of lazy people to walk through and sit the fuck down.

  FEBRUARY 5

  Dear Diary:

  Just finished watching Jeopardy! It’s college week. Hated it. If I want to see a brainy nerd who can’t get laid, I’d look at my old class pictures. The only thing worse than College Jeopardy! is Celebrity Jeopardy! where the questions are so dumbed down, Honey Boo Boo could win the fucking game. On the retarded food chain, Celebrity Jeopardy! ranks just below Wheel of Fortune and Real Housewives of Atlanta. Tom Brokaw is so stupid he lost all of his money when they asked him to spell “mom” backwards.

  FEBRUARY 6

  Dear Diary:

  Left a long message for Prince Charles today. I know he must be depressed because today is the anniversary of his mother becoming queen, and she ain’t abdicating anytime soon. Elizabeth has spent more time on the throne than a bulimic at a cabbage convention. Poor PC. Whenever I see him drive by on his way to the mall I shout out advice to make him feel better. When he rolls his eyes I know it’s a secret signal between us that he’s saying “thank you.” I’d love to buy him a small country just so he could have some fun ruling and get a chance to behead people before it’s too late. As far as I’m concerned, nothing says “pick-me-up” quite like decapitating an illegal. Am I wrong? Right now Chaz doesn’t even have the power to fire the sous chef for not washing his hands after leaving the bathroom.

  FEBRUARY 7

  Dear Diary:

  My friend Larry just sent me multiple pictures of his dog on the stupid dog’s birthday. There was Rover in a birthday hat in front of a cake shaped like a bone, and I’m supposed to comment. Frankly, I don’t fucking care. If I want to see a dog wearing nothing but a hat, hunched over a bone, I’ll look at a Kathy Bates sex tape. People are just nuts over their dogs. Why? Does Larry expect me to buy a gift for that four-legged asshole? What would I buy him and what does he need? I think anyone who can lick his own balls has enough. Just ask Gary Busey. (That’s why he’s always smiling.) Why do people think we care about their dogs? And an even more pressing question: Why do they think a four-hundred-pound mastiff looks good in a cardboard birthday hat? Even Dr. Phil would look better. Okay, he wouldn’t, but almost every other human being would. The only way I’d be interested in Larry’s dog is if the dog had Larry’s father’s eyes.

  FEBRUARY 8

  Dear Diary:

  Watching HBO today and I forgot that February is Black History Month. In honor of it, tomorrow I think I’ll hold up a liquor store and fuck me a white woman. And when the police shoot me and turn me over, I’ll have on a shirt with a picture of Sasha and Malia to show how far we’ve come.

  FEBRUARY 9

  Dear Diary:

  Dinner tonight with my friends Sue and Amy. Went to a seafood restaurant. A guy at the next table kept nagging the waiter: “This place smells fishy.” Of course it’s fishy, you asshole; it’s fish! The only time you should ever ask “Is it fishy?” is if you’re going down on Rosie O’Donnell.

  FEBRUARY 10

  Dear Diary:

  Today is the Chinese New Year. It’s the year of the snake. Michael Fassbender must be thrilled. The new year celebration is a very important holiday because the Chinese are a very traditional people—to this day they always put extra starch in my shirts, and all of my clothes are neatly folded and boxed, not draped over a hanger like a pregnant hooker in an alley.

  I did a little research on this topic, and by research I mean I tied my maid Pingpong to a parking meter and made her tell me everything she knew about the Chinese culture. The fact that Pingpong is Filipino and knows nothing of China means zilch to me. I have a great quest for knowledge. One of the interesting facts she spewed out was that the Chinese New Year began with a fight against a mythical beast named Nian, who, on the first day of the new year, would come into town to eat livestock, crops, villagers and even children. The same exact thing happened on the Jewish New Year, except our mythical beast was named Lainie Kazan and the town she came to was Las Vegas.

  FEBRUARY 11

  Dear Diary:

  Today will go down as a very big day in Homo History: First, the United States military announced it will provide the same benefits to same-sex couples as it does to heterosexual couples, which means sexual assault is now legal for the gays, too! Second, two of my gay friends, Lenny and Denny,* are getting married and they’ve asked me to marry them. I am thrilled. Not because I get to conduct their service, but because I get to attend their wedding and don’t have to buy a gift. They’re getting married on Valentine’s Day, which is only three days away—I hope it’s not because they have to.

  FEBRUARY 12

  Dear Diary:

  Call me Reverend Joan! Spent a couple of hours online and I am now a proudly ordained minister in the Universal Life Church. The Universal Life Church is a semi-nondenominational church and the church of choice for lesbians who want to get married (usually on their second date, when they’ve finished bowling). The church doesn’t cater to any specific religion such as Christian, Muslim or Jewish, so I never have to mention the names of the leaders of the Big Three: Jesus, Allah and Mandy Patinkin.

  FEBRUARY 13

  Dear Diary:

  I finally finished writing the marriage vows I have to administer tomorrow. I tried to find a gentle balance between passion and grace:

  We are gathered here together to witness the ex
changing of marriage vows between Lenny Goldberg and his furrier, Denny Glick.

  If there is anyone present today who knows of any reason why this couple should not be married—other than both sets of parents, thirty-seven states, most worldwide religions and the offensive line of the Miami Dolphins—let them speak now or forever hold their peace.

  Do you, Lenny, solemnly swear to take Denny to be your lawfully wedded, versatile bottom? Do you promise to love, honor, cherish and keep him for as long as you both shall live, or until he gets Alzheimer’s and you can void the prenup and get everything in your name?

  Do you, Denny, agree to the same stuff except that if things don’t work out you get the cats and he gets the Lady Gaga CDs?

  Denny, as a symbol of your promise to Lenny, please place the ruby slippers on his feet, click your heels three times and say, “There’s no place like homo, there’s no place like homo, there’s no place like homo.”

  Inasmuch as you have consented to be united in the bonds of matrimony—not to mention tied to the bedposts with ball gags in your mouths—and you have exchanged your wedding vows before all those present today, by the powers vested in me by the State of New York, which I got free, online, I now pronounce you married. You may now kiss . . . or better yet, spank, the bride.

  I think I got the tone right, no?

  FEBRUARY 14

  Dear Diary:

  Valentine’s Day!!! It just hit me. Not that I’m bitter, but I don’t think it is a coincidence that the initials for Valentine’s Day are VD. Perhaps I am bitter. I’ve only gotten two Valentines in my entire life. One from my husband, Edgar, which read, “Roses are red, violets are blue, undress one more time in front of me, and we’re through!” The last was from a man I met at an AARP meeting. It was a big card that said simply, “I Pacemaker You.” Years ago I faced the fact that I really have no sex appeal. Cupid saw me naked and shot an arrow into his own head.

  FEBRUARY 15

  Dear Diary:

  I’m sad because on Valentine’s Day men everywhere were buying their wives flowers and candy and jewelry in the hopes of getting a mediocre blow job (or at least a hand job with K-Y) in the laundry room later that night. And I sat all by myself, heartbroken that my vibrator didn’t even have the decency to send me a card or an email. I’ll show it; I’m off to the supermarket today to buy a cucumber.

  FEBRUARY 16

  Dear Diary:

  Woke up not feeling well. I spent the entire day online, on WebMD, and after eight hours of exhaustive research I’ve connected my symptoms to a diagnosis. And I can say with 100 percent certainty that I have pleurisy, tuberculosis, brain stem cancer or an enlarged prostate. I found a great cure for whatever ails you. God bless the Internet! A coffee enema. It worked like a charm. Not only are all my symptoms gone but I also lost twelve pounds. The only negative: I can never go back to Starbucks.

  FEBRUARY 17

  Dear Diary:

  I’m in a post–Valentine’s Day depression. Well, according to my shrink it’s not really a depression—it’s “appropriate sadness.” Actually he’s not really my shrink; he’s my trainer, and I talk to him a lot when I’m on the treadmill. He’s pretty smart for a steroid-riddled behemoth with huge pecs and itty-bitty nuts. Squirrels have seen him naked and said, “Pass.”

  FEBRUARY 18

  Dear Diary:

  Today is Presidents Day, when America honors George Washington and Abraham Lincoln by offering linens half off. I think we should have a second Presidents Day and honor JFK by offering heads half off.

  FEBRUARY 19

  Dear Diary:

  Going on a mini tour for the next week. Giving concerts all across Canada. My agent, Shivering Steve Levine, has booked me in Toronto, Montreal, Winnipeg and Saskatoon. Steve is so proud of himself, you would have thought he’d gotten me a command performance at Buckingham Palace in front of the Queen. What he actually got me is a booking in an ice bowl in Manitoba in front of a couple of old queens. I said, “Steve, thank you for booking me in Canada in the dead of winter. Any chance of getting me a week at the North Pole next January? How about a couple of days on the face of the sun in July?”

  FEBRUARY 20

  Dear Diary:

  Driving to Toronto. No matter where I look all I see is snow. White, white, white as far as the eye can see. It’s like being at Paula Deen’s office party. Hundreds of miles of snow is pretty for about five minutes, then it becomes a frigid bore, like Martha Stewart.

  FEBRUARY 21

  Dear Diary:

  Driving to Winnipeg and all I see is more snow. Boring.

  FEBRUARY 22

  Dear Diary:

  Driving to Saskatoon. More snow. But saw a couple of people frozen to death lying like roadkill on the side of the highway. Not quite as boring.

  FEBRUARY 23

  Dear Diary:

  The Canadian audiences I performed for were great, but I can’t figure out why people live here. I think maybe they ran out of gas on their way to someplace warmer.

  FEBRUARY 24

  Dear Diary:

  Back home from Canada. The audiences were so wonderful—they clapped until their frozen little fingers snapped off. Now I’m going to treat myself to a perfect evening—I’m going to take a bath, have Pingpong make me dinner (which I’ll immediately send back), and watch TV.

  Later . . . Just finished watching Girls on HBO. If I have to see Lena Dunham’s ass, boobs or tattoos one more time, I swear to God I’m going to convene a tribunal and charge HBO with crimes against humanity. Every time Lena takes the stand it’ll be like Nuremberg with cellulite. Why do homely girls insist on showing off their bodies? Who’s clamoring to look at them? Even Stevie Wonder would say, “Pass.” On tonight’s show she wanted to show us what would be a “television first,” so she hiked up her skirt, squatted and peed next to some train tracks. After seeing this I was hoping we’d see yet another “television first”: Lena Dunham spraying the third rail and going up in flames. I’m glad she’s “free” enough to have her fat ass on display; I just don’t know why she’s not free enough to have a fucking salad once in a while.

  FEBRUARY 25

  Dear Diary:

  Off to the dentist for some major gum work. I won’t be able to talk for two days. I’m despondent. Melissa couldn’t be happier.

  FEBRUARY 26

  Dear Diary:

  I have to find a new dentist. Dr. Golub did a great job; I look good and he saved me money (he said my face has been pulled so tight he didn’t need to give me a cleaning; I can floss with the stitches behind my ears!). But he kept calling me “Joanie.” Joanie! Like I’m his friend or his cousin or the local whore who gives him a hand job once a week because our mothers play cards together.

  FEBRUARY 27

  Dear Diary:

  It’s still Black History Month. How long do I have to keep out that picture of Martin Luther King, Jr.? And by the way, I liked him; I liked what he stood for. But what a cheaparino. He had some bucks, so why was he staying in Memphis in a $3-a-night motel? If he would’ve spent a little and moved into a Marriott, none of this would’ve happened. Sure, he could’ve died from a heart attack from eating in their food court (which I understand happens once a week on average), but history would have been much different.

  What more can I do? And I’m starting to get pissed. Where is Ecru History Month? Naturally Pale Month? What about rosacea? Give them a week. What about vitiligo? The way I see it, they should have two months. I think every race, religion and ethnic group should have at least one day in their honor that’s a legal holiday. And because I live in New York City, that means there would be 335 legal holidays . . . which means 335 days of suspended alternate side of the street parking . . . which means I can park anywhere I want to and all those ambulances, fire engines and emergency vehicles can go fuck themselves.

  The Jewish guy in the center kept se
nding everything back. “Is it vegan? Does it have peanuts in it? Is it gluten-free?” What a fuckin’ whiner.

  MARCH 1

  Dear Diary:

  Today is National Pig Day and I completely forgot to call Kevin Federline! I’ll send him a note. Or a bucket of slop. He’s not that fussy.

  MARCH 2

  Dear Diary:

  I’m catching all kinds of shit because on Fashion Police I made one teensy little joke about Heidi Klum maybe being a Nazi. I don’t know what the problem is; I was complimenting her. I said, “I haven’t seen anything this hot since the Germans were pushing Jews into the ovens.” You’d think I’d get a thank-you card, not just from Heidi for saying she looked nice, but from all the leftover Nazis for pointing out their ingenuity and stick-to-itiveness. But no, instead I get crap from the Anti-Defamation League for “insulting the Jews.” And if I’d said “gypsies” instead of “Jews,” the Jews would have been mad that I slighted them. This is why nobody likes us.

  MARCH 3

  Dear Diary:

  I’m getting letters from people telling me I should leave Heidi Klum alone because she was “a good Nazi.” What does “a good Nazi” mean? Does it mean they gave the Jews cookie dough to bake with them in the ovens? This makes me so mad that I am definitely thinking of getting a tattoo to remind people about the Holocaust. I want it to say “Six Million Plus One.” The six million will be for the Jews who died in the Holocaust, and the one will be for the time I died on Ed Sullivan.