Diary of a Mad Diva

by Joan Rivers

  NOVEMBER 21

  Dear Diary:

  I love my new dog, but I hate his name. It’s Teegan. Sounds like a drunken Irishman. If I wanted a dog named after a drunken Irishman I’d call him Colin Farrell. I’d like to change his name but he answers to Teegan and I don’t know if, or how long, it would take for him to adapt to a new name. It took my cousin Shirley years to adapt to her new name, Elliott. It took him longer to adapt to the name than the sex change. For years, if we wanted any response out of him we had to say, “Elliott! Shirley! One of you! Zip up your pants, your schlong is showing.”

  The only celebrity dog I know who changed his name was Rin Tin Tin. He was born Randy Tinowitz but he thought it sounded too Jewish for the business so he changed it. History will attest it worked like a charm and Little Rinny worked till the day he died. He even has a star on the Hollywood Walk of Fame! Six-pointed, but still, as I said to my rabbi the other day, a star’s a star!

  NOVEMBER 22

  Dear Diary:

  Today is the fiftieth anniversary of the assassination of President Kennedy, and all the postmenopausal women and residents of nursing homes are talking about is where he or she was when Kennedy was shot. I remember that morning like it was yesterday. Hard to believe, but I was in a coffee shop in Dallas, Texas, having breakfast with Lee Harvey Oswald! I had met him at an NRA breakfast. (Guess what the menu was? Bangers and mash!) He shot me a sexy look—actually he shot me three sexy looks in less than 4.9 seconds. How’d he do it? We clicked immediately. We found we both loved travel, books, suppositories and depositories (ha-ha) and felt pink tweed was wrong for November. Lee’s first words to me were, “Don’t Cubans make you laugh?” That morning we were making small talk (how to mow grassy knolls) when suddenly he jumped up and said, “Joanie, baby, I gotta run.” I said, “Leelee, where to?” He replied, “I’ve got a thing downtown, and then maybe an afternoon movie.” Then he took off and the rest is history. Now, all these years later, knowing what I know, when I reflect back on that fateful day, I still cannot believe what happened. That bastard. That sonuvabitch. That motherfucker. He left me with the check!

  NOVEMBER 23

  Dear Diary:

  Going to the dentist today. Nothing wrong with my teeth, but at my age it’s the only chance I get for a man to tell me to “open wide.”

  NOVEMBER 24:

  Dear Diary:

  It’s holiday season so I have to start getting my credit cards ready. Chanukah starts in three days, which is a huge pain in the ass because holiday sales don’t usually start until after Thanksgiving. The Jewish holidays work off the Hebrew calendar, which is very confusing. They’re just like the hip-breaking grannies in the Mt. Hebron Nursing Home—they fall at different times.

  NOVEMBER 25

  Dear Diary:

  Off to QVC to hawk my baubles, bangles and beads. I love having my own line and I love being on QVC. But the TV pitchperson field is getting too crowded. At first there were just a few schmatte mongers on TV, but now every big star, minor celebrity and desperate has-been is on TV selling something. My favorite is Suzanne Somers. Suzanne fascinates me because there’s nothing she can’t and doesn’t sell, and there’s nothing she’s not an expert on. If you want smooth thighs, fun recipes, tips on aging or cures for cancer, hunger and AIDS, Suzanne’s your gal. Who would’ve thunk that Chrissy from Three’s Company would become the Einstein of her generation? I’m so jealous of her energy; she makes Martha Stewart look like a paraplegic who mixes her cakes with a spoon held in her mouth.

  NOVEMBER 26

  Dear Diary:

  Went out to dinner tonight with a couple of my theater friends (and when I say “theater friends” I mean two old queens whose scrotums are so wrinkled and brown you want to serve them with sour cream). We wound up sitting at a table near P. Diddy. We’d never met so I wasn’t sure whether to call him Diddy, Mr. Diddy, P, or PP. I walked right over to him and said, “What do I call you? Puffy? Puff Daddy? I’m Jew-Mommy.”

  I’m confused. So many rappers have nicknames, like P. Diddy and T.I. and Ray J, but those stupid nicknames really help sell records. I’m going to call my BFF Celine Dion and tell her she could hit the charts again if she gave herself a rap name. Knowing Celine, I’m going to suggest C. Unty.

  NOVEMBER 27

  Dear Diary:

  Tomorrow is Thanksgiving and Cooper asked me who I liked better, the Pilgrims or the Indians. No contest. The Pilgrims. No disrespect to the Indians (and notice I call them Indians, even though I should be politically correct and call them Native Americans or Previous Owners)—if not for them I’d be broke and Cooper would be having Thanksgiving dinner at a bus station with a couple of hobos and Wesley Snipes.

  I play a lot of Indian Casinos and every day I thank God General Custer was a bad shot and left a few of those Red Fellows alive,* or I’d be broke. (I make a lot of wampum off of them.) Not once in all these years have I been hired to play a Pilgrim casino. But for me, if I had to choose, as I said, it would be the Pilgrims. You see, fashion trumps fairness and even though the Pilgrims stampeded and marauded the Indians, Cochise and his idiot pals always wore flats—not a good look for formal events or red carpets—and the two biggest Indian exports—blankets and turquoise—have zero market value on QVC.

  The Pilgrims on the other hand are an absolutely untapped gold mine. When, since Plymouth Rock, other than in costume dramas or on Sister Wives, have you ever seen a non-retarded person wear buckle shoes? Never! Even Payless doesn’t carry them, and they sell footwear made out of cardboard and luncheon meat. I look at Pilgrim-wear as a whole new division of the Joan Rivers line. In fact, I’m going to call my designer first thing Monday morning and have him start working on buckles, aprons, ill-fitting black hats and dowdy bonnets. I don’t care if Halle Berry herself wore them, they make any wearer unfuckable, and I think there is a huge untapped market for People Who Want to Look Unfuckable: Muslim women during Ramadan, girls who date rich lepers, and Jewish wives who have just had their hair done.

  NOVEMBER 28

  Dear Diary:

  Don’t have much time to write. It’s Thanksgiving and I barely have time today to get a massage, do my hair, put on makeup, get a brow lift and microchip all the help before my relatives and hanger-ons arrive. Bon appétit. Or should I say, knowing the guest list, gobble-gobble?

  NOVEMBER 29

  Dear Diary:

  Last night was a huge success. The table looked beautiful, the food was delicious and my recipe for braised parakeet eyeball was a big hit, until they found out it wasn’t caviar they were spooning onto their crackers. The highlight of my Thanksgiving dinner is always at the end of the meal when we go around the table and everyone gets up and says what they’re thankful for. Most people mention their families or friends or health. Last night my favorite was when Jon Hamm’s ex-girlfriend stood up and said she was grateful for padded chairs and vaginal rejuvenation surgery. Perfect end to a perfect evening.

  NOVEMBER 30

  Dear Diary:

  I am still feeling so stuffed and bloated and huge from that great Thanksgiving dinner, so I’m spending the entire day today in bed, watching movies. I’m going to watch Precious, Fatso and What’s Eating Gilbert Grape? I should feel better about myself in the morning.

  Why a Christmas tree? Because you can’t fit a really big present under a menorah, that’s why. And that’s what the holiday season is all about.

  DECEMBER 1

  Dear Diary:

  Today is Cooper’s birthday! And I’m so proud of him. He’s smart, athletic, a damn good student, and Melissa’s smacked enough manners into him that people tell me he’s very polite. He calls me Miss Rivers or Your Highness even when I don’t make him. Kids grow up so fast these days. One day it’s Slurpees, the next day it’s herpes.

  Today is also the anniversary of the day in 1955 when Rosa Parks refused to get off of a public bus in Alabam
a. She said, “You’ll have to kill me before I get off one of these things.” It’s also the anniversary of the day in 1995 when Donatella Versace refused to get on a public bus in Milan, and said, “You’ll have to kill me before I get on one of these things.” So all in all, December 1 was a good day for black-skinned women who make a difference and like to travel.

  DECEMBER 2

  Dear Diary:

  I’m sitting on a plane to L.A. and someone is farting or decomposing. I know it’s not me, as I didn’t eat at Applebee’s last week. Also, I’m in the first row and the smell is coming from behind me, and even though after all that plastic surgery my eyes are actually in the back of my head, my current nose is still sort of in the front, and I can’t tell who the offending ass belongs to. The cabin is full and there are a lot of international passengers, so it might not be a fart at all; it might just be the BO of some rich French person who, while educated and well off, has somehow not figured out how to work a shower. (Notice I didn’t say “Germans” because if there’s one thing Germans know how to work, it’s a shower.) My eyes are watering and my nose is running; the cabin is like a sulphur mine with peanuts. Two more ass-blasts from Bad Salmon Betty behind me and the masks are going to drop from the ceiling.

  DECEMBER 3

  Dear Diary:

  It was a cold, snowy day but Melissa’s neighbors Brett and Marion managed to pay a visit and brought their brand-new baby boy, little Bretarion, along.* Over coffee and chocolate cake (the only thing Melissa serves in her house because it doesn’t show the dirt), the couple began arguing over whether or not to circumcise him. Brett is Catholic and Marion is Jewish but she’s the one who doesn’t want to snip Bretarion’s little schmeckle. She’s one of those phony feminists who believes that circumcision is “barbaric” and “traumatizing” to the child. This is not so. Ask any boy who was circumcised as an infant. He doesn’t remember it. But if you ask the one kid who wasn’t circumcised, he remembers being teased in school, made fun of in the locker room and pointed at by pediatricians’ evil nurses. Any prison psychiatrist will tell you that this is why, years later, he went back to his old school and opened fire in the cafeteria with an AK-47. A snip in time saves nine.

  You want trauma? Talk to the women who’ve had to deal with a man’s uncut monstrosity. Even in Europe, where anything goes, you never hear Inga or Ermgard say, “Oh, my Wilhelm has such a gorgeous schvantz! I love ze way his foreskin drags on ze floor and picks up crumbs and schmutz and dust mites.” Personally, I have only seen an adult foreskin once but, because of this, to this day I am unable to go to the zoo or watch Animal Planet specials on elephants, tapirs or aardvarks. Even worse, I can’t even look at an evening gown that pools on the floor without getting nauseous and weepy.

  DECEMBER 4

  Dear Diary:

  Today I got a letter asking me to contribute to a charity for dwarves. I tossed the reply envelope away. I hate these little whiners. They don’t know how lucky they have it. They don’t have to worry about smoking stunting their growth. They don’t have to worry about the wear and tear on their trousers’ knees as they perform oral sex standing up. And if one of them gets shitfaced drunk and falls down in the gutter, he won’t hurt himself because it’s such a short drop. How much damage could you do from seven inches up? It’s not like he’s jumping off of Tower One. Talk about a win-win.

  DECEMBER 5

  Dear Diary:

  I’m starting to put together my Christmas shopping list, which is not an easy thing. I have so many different types of people to shop for: family, friends (close, not so close and people I’ve been stuck with either by death, divorce or court order), A-list celebrities I know, A-list celebrities I’d like to know, publicists of A-list celebrities I’d like to know, network executives and their wives, mistresses and “pool boys,” and anyone who has access to my medical records, financial statements or sex tapes. That’s some list and it doesn’t even include the people I hate.

  I’m not a good gift-giver. Actually I’m not a gift-giver at all. Frankly, Scarlett, I don’t give a fuck. I hate spending a nickel on anyone but me. Yeah, yeah, Christmas may be Jesus’s birthday, but the party invitation Mary sent to me must’ve blown off the porch.

  I have found that by not giving gifts, there are certain phrases you’re guaranteed to never hear coming from my lips on Christmas Day:

  “I saw this at Goodwill and just had to get it for you. Cost, schmost, I just want you to be happy!”

  “Open it, I love it when you manage to get your face to move with joy.”

  “Hey, that’s what friends are for. Wheel up here and give me a hug!”

  “No restaurant! Everyone to my house; I’ve been cooking Grandma’s cat recipe all day for you guys.”

  “Of course you can bring the kids. Who doesn’t like children for dessert?”

  Here are holiday phrases you do hear at my house:

  To my assistant: “Stop staring at me, asshole. Grab a needle and start picking out that monogram. Re-gifting starts now.”

  To my maid: “For the last time, dunce-face, put the iron on medium; otherwise you can’t get the creases out and I can’t reuse wrapping paper or it will look like your thighs.”

  “Don’t open the door, Cooper! Just tell the doorman to leave it in the lobby, otherwise I’ll have to give him a big Christmas tip and pretend to care that he’s working, while his children, Juan, Juanette, Juanacita and Juanita, are sitting around their plastic manger, missing Papa.”

  “Here comes the Christmas special Meals on Wheels truck again. Get in bed quick, Melissa; they’re starting to get suspicious.”

  DECEMBER 6

  Dear Diary:

  I’m sitting on a plane to Houston, traveling to do yet another benefit for Rodeo Clowns Without Partners, and I just had a brilliant idea for holiday shopping: SkyMall, the catalog that comes in the back of the airplane seats. They have great stuff, something for everyone, from hammocks to Crock-Pots to stereos to dildos. I’ll bet I could even find something for Sienna Miller—which isn’t easy; what do you buy for the woman who’s had everyone?

  DECEMBER 7

  Dear Diary:

  December 7, 1941—a date which will live in infamy.

  —FRANKLIN DELANO ROOSEVELT

  I’ve never been sure if FDR said that because that morning the Japanese attacked Pearl Harbor or because that afternoon he walked in on Eleanor up to her elbows in her cleaning lady. I’d prefer to think he was referring to Pearl Harbor. It’s a less upsetting visual.

  Going to D.C. tonight for some fancy-schmancy political dinner at the Four Seasons. I have always loved politics and have always been very active, going back to the Boston Tea Party. When all the Bostonians threw tea into the harbor, guess who brought the sugar?

  DECEMBER 8

  Dear Diary:

  The dinner party in D.C. was fine and I think I looked great. I wanted to look like a woman familiar with politics and the politicians, so I dressed like a Beltway hooker. I was seated between two senators, and God were they stupid! I asked one how he thought we could get out of Iraq. He said, “Do what I do. Just leave some money on the bureau and sneak out while they’re sleeping.” I realized then and there that intelligence to a senator is like heterosexuality to RuPaul: impossible.

  DECEMBER 9

  Dear Diary:

  I’m back in L.A. for a meeting with the Muppet people. I’m doing a QVC promo with Miss Piggy. I love Miss Piggy; she’s worth a billion dollars! Pretty good deal for a fake pig with a hand up her ass.

  DECEMBER 10

  Dear Diary:

  I went holiday shopping on Rodeo Drive today and thought I’d stop in at the Olive Garden for a quick bite. There was a big fat guy on line with his equally porcine wife right in front of me. I walked up to the hostess to ask her how long the wait would be. Suddenly, he yelled, “Hey, we’re all waiting, here, sister. Don’t u
se that celebrity thing to cut the line.” I was shocked. I never ever ever use the “celebrity thing” unless it’s an absolute emergency such as being late for a mani-pedi. I tried to explain to him that I was simply asking the hostess a question, but he turned away, so I said to her, loud enough for Colossus to hear, “Is there any chance I could be seated right now? I’m a celebrity and if I have to wait for my table until after Tubby McShit is seated and has ordered, I’m afraid your Bottomless Pasta Bowl will have to change its name.” She said, “Of course, Miss Rivers, right this way.” As I was walking past Mr. Oink, I said, “Don’t worry, Pork Rib, there will be plenty left for you; I won’t be ordering the slop.”

  DECEMBER 11

  Dear Diary:

  I’m exhausted. It’s the holiday season and I’m totally into the spirit. I spent the entire morning working with Melissa on a charity drive in Beverly Hills. And I am so proud to say Melissa and I alone collected over a thousand pounds of caviar for the needy in Palm Beach. And although some people say that our fund-raising was a bit hypocritical, we also threw a terrific cocktail party to raise funds for the Betty Ford Center. Below is a list of little-known charities that deserve national recognition:

  Charity for terminally ill gay children: the Make a Swish Foundation.

  Charity for children with chronic diarrhea: Toys for Trots (which is an offshoot of the charity for underprivileged Hindu children, Toys for Dots, and the ones for rich society brats, Toys for Snots).