by Joan Rivers
Maryland: The Old Line State
Should be called
The Guess Why They’re Called Baltimorons State
or
The, Except for Courtney Love, Best Place to Catch Crabs State
or
The Francis Scott Key Wrote the National Anthem Here as Well as Its Little Known B-Side, “Baby Got Back” State
Massachusetts: The Bay State
Should be called
The Birthplace of Freedom and a Million Kennedys State
or
The Nobody Understands Our Fucking Accent State
or
The Paul Revere Yelled, “The British Are Coming” and Then Went to P-Town and Added “In My Mouth” State
Michigan: The Great Lakes State
Should be called
The Who Isn’t Unemployed? State
or
The Always Whining About Something State
or
The It Was Even Too Skanky for Madonna State
Minnesota: The North Star State
Should be called
The Land of 10,000 Lakes and 100,000 Hunting Accidents
or
The Cold as a Motherfucker State
or
Minnesota: The Much Better on Paper State
Mississippi: The Magnolia State
Should be called
The Stereotype Is Totally True State
or
The We Is Not Dumb State
or
The State That Got Held Back a Year
or
The Land of 500 Teeth
Missouri: The Show Me State
Should be called
The I Showed It to You—and My Case Comes Up Tuesday—State
or
The Keeping Kansas from Seeping into the Smarter States State
or
The It’s Still 1953 State
Montana: The Treasure State
Should be called
The Now with Basic Cable! State
or
The Almost Fully Lit State
or
The What’s the Point, Really? State
Nebraska: The Cornhusker State
Should be called
The Cheap, Unskilled Labor State
or
The Flatter Than Kate Moss’s Chest State
or
The Barely Worth Two Choices in this Chapter State
Nevada: The Silver State
Should be called
The Slots and Sluts State
or
The Land of the Losers
or
The Roy Got Eaten by a Tiger but Siegfried’s Still Okay State
New Hampshire: The Granite State
Should be called
The Live Free or Suck My Dick State
or
The Home of Husky Women State
or
A Little Slice of Stupid State
New Jersey: The Garden State
Should be called
The Where the Bodies Are Buried State
or
The Toll Booth State
or
The Stinkiest State in the Whole USA
New Mexico: The Land of Enchantment
Should be called
The Almost as Successful as New Coke State
or
Only Slightly Better Than the Real Mexico
or
The Abandoned Teepees and Cheap Turquoise State
New York: The Empire State
Should be called
The Crack Whore State
or
The More Jews Than Israel State
or
The We Finance All Those Red States State
North Carolina: The Tar Heel State
Should be called
The Could Somebody Explain What a Tar Heel Is? State
or
The First in Aviation, Last in Edgeecation State
or
The It Ain’t Inbreedin’ If They’re Livestock State
North Dakota: The Peace Garden State
Should be called
The Fetal Alcohol Syndrome State
or
The South Dakota of the North
or
Not Quite Canada
Ohio: The Buckeye State
Should be called
The Mistake on the Lake
or
The Rubber Capital of America If You Don’t Count Snooki’s Vagina State
Oaklahomer*: The Sooner State
Should be called
The Sooner I’m Out of Here the Better State
Oregon: The Beaver State
Should be called
The Should Be Nice, Once It’s Finished State
or
The Not Only Is Assisted Suicide Legal, We’ll Help You Write the Note—Especially If You’re from Alabama State
or
Whatever
Pennsylvania: The Keystone State
Should be called
The Our Football Coaches Put the Man in Boys State
or
The Our Two Biggest Cities Are Shitholes State
or
The QVC State
Rhode Island: The Ocean State
Should be called
The Less Square Miles Than Kirstie Alley’s Ass State
or
The Sadly, Size Matters State
South Carolina: The Palmetto State
Should be called
When North Carolina Just Isn’t Bigoted Enough State
or
The Still 100% Jew Free, Whoopee! State
or
Jesus’ Summer Home State
South Dakota: The Coyote State
Should be called
The It’s So Boring the Faces on Mount Rushmore Are Yawning State
or
The Census Bureau Guy Can Count Everybody on His Fingers State
Tennessee: The Volunteer State
Should be called
The Mississippi Without the Panache State
or
The Elvis Got Fat and Overdosed Here State
or
The Fat Mothers with Fat Daughters State
or
The Food Stamps Can Be Fun State
Texas: The Lone Star State
Should be called
The Last Person Involved with Books Was Lee Harvey Oswald State
or
The Proud to Be Stupid State
or
The TV Guide Is Considered a Book State
Utah: The Beehive State
Should be called
The Creepy Polygamous State
or
The Where Black People Are Just a Concept State
Vermont: The Green Mountain State
Should be called
The Where Pancakes Are Considered a Vegetable State
or
The No-Progress Since 1776 and Proud of It State
or
The We’re Really Just an Outlet Store State
or
The Birkenstock and Hairy Pits State
Virginia: The Old Dominion State
Should be called
The Even Our Skateboards Have Gun Racks State
or
The Congressional Mistresses State
or
The Half the State Is Up on Blocks State
Washington: The Evergreen State
Should be called
The Serial Killer State
or
The Body Dumpsite State
or
The I Can’t Believe It’s Fucking Raining Again State
West Virginia: The Mountain State
Should be called
The Low Birth Weight State
or
The Eyes Far Apart State
or
The Everybody Has Black Lung Disease So You Might as Well Smoke State
or
The Proud to Be #1 in Cockfighting State
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Wisconsin: The Badger State
Should be called
Where Everybody Cuts the Cheese State
or
The Land of Cheese, Beer and Brett Favre’s Meat
Wyoming: The Equality State
Should be called
The Brokeback State
or
The Totally Empty State
or
Why?
or
The Each Citizen Has His Own Senator State
And as for all my good friends in Washington, D.C., and Puerto Rico: You’re not states, so fuck off!
——————
*Even with the song I still can’t spell the fucker.
SCREW MOTHER NATURE…
I was adopted.
I hate Mother Nature and I don’t want to be one with her. I want to be one with room service, a complimentary breakfast and a massage from a good-looking Costa Rican boy named Hector whose concept of a happy ending should include both making an old woman happy and getting his green card at the same time.
I hate outdoorsy types. When someone says to me, “Karen’s an outdoorsy gal,” I take that to mean Karen’s a moron who sometimes finds herself weeping uncontrollably when she’s on her fourth wine cooler and a k.d. lang song comes on the radio. Or, as my mother used to say, Karen’s on the cusp of lesbianism but is afraid to commit to muff-diving and cargo pants.
I hate “rustic.”
Rus-tic (adjective)
1. Plain and simple
2. Of country lifestyle
You can’t spell “rustic” without the word “rust,” which is why “rustic furniture” is just furniture-salesman code for “stuff we found by the side of the highway.” Rustic furniture is almost as bad as “distressed” furniture, which is furniture-salesman code for “stuff we salvaged from a crack house.”
I hate camping. The human race has evolved for sixty billion years so we wouldn’t have to do things like sleep on the ground under a canvas tarp. Why would we want to do that now? Camping is almost as stupid as doing your own dentistry at home with a pair of pliers. Camping involves sleeping bags. If a bag has a body in it the body should be wearing a toe tag and there should be a certificate of death.
The only people who should live outdoors are Pygmies, the homeless, feral retards like Nell and women who stalk married men or live in the shrubs outside their boyfriends’ bedroom windows. If I want to sleep outdoors I’ll pass out behind a Dumpster like Nick Nolte.
Sleeping outdoors is not a natural state for humans. Why do you think the cavemen were called cavemen—because they had housing! Even way back when, before fire, the wheel and basic cable, the Cro-Magnon men had the common sense to seek shelter. They may have had hair on their tongues and dragged their knuckles, yet they knew enough to put a roof over their heads when they went night-night.
I hate all bugs. And don’t tell me about their importance in the food chain. Everyone says, “Oh, but there are good bugs like the praying mantis that eat mosquitoes and other bugs.” I hate displays of public prayer. Frankly, I find praying mantises pushy and offensive. And dollars to donuts, a good number of these praying mantises are born-again, evangelical mantises who hate the gay mantises, black mantises and Mexican mantises, which, as you know, are a huge part of my audience.
Of all the bugs, I hate flies the most. If God is so perfect and never makes mistakes then how does He explain flies? They’re nothing more than public nuisances, like preachers who claim they can “pray the gay away,” or Glenn Beck, or Flo from those Progressive Insurance commercials whose hairdo, by the way, tends to attract flies. Flies serve no purpose; they don’t do anything. They don’t make honey; they don’t help farmers by cross-pollinating crops; they don’t help the environment; they don’t even look nice. Have you ever seen a fly, up close and personal? Flies make the Elephant Man look attractive. They have gigantic, multifaceted eyes that are twice the size of their bodies. Getting a fly fitted for contacts is a nightmare. In fact, put a fly in a cocktail gown and it’s no longer an insect, it’s Anne Hathaway. (Although the fly would probably do a much better job hosting the Oscars. At least a fly would create some buzz.) What I hate most about flies is that they have no idea how to vacation. They were born with the gift of flight; they could go anywhere in the world they wanted. But where do they hang out? On shit. They’re like the Heidi and Spencer of the insect world.
I hate free-range chickens. Why should chickens walk free while thousands of political dissidents languish in prisons all over the world? If Nelson Mandela can handle twenty-seven years behind bars, Henny Penny can deal with being in a coop for a couple of months. I don’t give a shit if the chickens are enjoying the countryside, holding each other’s claws and singing, “You are the wind beneath my wings.” I don’t care if they lead healthy lifestyles and enjoy summer breezes by a babbling brook; I don’t care if the chickens of the world are happy. I care if they taste good with creamed spinach and potatoes.
I hate forest rangers. Maybe this is psychological baggage from my childhood because as a young, impressionable girl I was very confused by Smokey the Bear. On one hand I thought, This is great. Smokey is encouraging people to prevent forest fires. But then I thought, On the other hand aren’t bears dangerous, predatory carnivores? Why is Smokey talking to me in those TV commercials? Is he really crying at the thought of a forest fire, or is he just trying to get me into his van? As an adult I know that bears really aren’t friendly, harmless creatures who talk to people about preventing forest fires. Bears are husky, hairy gay men who wear leather chaps with the asses cut out.
I hate hiking. If we were supposed to hike the Lord wouldn’t have invented the taxicab. I never hike anywhere. Ever since I watched Julie Andrews drag all of those fucking kids across the alps in The Sound of Music, I said, “This is not for me.” The lederhosen, the backpacks, the schlepping… Yes, Julie was saving all of those von Trapps from the Nazis, but really? I’m not standing up for the Nazis here, but did you ever actually hear those von Trapp kids sing? Talk about a crime against humanity! Could a movie be any more syrupy? I got type 2 diabetes just from listening to the sound track. How do you solve a problem like Maria? Get her laid, obviously. Besides, they weren’t real Nazis, they were musical Nazis. In real life Himmler and his SS henchmen never burst into a shtetl in Vienna and began singing “Danke Schoen” in three-part harmony. I don’t care how good in bed Christopher Plummer is, I ain’t hiking to Switzerland. Honestly, I don’t know why people hike at all. If Satan called me and said, “Joan, if you give me your firstborn, I guarantee that for the rest of eternity you’ll be carried everywhere you go,” I’d say, “Lucifer! I love my daughter!!!… Can you throw in a toaster oven or a week in Cancun?”
I hate fishing, other than for compliments. The word “fish” is not supposed to be a verb; it’s an entrée. I’ll eat salmon, but I won’t wander into the river to catch one. Don’t get me wrong, I love seeing fish in their natural habitat… inside the lobster tank at The Palm. But I don’t need to know how fish are caught to enjoy my filet of sole for lunch, any more than I need to meet seven-year-old diamond miners in Africa to enjoy my new necklace.
And I hate those huge rubber wading boots you have to wear to go fishing. They go with nothing, including that straw game bag you’re supposed to put your fish in. The only way you’ll ever see me in a pair of those is if they’re a part of the new Jimmy Choo bladder control collection.
I hate people who “swim with the dolphins” because they saw Flipper when they were six and their lives have just never been the same ever since. Swimming with dolphins is a nightmare. One, they poop in the water. And two, sometimes they try to mate with us! Which wouldn’t be so bad if they’d call you the next day or send flowers. Having sex with a huge, wet, slimy mammal who’s got a functioning blowhole is a living hell. And if you don’t believe me, just ask Mrs. James Gandolfini.
I hate people who participate in extreme sports like skydiving, mountain c
limbing or dating Gary Busey. If you have to wear a helmet or sign a release form to do it, it’s not a sport. It’s a symptom of your sick need to pretend your meaningless life isn’t meaningless. I take lots of risks in my life: I was on Celebrity Apprentice, I’ve undergone plastic surgery 398 times and I routinely make fun of Kirstie Alley, who could kill me with one swipe of her paw. And speaking of laughing in the face of death, do you know I’ve flown Continental Airlines at least a hundred times? I don’t need to jump out of planes or scale mountains to put a little zest in my life. I can get that sort of thrill any time by walking the streets of New York without a Glock in my purse.
There are a million TV movies and documentaries about thrill seekers who feel the need to climb Mount Everest. I’m not one of those people. I’m the kind of people who needs to watch those TV specials, but only to see the climbers either freeze to death or plunge thousands of feet off a cliff. If I ever feel the need to climb a mile-high summit I’ll mount Kevin James.