by Joan Rivers
I hate new millionaires who are investing in art and have an original Marc Chagall hanging over the sofa—right next to a velvet Elvis and a painting of dogs playing poker. If the only taste you have is in your mouth then invest in something no one will see… like a late-night talk show on Fox.
I hate Hollywood’s lists: the A-list, the B-list and the D-list. The only list I like is Schindler’s List and that’s only because I’m sucking up to Steven Spielberg, aggressively looking for film work so I don’t have to break my ass writing another book.
I hate that all the stars in Hollywood smoke. It’s not smog, it’s Lindsay Lohan. I drove past MTV; there was a white cloud of smoke over the studio. I thought they were electing a pope.
I hate that everyone in Hollywood has a sex tape… except me. Maybe it’s time for me to do something groundbreaking: nana-porn. I’ll call it, I Am Curious (Why My Diaper Is Yellow).
I hate the actors who stay in New York instead of going to Hollywood because they are “artists” and don’t want to “compromise their craft.” Now the only “kraft” they have is the macaroni and cheese they eat for dinner six nights a week. “Theater actor” is an old English word that means “cater waiter.”
I hate gypsies, the itinerant Broadway dancers who’ve been twirling and plié-ing for thirty years and are still hopeful and eager and waiting for their big break, gosh darn it! The only break they’re going to get is their spine, when their flat feet and thick ankles collapse from standing on food-stamp lines since 1977.
I hate stage actors who take thirty-six curtain calls at the end of a play. I think actors who keep taking bows at the end of the play should have to stay in character. At the end of The Miracle Worker Helen Keller should walk off the stage and fall into the orchestra pit; at the end of Death of a Salesman Willy Loman should blow his head off in the lobby; and at the end of Cats the actors should have to lick themselves and cough up fur balls.
When I finish a play, I come out, bow and go back to my dressing room to have sex with a stagehand—assuming I can find a straight one. I don’t need the audience validation to make me feel complete; I need a quickie.
MY FAVORITE FAMOUS COUPLES
Woody and Soon Yi
Only in Appalachia would a father-daughter marriage be considered normal. And even then that’s only in the bad parts of Appalachia. Even cousin-fuckers have standards. What I think about is before Woody proposed to Soon Yi, did he ask himself for her hand in marriage?
Donny and Marie
Who am I to throw stones? Whatever it is, it’s working. He’s a little bit country, and she’s still a little bit postpartum.
Bonnie and Clyde
If not for the pilfering and the anger management issues, they might’ve been the perfect couple. However, Clyde sometimes had a little trouble getting his pistol to fire.
Napoleon and Josephine
Other than the fact that he liked to keep his hands to himself, they had a great sex life. Josephine’s safe word was “Waterloo.”
Diego Rivera and Frida Kahlo
They had art, they had passion, they had eyebrows… Thank God they didn’t have children. Rrr-uuffff!
Elvis and Priscilla Presley
To this day, every time I see Priscilla Presley all can I think is, “Those are the lips that sucked the cock of the King of Rock ’n’ Roll.” I hated seeing a young attractive person turn into such a bloated zombie. And what happened to Elvis was not so nice, either.
Elizabeth Taylor Hilton Wilding Todd Fisher Burton Burton Warner and Larry Fortensky
She had no choice but to marry Larry. She’d already married everyone else. What people don’t realize is that Liz spent most of her fortune on monogramming.
Bill Clinton and Monica Lewinsky
They’d still be together if she’d found a one-hour dry cleaner. She gave size twenty-eights hope for a future in the Oval Office… at least under the desk.
Scarlett O’Hara and Rhett Butler
He was unfaithful and nasty and she was a nag and a liar. They would have fit in very nicely with my family.
Laverne and Shirley
I’m not saying they were lesbians. I’m saying they should have been. “Schlemiel. Schlmazel. Muff divers, incorporated.”
Lucy and Desi
Everyone loved Lucy. Including Desi. He just loved coochie more.
Pierre and Marie Curie
They were truly the world’s first nuclear family. He married her because she had that certain glow. And they had a beautiful wedding, even if the photos were all in black and white.
Michael Jackson and Bubbles the Chimp
It didn’t work out between Michael and Bubbles because only Michael wanted children. Boy, oh boy, did he want children. Mostly boys.
Streisand and Redford in The Way We Were
Unless was he was suffering from a case of hysterical blindness, I still don’t buy it.
Heinz Adolf Hitler and His Tomato, Eva Braun
Eva: Dolf, mein pumpschky, where are we going on our honeymoon?
Adolf: To heaven, mein little wienerschnitzel baby.
Eva : What are we doing after the ceremony?
Adolf: Afterward the Goehrings are coming over with a can of gasoline and, man, are we going to get lit.
Eva: Oh, Adolf, I am so happy. If I died right here and now, I would die a happy woman.
Adolf: You know mein anti-Semitic minx, it’s funny that you should say that.
Heinz and His Tomato
They built an empire together. Now that’s romance.
PEOPLE
My uncle Leonard used to proudly tell everyone that he was a “people person.”
My uncle Leonard was a coroner.
I hate “people persons.” They have no sense of self-awareness. They think they’re peppy and fun and oodles of laughs and that everyone at the party is thrilled when they walk in the door grinning and chirping. In reality, everyone is trying to get out of the room as if there were mustard gas leaking through the vents. These people are not peppy and fun and oodles of laughs. They’re overbearing, obnoxious and energy-draining fucks.
I hate people who complain that “Joan says ‘fuck’ too much.” I say “them” a lot more than I say “fuck,” and they don’t complain about that. So fuck them.
“Can’t you just say ‘the f-word’ instead?” What are we, six? We’re speaking to each other in code now like parents talking about daddy’s drinking in front of junior? Fuck is one of the most commonly used words in the English language and that’s a fucking fact. People could be just as disturbed about the word “hemorrhoid” but they aren’t. You don’t see anyone calling it the “h-word.” As far as I’m concerned, people who call fuck the “f-word” are a-holes.
I hate people who describe dessert as “decadent.” Getting fingered by a nun is decadent. Chocolate simply tastes good.
I hate people who pronounce Hitler’s name “Ah-dolf” instead of “Ay-dolf.” That ruins the entire Holocaust experience for me.
I hate the counter workers at fast-food restaurants who use microphones to place orders with the kid working the French fry machine. For starters, pimply Pete is five feet away from you, not five miles. Secondly, you’re not introducing U2 at Wembley Stadium at a benefit for the hungry kids in Africa; you’re in a Wendy’s ordering onion rings for a fat caregiver named T’anisha.
I hate people who yell at the people who work at fast-food restaurants. If something goes wrong with an order they scream, “What are you, an idiot?” Of course he’s an idiot. He’s a forty-seven-year-old man making a dollar fifty an hour and wearing a paper hat. What are you yelling at him for? The guy works at a fast-food place. Acting like an idiot is part of his job description. The help-wanted ad for that job reads: “Must know how to act like an idiot. Mammals preferred.” And don’t make him cry by asking him how much a Quarter Pounder weighs.
I hate people who stand in front of me on a long line at Burger King and when they finally get to the
counter to order they have no idea what they want to order. Asshole, you’ve been standing there for twenty-five minutes with nothing to do but study the menu. Your head is emptier than Tony Bennett’s balls.
I hate people who bring a bottle of water into a job interview. If you need to be hydrated that badly you’re not going to get the job because no business wants to take on a health risk who becomes parched by having to answer simple questions like, “Where did you work before this?” or “How long have you been on Megan’s List?”
I hate those pretentious assholes who insist on being referred to as “doctor” even though they are only Ph.D.s. You want to be a doctor? Go to medical school. You’re not qualified to stick a finger up my ass just because you read Chaucer.
I hate people who say they’re “workaholics.” There is no such thing. Hitler put in a lot of hours. Would you call him a workaholic? People who work 24/7 are not “addicted” to work…they either hate their families or don’t have basic cable. My AA friends say that addicts are powerless over their addictions. I can see being unable to quit drinking or smoking or doing drugs. But working? I guarantee you that not one person in the world was ever found dead in a pool of vomit in an alley because they couldn’t stop spackling or putting up drywall.
I hate people who refer to their field of study as a discipline. You want discipline? Put a ball gag in your mouth and tell Mommy you’ve been naughty. Now shut up and do your homework before I have to spank you and send your wife a note telling her you’ve been a bad boy.
I hate people who don’t make eye contact when they talk—especially during sex in the missionary position. I mean what am I paying for here anyway? And I really hate people who make eye contact but only with one eye. I hate people who have a lazy eye, where one eye is reading the paper and the other is drifting around their head to take a look behind them. And I really, really hate people who have one glass eye and don’t tell you; they just leave it up to you to figure it out. This ruined my friendship with Sandy Duncan.
I hate women who feel compelled to have vaginal reconstructive surgery “for their man.” Just because your lips are loose and your vagina’s become a small cabin, why should you have to slice and dice your moneymaker? I say: Let him get a bigger dick.
I hate that I’m the only woman in show business who wasn’t sexually abused by a father, uncle or neighbor. Roseanne, Janice Dickinson, Mackenzie Phillips, all of them were diddled by a relative, but not me. Why? What am I, a piece of shit? “Don’t you like my new perfume, Uncle Marvin? It’s by Fisher-Price. I have feelings, just none below the waist.” Maybe I wasn’t pretty enough or I wasn’t Daddy’s type.… Look, I don’t want to brag, but I can toss my hair to and fro, and really throw it down in a bedroom. His loss.
I hate giants. Why should I have to carry gauze and plasma in my purse because you keep banging your head on the doorway? Inordinately tall people are a huge pain in the ass. Just ask the twenty thousand women Wilt Chamberlain banged.
I hate people who think it’s cute to say to a giant, “How’s the weather up there?” I hope he says, “Raining,” and spits on them. Just because someone’s a genetic anomaly doesn’t give you the right make cruel, hurtful remarks to him or her. Unless they’re dwarves, in which case anything goes.
I hate people who use clichés and then smirk as though they’ve said something original, or as some of you may know them, cruise ship comics. There is no time or place for spewing out endless streams of trite, hackneyed, recycled verbiage. These people are as funny as a rubber crutch.
I hate people who like modern art. “Isn’t this white on white fabulous?” Dude, we’re in an art supply store. That’s just a blank canvas. “Maybe, but I still find it powerful.”
“Joan, what do you think the artist is trying to say?” He’s not trying to say anything; he is saying something. What he’s saying is, “I can’t believe some jackass is going to pay a million dollars for this piece of shit.”
I hate guests who expect you to take care of them at a dinner party. What would you like to drink? “Oh, anything you bring me will be fine.” Really? Okay, how about a glass of Wite-Out or a gallon of Sherwin-Williams latex house paint? Maybe a dusty coral or hunter green?
I hate men who try to pass off syphilis as jock itch. I know the difference; I’ve had both And no, Newt Gingrich, I’m not just singling you out.
I hate people who stick their gum under the bottom of their seat in movie theaters. Don’t they know that space is reserved for boogers and snot?
I hate people who think Jesus is perfect. The man came back from the dead; okay, impressive, even David Copperfield never pulled that one off. But why would a perfect man host a big dinner for his best friends and then only serve them bread? And would it have killed him to e-mail saying: I’m on my way? Nothing, not a word, he just shows up at the door. Additionally, his appalling lack of manners doesn’t speak very well of his father’s parenting skills. Let’s hope he gets such rudeness from his mother’s side of the family.
I hate lesbians who “appreciate” jokes instead of laughing at them. My timing isn’t based on your “appreciation.” I need you to laugh, butcherella, so yank your head out of that carpet sample and give it up. My sisters of Sappho friends also need to learn that every punch line doesn’t have to involve politics, animal rights or Melissa Etheridge. Also, a little fashion hint: When you’re going to be out in public, shave your legs and pits. This isn’t Europe, and the lumberjack look didn’t work for Paul Bunyan and it’s not going to work for you.
I hate fat ethnic girls who wear “LET’S GET NAKED” T-shirts six sizes too small. I don’t want to hear from you, let alone your clothing, and I reeeaaalllyyy don’t want to see you naked. Here’s a thought, Jenny from the block, how about a T-shirt that fits you right and says, “LET’S GET A JOB!” As you know, I have little sympathy for the blind, but I’d rather gouge my eyes out with a hot poker than look at porcine Paulina’s protruding pudenda.
I hate people who, in the course of conversation actually use the words “asbestos,” “beverage,” “ciao,” “shalom” or “hola.”
I hate people who try to sound smart by using words they don’t know. This is the height of superfluous vicissitude.
I hate people who fail at suicide attempts; talk about losers. If you can’t even kill yourself what good are you to the rest of us? If you’re so depressed that you really don’t want to be here, then try a surefire method of offing yourself. Jump under a train or hop off a bridge or date Sammy the Bull. None of this “Weeelllll, I took some pills” shit. I say man up and learn to pull the trigger with your toe.
I hate clueless housewives, and not just the ones in New York, Atlanta, New Jersey, Beverly Hills and Orange County. I mean the ones like John Wayne Gacy’s wife. When a dog sniffs a fire hydrant he knows everything about every dog that ever peed there. Yet Gacy had twenty boys buried in the crawl space under the house and Mrs. G. had no idea. She never noticed that boyish smell in the air ducts or the five hundred bags of lime in the pantry, right next to the Special K, or the collection of Boy Scout uniforms he had in his sock drawer. Clueless.
I hate psychiatrists who say, “Jack’s suicide attempt wasn’t real; it was just a cry for help.” If you want to hear a cry for help get an iPhone. Please don’t turn your need for attention into something I have to mop up in the bathroom. I don’t want to hear a cry for help; I want to hear a widow shrieking.
I hate state-fair people. I’ve never seen a fatter group of people in my life. Although maybe I shouldn’t say, “fatter group of people.” It’s pejorative. Perhaps I should go with “herd of humanity.” I was recently a judge at the Nevada state fair and I couldn’t tell the livestock from the customers. I mistakenly pinned the blue ribbon for best heifer on a fifty-two-year-old soccer mom from Carson City. She got so mad at me she actually left the salt lick long enough to throw a shoe and cough up a bale of hay.
I hate people who are happy for other people. It’s unnatural
, like polygamy or bestiality or cotton/poly blends. There are two kinds of people in this category: people who are genuinely happy for others, and people who pretend to be genuinely happy for others. People who are genuinely happy for others are usually Mormons or retards. People who pretend to be genuinely happy for others are usually agents or managers.
I hate the Holocaust survivor who can’t stop talking about how terrible it was that all she had to eat for an entire month was a piece of bread and yet she still managed to live. She was on the Dr. Mengele method. I’m so jealous of her. She got a free, full treatment and didn’t have to pay those outrageous spa fees.
I hate police officers who don’t recognize me when they pull me over. Let’s say I missed a stop sign or forgot to signal or ran over a toddler in a crosswalk. Hey, I’m sorry about that and I promise I’ll pay more attention next time, but the least the cop could do is recognize me and squeal, “Oh, my God, it’s Joan Rivers! Miss Rivers, would mind signing, here? Not the citation, my autograph book… And would it be okay if we scraped Timmy off your grille so you can get to your sold-out concert tonight? And I won’t even put any points on your license because Timmy is… I mean, was, a bratty kid.”
I hate narcissists. They never talk about me.
I hate people who don’t know how to milk a disease for all it’s worth. Everyone knows how to play the cancer card, but why not learn how to make the most out of lesser illnesses? Let’s say you don’t feel like going to your horrible niece Jennifer’s bat mitzvah because she’s a whiny sourpuss who likes to have sex with illegal immigrants. A well-publicized bout of irritable bowel syndrome should get you out of that charming family occasion. When they mail you the menu card that says, “Chicken or Fish,” just write, “Water and soda crackers. My flatulence is not under control.” And anorexia nervosa is a great excuse because nobody but nobody wants to be sitting near Skeletor when she collapses in a heap—ask Ashton Kutcher. And hives serves as a surefire excuse to not lend a hand because, not only are the welts horrific looking, you can make sure they know they’re contagious.