Diary of a Mad Diva (8 page)

APRIL 25

Dear Diary:

I hate the autocorrect on my computer, phone and iPad. It’s humorless and doesn’t understand nuance; it’s the Jay Leno of apps. Today I was writing a pretty little poem called “I Hope You Die,” about all of the skinny bitches in Hollywood—okay, it was more of an homage to eating disorders—and I wrote that one starlet, who shall remain nameless (and FYI, it’s
not
Ashley Olsen) looked a little “AIDS-y.”

The autocorrect kept changing AIDS-y to “antsy” or “artsy.” This starlet doesn’t look nervous or creative; she looks like she has six T cells. I know what I meant; autocorrect doesn’t. So let’s lose that “tool,” shall we? I spent a hundred grand on a degree in linguistics; I don’t need a phone app telling me what to do with my colon.

Although in fairness, the autocorrect isn’t always wrong. Every time you type the name “Joan Rivers,” autocorrect changes it to “Insufferable Cunt.”

APRIL 26

Dear Diary:

Some day! Sat down on my sunny terrace to enjoy a nice latte and answer my hate mail, which has been piling up since last Valentine’s Day. (Good news is, my house is under consideration to be on
Hoarders.
) My neighbor Leah came over here hysterical because she found out her husband, Murray, has been cheating on her. I felt sorry for her, not because he was cheating but because she’s a dope;
everyone
knew he was cheating. Friends, coworkers, doormen knew, a blind passerby could figure it out in two seconds. But not Leah. I said to her sweetly, “Leah, you fucking moron, what kind of an asshole idiot are you? How did you not know? For openers, Murray has teeth marks on his dick and you wear a denture. Second, half the kids in the neighborhood have his nose. And third, when you go to a Yankees game and thirty thousand fans yell out, ‘Hi, Dad!’ aren’t you a little suspicious? And let’s not forget the time I got into a taxi and said to the driver, ‘Where can a girl get a little action in this town?’ and he took me to Murray’s office.”

I can’t stand stupid. Jennifer Aniston has dated, been cheated on and dumped by almost every man west of Phoenix and yet she’s always shocked when the shit hits the fan. And what about that psychotic bitch Mia Farrow? When she found out that Woody Allen was schtupping her daughter, Soon Yi, she said she was stunned. Never saw it coming. How is that possible? Not three days earlier Mia caught him jerking off to
Flower Drum Song
. He wore soy sauce as cologne. He’d go to the zoo and stare lovingly at the giant pandas, Ching Ching and Ling Ling.

APRIL 27

Dear Diary:

The dumb parade continues. I went to the bookstore to buy the Jewish version of
Fifty Shades of Grey
,
Thirty-Three Shades of Grey
(we always get a third off), and the guy at the Help Desk was helpless. I asked him if my favorite author, Ann Rule, had any new books coming out. I said, “True crime.” He said, “Is that the title?” I said, “No, the genre.” He stared. So I said, “Category,” and he went on the computer to look. I then asked him if they had Paul Anka’s new autobiography. He said, “Who’s the author?” I said, “Mark Twain.” He said, “Is it new?” I explained who Mark Twain was and he said, “Well, how should I know that? It was before my time.” I said, “The Stone Age is before my time, but I’ve heard of it.” He said, “Cool.”

APRIL 28

Dear Diary:

Damn, I was woken up today at 6:50 a.m., and it’s my day off. Why? Because the gardener, Jose, that adorable wetback who’s in this country illegally, thought that would be a good time for mowing and blowing. I don’t get it. Even John Travolta doesn’t start blowing until noon.

I love illegals, mainly because they can’t complain. Who are they going to complain to? Having illegals is as close to slavery as we can get in this country since Abe “Boy Did I Make a Mistake” Lincoln messed it up for all of us. Okay, fine, I agree: slavery was totally wrong for the African Americans, but why shelve a great program because it didn’t work for one group? Believe me, there are a lot of Kazakhstanis who would love a free trip to this country in accommodations similar to the Carnival Cruise ship,
The Commode of the Sea
. And when they land here they have a warm bed in a perfectly nice closet and three delicious meals of leftovers a day in exchange for twenty hours of labor. (Yes, twenty hours—it takes time to really brush down a vintage Chanel suede cape.)

APRIL 29

Dear Diary:

Thought for the day: Words of kindness are wildly overrated. Someone today in the Piggly Wiggly said, “Let this old lady go first. She looks like she’s fading.” Everyone moved and let me though and I thought, “Too easy, Jell-O heads. Kind words are cheap; if you want to be nice to me, pay for my fucking groceries.” You can tell me I’m a piece of human garbage, a complete waste of good skin, one of God’s worst efforts, and as long as your check clears, you and I are pals. I’m thinking of doing a needlepoint on this. I already have a pillow that says, “Don’t expect praise without envy until you are dead.” I keep it on the bed in my guest room, right next to the pillow that says, “Don’t sit on my face if you have dandruff.”

You know what they say: “Once you go Jew, there’s no other screw!”

MAY 1

Dear Diary:

Today is May Day and we’re supposed to celebrate it by dancing around a May Pole. I’ve never actually seen a May Pole, let alone people who danced around one. The closest thing like that I’ve ever seen was a group of soccer fans surrounding Victoria Beckham, marveling that she had the strength to stand up.

MAY 2

Dear Diary:

Saw Sally Field on TV tonight selling Boniva, the pill for osteoporosis. This is a commercial I not only wanted, but would have been so right for, as my bones snap so often people think I’m doing a commercial for peanut brittle. Sally says, “I’m too busy to take a pill every day, but with Boniva I only have to take one pill a month.” Too busy? Doing what? Pulling a baby out of a pit bull’s mouth? Sitting at the table with Israel and Palestine trying to negotiate peace? The woman makes one movie every nine years. Big Sal’s got nothing
but
time on her hands. When did she become so fucking busy? I—who am actually busy—took time off to figure out how long it takes me to take a pill
.
Two minutes, tops, including getting a glass of water. What has Sally Field got to do that’s so important besides making her daily call to her agent—collect—sobbing and begging for work? I think Sally should stop taking Boniva and just let her bones break. Then she could get an endorsement deal for Rice Krispies, pull in a
much
younger demo and inspire a new generation of fans who’ll like her, really, really like her. I should call Sally and tell her. But the bitch probably doesn’t have the time to pick up the phone.

MAY 3

Dear Diary:

I read a story in some rag today (the
New York Times
) about Chaz Bono, who is still talking about her sex change. Chaz says she “identifies as a man.” Excuse me, Chaz, you still have a vagina. Hold a mirror between your knees and point it up! I don’t care if she lopped off her tits with a Garden Weasel and has mats of hair plus a battleship tattoo on her chest; if she has a vagina, she’s still a woman. What if I decided to identify as a coffee table? Even if I have my legs polished and put a lamp on my head, technically, if I have a vagina, I’d still be a woman. And why give it up? When was the last time a man pulled out a chair for a coffee table? If you want to add a penis, fine, but if you’re any kind of an athlete, don’t give up your vagina. Figure it out! If you’re a runner, how fabulous is it to have a rainproof inside pocket? You can keep your hands free and still be able to have your phone, your mints and even a Kleenex, or if you’re Octomom, a nightstand, a skateboard and a Honda Accord to drive home from the meet in. Also, if you give up your vagina, think of all the pet names you can no longer use for it: Hooha, Vajayjay, Daddy’s Little Clam, Momma’s Twitchy Friend, Whisker Biscuit, South Mouth, and if you’re in the cast of
Duck Dynasty
—Uncle’s Best Girl.

MAY 4

Dear Diary:

I saw some old musical show on TV last night and I must confess, I
still
don’t get David Bowie. Since he first broke onto the scene in the ’70s, I’ve tried to figure him out but couldn’t. Even his gorgeous wife, Iman, crosses her eyes and makes faces behind his back. In the ’70s, I wanted people to think I was hip so I pretended to get him. I’d act like I knew what the fuck Ziggy Stardust was all about and only called him Bowie—cool people just called him Bowie. He was like the Bono or Cher of his day except he could actually sing, and even if he couldn’t he was a seminal influence on the music. You want a seminal influence? Talk to Madonna; she considers it a food group. I can’t figure out if David Bowie is straight, gay, bisexual, trisexual, quadrisexual or maybe just a Minotaur. Elton John, I got right from the get-go. He could sing, he could write, he could suck a dick. You always knew where he stood. Or knelt. And I still get Elton today, now that he’s a cutie-pie, rich old queen with a husband, a family, a castle and a bunch of wiglets. But Bowie, even with that stunning, bulimic African supermodel wife . . . not a clue.

MAY 5

Dear Diary:

My birthday is coming up next month and I think Melissa and Cooper are planning a big surprise party because they keep looking at me and then whispering to each other, “How much longer? When is it going to happen already? It’s time, I’m telling you, it’s time.”

I know they care about me and my quality of life because when I complained about having a bad hair day over the weekend, Melissa went to court to fight for my right to die.

MAY 6

Dear Diary:

I was watching some TV news magazine tonight and they did a story on prostitution that infuriated me. They were against it. In today’s tough economic climate, I find that unconscionable. Why would some self-righteous, Manolo-wearing “journalist” begrudge a gal for trying to pay the rent by giving hummers to tire salesmen in an alley behind a Dumpster? (1) Who’s she bothering? (2) In kneepads and mouthwash alone, she’s putting plenty of money back in the economy. (3) There are a lot of tire salesmen who won’t be so stressed out that they ruin their lives by turning to drink.

The report said prostitutes were nothing more than sad, lonely women who had bad sex with unattractive bald men in exchange for money, jewelry or rent. They sound exactly like housewives to me, except they don’t have to take care of his pasty, fat children from his first marriage to the woman who supported him when he went to college.

MAY 7

Dear Diary:

I saw the Broadway show
Annie
tonight. It was cheerful, and if there’s one thing I hate, it’s cheerful musicals. Bo-ring.
Annie
would have been a lot better if Miss Hannigan, the head of the orphanage, killed at least one of the ethnic kids, or Daddy Warbucks was brought up on child molestation charges.

MAY 8

Dear Diary:

Flew back to L.A. to film episodes of
Joan & Melissa: Joan Knows Best?
I love having a reality show. I feel like one of the Kardashian girls except I don’t have a sex tape or back hair.

Speaking of sex tapes . . . one of the story lines on
JKB
this season is that
I
made a parody sex tape with Ray J. The scene came out very funny and Ray J was great to work with—he’s really smart and very sweet. If Ray J and I ever really made a sex tape, we decided the possible names could be:

Dry Hard

On Golden Shower

I Am Curious (Brown)

Last Bingo in Paris

Pile-Driving Miss Daisy