I Hate Everyone...Starting With Me (10 page)

Never buy gifts on sale. The late Dinah Shore used to do this and it ruined her reputation. She spent years building up her street cred by schtupping Burt Reynolds but threw it all away buying cheap schlock and trying to pass it off as high-end. Dinah would buy some crappy piece of dreck then put it in a Saks bag and give it as a gift. She did it to me once and I said, “Dinah, Saks doesn’t sell toaster ovens!” I don’t mean to trash Dinah Shore, but she’s dead; she can’t sue me, so fuck her.

I never bring a gift to party. I sneak into the hostess’s bedroom and add my name to cards.

The worst gifts of all time were bought by the three wise men: frankincense, gold and myrrh. Frankincense is just a candle and not even the good kind like they sell on QVC. Gold is okay but make sure it’s real gold. If I bite it and its chocolate I’m not going to be happy. And myrrh is an anal lubricant. Which makes perfect sense… three men, all alone in the desert.

I hate people who go to the movies and act like they’re watching Netflix in their den.
(And FYI, I say “den” and not family room because the only room the entire family should ever be in together is the lobby in Gutterman’s chapel after an unexpected yet thrilling death of a rich, semi-loved one.) Here are some basic movie theater rules:

I hate road rage.
Road rage is all the rage, but it need not be that way. If people had basic car manners the world would be a much safer place; not nearly as interesting—be honest, you don’t get just a little moist thinking about a six-car pileup?—but safer.

I hate people who honk their horns incessantly for no apparent reason.
Traffic, slowpokes and the old lady looking through the steering wheel with her blinker on for two hundred miles create frustration, for sure. But none of them are reasons to hit the horn; they are reasons to hit the bottle. No, no, no, I’m not encouraging drinking and driving (I don’t want to
get those crazy lezzies in MADD angry at me), but honestly, if you’ve got a buzz on, the sound of the horn will give you a headache so you’ll be
less
inclined to beep.

I hate people who have sex in the backseat while I’m driving.
It’s not only rude; it’s exclusionary. Also, if you’re going to give a blow job in a car—swallow! You don’t want to ruin the fine Corinthian leather.
*

I hate people who decorate their cars.
I don’t want a bobblehead dog or a forlorn, bloody Jesus staring at me. Even worse, I don’t want to see pictures of your kids. Why do you have to have photos of Jimmy and Kenny taped to your dashboard? You saw them at breakfast a half hour ago; how much could you miss them? Even Jerry Sandusky doesn’t do that, and he really likes kids.

I love games you can play on road trips.
Here’s a good road game: If you’re driving in front of a motorcycle, slow down and throw coffee out your window directly into the motorcyclist’s face. His skid marks will go for miles. This is even more fun on a side street when you’re driving in front of a bicycle. You can take out the bike, the kid, a hydrant, a tree and, if you’re lucky, a cat.

Want some fun for the whole family? Push the dog
out the window and speed off and then place bets on how long Fido will chase the car before he collapses. Sounds cruel on paper, but trust me, this is a great, fun way to reunite a dysfunctional family.

And by the way,
I hate people who have a giant dog and let him hang his head out the window.
They think of it as fun for their bullmastiff. I think of it as nothing more than a bull’s-eye.

I hate people who don’t understand funeral etiquette.
A display of bad manners can really screw up a fun shiva or a merry wake.

For example, you should never ask the widow about the cause of death; you should know that before you show up at her door. However, if you hate the widow, then by all means bring it up. “Is it true they found Norman just like David Carradine, hanging naked from a shower rod, wearing a horse collar and butt plug?”

If the widow offers up the cause of death, then it’s perfectly acceptable to dive right into the conversation headfirst. “Jerry died of natural causes.” “How do you define ‘natural’? Were any livestock involved? Jerry was a cutter, no?”

I hate people who say, “At least he didn’t suffer.”
Maybe he did, you don’t know. For some people, a prolonged illness is considered suffering. For others, sitting through a Ben Stiller movie marathon is torture. One man’s pain is another man’s weakness. Don’t judge.

I hate when people use euphemisms,
such as “My Ralphie passed this morning.” No, he didn’t. He’s dead. He’s not passing anything. He can’t move, that’s the whole point, you idiot. He’s lying there like a big lump.

I hate boring funerals.
Funerals are so boring. I like to play games to liven things up, games like Who’s Next? I like to make it every tenth person; trust me, it’ll get you giggling and the hours will fly. Pull My Finger is another terrific picker-upper. Go right up to the widow and say it. Guaranteed to make you feel good, especially if her Herman died of gastritis.

Always make a joke when looking in the casket, and say it loud enough to be heard over the sobbing. Some good things to say are: “What’s that green shit stuck in his teeth?” or “Guess who’s got a boner?” And my favorite is, “Oops, that’s not Liza Minnelli. Wrong funeral, sorry!”

I hate people who smirk or make comments during the eulogy.
Rolling your eyes should be more than enough.

I hate people who don’t know how long to stay at a condolence call.
Five minutes is too short. That says either you didn’t really care about the deceased or the family or you have something more important to do. (This is especially rude if you’re carrying a bowling ball or fishing tackle.) Rule number one: The amount of time you spend paying respects is
directly proportionate to the amount of money you’ve been left in the will. If it’s more than six figures, bring a cot to the chapel and move the fuck in.

Seating at a funeral is important. The front rows are usually reserved for family and lifelong friends. However, if you’re like me and you dressed up, took a cab and canceled a pedicure, then you want to be seen. Look, I know little Susie is missing Daddy, but I’m in Valentino, so let’s get our priorities straight. She’ll miss him forever but this dress will be out of style by September.… I’m sitting up front. And FYI, a quick fashion note: Just because wearing black is no longer a requirement at funerals, you should still try to look decent. You should never, ever wear flip-flops, capri pants or a T-shirt that reads:
LET GO OF MY EARS, I KNOW WHAT I’M DOING
.

Which brings up the next thing: No hugging or touching. I hate widows, especially the sloppy kind. We all liked Bernie, but I don’t want mucus on my mink.

I hate people who bring flowers when the family has requested either no flowers or “in lieu of…”
The most appropriate gift is a donation to the person’s favorite charity, or their alma mater, or the Bunny Ranch if that’s where he spent most of his free time.

And finally, it is always good manners to send a note or card offering condolences. Amy Vanderbilt sent out 237 individual suicide notes. All in calligraphy. I’ll say it again: a lady till the end.

I’m a widow.

The more recent, the better. Here’s how it goes…

You: “I’m sorry I sat on your priceless Ming vase. I’m a widow.”

Host: “Oh, how terrible, when did your husband die?”

You: (pause, look at watch) “Three o’clock.”

Host: “And you’re
here
?”

You: “One has to push on; I couldn’t miss your party.”

I lost a child.

Is there anything worse than losing a child? Yes, losing two or three. Unless of course you’re the Octomom, in which case that would just be considered thinning the herd. This is an excuse you can only use under the direst of circumstances, i.e., you gave military secrets to an enemy or threw up on Oprah, or wore orange to a black-and-white ball.

I survived 9/11.

This is the perfect excuse for everyone. “I’m sorry I sideswiped your Mercedes. I survived 9/11.” You don’t have to have been in
the Towers, or even known anyone in the Towers. You don’t have to be a New Yorker or even an American. You could simply be someone who was alive that day and the excuse still holds water: The trauma of the day is still so intense that no one questions you.

The Holocaust.