I Hate Everyone...Starting With Me (16 page)

That’s it. He didn’t do any sightseeing, no shopping, no touristy stuff at all; he didn’t even try to lie out and pick up a tan. He just came home. The man had the one vacation the whole fucking year; he drove eight million light-years to get to there and didn’t so much as have a cup of coffee, check into a hotel or buy a T-shirt. What kind of behavior is that? That’s not a hero, that’s a horse’s ass.

And not for nothing, he got the whole fucking vacation for free.

Paul was the “cute” Beatle, but in all honesty, that wasn’t really much of a horse race, now was it? Being the cutest member of the Beatles is like being the smartest person in Sarah Palin’s house—not a huge accomplishment. Compared to John, George and Ringo,
I
could be the cutest Beatle, and I can’t sing or dance or play an instrument.

But it’s Paul’s taste in women I find so stunning. He’s the richest, most famous rock star in the entire world, and he was married first to a tone-deaf mousy woman who could’ve been his sister, and then to Peg Leg Pete who tried to fleece him for all he was worth.

Mick Jagger looks like an extra from the Planet of the Apes and he has beautiful women hanging all over him. Billy Joel and Keith Richards? Not exactly magazine covers, yet they always have gorgeous girlfriends. Even Elton John has a pretty wife. Okay, her name is David, but still… you get my point.

I do feel bad for Paul that the second wife, the one-legged one, Heather Mills, turned out to be so rotten. He made her rich and famous and he even wrote special songs for her, like “I Saw Her Leaning There,” “I Want to Hold Your Stump,” and my favorite, “Eleanor Rigby (Leaves Her Leg in a Jar That She Keeps by the Door).” And what does she give him, in return? A kick in the ass and a trillion-dollar alimony bill, that’s what.

Paul just got married again. This one’s a Jewish biped. Let’s hope it’s third time lucky and we can all just let it be.

Not to knock his accomplishments, but the worst carpenter ever until Richard Carpenter, who just sat at the piano smiling while his sister drummed and sang and threw up.

Everyone carries on like Jesus was the Second Coming, but let me tell you, he had flaws.

For example, in high school Jesus didn’t apply himself at all. If he had, he might’ve gone to college, and instead of being a carpenter he might’ve owned a lumber company. Or at least been silent partner in a drywall business.

And did you ever see anything he built? No. In the history of the world is there one chair or bookcase or credenza that says “Built in Bethlehem”? No.

Finally: He couldn’t pull himself off a cross. What kind of a carpenter can’t pull himself off a cross? He didn’t have a tool belt? How about carrying a hammer? Boom, boom, you pull the nails out, you clean up a little, you’re at Red Lobster by eight. Eight thirty if there’s desert traffic.

I hate traveling and I think it goes all the way back to when I was a little girl. I hated traveling on horses. There I was, in my pretty little bonnet, riding through town, just me and my pa, having a perfectly nice day and all of a sudden the tail goes up on the horse in front of me. Party’s over!

The only, and I mean
only
, good thing about horses is that they can poop while they walk—they are so lucky. I think about that all the time when I’m at a sale at Gucci.

I hate being on the road; quite frankly, at this point in my life I hate leaving the house altogether. If this book is a success, I may never go outside and see the light of day again. A few years from now local authorities
will answer a smell complaint from my co-op board and find me, partially decomposed in a Valentino dress, under a pile of newspapers, rotting away like a housecat in an episode of
Hoarders
. And all of my neighbors will say, “Who knew Joan was such a homebody?”

I’ve been on the road for my entire life. I remember the day I told my father that I wanted to be a comedian; he was so wonderful and supportive. We were sitting in the living room and he put his hands on my shoulders, looked me in the eye and said, “Joan, get the fuck out.” Since then it’s been hotels and motels and inns and condos and planes and trains and buses and camels. (I once played a Giggle Factory in Cairo. Talk about kill or be killed.)

Life on the road is not as glamorous as you would think. Oh sure, there’s the occasional chiropodist from Ohio who can help turn a Red Roof Inn into a Bunny Ranch, but otherwise life on the road is hell. Remember when Willie Nelson sang, “On the Road Again”? Did you know the record company made him change the original lyrics? What Willie actually wrote was, “On the road, again, oh Christ I can’t believe I’m on the road again.” Even he hated it and he was stoned all the time.

I hate flying.
Flying used to be so much fun. I remember the first flight I ever took; I was about sixteen and I got on the plane and said to the pilot, “Orville, I hope you and Wilbur make this a smooth flight.” And he said, “Fuck off, prissy bitch.” Ahh, memories.

I hate stewardesses who insist on being called
flight attendants
. It’s soooo pretentious, what’s the point? You’re doing the exact same job as before so what does it matter what I call you? The same woman has been working as my proctologist’s assistant for twenty years. She’s always been known as a proctologist’s assistant. Not once in all that time has she ever said to me, “Joan, from now on I insist on being referred to as a doody handler.” What was wrong with “stewardess,” anyway? It’s the female version of “steward.” I hate women who say, “steward
ess
is pejorative. It implies we’re less than men.” You know who I’ve never heard make that complaint? Count
esses
. They seem just fine with it. I say, as long as the castle, the land, the servants and the jewels are in my name, you can call me Cuntess for all I care.

I hate preflight announcements.
The first thing flight attendants say is that their main priority is safety. “Hi, I’m Missy from your Minneapolis-based flight crew and before we push back from the gate, please remember, our primary purpose is to keep you safe.” Wrong!!! Your primary purpose is to keep me happy. The pilot will keep me safe. Your first responsibility is to tell those
whiny brats in row seven to stop kicking and shut the fuck up or I’m going to call Casey Anthony. Your secondary purpose is fresh-brewed decaf and third on your priority list is making sure that the in-flight movie isn’t
Alive.
“Safety” is not really part of your job. Sorry, Missy, but I just don’t think you and your perkiness are going to be much help in a plunging jumbo jet.

I hate when flight attendants try to be funny with their announcements.
Until you can do forty-five minutes on a Friday for three thousand drunken carpet salesmen in Vegas, leave the comedy to me. I won’t try to explain how to exit a burning fuselage and you don’t try to make the Asian high rollers laugh by walking down the aisle and saying, “Hey, srant-eyes, where you flom?”

I hate
old
flight attendants.
They can be very cranky and sour. You enter the plane from the Jetway and there to greet you is Nettie from Kitty Hawk. She has so many “years of service” wings pinned to her blouse her boobs could take off by themselves.

Old flight attendants break down. Oxygen masks drop down every fifteen minutes—for her, so she has the strength to get from business class all the way to coach. She comes down the aisle with her cart, which in her case is really just a walker with snacks, and says, “Coffee, tea… Maalox?” I asked her, “What time do we land?” She replied, “Daddy likes soup.” My opinion? If you trained with Icarus you shouldn’t still be serving coffee in coach.

I hate it when my flight arrives early and there is no gate available at the airport.
It completely defeats the idea of being early. “Good news from the cockpit, ladies and gentlemen: We’re going to arrive forty minutes ahead of schedule. Unfortunately there’s no gate available so we’re going to be sitting on the tarmac until mid-October.” Why is there no gate available? Did the airline not know we were coming? Did we just drop out of the sky and surprise them? When a baby is born prematurely does the doctor come in and say, “Good news, the baby is fine. Unfortunately we don’t have any incubators available so we’re going to leave her in the lobby near the soda machine for a while”?

I hate airlines that make you pay extra for everything.
(Which is pretty much all of them except for Southwest. On Southwest the amenities are free but you have to pay for their pilots’ rehab stints at Betty Ford.)

Some airlines charge six bucks for a blanket. And they’re not even blankets; they’re bibs that got out of hand. They’re barely big enough to keep one tiny part of your body a little bit warm, maybe your hands or your feet or, if you’re Asian, your junk.

I hate paying baggage fees.
Paying an airline extra to carry your baggage is insane. It’s like to going to a restaurant and having to pay extra for the plates. If you say “no” what are they going to do, dump piles of food in your lap? The airlines should be thrilled we have luggage, because you know who travels with no luggage? Terrorists and shoe bombers, that’s who. If I have luggage with me you know you’re safe—no way am I going to blow up a five thousand dollar Louis Vuitton ValPak.

I hate what now passes for food and snacks on planes.
What’s with the blue potato chips? The only things on the plane that should be blue are the uniforms, the pilot’s balls and the veins on the old flight attendant’s legs. In the old days they’d put a tablecloth on your tray and you’d have your choice of
steak or chicken or fish. It was like a bar mitzvah without the complaining. Now they
sell
you boxes of crackers and slices of apples that looked like they were picked in the Garden of Eden.

The only thing I hate more than some morbidly obese slob waddling down the aisle looking for his seat
is trying to look busy so I don’t have to make eye contact with him while praying that the seat he’s looking for isn’t next to mine—and if it is, I encourage him to rethink sitting there by saying something like, “Do you know how to change a colostomy bag?”

I hate flying with Alec Baldwin.
He’s a good actor and a funny man, but honestly, unless the electronic device you’re fiddling around with is a pacemaker or a porn app, then turn the fucking thing off. Scrabble can wait until you land.

I hate people who whine about airport security.
Not only does the added security not bother me, I actually like it. And not because it makes me feel safe, but because it makes me feel moist. I can’t wait for the TSA agents at the airport to pat me down. It’s like sex without the apologies. I can’t get patted down often enough. I’m at the age where they’re the only ones who want to touch me and that’s only because they have to. You know how most people take off their shoes when going through the scanner? I take off my dress. I’m at
the point where I demand a cavity search just to get on a crosstown bus.