Diary of a Mad Diva (12 page)

JUNE 25

Dear Diary:

Big tribute for Don Rickles tonight at the Waldorf-Astoria. It was run by the Friars Club, which is basically a gay bar without the good-looking men. It was a tribute, not a roast, which means either (a) the Friars couldn’t get a television deal to film the event, or (b) they were afraid the rich corporate pricks wouldn’t buy tickets because they didn’t want comedians to make fun of them in front of their underage, Argentinean girlfriends.

I had a great time and got lots of laughs. Don is a lovely man and it was nice to help honor him. He laughed so hard he nearly dried his pants. A lot of big stars were there, including Bobby De Niro. And I call him Bobby, in the same way I called John Wayne “Duke,” or in the same way I call Anderson Cooper “Liza.” Bobby’s a good sport, especially on the jokes about his penchant for women of color, but then again, he should be. He’s had more black asses on his face than the backseat of Rosa Parks’s bus.

JUNE 26

Dear Diary:

I was asked to do a benefit for some group—I’m not sure which, but I’m very into charity. It turns out this charity fights teenage pregnancy. Of course I said yes. I work in Hollywood; I see how unwanted pregnancies can mess up young women’s lives. They’re missing out on all the fun. Teenage girls shouldn’t be mothers; they should be drug addicts.

Jane Fonda is a leader in the battle against teenage pregnancy. I remember once Jane and I were having lunch (Vietnamese food of course), and she asked me what I thought was the best way for innocent teenage girls to not get pregnant. I said, “Lesbianism.” Jane got very upset and said, “Teenage girls shouldn’t even know about things like that yet.” I said, “Then what’s the best way for innocent teenage girls not to get pregnant?” She gave me that big, two-time Oscar-winner Fonda smile, and said, “Blow jobs.”

JUNE 27

Dear Diary:

I’ve been asked to appear in a taped segment on Israel’s number-one-rated television show. They want me to do a “top ten list” about why I love Israel. At first they wanted me to go to Israel in August and I said, “Perfect. There’s nothing like going to the desert in the middle of the summer.” But then they figured out it would be cheaper—leave it to my people—just to film it in New York in front of some slums and we could pretend I was on the border near Palestine. So I’m working on the list.

JUNE 28

Dear Diary:

In less time than it takes to say “Shalom,” Steve Levine has arranged pitch meetings for me in New York this summer with the top three TV networks in Israel: FEH, OYI and Vav Gimmel Vav.

JUNE 29

Dear Diary:

Here’s my top ten list:

Top Ten Things I Love About Israel

1. I love its blue and white flag. It matches my legs.
   
2. I love that they have (Prime Minister) Bibi and we have (Honey) Boo Boo.
   
3. I love that Israel is so much closer to the South African diamond mines than New York.
   
4. I love Israeli men—they’re tall, dark and hairy. Just like Persian women.
   
5. I love that Israelis, unlike New Yorkers, don’t eat corned beef and pastrami with butter.
   
6. I love that in Israel, “Dudu” is a nickname, not an excretion.
   
7. I love that Israel reminds me of Boca Raton—palm trees, white sand and old Jews.
   
8. I love that it’s not Egypt.
   
9. I love the Gaza Strip—it is my favorite drag name.
   
10. I love that the Dead Sea was named for my sex life.
    
11. I love that Israel has kosher McDonald’s. Instead of a Big Mac they have a Big Macher.
    
12. I love that Israel’s cows produce more milk than anyone in the world except Dolly Parton.
    
13. And most of all, I love that voice mail was invented in Israel. It said, “Leave a message. Or don’t. I’m only your mother, I’ll be dead by Tuesday, anyway.”
    

I know, I know, there are thirteen items on the list instead of ten, but since the Israeli network execs are Jews they’ll probably insist on taking something off.

JUNE 30

Dear Diary:

God, I’m on a plane, again! Melissa, Cooper and I are off to Mexico for a wedding and I almost didn’t make it as I needed to update my passport. My current passport photo is a cave drawing. I’m not sure why Americans even need passports to go to Mexico. Not only do 80 percent of the people from Mexico live in America now (most of them within six blocks of Melissa’s house), but I have yet to meet a customs agent who won’t accept a little kindne$$ from a stranger to get into their country. I could have a bazooka on my shoulder and my tits could be ticking, but if I have a couple of pe$o$ hanging out of my purse it’s “Buenos días, Señora Rivers!”

I hope by now you realize that this is a humor book and it’s not meant to be taken seriously. If not, you can’t return it because we’ve got your money and you’re halfway through. Plus I’m sure there are stains on it you’d probably rather not explain to the credit manager.

Can you pick which one has my original nose?

JULY 1

Dear Diary:

I have just arrived at a destination wedding in Mexico. Excuse me, I mean
Meheeco
.

One of the most annoying things about Americans is that, the minute they leave the mainland, they immediately try to speak the local language, as though they were indigenous to the region, like plants and bugs and fungi. For example, in Hawaii, Mrs. Ginsburg, the Jewish fan who I met in the hotel restaurant, greeted me with, “Alloooohhhhaaaaa, Hunkaluna—want a pastrami sandwich?” In Germany, a bespectacled accountant met me with, “Wilkommen to Deutschland, Fraulein Rosenberg. Oy, did I have a schmeck for lunch.” And in Australia a friend of mine left me in tears, speaking the click language. I don’t know what the fuck she said, except, “Click click click, Joanalah . . . Boomerang . . . Irving’s dead. Click click.” I didn’t know if she was talking to me or chewing gum.

I know a smattering of French, but when I’m in Paris I don’t try to act like the late General de Gaulle. For starters, my nose has been fixed and I don’t sleep with young girls.

Anyhow, back to Mexico. First of all, who plans a wedding in Mexico in July? Even the Mexicans don’t stay there; they tunnel into Arizona to cool off. Second of all, I resent when the bride and groom call it a “destination wedding” and I have to pay to get there. It should be called a “
two
destination wedding,” because long before I hit Mexico my first stop is to my bank. Between airfare, hotel and a gift, I figure this fancy-schmancy destination wedding is costing me fifteen grand to attend the nuptials of a couple whose marriage will probably last three weeks longer than my actual trip.

And, if I’m going to pay to go to a destination wedding, make it different. We’ve all seen Hawaii, we’ve all been to the Bahamas and we’ve all gone barefoot in the sands of Iwo Jima. I want it to be unique.
Join Fritz and Helga at their destination wedding in Auschwitz. You’ll laugh, you’ll learn, you’ll love!
This gives a whole new meaning to the term “bridal shower.” And the gift shop, believe me, is to die for.

Back to the destination wedding in Mexico. For starters the groom is half her age and rumor has it he signed the prenup in crayon. And he’s already cheating on her. My friend is smart enough that the prenup will only leave him $600, a used mink coat
*
and a couple of tins of Friskies.

JULY 2

Dear Diary:

Just got off the plane from my flight home from Meheeco and I’m tired and cranky. The wedding was horrible; the big attraction was hitting the piñata. There’s nothing worse than watching adults whack furiously at a donkey made out of crepe paper and then push, shove and elbow each other out of the way to get some candy. “Look, it’s a Jujube! Hey, after twenty swings and a crushed disc I got a Jujube.” One of the bridesmaids got into a catfight with the groom’s aunt over a piece of Laffy Taffy. Trust me, there wasn’t a Jew in the bunch. We only push, shove and elbow each other out of the way for diamonds and a 40 percent off sale at Bergdorf. Never mind candy, if Mexicans were smart they’d fill the piñata not with Snickers but with green cards. Believe me, Pedro would’ve broken it open on the first whack.

The best part of the trip home was that I got to sit next to Andrea Bocelli. The guy is blind as a bat and covered with taco stains. I started to strike up a conversation with him but since he wasn’t wearing dark glasses I didn’t know if I was boring him or he just didn’t know where to look. I asked him if he’d ever heard of Joan Rivers and he said, “I thought she was dead.” I was very hurt so I did little petty things to get back at him, such as when the stewardess brought the menu around I shoved it in his hands and said, “He’ll order for both of us.” I just kept making guttural, engine-stalling sounds as well as pointing out the sights off the left side of the plane. Finally I leaned over to him and whispered in his ear, “Please don’t say anything if you feel a little dampness; my strawberry douche is leaking. I was feeling a little yeasty yesterday.”

JULY 3

Dear Diary:

Tomorrow’s the Fourth of July, a day most people think of as a chance to celebrate the birth of our nation. I, however, think of it as a chance for Chinese kids to blow their fingers off with cheap fireworks.

I don’t understand explosives, per se. The only explosive I deal with is colitis, and the only people who celebrate that are the manufacturers of Charmin, Depends and Glade. If you really want to see fireworks, sneak into a staff meeting run by Katie Couric. The workers on Deepwater Horizon had a less explosive work environment.

JULY 4

Dear Diary:

I woke up half an hour ago and I realized just how lucky I am to have been born in the greatest country in the world (except for Malawi, where
everything
is always on sale, including the children). As I looked out of my window and saw the streets of New York below me, I realized that the people on those streets were below me, too. And not just because I’m on the fifth floor, but because in what other country could an eighty-year-old Jewish widow buy ices from an Italian pushcart operator, get a pedicure from a Vietnamese sex slave or take a ride in a taxi driven by a Haitian ex-con hiding out from the feds? I was so overcome with emotion I called my illegal Filipino housekeeper, Pingpong, up to my room to revel with me in my happiness before I yelled at her for making my latte too strong. (The ones from the big island never learn.) I’m one lucky woman. God bless America.

JULY 5

Dear Diary:

Seeing all those American flags flying from poles and car antennas and buildings and wheelchairs yesterday, one thought crossed my mind: I hate Tommy Hilfiger. The man’s made a fortune working with simple red, white and blue, but Betsy Ross, the
original
primary colors gal, got zilch, zippo, nada, the big zero. Not a fucking dime. Admittedly, she only got the flag assignment because she was banging George Washington (Martha was no looker), which makes her the Monica Lewinsky of her day. As the flag turned out to be a real winner, Betsy should have gotten something out of the deal—cash, jewelry, a time-share at Valley Forge, something. We’re still draping caskets with it today. Would it have killed George to toss her a colony or a compound or a slave?

JULY 6

Dear Diary:

Worked all day on jacket patterns for QVC with a new designer who claims to be straight. He kept showing me pictures of his kids and his wife, which he kept in his pocketbook in a Hello Kitty photo album. I’m tired of “straight” designers. Don’t spend all day drawing dresses and scarves and belts and then go home at night and pretend to be interested in the “little woman.” Any man who knows what a peplum is, is not straight. I don’t care how many wives or prop children he has, if the words “summer shift,” “open toe” or “cinch belt” come out of his mouth, you can bet the dick of another “straight” designer is going in it. I want my designers gay, I want my tailors straight, I want my dry cleaners Chinese and my gynecologist blind. I don’t need to be lying on an examining table and hear a doctor say, “Yucch.”