Authors: Joan Rivers
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This book is an original publication of The Berkley Publishing Group.
I HATE EVERYONE… STARTING WITH ME
Copyright © 2012 by CCF Productions, Inc.
All interior photographs are provided courtesy of Joan Rivers unless otherwise indicated.
Joan Live in Las Vegas
(page 35) photo courtesy of Las Vegas News Bureau.
(page 163) photo courtesy of the Everett Collection.
Wizard of Oz
(page 209) photo and makeup by Mark Sanchez.
Joan on the Bar
(page 225) photo courtesy of Patrick McMullan.
Interior text design by Pauline Neuwirth.
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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
I hate everyone…starting with me / Joan Rivers.
1. Misanthropy—Humor. I. Title.
PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA
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The suits at Penguin have asked/suggested/demanded that I point out to everyone (especially litigious crackpots and humorless celebrities) that I’m a comedian and this is a humor book and if you’re too dumb/stupid/feebleminded to figure that out, then that’s
Why they asked/suggested/demanded that I do this, I don’t know; nothing in this book is actionable because (like politicians, clergymen and Mel Gibson) every word of it was spoken to me directly by God.
FYI: God called collect. What a cheapo.
The Son of Sam, David Berkowitz.
O.J. Simpson, who deserves another chance.
Maybe the lippy ex-wife had it coming.
I’ll bet you thought I was going to dedicate this to Melissa and Cooper. Well, you thought wrong.
I hate authors who thank, honor or acknowledge everyone they’ve ever met for “helping me, in some big or small way, to travel on this journey I call life, and have made me the person—and author—I am today.”
Fuck them! Since the day my mother bought me at the auction, I’ve had nobody to thank or acknowledge. And if anyone says I do, I especially hate them.
I HATE EVERYONE…
How do I love thee? Let me count the ways.
—ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING, 1850
How do I hate thee?
How much time do you have?
—JOAN RIVERS, TODAY, ABOUT TWO-ISH
Love may be a many-splendored thing, but hate makes the world go round. If you think I’m kidding, just watch the six o’clock news. The first twenty-nine minutes are all about dictators and murderers and terrorists and maniacs and, worst of all,
And then, at the very end of the show, there’s a thirty second human-interest story about some schmuck who married his cat. I rest my case.
Some things I’ve hated forever, some are new acquisitions and some are just passing fancies. Today I hate: happy TV weathermen, feminists who believe Gloria Steinem’s great looks hurt her, Gloria Steinem herself, people who mispronounce the word
, studio apartments, guidance counselors, first ladies, old people. So if any of this offends you, or you happen to love puppies and kittens and the infirm… well… I’m impressed. I hate you, but I’m impressed…
I know what you’re thinking: “Joan, hate is a very strong word.” You’re right, it is, but I use it as an umbrella term, the way mental-health professionals use the word
as a catchall for any particular brand of crazy they can’t identify. So when I say
, I don’t necessarily mean
. I could also mean loathe, detest, abhor, dislike, despise or resent. See, isn’t that kinder and gentler? If you think this makes you a better person than I am, good. You’re the idiot that actually paid for this book.
For those of you thinking,
Geez, Joan seems a little angry
, you’re half right. I am angry. I’m also fed up. I’m fed up with the morons and losers and cretins who are cluttering up the planet. Emma Lazarus wrote, “Give me your tired, your poor, your huddled masses yearning to breathe free.” I didn’t know she meant on my block. But being fed up and angry is better than being depressed. Psychologists tell us that depression is just anger turned inward, but I say, why waste your time? It is what it is and quite frankly I’d rather be angry than depressed. Why? Because antidepressants like Prozac, Wellbutrin and Zoloft can cause bloating—and I hate bloating!!! (I need to go back and add
to the list of things I hate. Is there anything worse than not being able to fit into a size two Valentino? I think not. Talk about depressing.)
I’m tired of people saying to me, “Joan, could you please try to be nice to Harry? He’s depressed.” No! Why should I have to work like a pack animal trying to be nice to Harry because that asshole’s having a bad day?
Depression is a buzz kill for everyone involved except, of course, for the person who is actually depressed. That moody sourpuss gets all the attention, which only feeds their narcissism. I believe the great Russian Italian Greek Polish… philosopher Descartes said it best when he said, “I whine, therefore, I am.” (Ah, he was Jewish.) But who really cares what Descartes said? You know where Descartes is today? Dead. So much for honesty being the best policy.
Before I move on, can I just say, I hate the French. (Note to self: Please put this on the list.) Why? Because those morons
think Jerry Lewis is fabulous, that’s why.
For the few of you who are still reading this, I’ll tell you what else I hate. I hate it when people say, “Let’s invite Jane to the party. She’s going through a difficult time.” I say, “Fuck Jane. I’m paying top dollar for a caterer. Let Jane slash her wrists in
house.” Introverted, depressed people suck the life out of a good party; angry, hateful people liven things up. You give me one person who is still angry the Third Reich was toppled, and I’ll give you a great dinner party.
Did you ever walk into an amazing party, and you’re strolling around, going from room to room, making small talk and slipping the nice serving spoons into your purse, when all of a sudden you run into a sweaty, angry guy in the library who looks like the Unabomber with better fashion sense? You know, the kind of guy who tells you that he doesn’t care if the glass is half full or half empty, he only hopes it’s broken and
that Kenny G drinks from it and cuts his lips off and ruins his career.
a good guest and he’ll make it a great party.
Being with haters is much more entertaining than being with depressives, because haters are always,
willing to make a scene, God love them. And they’ll make it anytime and anywhere: church, synagogue, Walmart—doesn’t matter; they don’t give a shit.
are my kind of people.
Maybe this attitude can be attributed to my childhood. When I was a kid, making a scene was the worst, most egregiously horrible thing I could do. My parents hated that. If I had clubbed my grandmother to death like a baby seal with her walker, all my mother would have said was, “Joan! The neighbors can hear. Stop it. Don’t make a scene!”
Watching a guest make a scene at a party is more fun than watching a blind man at a mime show. Everything at the party is going swimmingly—the piano player is noodling a Gershwin medley, martini glasses are clinking, people are chatting and then—
—from out of nowhere, for no apparent reason, and in less time than it takes Aretha Franklin to knock off a cheesecake, the guest goes from “Hello, hello,” to shouting across the room at the hostess, “You’re nothing more than a murdering, moneygrubbing whore, Mother!” I dare you to tell me that’s not worth the price of a lovely, handwritten thank-you note?