I Hate Everyone...Starting With Me (20 page)

Should be called

The Less Square Miles Than Kirstie Alley’s Ass State

or

The Sadly, Size Matters State

Should be called

When North Carolina Just Isn’t Bigoted Enough State

or

The Still 100% Jew Free, Whoopee! State

or

Jesus’ Summer Home State

Should be called

The It’s So Boring the Faces on Mount Rushmore Are Yawning State

or

The Census Bureau Guy Can Count Everybody on His Fingers State

Should be called

The Mississippi Without the Panache State

or

The Elvis Got Fat and Overdosed Here State

or

The Fat Mothers with Fat Daughters State

or

The Food Stamps Can Be Fun State

Should be called

The Last Person Involved with Books Was Lee Harvey Oswald State

or

The Proud to Be Stupid State

or

The
TV Guide
Is Considered a Book State

Should be called

The Creepy Polygamous State

or

The Where Black People Are Just a Concept State

Should be called

The Where Pancakes Are Considered a Vegetable State

or

The No-Progress Since 1776 and Proud of It State

or

The We’re Really Just an Outlet Store State

or

The Birkenstock and Hairy Pits State

Should be called

The Even Our Skateboards Have Gun Racks State

or

The Congressional Mistresses State

or

The Half the State Is Up on Blocks State

Should be called

The Serial Killer State

or

The Body Dumpsite State

or

The I Can’t Believe It’s Fucking Raining
Again
State

Should be called

The Low Birth Weight State

or

The Eyes Far Apart State

or

The Everybody Has Black Lung Disease So You Might as Well Smoke State

or

The Proud to Be #1 in Cockfighting State

Should be called

Where Everybody Cuts the Cheese State

or

The Land of Cheese, Beer and Brett Favre’s Meat

Should be called

The Brokeback State

or

The Totally Empty State

or

Why?

or

The Each Citizen Has His Own Senator State

And as for all my good friends in Washington, D.C., and Puerto Rico: You’re not states, so fuck off!

I hate Mother Nature
and I don’t want to be one with her. I want to be one with room service, a complimentary breakfast and a massage from a good-looking Costa Rican boy named Hector whose concept of a happy ending should include both making an old woman happy and getting his green card at the same time.

I hate outdoorsy types.
When someone says to me, “Karen’s an outdoorsy gal,” I take that to mean Karen’s a moron who sometimes finds herself weeping uncontrollably when she’s on her fourth wine cooler and a k.d. lang song comes on the radio. Or, as my mother used to say, Karen’s on the cusp of lesbianism but is afraid to commit to muff-diving and cargo pants.

I hate “rustic.”

Rus-tic (adjective)

You can’t spell “rustic” without the word “rust,” which is why “rustic furniture” is just furniture-salesman code for “stuff we found by the side of the highway.” Rustic furniture is almost as bad as “distressed” furniture, which is furniture-salesman code for “stuff we salvaged from a crack house.”

I hate camping.
The human race has evolved for sixty billion years so we wouldn’t have to do things like sleep on the ground under a canvas tarp. Why would we want to do that now? Camping is almost as stupid as doing your own dentistry at home with a pair of pliers. Camping involves sleeping bags. If a bag has a body in it the body should be wearing a toe tag and there should be a certificate of death.

The only people who should live outdoors are Pygmies, the homeless, feral retards like Nell and women who stalk married men or live in the shrubs outside their boyfriends’ bedroom windows. If I want to sleep outdoors I’ll pass out behind a Dumpster like Nick Nolte.

Sleeping outdoors is not a natural state for humans. Why do you think the cavemen were called
cave
men—because they had housing! Even way back when, before fire,
the wheel and basic cable, the Cro-Magnon men had the common sense to seek shelter. They may have had hair on their tongues and dragged their knuckles, yet they knew enough to put a roof over their heads when they went night-night.

I hate all bugs.
And don’t tell me about their importance in the food chain. Everyone says, “Oh, but there are good bugs like the praying mantis that eat mosquitoes and other bugs.” I hate displays of public prayer. Frankly, I find praying mantises pushy and offensive. And dollars to donuts, a good number of these praying mantises are born-again, evangelical mantises who hate the gay mantises, black mantises and Mexican mantises, which, as you know, are a huge part of my audience.

Of all the bugs, I hate flies the most.
If God is so perfect and never makes mistakes then how does He explain flies? They’re nothing more than public nuisances, like preachers who claim they can “pray the gay away,” or Glenn Beck, or Flo from those Progressive Insurance commercials whose hairdo, by the way, tends to attract flies. Flies serve no purpose; they don’t do anything. They don’t make honey; they don’t help farmers by cross-pollinating crops; they don’t help the environment; they don’t even look nice. Have you ever seen a fly, up close and personal? Flies make the Elephant Man look attractive. They have gigantic, multifaceted eyes that are twice the size of their bodies. Getting a fly
fitted for contacts is a nightmare. In fact, put a fly in a cocktail gown and it’s no longer an insect, it’s Anne Hathaway. (Although the fly would probably do a much better job hosting the Oscars. At least a fly would create some buzz.) What I hate most about flies is that they have no idea how to vacation. They were born with the gift of flight; they could go anywhere in the world they wanted. But where do they hang out? On shit. They’re like the Heidi and Spencer of the insect world.

I hate free-range chickens.
Why should chickens walk free while thousands of political dissidents languish in prisons all over the world? If Nelson Mandela can handle twenty-seven years behind bars, Henny Penny can deal with being in a coop for a couple of months. I don’t give a shit if the chickens are enjoying the countryside, holding each other’s claws and singing, “You are the wind beneath my wings.” I don’t care if they lead healthy lifestyles and enjoy summer breezes by a babbling brook; I don’t care if the chickens of the world are happy. I care if they taste good with creamed spinach and potatoes.

I hate forest rangers.
Maybe this is psychological baggage from my childhood because as a young, impressionable girl I was very confused by Smokey the Bear. On one hand I thought,
This is great. Smokey is encouraging people to prevent forest fires.
But then I thought,
On the other hand aren’t bears dangerous, predatory carnivores? Why is Smokey talking to me in those TV
commercials? Is he really crying at the thought of a forest fire, or is he just trying to get me into his van?
As an adult I know that bears really aren’t friendly, harmless creatures who talk to people about preventing forest fires. Bears are husky, hairy gay men who wear leather chaps with the asses cut out.

I hate hiking.
If we were supposed to hike the Lord wouldn’t have invented the taxicab. I never hike anywhere. Ever since I watched Julie Andrews drag all of those fucking kids across the alps in
The Sound of Music
, I said, “This is not for me.” The lederhosen, the backpacks, the schlepping… Yes, Julie was saving all of those von Trapps from the Nazis, but really? I’m not standing up for the Nazis here, but did you ever actually hear those von Trapp kids sing? Talk about a crime against humanity! Could a movie be any more syrupy? I got type 2 diabetes just from listening to the sound track. How do you solve a problem like Maria? Get her laid, obviously. Besides, they weren’t real Nazis, they were musical Nazis. In real life Himmler and his SS henchmen never burst into a shtetl in Vienna and began singing “Danke Schoen” in three-part harmony. I don’t care how good in bed Christopher Plummer is, I ain’t hiking to Switzerland. Honestly, I don’t know why people hike at all. If Satan called me and said, “Joan, if you give me your firstborn, I guarantee that for the rest of eternity you’ll be carried everywhere you go,” I’d say, “Lucifer! I love my daughter!!!… Can you throw in a toaster oven or a week in Cancun?”

I hate fishing, other than for compliments.
The word “fish” is not supposed to be a verb; it’s an entrée. I’ll eat salmon, but I won’t wander into the river to catch one. Don’t get me wrong, I love seeing fish in their natural habitat… inside the lobster tank at The Palm. But I don’t need to know how fish are caught to enjoy my filet of sole for lunch, any more than I need to meet seven-year-old diamond miners in Africa to enjoy my new necklace.

And I hate those huge rubber wading boots you have to wear to go fishing.
They go with nothing, including that straw game bag you’re supposed to put your fish in. The only way you’ll ever see me in a pair of those is if they’re a part of the new Jimmy Choo bladder control collection.

I hate people who “swim with the dolphins”
because they saw
Flipper
when they were six and their lives have just never been the same ever since. Swimming with dolphins is a nightmare. One, they poop in the water. And two, sometimes they try to mate with us! Which wouldn’t be so bad if they’d call you the next day or send flowers. Having sex with a huge, wet, slimy mammal who’s got a functioning blowhole is a living hell. And if you don’t believe me, just ask Mrs. James Gandolfini.

I hate people who participate in extreme sports
like skydiving, mountain climbing or dating
Gary Busey. If you have to wear a helmet or sign a release form to do it, it’s not a sport. It’s a symptom of your sick need to pretend your meaningless life isn’t meaningless. I take lots of risks in my life: I was on
Celebrity Apprentice
, I’ve undergone plastic surgery 398 times and I routinely make fun of Kirstie Alley, who could kill me with one swipe of her paw. And speaking of laughing in the face of death, do you know I’ve flown Continental Airlines at least a hundred times? I don’t need to jump out of planes or scale mountains to put a little zest in my life. I can get that sort of thrill any time by walking the streets of New York without a Glock in my purse.