I Hate Everyone...Starting With Me Read online

  But my two favorite child stars are the Olsen twins; those two girls have not a shred of talent or a brain cell between them and yet they’ve become billionaires. I love them, I respect them, I envy them. I especially like the one with the eating disorder. That girl’s a perfect date—you don’t have to spend much on dinner and you don’t have to buy her really expensive fashions because when it comes to clothing all she’s really concerned with is absorbency. Plus, she’s worth a billion dollars and she’s single!!! You know, now that gay marriage is becoming legal maybe I should encourage Melissa to consider lesbianism.

  And the thing I hate most about child stars are the people around them: agents, managers, publicists, I hate them, too. (More on that in the showbiz chapter.)

  NOTABLE TV MOTHER/DAUGHTER TEAMS

  Mrs. Brady and her bunch. Carol had a great relationship with Cindy and Jan and Marcia. Why wouldn’t she? Alice the maid had to do all the heavy lifting and deal with the girls’ crying and whining and cramping while all Carol had to do was keep her hair in that stupid ’70s shag cut, make the occasional pitcher of lemonade, and try to look interested while Mike Brady spewed out his long-winded, common-sense homilies about family life, while sitting in the closet.

  Shirley Partridge and her family. We all thought Shirley was the best mother and had a perfect relationship with Laurie. In reality, to this day Laurie is somebody with a bad twitch you shouldn’t make any sudden moves around. Mother of the Year Shirley Partridge not only forced the entire family to go out on the road and sing (sort of like white Jacksons), she made them all live in an old school bus so they could pick up extra cash smuggling undocumented Salvadoran immigrants north to pick oranges.

  Samantha and Tabitha Stephens. Sam assumed her daughter, Tabitha, was a witch because she twitched her nose. Ever heard of drugs, Samantha? That wasn’t pixie dust Tabitha was buying from Dr. Bombay a gram at a time. Both the Stephens women were so strung out, half the time they didn’t even notice when two different actors played the role of Darrin.

  Carrie Bradshaw and Samantha Jones. Okay, technically they weren’t mother and daughter but given the age difference they could have been. (They obviously weren’t cycle sisters, either, because by the time they met Samantha had already gone through menopause.) Yet despite the vast, yawning, gaping age difference between them, they developed such a deep friendship they became almost like Oprah and Gayle. If Carrie and Samantha had become lesbian lovers the name of the show would have to be changed to Very Occasional Sex After the First Six Months and the City.

  Sharon and Kelly Osbourne. I love the way they put aside their differences and united for a common purpose: trying to figure out what the hell Ozzy was saying.

  Lucy and Lucie. Or as I like to think of them, Ball and Chain. Poor little Lucie, she only had one walk-on part in her parents’ sitcom. I think Lucy’s got some ’splainin’ to do about that. Also, Lucy named little Lucie with an ie instead of a y to make sure that the Lucy everybody loved was her. Everyone did love Lucy, especially Lucy.

  Mrs. Cunningham and Joanie. Not what I’d call a textbook example of motherhood, even for the 1950s. Instead of keeping Joanie away from bad boys who wore leather and rode motorcycles, Mrs. Cunningham allowed them to live in a room above the garage. Girls like Joanie usually get in trouble. If the Fonz told Joanie to “sit on it,” she probably would have. Mrs. C was lucky that Joanie only loved Chachi. Joanie could have loved coochie.

  Angela and Mona. Angela was constantly embarrassed by her mother’s sex life. The question in that family wasn’t “who’s the boss?” but “who’s on top?”

  Marge and Lisa Simpson. I looooove Marge Simpson. She taught Lisa to lie about her age because after twenty years on the air, Marge is still only thirty-four.

  Roseanne and Darlene. I could relate to their hardscrabble, blue-collar existence because once Melissa and I almost had to fly coach. Thank God there was a death in first class, which freed up a nice aisle seat for me, while Melissa fit beautifully in the overhead compartment.

  Kris Jenner and Kim Kardashian. Most mothers would be horrified if one of their daughters made a sex tape. Not Kris. She used the sex tape as a screen credit to get Kim into the Screen Actors Guild. Who says “love” isn’t a four-letter word?

  Mama Walton and her daughter (pick one). The Waltons spent so much time saying “good night,” it’s a wonder Ma and Pa had the strength to make more little Waltons. The show could have been more interesting if they’d given John Boy a gender identity crisis like Chaz Bono. I would have liked to tune in one night and hear, “Good night, John Girl!” The show became much more interesting after Grandma Walton had the stroke and couldn’t speak, because then you couldn’t tell if she was grimacing in pain, smirking in disgust, or nodding approvingly. Viewing fun for the whole family!

  Melissa and Me. See all of the above.

  TICK-TOCK

  There are four types of old people:

  ♦ Regular

  ♦ Old and annoying

  ♦ Old and infirm

  ♦ Just not dead yet

  Why do I hate old people? Because they smell, that’s why. It’s a fact. Check out the New York Times Science section. Right there, between “nuclear waste” and “raw sewage,” it says, and I quote, “a team of renowned international scientists and olfactory experts have proven beyond a shadow of a doubt that old people—particularly those from the mothball generation—smell. And Mrs. Estelle Neiburg in apartment #2F is especially fetid.”

  Why do old people buy in bulk? Whenever I’m in a hurry, directly in front of me at the supermarket there’s a one-hundred-eighty-five-year-old person standing with ninety-three jars of mayonnaise. Talk about an optimist! He’s not going to make it through the checkout counter. Unless God likes chicken salad sandwiches, the guy’s an idiot. The only thing old people could use in large amounts is formaldehyde.

  I don’t want to hear about “the good old days.” I have no idea who Clara Bow—Beau?—was and I don’t care unless I was mentioned in her will. But I do know that things weren’t better before air-conditioning, limousines, vibrators and stool softeners.

  I hate old people who make irritating noises with their lips. You’re sitting there in the sunroom with Grandpa watching Wheel of Fortune, when he sighs and blurts out, “That Vanna White sure knows her alphabet,” and then for no apparent reason starts making smacking sounds with his lips and gums. He’s not eating or drinking anything. He’s not even drooling yet (that doesn’t usually happen until eleven o’clock), and he’s not having a seizure. Just twenty minutes of slurping like a dog licking his crotch. Look, I read somewhere—probably in the same New York Times article—that you’re not supposed to hit old people, but sometimes a good whack on the nose with a newspaper is all they understand.

  I hate early-bird specials. Who the hell eats dinner at two o’clock? I know seniors are on fixed incomes, but to save eighty-six cents by eating dinner before lunch is insane. And people talk. I know; I’m one of those people. When I see the Weinsteins hobbling into IHOP at 1:45 for dinner I’m not thinking, “How smart. What good planners. A penny saved…” I’m thinking, “Cheap humps. You’re the reason we Jews are chased and hunted down all over the world.”

  On top of that, they only order half a chicken, take two bites, then put it in a doggie bag to take home, where it lasts them for six months. Anne Frank didn’t hoard food like this, and that bitch was hungry.

  I hate old people who actually tell you how they are when you ask them. So never say, “How are you?” to an old person. This just opens a door you do not want to go through. And “How are you feeling, Mr. Lubell?” is even worse. The old coot starts whining, “Thank you for asking me how I am, Joan—it is you, Joan? I have glaucoma now. I used to have cataracts but things have gotten worse. I can’t drive anymore so I don’t go out much. I had to eat cat food last night and I’m allergic to Friskies, so I got this rash all over my stomach. I scratched so much I started bleeding. Which is bad because
I’m anemic, my doctor says. Not that I have a real doctor. He’s a quack from the clinic. I have to go there, as I have no money ever since my son-in-law stole everything from the bank. I’d ask you to sit down but I have no extra room on my scooter, which they’re repossessing on Friday for late payments. And then I’ll have to have a neighbor drag me to the store so I can buy day-old bread and fish soup, which I’m probably allergic to, as shellfish makes me break out in these boils, and when I go by all the kids will think, ‘There goes poor Mr. Lubell. He’s disgusting and Mom says he’s a perv and and and…’” And all I’m thinking is, “I hope you’re not allergic to mahogany or pine because I’m going to kill you right now.”

  I hate old people who say, “I’m eighty-nine years young!” It’s not cute. It’s stupid and irritating. You’re not eighty-nine years “young.” You’re six years beyond “good-bye.”

  I hate it when old people are referred to as “feisty.” “Feisty” means Nana got all defensive and angry when you had the nerve to point out that she accidentally shit all over your new car seats. And not only did she not even apologize for the blood in the stool that left permanent stains on your beautiful beige Corinthian leather, but she got even “feistier” when you mentioned the smell that the little pine tree on the dashboard cannot disguise.

  I hate the elderly who refuse to die. Old people are like dairy products—they have an expiration date, and if they’re left on the shelf too long they go sour. Every time I pass some altacocker sitting at a card table, hunched over and wheezing, I want to yell, “Get in the box, Mildred! It’s time to get in the box!”

  I hate old bodies. Which is why I’ve had mine renovated six hundred times. I’ve undergone more reconstruction than Baghdad. My plastic surgeon is on staff at Restoration Hardware. I keep a crane in the bedroom to make sure my ass doesn’t hit the floor. Everything drops when you get old… boobs, bellies, butts, everything. Last week my friend Miriam was sagging so much she broke a hip when she tripped over her vagina.*

  I hate old men who have no hair left on their legs and their calves look like pieces of wax fruit. Smooth legs on a man is creepy. When I’m playing footsie late at night I shouldn’t be the one in the bed with the stubble.

  I hate old men who have hair in their ears. A widower whose eustachian tubes look like a rain forest is not a turn-on. Instead of Q-tips he needs a super mop. I knew one guy who had such a jungle in his ears I expected Dian Fossey to come waltzing out with a couple of her prized gorillas, Tojo and Millie.

  I hate old men who wear their pants hiked up to their nipples. It pulls their balls up so high it looks like they’re smuggling children in their diapers.

  I hate old people and phlegm. Old people are obsessed with phlegm. All day long they’re gagging and hacking and coughing.… They spend more time with yellow goop in their mouths than a hooker in Chinatown.

  I hate old men who try to act jaunty and flirt.

  He says, “I like to pleasure my women.”

  And I’m thinking, Yeah? Then pick up the check.

  He says, “Here’s my gal.”

  I think, I’d rather be mauled by a Bengal tiger than let anyone think I’m “your gal.”

  He says, “I’m with the two prettiest girls in the room!”

  I think, If you could see, you old moron, you’d know there are only two girls in the room to start with.

  I hate old people who won’t make concessions to age. If you can’t see over the steering wheel or know there’s a stroller pinned under your car’s bumper you shouldn’t be driving anymore.

  “No, no, I can still drive!”

  “Grandpa, there’s a Buick in the kitchen. No, you can’t.”

  I hate old people who dangle carrots:

  “You know, you’re in my will.”

  “That doesn’t cut it, Granny. I’ve seen your apartment. You’ve got nothing I want. I’ve never liked Hummel.”

  I love going through my high school yearbook with a highlighter, x-ing out the ones who are dead. I’m happy to report that as of this writing, pages twenty-eight through forty-six, inclusive, are gone.

  Out of the blue my sister called and asked, “Did you hear that Jacob Schwartz, the guy who stood you up at the prom, died?”

  I perked right up. “Natural causes?”

  “No,” she said. “Suspicious circumstances. Something about a daughter-in-law and a hypodermic needle filled with air.”

  I was so happy I could barely contain myself.

  The only good thing about age is that sooner or later all of the SOBs who dumped you are going to die.

  The words “old people” and “sex” should never be part of the same conversation. When I hear Granny use the word “multiple” it better be followed by “vitamin” not “orgasm.” I just don’t want to hear Nana talk about sex.

  “You know, Joan, my butcher has a cock the size of Cairo.” Blech!

  I don’t need the image of Granny giving head. The only things Granny’s mouth should be used for are chewing and clearing the loose phlegm that keeps accumulating because her lungs are starting to fail.

  How Do You Know You’re Too Old for Sex?

  1. When there’s always a wet spot.

  2. When you give a blow job you can’t get off your knees.

  3. During sex he calls out his nurse’s name.

  4. When it takes a third party to get him off of you.

  I hate faking orgasm with an old man. You work and you work and then the whole thing’s a total waste of time because you forget to moan in his good ear.

  And finally, the only good thing about old sex is you never have to suffer the humiliation of a one-night stand, because there’s no such thing. Just to get him out of the car, into the house, up the stairs, on the bed, on you, off of you, down the stairs, rediapered, and back into the car… minimum, four days. That’s not a quickie, that’s a relationship.

  SIGNS THAT YOUR FAMILY HATES YOU NOW THAT YOU’RE OLD

  They take the batteries out of your “I’ve Fallen and I Can’t Get Up” necklace.

  They turn your room into a crafts studio while you are still living in it.

  They find your hospice nurse on craigslist.

  At Thanksgiving they push you into the oven to check on the turkey.

  They replace your Astroglide with Krazy Glue.

  Your Secret Santa is Jack Kevorkian’s disciple.

  They send you on an all-expense-paid meditation retreat on Three Mile Island.

  ——————

  *Talk about turning lemons into lemonade. She said she’s glad her vagina dropped because every time there’s an earthquake she’s suctioned to the floor.

  DEATH BE NOT PROUD

  Mahatma Gandhi once said, “I am prepared to die, but there is no cause for which I am prepared to kill.”

  Apparently Gandhi never tried to get a table at Spago.

  Everyone dies—except maybe Betty White, and I think its high time someone pushed that bitch in front of a train because I’m sick and tired of losing the “sassy grandma” roles to her. Betty White is ninety million years old. Her first résumé is on a cave wall in France. She put the Sutra in Kama. She read Beowulf in installments. She’s been on three hundred TV shows, won a boatload of Emmys and earned a trillion dollars. If I had just one of those things I’d be so happy—or at least a lot less bitter.

  To be fair, it hasn’t been all roses for Betty; she hasn’t shtupped anybody since Allen Ludden died. The password is “dried out.”

  I love the obituaries. Every morning when I get up, the first thing I do is wax and read the paper. Well, not the first thing; the first thing I do is have my live-in plastic surgeon do a quick touch-up on my chin and neck and then I wax and read the paper. Okay, not the whole paper, just a couple of sections. I read the gossip section to see if any celebrity friends got caught up in a scandal that I can exploit and take advantage of, and then I read the obituaries because I want to start my day off right. To me, obituaries are just we
dding announcements without the pictures. I read the obituaries carefully, the way Lindsay Lohan reads her Miranda rights.

  The first thing I do is check out the Jews who died because Jewish funerals have the best catering, and if I just happen to be in the neighborhood when they’re doing the service, I figure why not pop in for a nosh?

  I hate it when the obituary doesn’t tell you how the person died. They make you guess. It’s early in the morning and my brain’s not firing on all cylinders yet. Would it kill them to just say, “Murray Weintraub, fifty-eight, mumps”?

  Sometimes you can tell what happened by reading the “in lieu of flowers” portion of the obit. For example, if it says, “In lieu of flowers, please send money to the Painful Rectal Itch Foundation.” Now you not only know why he died but also why he couldn’t sit still in church.

  You can also tell a lot about a person and their family by reading their obituary. And not just reading what’s printed, but reading into what’s not printed, what they left out.