I Hate Everyone...Starting With Me Read online

  For example, if it says, “no immediate survivors” it means the deceased was gay and the family refuses to acknowledge his or her partner because they want all the money in the estate for themselves.

  “Services will be private” means the deceased was a son of a bitch and had no friends, colleagues or passing acquaintances. Or he was a serial killer and had no friends, colleagues or passing acquaintances because he offed them.

  I hate it when I read an obit that says, “Molly Fishman, 102, suddenly.” Excuse me? She’s 102! How sudden could it have been? She’s been old since the Truman administration. The woman’s been hunched over in her wheelchair, with her tongue on the footrest since 1992; shouldn’t someone have seen her demise coming???

  I hate people who die of natural causes; they just don’t understand the moment. It’s the grand finale, act three, the eleven o’clock number—make it count!

  One of my friends called me and said, “My father-in-law died.” I tried to pretend I cared so I said, “Are you okay?” He said, “He was ninety-eight, of course I’m okay. He didn’t die bungee jumping, he just didn’t get up.”

  When a seventy-three-year-old calls you and says, “My mother died,” don’t bother to say, “Of what.” You know already that the answer won’t be pole-vaulting or mixed martial arts.

  If you’re going to die, die interesting! Is there anything worse than a boring death? (Other than a Charlie Rose marathon on PBS?) I think not. When my time comes I’m going to go out in high style. I have no intention of being sick or lingering or dragging on and on and boring everyone I know. I have no intention of coughing and wheezing for months on end. One morning you’ll wake up and read a headline: JOAN RIVERS FOUND DEAD… ON GEORGE CLOONEY’S FACE. CLOONEY WAS SO BEREFT ALL HE COULD SAY WAS, “XJFHFYRNEM.”

  I hate cancer. It’s a big snore. Booorrrringggg! Everyone’s got it these days. Lung cancer, bone cancer, brain cancer—it’s all the same, and the treatment’s always the same: chemo, radiation, whining and baldness (and not a good kind of baldness like Patrick Stewart or Ben Kingsley, but a “Gee, there’s no way to accessorize that” kind of baldness).

  I hate my friends who are breast cancer survivors. They’re always whining, “I lost a breast, I lost a breast.” You lost ten pounds. Shut up, bitch, you’re down a size!

  I find face cancer riveting. It’s like leprosy without the flaking. One day you’re smiling for all the world to see; the next day, you’re looking under the couch for your nose.

  The actress Nancy Kulp, who played Miss Hathaway on the Beverly Hillbillies, died from a nasty case of face cancer. Every day a little bit of Nancy fell away. Not that it was a huge loss; hers was not a pretty face. In fact, she was homely even by lesbian standards. But give her credit—she died interestingly. She’d lost half her face, her jaw, her tongue. She looked like Señor Wences’s fist but she kept on talking, God bless her.

  I hate hospice nurses who provide “palliative care.” Palliative care means “keep the old coot medicated so she dies in her sleep and I don’t have to smother her and then deal with the ‘angel of death’ inquiries that are sure to follow and mess up my nonrefundable week in Cabo.”

  I love funerals! To me a funeral is just a red carpet show for dead people. It’s a chance for mourners from all walks of life to accessorize basic black, and to make a fashion statement that is bold enough to draw attention away from the bereaved but subtle enough so that no one knows that it’s happening. And, it’s a great way to have quiet fun. For example, I love to write nasty things about the dead person in the condolence book and then sign their grandchildren’s names.

  I hate people who try to make you feel better. Like the neighbor who says, “Don’t forget, the first part of ‘funeral’ is ‘fun’!” Or the minister who says, “He’s in a better place now.” I’m tempted to yell out, “No he’s not. He had a house in the Hamptons. What’s wrong with you?”

  I went to one funeral and the rabbi said very movingly, “Ashes to ashes, dust to dust,” and then he ruined it by adding, “and Sylvia to Saks.”

  When I die (and yes, Melissa, that day will come; and yes, Melissa, everything’s in your name), I want my funeral to be a huge showbiz affair with lights, cameras, action.… I want Craft services, I want paparazzi and I want publicists making a scene! I want it to be Hollywood all the way. I don’t want some rabbi rambling on; I want Meryl Streep crying, in five different accents. I don’t want a eulogy; I want Bobby Vinton to pick up my head and sing “Mr. Lonely.” I want to look gorgeous, better dead than I do alive. I want to be buried in a Valentino gown and I want Harry Winston to make me a toe tag. And I want a wind machine so that even in the casket my hair is blowing just like Beyoncé’s.

  I love the dead reel at the Oscars, where they honor all of the people in Hollywood who died during the past year. A good dead reel can almost compensate for five hours of French actors trying to make adorable acceptance speeches. One of my favorite things to do is guess which one of the dead actors will get the most applause and who’s going to be surprisingly underappreciated. It’s tricky, you can’t always tell. Some years the most applause goes to whoever died young and tragically; other years it goes to the old and beloved. I really love it when the Academy accidentally leaves a deadie out of the reel and the error of omission becomes a huge cause célèbre. Remember a few years ago when they left Bea Arthur out of the dead reel? Bea Arthur! How did they leave Bea Arthur out? She was in Mame; she was in All in the Family; she was in Maude; she was a Golden Girl, for God’s sake! Bea was not only one of Hollywood’s leading ladies, she was one of Hollywood’s leading men. There are still people talking about that horrible gaffe and to this day, in Beverly Hills, when that subject comes up, people say Bea Arthur’s name in a muffled whisper like people used to do when they said “cancer.”

  As I get older, I’m going to a lot more funerals, and let me tell you something, it’s a great pick-up scene. A graveside funeral is like eHarmony for the bereaved. I went to my friend’s husband’s funeral a few weeks ago and some accountant from Queens kept hitting on her. He said things like, “So, you’re single?” And, “You know, black really brings out your eyes.” And, “I love the way you shovel… what are you doing after the kaddish?” My friend was horrified. Not so horrified she didn’t give him a hummer in the back of his Lexus, but still…

  At funerals I like to play a little game called Watch the Widow. I can tell just by her demeanor if she loved him, if he left her anything, or if she’s happy that he’s finally gone. If she sobs uncontrollably, she knows he was cheating on her and down the road she might be implicated in his death. If she seems completely distracted she’s probably been having an affair, maybe with his brother or his doctor. And if she’s distracted and breathing heavily, she’s been having an affair with the undertaker and can’t decide whether to weep quietly or get a quickie in the toilet.

  I hate planning funerals. No one ever says “thank you.” I’ve planned a couple of funerals and not one person has ever come up to me afterward and said, “Joan, what a lovely spread. I hope someone else dies just so we can come back for the lovely babka and whitefish salad you put out.” And what about dressing the corpse, you think it’s easy? It’s a thankless job. You have to be conscious of both the mourners and the fashion. It’s the last time you’re going to see your friend Helen, so you’d better dress her right. I have one rule: Don’t listen to what her kids say; she’s not going down in pleats. No woman, not even Kate Moss, should be buried in pleats. They accentuate the hips.

  I hate casket shopping. No matter what you buy, you’re wrong. A simple pine box screams, “Cheapo.” And one of those huge, brightly colored metal things looks like a float in a Puerto Rican Day parade. If you put a Jewish star or a cross on top of the coffin someone always mutters under their breath, “He wasn’t that religious,” but if you don’t do it, you hear, “Jesus Christ, how much could it have been for a cross?”

  I have a business idea: custom-desi
gned caskets. This way nobody can whine or complain. Design a coffin that speaks specifically to the person who is going to be buried in it. Let’s say for example, that while the deceased was alive he liked to surf. Why not design a coffin filled with sand and with openings at the end so that his toes can stick out and hang ten! Get it?

  When Victoria Beckham goes, put her in a giant shopping bag.

  I knew a woman who spent most of her life on prescription drugs. How cool would it have been to put her in a casket filled with cotton and a childproof lid?

  I’ve always wanted to design a coffin for a stripper. Why should anyone have to worry about whether Bubbles should have an open or closed casket? I’d design one that has a little window that goes up when the mourner puts in a quarter. Who says you can’t be sad and horny at the same time?

  But when I die none of this is going to matter because I’m not really going anywhere. I’m not going to be buried because I don’t like damp and cold.

  I think cremation is the way to go for some people, and for different reasons. I had one friend who had her husband cremated and put him in her douche bag so she could run him through one more time.

  I had another friend whose husband’s will said that if she didn’t visit every day she wouldn’t get any money. So she had him cremated and sprinkled his ashes in Bergdorf Goodman, and hasn’t missed a day in twelve years. (On 9/11, in the horror of the moment she was so upset she managed to get there twice. Now that’s a widow!)

  Then again, maybe when I go toes up I want to be stuffed and put on the living room couch, then when people come over Melissa can say, “Sit down and don’t mind Mom. She’s on vocal rest for her new play.”

  MY FAVORITE CELEBRITY DEATHS

  Isadora Duncan

  Isadora went for a ride in the car but couldn’t decide if she should wear a scarf or a choker. Turns out she wore both.

  Attila the Hun

  For all the marauding, torture and trampling, the head Hun died from a nosebleed on his wedding night. Now that’s what I call rough sex.

  Jayne Mansfield

  I begged her to buy a car with extra headroom, but did she listen? No.

  Catherine the Great

  Rumors abound. One rumor is that she had a stroke while going to the bathroom. If this is true then you know why fiber is important. The conventional and far more fun story is that she died while having sex with a horse. The horse was being lowered onto her when the pulleys broke and down came Secretariat, turning Catherine the Great into Catherine the Smushed. You want irony? The horse’s favorite position was doggie style.

  Honestly, I don’t think Catherine’s relationship with the horse would have worked, anyway. First of all, he didn’t know how to hold her. Secondly, every night when they went back to the castle, all the horse wanted to do was watch Seabiscuit over and over and over. And finally, the horse wasn’t Jewish.

  Ramon Novarro

  Two male prostitutes suffocated the Latin movie star to death with a lead dildo that was given to him forty-five years earlier by Rudolph Valentino. My question: Who keeps a dildo for forty-five years?

  Joan of Arc

  She kept complaining to hotel management that she was chilly because her room was drafty. Next time, she’ll learn to keep her mouth shut. Served her right.

  Natalie Wood

  After she drowned off the coast of Catalina Island all we kept hearing was “Natalie Wood hated water;” “Natalie Wood couldn’t swim.” Then why was she on a boat in the middle of the fucking night? I’m deathly afraid of Kirstie Alley; you don’t see me showing up at the Scientology Center at 2:00 A.M. with a box of Twinkies.

  Marvin Gaye

  Music superstar Marvin Gaye was shot to death by his father. In court the father said, “This is probably the worst thing I’ve ever done.” Probably??????

  Steve Irwin, the Crocodile Hunter

  He was being his adventurous self when he was stung by a stingray and died. So I say to all of you: Forget crocodiles. Be a bargain hunter—no one was ever killed by a Louis Vuitton knockoff.

  Butterfly McQueen

  She survived the burning of Atlanta in Gone With the Wind, but died while cooking in her own apartment. Since that day I like to think of her as Batter Fried McQueen.

  Sigmund Freud

  Died of throat cancer in 1939. He blamed it on his mother.

  LOVE SUCKS

  I was married for twenty years and then my husband killed himself. After that for seven years I lived with a one-legged war hero. I left him when I found out he’d been hopping into the sack with another woman.

  I hate “love at first sight.” Unless you’re Stevie Wonder there’s no such thing. Stevie can walk up to a woman, feel her face and shriek, “Isn’t she lovely.” But for the rest of us, love is a process—like filing taxes or doing monthly colon cleansings.

  Do you think Franklin Roosevelt took one look at Eleanor and thought, Back that thing up here, bitch? Do you think Siegfried saw Roy across a crowded room and said, “I’d like to put my tiger in his tent?”

  My late husband, Edgar, and I got married after knowing each other for four days. He had no idea who I really was. Edgar had no clue that the hair he loved to touch he could take with him to the office. By the time I took off the hair, the contacts, the partial bridges and the padded bra, he didn’t know whether to get into the bed or into the drawer.

  I hate women who say, “I knew he was the one.” How could you know that? Did you already fuck everyone else? Yet with Edgar it was love at first sight for me; he was simply everything I wanted in a man: breathing and not repulsed.

  I hate dating. Women go on dates to get free meals. Men go on dates to get free feels. And lesbians go on dates to get camping equipment and unattractive footwear.

  Even as a young girl I was terrible at dating. Compared to me, Carrie had more fun at her prom. Guys didn’t try to get me into the backseat of a car; they tried to get me under the back wheels. I said to one guy, “Why don’t you slip into something more comfortable?” He slipped into someone else’s apartment.

  I hate first dates. Why is it always dinner and a movie? Why not dinner and a trip to Europe, or dinner and a new car, or, if I’m in failing health, dinner and a new valve? Men think going to a movie is a safe first date: They don’t have to make conversation and for eight bucks they might even be able to cop a feel. Or, if they’re on a date with me, four bucks, as I’m a senior citizen. And two bucks if they feel me before 3:00.

  I hate women who date much younger men. I’ll never be a cougar. I don’t like younger men. I don’t ever want to wake up in the morning and wonder, Is this my date or did I give birth last night? Yet for some it works. I have one friend who dated a guy who was so much younger that when she bought him the book The Joy of Sex he sat down and colored in it.

  I hate dating small talk. People don’t tell the truth. Chatting about the weather or movies or books is a complete waste of time. I say be honest right from the get-go. If he says, “How are you?” tell him the truth: “Constipated. I haven’t had a good shit since 9/11.” Get to it right away: “I believe in bestiality, incest and sixth-trimester abortions. I’m in favor of shooting old people who complain about the room being too drafty, and I loathe people who find fault with dogfighting. I have halitosis, my lower jaw clicks when I chew and when I eat soft food it comes out of my nose.” By the time you’ve finished the appetizers you’ll know if the evening is going to end up in a warm bed or a shallow grave.

  I hate couples that make out in public. I always want to yell, “You’re disgusting! Can’t you finger each other in the back of the bus like the rest of us?”

  I hate pretending to like the afterglow of love. You know, that special moment when the sex act is finished and you’re sweating like Roman Polanski at a Girl Scout jamboree and wondering if you’re going to have genital warts in the morning? What are you supposed to do when you’re done making love? Some people like to smoke, some people like to eat… I like to
clean under my nails to get rid of any signs of a struggle.

  The only thing worse than the afterglow is the cuddling. It’s annoying. You crushed my pelvis, chafed my thighs and ruined my sheets. Why would I want to hug you? You got on, you got off, now get out.

  I hate people who say, “There’s someone for everyone.” There’s not. Do you really think there was a “special someone” for the Elephant Man? Do you believe that somewhere in the moors lived a nubile, raven-haired beauty who longed for a smelly, pus-oozing, deformed man with greasy hair and an English accent? Don’t be stupid. He could’ve been hung like a hippopotamus and it wouldn’t have mattered. Even ugly girls have a limit. Trust me, if he was getting his cockney sucked, he was paying for it.

  I hate it when ridiculously mismatched couples think their relationship is based on love. Believe me, one of them knows it ain’t. Case in point, Hugh Hefner and Miss May… That’s not a May–December romance; that’s a Miss May–Please-God-may-he-not-live-to-December romance. And I hate it when the hot runway model with the 38Ds is “dating” an eighty-seven-year-old man with a catheter and early dementia and she says, “My Bobbykins is so smart and funny. I love him.” Her Bobbykins is drooling onto his tie. Believe me, he doesn’t make her wet. The only person he’s making wet is himself. And the only thing she wants to get out of Bobbykins’s pants is his wallet.

  And I hate the naïve people who look at them and say, “She adores him. She talks to him all the time.” You know what she’s saying? “Sign here, sweetheart, it’s okay.”

  I hate having to play along with the happy May–December couple lie. It’s exhausting. One time I was at a book party in the Hamptons and into the soiree comes Bambi the Bimbo, pushing her boyfriend, Methuselah Finklestein (of the Five Towns Finklesteins), across the room in his wheelchair. She’s eleven, he’s a hundred and two and I’m supposed to act like it’s a perfectly normal relationship and that all blond Russian supermodels with slight overbites fall madly in love with wrinkled, liver-spotted, half-deaf pieces of petrified wood. Believe me, it wasn’t easy making conversation that they could both be involved in, but thank God I finally came up with, “Are you two wearing matching MedicAlert bracelets? That is so sweet.”