Diary of a Mad Diva (23 page)

Why a Christmas tree? Because you can’t fit a really big present under a menorah, that’s why. And that’s what the holiday season is all about.

DECEMBER 1

Dear Diary:

Today is Cooper’s birthday! And I’m so proud of him. He’s smart, athletic, a damn good student, and Melissa’s smacked enough manners into him that people tell me he’s very polite. He calls me Miss Rivers or Your Highness even when I don’t make him. Kids grow up so fast these days. One day it’s Slurpees, the next day it’s herpes.

Today is also the anniversary of the day in 1955 when Rosa Parks refused to get off of a public bus in Alabama. She said, “You’ll have to kill me before I get off one of these things.” It’s also the anniversary of the day in 1995 when Donatella Versace refused to get on a public bus in Milan, and said, “You’ll have to kill me before I get
on
one of these things.” So all in all, December 1 was a good day for black-skinned women who make a difference and like to travel.

DECEMBER 2

Dear Diary:

I’m sitting on a plane to L.A. and someone is farting or decomposing. I know it’s not me, as I didn’t eat at Applebee’s last week. Also, I’m in the first row and the smell is coming from behind me, and even though after all that plastic surgery my eyes are actually in the back of my head, my current nose is still sort of in the front, and I can’t tell who the offending ass belongs to. The cabin is full and there are a lot of international passengers, so it might not be a fart at all; it might just be the BO of some rich French person who, while educated and well off, has somehow not figured out how to work a shower. (Notice I didn’t say “Germans” because if there’s one thing Germans know how to work, it’s a shower.) My eyes are watering and my nose is running; the cabin is like a sulphur mine with peanuts. Two more ass-blasts from Bad Salmon Betty behind me and the masks are going to drop from the ceiling.

DECEMBER 3

Dear Diary:

It was a cold, snowy day but Melissa’s neighbors Brett and Marion managed to pay a visit and brought their brand-new baby boy, little Bretarion, along.
*
Over coffee and chocolate cake (the only thing Melissa serves in her house because it doesn’t show the dirt), the couple began arguing over whether or not to circumcise him. Brett is Catholic and Marion is Jewish but
she’s
the one who doesn’t want to snip Bretarion’s little schmeckle. She’s one of those phony feminists who believes that circumcision is “barbaric” and “traumatizing” to the child. This is not so. Ask any boy who was circumcised as an infant. He doesn’t remember it. But if you ask the one kid who wasn’t circumcised, he remembers being teased in school, made fun of in the locker room and pointed at by pediatricians’ evil nurses. Any prison psychiatrist will tell you that this is why, years later, he went back to his old school and opened fire in the cafeteria with an AK-47. A snip in time saves nine.

You want trauma? Talk to the women who’ve had to deal with a man’s uncut monstrosity. Even in Europe, where anything goes, you never hear Inga or Ermgard say, “Oh, my Wilhelm has such a gorgeous schvantz! I love ze way his foreskin drags on ze floor and picks up crumbs and schmutz and dust mites.” Personally, I have only seen an adult foreskin once but, because of this, to this day I am unable to go to the zoo or watch Animal Planet specials on elephants, tapirs or aardvarks. Even worse, I can’t even look at an evening gown that pools on the floor without getting nauseous and weepy.

DECEMBER 4

Dear Diary:

Today I got a letter asking me to contribute to a charity for dwarves. I tossed the reply envelope away. I hate these little whiners. They don’t know how lucky they have it. They don’t have to worry about smoking stunting their growth. They don’t have to worry about the wear and tear on their trousers’ knees as they perform oral sex standing up. And if one of them gets shitfaced drunk and falls down in the gutter, he won’t hurt himself because it’s such a short drop. How much damage could you do from seven inches up? It’s not like he’s jumping off of Tower One. Talk about a win-win.

DECEMBER 5

Dear Diary:

I’m starting to put together my Christmas shopping list, which is not an easy thing. I have so many different types of people to shop for: family, friends (close, not so close and people I’ve been stuck with either by death, divorce or court order), A-list celebrities I know, A-list celebrities I’d like to know, publicists of A-list celebrities I’d like to know, network executives and their wives, mistresses and “pool boys,” and anyone who has access to my medical records, financial statements or sex tapes. That’s some list and it doesn’t even include the people I hate.

I’m not a good gift-giver. Actually I’m not a gift-giver at all. Frankly, Scarlett, I don’t give a fuck. I hate spending a nickel on anyone but me. Yeah, yeah, Christmas may be Jesus’s birthday, but the party invitation Mary sent to me must’ve blown off the porch.

I have found that by not giving gifts, there are certain phrases you’re guaranteed to never hear coming from my lips on Christmas Day:

• “I saw this at Goodwill and just had to get it for you. Cost, schmost, I just want you to be happy!”
  
• “Open it, I love it when you manage to get your face to move with joy.”
  
• “Hey, that’s what friends are for. Wheel up here and give me a hug!”
  
• “No restaurant! Everyone to my house; I’ve been cooking Grandma’s cat recipe all day for you guys.”
  
• “Of course you can bring the kids. Who doesn’t like children for dessert?”
  

Here are holiday phrases you
do
hear at my house:

• To my assistant: “Stop staring at me, asshole. Grab a needle and start picking out that monogram. Re-gifting starts now.”
  
• To my maid: “For the last time, dunce-face, put the iron on medium; otherwise you can’t get the creases out and I can’t reuse wrapping paper or it will look like your thighs.”
  
• “Don’t open the door, Cooper! Just tell the doorman to leave it in the lobby, otherwise I’ll have to give him a big Christmas tip and pretend to care that he’s working, while his children, Juan, Juanette, Juanacita and Juanita, are sitting around their plastic manger, missing Papa.”
  
• “Here comes the Christmas special Meals on Wheels truck again. Get in bed quick, Melissa; they’re starting to get suspicious.”
  

DECEMBER 6

Dear Diary:

I’m sitting on a plane to Houston, traveling to do yet another benefit for Rodeo Clowns Without Partners, and I just had a brilliant idea for holiday shopping:
SkyMall
, the catalog that comes in the back of the airplane seats. They have
great
stuff, something for everyone, from hammocks to Crock-Pots to stereos to dildos. I’ll bet I could even find something for Sienna Miller—which isn’t easy; what do you buy for the woman who’s had everyone?

DECEMBER 7

Dear Diary:

December 7, 1941—a date which will live in infamy.

—FRANKLIN DELANO ROOSEVELT

I’ve never been sure if FDR said that because that morning the Japanese attacked Pearl Harbor or because that afternoon he walked in on Eleanor up to her elbows in her cleaning lady. I’d prefer to think he was referring to Pearl Harbor. It’s a less upsetting visual.

Going to D.C. tonight for some fancy-schmancy political dinner at the Four Seasons. I have always loved politics and have always been very active, going back to the Boston Tea Party. When all the Bostonians threw tea into the harbor, guess who brought the sugar?

DECEMBER 8

Dear Diary:

The dinner party in D.C. was fine and I think I looked great. I wanted to look like a woman familiar with politics and the politicians, so I dressed like a Beltway hooker. I was seated between two senators, and God were they stupid! I asked one how he thought we could get out of Iraq. He said, “Do what I do. Just leave some money on the bureau and sneak out while they’re sleeping.” I realized then and there that intelligence to a senator is like heterosexuality to RuPaul: impossible.

DECEMBER 9

Dear Diary:

I’m back in L.A. for a meeting with the Muppet people. I’m doing a QVC promo with Miss Piggy. I love Miss Piggy; she’s worth a billion dollars! Pretty good deal for a fake pig with a hand up her ass.

DECEMBER 10

Dear Diary:

I went holiday shopping on Rodeo Drive today and thought I’d stop in at the Olive Garden for a quick bite. There was a big fat guy on line with his equally porcine wife right in front of me. I walked up to the hostess to ask her how long the wait would be. Suddenly, he yelled, “Hey, we’re all waiting, here, sister. Don’t use that celebrity thing to cut the line.” I was shocked. I
never
ever ever
use the “celebrity thing” unless it’s an absolute emergency such as being late for a mani-pedi. I tried to explain to him that I was simply asking the hostess a question, but he turned away, so I said to her, loud enough for Colossus to hear, “Is there any chance I could be seated right now? I’m a celebrity and if I have to wait for my table until after Tubby McShit is seated and has ordered, I’m afraid your Bottomless Pasta Bowl will have to change its name.” She said, “Of course, Miss Rivers, right this way.” As I was walking past Mr. Oink, I said, “Don’t worry, Pork Rib, there will be plenty left for you; I won’t be ordering the slop.”

DECEMBER 11

Dear Diary:

I’m exhausted. It’s the holiday season and I’m totally into the spirit. I spent the entire morning working with Melissa on a charity drive in Beverly Hills. And I am so proud to say Melissa and I alone collected over a thousand pounds of caviar for the needy in Palm Beach. And although some people say that our fund-raising was a bit hypocritical, we also threw a terrific cocktail party to raise funds for the Betty Ford Center. Below is a list of little-known charities that deserve national recognition:

• Charity for terminally ill gay children: the Make a Swish Foundation.
  
• Charity for children with chronic diarrhea: Toys for Trots (which is an offshoot of the charity for underprivileged Hindu children, Toys for Dots, and the ones for rich society brats, Toys for Snots).
  

I’m a giver.

DECEMBER 12

Dear Diary:

Rumor has it that Adele complained that I did a joke about her being heavy on
Fashion Police
, and her lawyer wants a written apology that will say, “Dear Adele, I am truly sorry if my words, spoken in jest, have in any way upset you, offended you or hurt your family. I think you’re a wonderful singer and artist and have brought joy and happiness to millions of people around the world. And you are not in any way heavy; in fact, little lady, you’re slim, lithe and winsome.” I told the lawyer that unfortunately I’ve run out of stationery, but I’d be delighted to write this long apology and that she’s not obese where there’s plenty of room for it—on her big fat ass.

What’s all the fuss about? If a celebrity is fat, chances are it’s because they want to be fat—it’s part of their “look” and they’re using it to make a fortune. Melissa McCarthy is brilliant; Rebel Wilson is hilarious—and both of those plus-sized gals are using their heft to pull in hefty salaries. Even Kirstie Alley, the sensitive Scientologist who hates being made fun of, had no problem doing a series called
Fat Actress
, so long as her paycheck matched her calorie count.

DECEMBER 13

Dear Diary:

Just watched TMZ and the big story of the day? Charles Manson is engaged! As they say in the
New York Post
’s Page Six, “Yes, THAT Charles Manson.” Apparently Chuckie’s met a woman and fallen in love. I am so jealous! Not that I’d ever even think of marrying him. I’m Jewish and he thinks he’s Jesus. But still . . . we’re about the same age, yet Charlie, who lives in an eight-by-ten cell and showers once week—with other men—has found someone, and I, who lives in a large apartment and goes to the theater nightly, am all alone. I may not be gorgeous, but for God’s sake, when I have my face carved up it’s done by a doctor and the scars are behind my ears, not on my forehead. Life is just not fair. I don’t know if I’ll be invited to the wedding but I hear they’re registered at Bed Bloodbath & Beyond.

P.S. The fiancée, a woman known as “Star,” looks just like Susan Atkins, the late psycho who killed Sharon Tate. Star’s twenty-five, has brown hair, brown eyes and an
X
carved into her head. It’s nice to know Charlie has a “type.”

DECEMBER 14

Dear Diary:

I’m going through that wonderful
SkyMall
catalog yet again, and I’m finding fabulous Christmas gifts. They have two whole pages dedicated to garden gnomes! How wonderful for my Mexican gardener, Jose. How many times can I give him a piñata filled with breath mints? Jose is Mexican, and might I remind you, the Mexicans are not a tall people. Now he won’t feel lonely as he mows.