I Hate Everyone...Starting With Me (22 page)

I hate Tom Cruise.
First of all, he’s always smiling. No 5 8 man, not even one who lives on a diet of Ritalin and gin, is happy like that all the time. He’s always got this shit-eating grin on his face, like he just got a note from his managers telling him that Mimi Rogers and Nicole Kidman are extending their confidentiality agreements. Second, in TV interviews Tom laughs inappropriately and much too vociferously at non-humorous declarative statements, which is ironic because in real life he can’t take a fucking joke at all. All you have to do is make one simple, little, harmless, innocuous aside like, “The Scientology spaceship was late today; it had to stop in Fire Island to pick up Tom Cruise,” and he has a pack of lawyers at your door faster than Katie Holmes can say, “No, really, he loves me
in that way.
I swear.”

I hate Nicole Kidman.
She makes stupid movies like
Cold Mountain
and
The Hours
. She became an A-list actress for wearing putty on her nose. My face is made entirely of paraffin and chewing gum and that cunt wins an Oscar? Hate her.

I hate Jennifer Aniston.
She keeps making the same romantic “comedy” movie over and over and over again and it’s always not funny, not funny, not funny.

I hate Marlee Matlin’s interpreter.
I want to give him the finger.

I hate reality stars who act like they have talent.
Getting punched, beaten, arrested and contracting STDs on a weekly basis is not talent, its alcoholism. (Snooki, I hope someone is reading this book to you.) I have a new reality show I’m pitching: Take Katy Perry, Justin Bieber and Dog the Bounty Hunter and his wife and put them on an island and let them fight to the death until only one is left alive. The show’s called
Who Gives a Fuck?

I especially hate
The Real Housewives of New Jersey
,
Atlanta
and
Orange County
. A
real
housewife is more concerned about her children than her ratings; okay maybe not more, but at least as much (unless the child is really ugly, in which case she should try to sell him on eBay and use that as a story line during sweeps). A real housewife has her plastic surgery done quickly and quietly and would never be seen in public until her Donald Duck lips have settled down and the scars have either faded or been pushed so far behind her ears that you can only see them in a rearview mirror.
The Real Housewives of Beverly Hills
know all of this—which is why I don’t hate them as much. Plus, one of them was smart enough to possibly have a gay husband with financial troubles who killed himself in the middle of the season; that’s my kind of gal.

I hate Hollywood fads, especially yoga.
If I want to see a downward facing dog I’ll push Betty Friedan off of a chair. I picked Betty Friedan because
(a) she’s homely and (b) she’s dead. If I make that joke about a homely woman who’s still alive, NOW, NARAL, the ACLU and the LPGA will all tell me, “FU.”

I hate Pilates, Rolfing, Spinning and est
and I don’t need them. They involve twisting, turning and peeing. I do all that in bed every night now.

I hate night tennis
. The only people who really like hitting balls at night are debutantes and Nathan Lane.

I hate all of the fad diets,
like the grapefruit diet or the cookie diet or the Beverly Hills diet where you only eat fruit and you shit seeds. Or the Scarsdale Diet, where you lose weight because you only eat prison food because you killed your diet doctor. I hate the meat diet where you swallow meat five times a day. It’s very popular in West Hollywood. I think the most effective diet is the Jersey Shore diet where you only eat foods you can spell. Those kids haven’t seen an egg in twelve years.

I hate celebrities that get paid to lose weight almost as much as I hate not being one of them.
Jenny Craig probably gave Valerie Bertinelli hundreds of thousands of dollars to eat
their
food and drop twenty pounds over the course of a year. If they would have given me the money they could have kept their goddamned food and I’d have gone to Auschwitz for a week and dropped fifty.

I hate Scientology.
Their spaceships don’t offer frequent-flyer plans, and when you travel as much as I do you’re always looking to build up miles or earn points or get coupons for an upgrade. I can forgive that they believe aliens come down and bring you to another planet, but flying to that other planet in coach? Not
pour moi
. John Travolta and Kirstie Alley are big Scientologists—and I mean big. I could never join them because I don’t do fattening.

I hate Kabbalah.
Call me stupid but I’m not going to use Madonna as a travel agent on my spiritual journey. Quite frankly I’m not going to use Madonna as a guide for anything. I just saw her movie,
W.E.
It s.u.c.k.e.d. And I’m not going to wear a red string as an accessory unless it’s made by Yves Saint Laurent.

I hate Deepak Chopra.
He’s written the same fucking book thirty-five times and these dopes who buy them still can’t find their inner serenity. Want some peace and quiet? Save your money on Deepak’s books and slip your kids a couple of Xanax and put them in the closet.

I hate showbiz restaurants that have caricatures of their famous customers on the walls.
You’re supposed to be proud that your chin goes into the next picture? I’ve had so much work done restaurants have two caricatures of me: “before” and “before that.”

I hate “in” restaurants that are hot for a minute.
I really hate that they let you know how hot
you
are by where you sit. You go to the right or the left like Sophie’s Choice. Jane Seymour’s knuckles are rawer than the steak tartare from hanging on to the leg of the table. “I’m not going left in Spago… noooo!!!!”

I hate it when I can’t get into trendy, phony, pretentious restaurants.
“There’s a three-month wait, Miss Rivers. Sorry!” And then some scrawny, anorexic party girl with no underwear walks right in. “Who is that?” “Oh, she was in
Mean Girls
!”

What the fuck is
Mean Girls
? No matter whose name you mention, she was in
Mean Girls
and I couldn’t pick her out of a police lineup if my life depended on it. If I find out that Judi Dench and Helen Mirren were in
Mean Girls
I’m going to go out and buy an AK-47 and hunt my agent down.

I hate spending three weeks trying to get a reservation for four months later and by the time July rolls around the place has closed and become a rehab center.
Do you remember the Fashion Café? It was a hot spot owned by Hollywood supermodels that lasted for a week and a half. What a good idea. A restaurant run by bulimics. They didn’t have a tasting menu, they had a purging menu. The place only had six tables but thirty-two stalls. Their special of the day was Imodium. Their slogan was “Bring a friend! Second guest pukes for free.”

I think I’ve found a way to get into these places: Stand right behind Betty White. You’ve got a fifty-fifty shot at a good seat, especially if she’s got a cough.

I hate Hollywood fund-raisers.
I am so bored going to a twenty-five million dollar house to hear a mogul say, “Good news, everyone. Tonight we’ve raised almost twelve thousand dollars!” You paid your gay hustler more than that, you cheap thing. Why not spare all of us the canapés, small talk and crème brûlée and just write a damn check?

I hate new millionaires who are investing in art
and have an original Marc Chagall hanging over the sofa—right next to a velvet Elvis and a painting of dogs playing poker. If the only taste you have is in your mouth then invest in something no one will see… like a late-night talk show on Fox.

I hate Hollywood’s lists:
the A-list, the B-list and the D-list. The only list I like is
Schindler’s List
and that’s only because I’m sucking up to Steven Spielberg, aggressively looking for film work so I don’t have to break my ass writing another book.

I hate that all the stars in Hollywood smoke.
It’s not smog, it’s Lindsay Lohan. I drove past MTV; there was a white cloud of smoke over the studio. I thought they were electing a pope.

I hate that everyone in Hollywood has a sex tape… except me.
Maybe it’s time for me to do something groundbreaking: nana-porn. I’ll call it,
I Am Curious (Why My Diaper Is Yellow)
.

I hate the actors who stay in New York instead of going to Hollywood because they are “artists” and don’t want to “compromise their craft.”
Now the only “kraft” they have is the macaroni and cheese they eat for dinner six nights a week. “Theater actor” is an old English word that means “cater waiter.”

I hate gypsies,
the itinerant Broadway dancers who’ve been twirling and plié-ing for thirty years and are still hopeful and eager and waiting for their big break, gosh darn it! The only break they’re going to get is their spine, when their flat feet and thick ankles collapse from standing on food-stamp lines since 1977.

I hate stage actors who take thirty-six curtain calls at the end of a play.
I think actors who keep taking bows at the end of the play should have to stay in character. At the end of
The Miracle Worker
Helen Keller should walk off the stage and fall into the orchestra pit; at the end of
Death of a Salesman
Willy Loman should blow his head off in the lobby; and at the end of
Cats
the actors should have to lick themselves and cough up fur balls.

When I finish a play, I come out, bow and go back to my dressing room to have sex with a stagehand—assuming I can find a straight one. I don’t need the audience validation to make me feel complete; I need a quickie.

Only in Appalachia would a father-daughter marriage be considered normal. And even then that’s only in the bad parts of Appalachia. Even cousin-fuckers have standards. What I think about is before Woody proposed to Soon Yi, did he ask himself for her hand in marriage?

Who am I to throw stones? Whatever it is, it’s working. He’s a little bit country, and she’s still a little bit postpartum.

If not for the pilfering and the anger management issues, they might’ve been the perfect couple. However, Clyde sometimes had a little trouble getting his pistol to fire.

Other than the fact that he liked to keep his hands to himself, they had a great sex life. Josephine’s safe word was “Waterloo.”

They had art, they had passion, they had eyebrows… Thank God they didn’t have children.
Rrr-uuffff!

To this day, every time I see Priscilla Presley all can I think is, “Those are the lips that sucked the cock of the King of Rock ’n’ Roll.” I hated seeing a young attractive person turn into such a bloated zombie. And what happened to Elvis was not so nice, either.

She had no choice but to marry Larry. She’d already married everyone else. What people don’t realize is that Liz spent most of her fortune on monogramming.

They’d still be together if she’d found a one-hour dry cleaner. She gave size twenty-eights hope for a future in the Oval Office… at least under the desk.

He was unfaithful and nasty and she was a nag and a liar. They would have fit in very nicely with my family.

I’m not saying they were lesbians. I’m saying they should have been. “Schlemiel. Schlmazel. Muff divers, incorporated.”

Everyone loved Lucy. Including Desi. He just loved coochie more.

They were truly the world’s first nuclear family. He married her because she had that certain glow. And they had a beautiful wedding, even if the photos were all in black and white.

It didn’t work out between Michael and Bubbles because only Michael wanted children. Boy, oh boy, did he want children. Mostly boys.

Unless was he was suffering from a case of hysterical blindness, I still don’t buy it.

They built an empire together. Now
that’s
romance.