Diary of a Mad Diva (13 page)

JULY 7

Dear Diary:

Watched the Wimbledon tennis tournament this morning. I hate tennis. All that head turning, back and forth, back and forth. It can loosen even a good facelift. I just stare in one direction, usually at the player who grunts less. If the ball doesn’t come back, obviously the other idiot missed it. FYI: If I want to hear someone grunting, I don’t need Wimbledon; I’ll watch CeeLo Green try to cross his legs.

I love England, I love London, I love the royals but OMG the Brits are just not an attractive people. At least not compared to all the Botoxed celebrity types that I run with. Then again, compared to the hirsute Greeks, the peasanty Russians or the slope-browed Croats, the Brits are big-time stunning. To help me feel better about my looks I constantly remind myself that most minor races are ugly. Sometimes I pull them up on the Internet alphabetically, and every time I start to feel really homely, I just go and stand next to Miss Eskimo.

JULY 8

Dear Diary:

Today Sassy Steve Levine said I’ve been invited to go on
Dancing with the Stars
. I politely declined. I said, “No fucking way! What’s wrong with you?” (1) I’m not a good dancer. (2) I hate touching sweaty strangers. (3) I’m deathly afraid that Bruno will jump across the judges’ table and bite me in the face.

JULY 9

Dear Diary:

Today is the first day of Ramadan, which is a Muslim “holiday” where Muslims fast for thirty days. Just what we need: groups of hysterical, angry people who hate us to start with and who are now hungry on top of it. We keep sending them millions of dollars and soldiers; it’s so fucking stupid. We should send them a thousand boxes of Twinkies and a little KFC; not only will they be appreciative, they’ll be way too bloated and lethargic to attack us.

JULY 10

Dear Diary:

Feeling great. I just finished reading the newspaper of record in my house, the
National Enquirer
, and there was a cover story on fat celebrities. What surprised me was that the story included Keanu Reeves. I was shocked. I didn’t know he was still a celebrity. I could have sworn I saw him last Tuesday making lattes at the Starbucks in Malibu. But what
really
surprised me was a picture of Renée Zellweger. Not only was her face pulled so tight that she could whisper in her own ear, but because of her weight gain her eyes, which had always been a little squinty, now looked so Chinese that the U.S. government is questioning her country of origin on her passport. If the fat pushes her squinty eyes up any more I predict she’ll go from being an A-list movie star to being the next Mrs. Woody Allen. I say with this love: I really like that little prune face. I remember when Renée starred in
Bridget Jones’s Diary
and she made a big stink about how she gained twenty pounds for the part because she was devoted to her “craft.” Big fucking deal. Shelley Winters gained eighty pounds making
The Poseidon Adventure
because she was devoted to craft services.

JULY 11

Dear Diary:

We’re starting to plan Grandma Week with Cooper. Every year he and I go somewhere special, just the two of us . . . plus my publicist, assistant, stylist, and hair and makeup people, and of course Pingpong. It sounds like a lot but we hardly notice them, as Cooper and I sit in first class, and they all take turns sharing a seat in coach. The time away with Cooper is great as it also gives Melissa and me a breather before we appear on Discovery ID as the lead story in a “Daughters Who Kill” segment. I don’t think she has it in for me—although for my birthday she bought me a bathing suit made out of lead—but I know things. Last year I had walking . . . well, limo-ing pneumonia and the doctor came out to the waiting room and said to Melissa, “I just need to know, God forbid, are you prepared for your mother’s death?” And Melissa said, “Prepared? I’ve had a shovel in my trunk since 1983. The Boy Scouts aren’t this prepared.”

There are ways to tell your family is sick of you:

• They take the batteries out of your Clapper when you’re dying to sleep.
  
• They find you a hospice nurse on Craigslist.
  
• They turn your room into a storage space while you’re still living in it.
  
• At Thanksgiving they put you in the oven to check on the turkey.
  
• They send you on vacation to Guantánamo Bay.
  

JULY 12

Dear Diary:

It’s 800 fucking degrees in New York and the city smells worse than Precious after a six-day cleanse. It’s so hot even the fragrance-schprizters in Saks are starting to smell like the homeless.

And yet so many politicians and preachers are saying they don’t believe in climate change and think that the world is collapsing because God hates homos. If God wanted to “punish homosexuals,” as Pat Robertson said, then why did He make the tsunami in Japan, or the earthquake in Haiti? Doesn’t God have a GPS? If God hated homos, those catastrophes were such a waste of His efforts. Why didn’t He just flood Key West with cotton-poly blends, or even worse, open a Walmart in West Hollywood? That would’ve stopped those gay guys dead. I find it hard to believe that God’s melting the planet because a couple of florists in Palm Springs added baby’s breath to an arrangement.

JULY 13

Dear Diary:

I was watching
The View
or
The Talk
or
The Chew
 . . . I can’t remember which one, they’re all the same except that
The Chew
has burping. So I was watching and one of the hosts said about one of those young, interchangeable actresses no one can really identify, “I don’t begrudge her success.” And I thought,
Neither do I
. This girl obviously worked very hard for it—just look at how raw her knees are.

The only person whose success I begrudge is Mother Teresa, that underdressed, poorly coiffed, androgynous old bag. People carried on about what a wonderful, giving person Mother Teresa was because she washed the feet of the poor. I say, wash the feet of one poor person and you’re kind; two, you’re doing a mitzvah; three or more, face it Big T, you’ve got a fetish. She did it because she liked it. Terry washed the feet of millions, yet not one reporter ever mentioned that when she was finished scrubbing the heels of the downtrodden, she always lit up a cigarette and sang a Johnny Mathis tune.

JULY 14

Dear Diary:

It’s Bastille Day in France, marking the day when millions of French people stormed the Bastille protesting Jerry Lewis’s upcoming tour. They celebrate with a huge military parade. Of course, being French, they march backwards down the Champs-Élysées, in full retreat.

JULY 15

Dear Diary:

Just watched back-to-back episodes of
True Blood
and
The Walking Dead
, and I’m fed up with vampires. They’re everywhere: movies, TV, museums. Enough already! If I want the life sucked out of me I’ll spend a long weekend with Bethenny Frankel.

How many vampires do we need? I was hunky-dory after Dracula; my desire for cave dwellers was sated. But now, suddenly there’s this popular resurgence in bloodthirsty old bats that just won’t die. Which reminds me, I have to set my TiVo for the season premiere of
Hot in Cleveland
. I used to always watch
True Blood
on HBO, but after six seasons, Ryan Kwanten has still not showed off his junk, yet Anna Paquin won’t stop showing hers. And I really don’t understand the
Twilight
series. I’ve seen all the movies and they bore the shit out of me. The only good part is watching Kristen Stewart suck the blood out of the director through his penis.

JULY 16

Dear Diary:

Summer is upon us, and you know what that means: people in restaurants in tank tops and halters. Uck! I don’t want to look at your unkempt armpit when I’ve got a mouthful of angel hair pesto. And the first part of halter is “halt,” as in “Halt! Go back in your closet and put on a fucking blouse. Or if you’re fat, a bedspread or a boat cover.”

JULY 17

Dear Diary:

Just read an article that said who we are is determined in the first five years of life because our brain has grown to 86 percent of its capacity by that age. I don’t believe this. I don’t think that 86 percent of our entire personality is formed by age five. C’mon, are you trying to tell me that at four and a half Jeffrey Dahmer decided that instead of eating Gerber baby food he’d much rather eat the Gerber baby? Plus, if this is true, explain that kid in the movie
Mask
to me. That kid’s head kept growing and growing and growing. By the time he was eleven he was blowing his nose on the drapes. His poor mother, who looked a lot like Cher, spent more on hats than rent, car and utilities combined.

JULY 18

Dear Diary:

My agent wants to book me on a lesbian cruise. I told him I’d let him know. The money’s good but I’m not sure I want to spend two hours staring at a group of angry women who think nothing’s funny except jokes about Antonin Scalia, Martina Navratilova or three-quarter-inch drill bits.

JULY 19

Dear Diary:

I turned on the TV hoping to find
Yentl
(I love watching Barbra Streisand magically transform from a homely girl to a homely boy), and instead I got a commercial for Christian Mingle, the dating website for happy, perky young Christians. The announcer says, “Find out God’s match for you.” What if God had been drinking, or Jesus double-dared him, or God was auditioning for
Punk’d
so he deliberately made a bad match for you with a pasty hunchback with a club foot and money problems? Should you marry him just because God says “Go” and be nauseous and miserable every time this guy wants to climb on top of you in the Biblical way? Or should you date the quarterback with the great smile and big dick and then eventually marry a Jewish millionaire with mommy issues and high cholesterol? Seems like a no-brainer.

Since good Christians aren’t supposed to think about, have, or enjoy sex, I can’t imagine what the attraction to that website would be.

Hi, I’m Chad McWhitey, and I’m a young Christian trying to find God’s match for me. I go to a Christian college where I’m taking Christian classes like “Don’t Do That, You’ll Go Blind,” “Intolerance Is a Good Thing” and “Your Penis Is Just for Peeing.” I have a part-time job as a cook in a non-Jew deli where my specialty sandwich is pastrami on white bread with butter—and I love to serve it with a teeming glass of whole milk! Mmmmmm!!! My hobbies include thinking about Jesus, drawing pictures of Jesus, talking to Jesus and wondering why Jesus never met God’s perfect match for himself. If you want to have a clean, wholesome, sex-free experience, HMU! We can pray together!
*
Praise the Lord.

Christian Mingle is much different than JDate, the website where Jews go to meet and complain.

Hi. My name is Elliott. I’m good looking in a Semitic way (thanks to my mother’s side) and have a share in the family dry goods business (thanks to my father’s side). My hobbies include going to nice restaurants, taking nice vacations, having a nice house within twenty miles of a big city (but not the bad ones) and schtupping my nephew’s camp counselor, Rivka, twice a month. I’m looking for a buxom, appreciative Sabra with dead parents.

JULY 20

Dear Diary:

Today was Natalie Wood’s birthday. If she had either learned to swim or vacationed in a desert, today she’d be close to 804 years old. And if Elvis were alive today, he’d be close to 492 pounds.

JULY 21

Dear Diary:

Off to do a show in Nashville, which is like Branson, Missouri, with teeth. I’m looking forward to it. Country audiences are so much fun; they embrace you just like you were one of their underage cousins.

Nashville is a city that really loves its celebrities and it seems every country star has a museum there. I love museums; they can be full of fun when they accurately reflect their location and give their patrons art they can relate to. For example, in New York the Metropolitan Museum has a da Vinci that depicts Ben Hur riding around in a chariot, looking for a parking space. The world-renowned Pepe Museum in Mexico City has the same theme painted by Frida Kahlo in which Ben is driving a Chevy with stolen plates. And perhaps the most famous museum of all, the Getty in Los Angeles, has Michelangelo’s
Last Supper
, done originally as a triptych. The third panel features a vegan salad bar in the background, which art historians say explains Jesus’s lanky physique.

In Branson, they had a museum called Barbara Mandrell Country, which was a shrine to the most talented yet least attractive of the Mandrell sisters. There was an exhibit of exact miniature replicas of all of her houses, complete with little barns and little animals. And in the little bathroom there’s even a little toilet with teeny tiny turds.

The most incredible item in the museum was the nightgown Barbara wore on her wedding night with her husband “Kinny” (“Kenny” to the rest of us), which is prominently displayed in a glass case right next to the fender they pulled out of her head from that car crash in ’84. That nightie was shredded and tattered like she’d been attacked by a pack of wolves. I wonder if she and Kinny met on Christian Mingle?

Another museum I visited was the Ferlin Huskie Wings of a Dove Museum and Prayer The-ater. In addition to having all of Ferlin’s memorabilia on display, every day they do musical shows based on Bible stories. I loved every minute of it even though I was very surprised to find out that the Lord had serious pitch problems.

I’m a huge country western fan, in fact I’m a bit of a C/W connoisseur and I know almost all of the original lyrics and titles. Tammy Wynette, happy at a tax break she received, originally wrote “Stand By Your Jew Accountant.” Johnny Paycheck’s wife, furious that his mistress got a genuine mink stole for Christmas, screamed, “Take This Cloth Coat and Shove it.” But perhaps my favorite is one that Willie Nelson sings only in private or at special parties, “I’m Cryin’ in My Sleep ’Cause I Found You with My Sheep.”