maxi pads and lube. Let them wonder.
JUNE 23
Dear Diary:
Went to a party last night with my agent Steve Levine’s secretary’s second cousin, Alan. He’s an unmarried, fifty-two-year-old nebbish with a lisp who made a small fortune in women’s foundations. “Joan, would you like to thee thome new Thpanx?” “No sanks, Alan.”
The party was a big snore. There wasn’t one person there who could either advance my career, or even better, destroy the careers of anyone who could even marginally be considered my peer. (By the way, I hate the word “peer,” as in, “O.J. Simpson was found guilty by a jury of his peers.” Unless the jury was made up of twelve rich, African American, Heisman Trophy winners who appeared in the film Towering Inferno , O.J. wasn’t tried by a jury of his peers; he was tried by the twelve stupidest people in the United States.)
I guess this means I really don’t have any “peers,” either. A handful of drag queens who do me in lounges in Vegas doesn’t count. Do the math: How many other octogenarian female Jewish comedians with acid reflux and two cable shows do you know?
JUNE 24
Dear Diary:
Today the Supreme Court approved gay marriage! Well, they didn’t actually “approve it”; it’s just that five of the Supremes love going to well-catered events and don’t really give a shit what the occasion is. (You haven’t lived until you’ve witnessed Ruth Bader Ginsburg shoving baby lamb chops into her purse.) Now that I’m an ordained minister, this means more work for me, which means I won’t have to go to the women’s shelter when I lose all my money in a game of strip poker with Larry King.
JUNE 25
Dear Diary:
Big tribute for Don Rickles tonight at the Waldorf-Astoria. It was run by the Friars Club, which is basically a gay bar without the good-looking men. It was a tribute, not a roast, which means either (a) the Friars couldn’t get a television deal to film the event, or (b) they were afraid the rich corporate pricks wouldn’t buy tickets because they didn’t want comedians to make fun of them in front of their underage, Argentinean girlfriends.
I had a great time and got lots of laughs. Don is a lovely man and it was nice to help honor him. He laughed so hard he nearly dried his pants. A lot of big stars were there, including Bobby De Niro. And I call him Bobby, in the same way I called John Wayne “Duke,” or in the same way I call Anderson Cooper “Liza.” Bobby’s a good sport, especially on the jokes about his penchant for women of color, but then again, he should be. He’s had more black asses on his face than the backseat of Rosa Parks’s bus.
JUNE 26
Dear Diary:
I was asked to do a benefit for some group—I’m not sure which, but I’m very into charity. It turns out this charity fights teenage pregnancy. Of course I said yes. I work in Hollywood; I see how unwanted pregnancies can mess up young women’s lives. They’re missing out on all the fun. Teenage girls shouldn’t be mothers; they should be drug addicts.
Jane Fonda is a leader in the battle against teenage pregnancy. I remember once Jane and I were having lunch (Vietnamese food of course), and she asked me what I thought was the best way for innocent teenage girls to not get pregnant. I said, “Lesbianism.” Jane got very upset and said, “Teenage girls shouldn’t even know about things like that yet.” I said, “Then what’s the best way for innocent teenage girls not to get pregnant?” She gave me that big, two-time Oscar-winner Fonda smile, and said, “Blow jobs.”
JUNE 27
Dear Diary:
I’ve been asked to appear in a taped segment on Israel’s number-one-rated television show. They want me to do a “top ten list” about why I love Israel. At first they wanted me to go to Israel in August and I said, “Perfect. There’s nothing like going to the desert in the middle of the summer.” But then they figured out it would be cheaper—leave it to my people—just to
JUNE 23
Dear Diary:
Went to a party last night with my agent Steve Levine’s secretary’s second cousin, Alan. He’s an unmarried, fifty-two-year-old nebbish with a lisp who made a small fortune in women’s foundations. “Joan, would you like to thee thome new Thpanx?” “No sanks, Alan.”
The party was a big snore. There wasn’t one person there who could either advance my career, or even better, destroy the careers of anyone who could even marginally be considered my peer. (By the way, I hate the word “peer,” as in, “O.J. Simpson was found guilty by a jury of his peers.” Unless the jury was made up of twelve rich, African American, Heisman Trophy winners who appeared in the film Towering Inferno , O.J. wasn’t tried by a jury of his peers; he was tried by the twelve stupidest people in the United States.)
I guess this means I really don’t have any “peers,” either. A handful of drag queens who do me in lounges in Vegas doesn’t count. Do the math: How many other octogenarian female Jewish comedians with acid reflux and two cable shows do you know?
JUNE 24
Dear Diary:
Today the Supreme Court approved gay marriage! Well, they didn’t actually “approve it”; it’s just that five of the Supremes love going to well-catered events and don’t really give a shit what the occasion is. (You haven’t lived until you’ve witnessed Ruth Bader Ginsburg shoving baby lamb chops into her purse.) Now that I’m an ordained minister, this means more work for me, which means I won’t have to go to the women’s shelter when I lose all my money in a game of strip poker with Larry King.
JUNE 25
Dear Diary:
Big tribute for Don Rickles tonight at the Waldorf-Astoria. It was run by the Friars Club, which is basically a gay bar without the good-looking men. It was a tribute, not a roast, which means either (a) the Friars couldn’t get a television deal to film the event, or (b) they were afraid the rich corporate pricks wouldn’t buy tickets because they didn’t want comedians to make fun of them in front of their underage, Argentinean girlfriends.
I had a great time and got lots of laughs. Don is a lovely man and it was nice to help honor him. He laughed so hard he nearly dried his pants. A lot of big stars were there, including Bobby De Niro. And I call him Bobby, in the same way I called John Wayne “Duke,” or in the same way I call Anderson Cooper “Liza.” Bobby’s a good sport, especially on the jokes about his penchant for women of color, but then again, he should be. He’s had more black asses on his face than the backseat of Rosa Parks’s bus.
JUNE 26
Dear Diary:
I was asked to do a benefit for some group—I’m not sure which, but I’m very into charity. It turns out this charity fights teenage pregnancy. Of course I said yes. I work in Hollywood; I see how unwanted pregnancies can mess up young women’s lives. They’re missing out on all the fun. Teenage girls shouldn’t be mothers; they should be drug addicts.
Jane Fonda is a leader in the battle against teenage pregnancy. I remember once Jane and I were having lunch (Vietnamese food of course), and she asked me what I thought was the best way for innocent teenage girls to not get pregnant. I said, “Lesbianism.” Jane got very upset and said, “Teenage girls shouldn’t even know about things like that yet.” I said, “Then what’s the best way for innocent teenage girls not to get pregnant?” She gave me that big, two-time Oscar-winner Fonda smile, and said, “Blow jobs.”
JUNE 27
Dear Diary:
I’ve been asked to appear in a taped segment on Israel’s number-one-rated television show. They want me to do a “top ten list” about why I love Israel. At first they wanted me to go to Israel in August and I said, “Perfect. There’s nothing like going to the desert in the middle of the summer.” But then they figured out it would be cheaper—leave it to my people—just to
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