film it in New York in front of some slums and we could pretend I was on the border near Palestine. So I’m working on the list.
JUNE 28
Dear Diary:
In less time than it takes to say “Shalom,” Steve Levine has arranged pitch meetings for me in New York this summer with the top three TV networks in Israel: FEH, OYI and Vav Gimmel Vav.
JUNE 29
Dear Diary:
Here’s my top ten list:
Top Ten Things I Love About Israel
I love its blue and white flag. It matches my legs.
I love that they have (Prime Minister) Bibi and we have (Honey) Boo Boo.
I love that Israel is so much closer to the South African diamond mines than New York.
I love Israeli men—they’re tall, dark and hairy. Just like Persian women.
I love that Israelis, unlike New Yorkers, don’t eat corned beef and pastrami with butter.
I love that in Israel, “Dudu” is a nickname, not an excretion.
I love that Israel reminds me of Boca Raton—palm trees, white sand and old Jews.
I love that it’s not Egypt.
I love the Gaza Strip—it is my favorite drag name.
I love that the Dead Sea was named for my sex life.
I love that Israel has kosher McDonald’s. Instead of a Big Mac they have a Big Macher.
I love that Israel’s cows produce more milk than anyone in the world except Dolly Parton.
And most of all, I love that voice mail was invented in Israel. It said, “Leave a message. Or don’t. I’m only your mother, I’ll be dead by Tuesday, anyway.”
I know, I know, there are thirteen items on the list instead of ten, but since the Israeli network execs are Jews they’ll probably insist on taking something off.
JUNE 30
Dear Diary:
God, I’m on a plane, again! Melissa, Cooper and I are off to Mexico for a wedding and I almost didn’t make it as I needed to update my passport. My current passport photo is a cave drawing. I’m not sure why Americans even need passports to go to Mexico. Not only do 80 percent of the people from Mexico live in America now (most of them within six blocks of Melissa’s house), but I have yet to meet a customs agent who won’t accept a little kindne$$ from a stranger to get into their country. I could have a bazooka on my shoulder and my tits could be ticking, but if I have a couple of pe$o$ hanging out of my purse it’s “Buenos días, Señora Rivers!”
I hope by now you realize that this is a humor book and it’s not meant to be taken seriously. If not, you can’t return it because we’ve got your money and you’re halfway through. Plus I’m sure there are stains on it you’d probably rather not explain to the credit manager.
Can you pick which one has my original nose?
JULY 1
Dear Diary:
I have just arrived at a destination wedding in Mexico. Excuse me, I mean Meheeco .
One of the most annoying things about Americans is that, the minute they leave the mainland, they immediately try to speak the local language, as though they were indigenous to the region, like plants and bugs and fungi. For example, in Hawaii, Mrs. Ginsburg, the Jewish fan who I met in the hotel restaurant, greeted me with, “Alloooohhhhaaaaa, Hunkaluna—want a pastrami sandwich?” In Germany, a bespectacled accountant met me with, “Wilkommen to Deutschland, Fraulein Rosenberg. Oy, did I have a schmeck for lunch.” And in Australia a friend of mine left me in tears, speaking the click language. I don’t know what the fuck she said, except, “Click click click, Joanalah . . . Boomerang . . . Irving’s dead. Click click.” I didn’t know if she was talking to me or chewing gum.
I know a smattering of French, but when I’m in Paris I don’t try to act like the late General de Gaulle. For starters, my nose has been fixed and I don’t sleep with young girls.
Anyhow, back to Mexico. First of all, who plans a wedding in Mexico in July? Even the Mexicans don’t stay there; they tunnel into Arizona to cool off. Second of all, I resent when the bride and groom call it a “destination wedding” and I have to pay to
JUNE 28
Dear Diary:
In less time than it takes to say “Shalom,” Steve Levine has arranged pitch meetings for me in New York this summer with the top three TV networks in Israel: FEH, OYI and Vav Gimmel Vav.
JUNE 29
Dear Diary:
Here’s my top ten list:
Top Ten Things I Love About Israel
I love its blue and white flag. It matches my legs.
I love that they have (Prime Minister) Bibi and we have (Honey) Boo Boo.
I love that Israel is so much closer to the South African diamond mines than New York.
I love Israeli men—they’re tall, dark and hairy. Just like Persian women.
I love that Israelis, unlike New Yorkers, don’t eat corned beef and pastrami with butter.
I love that in Israel, “Dudu” is a nickname, not an excretion.
I love that Israel reminds me of Boca Raton—palm trees, white sand and old Jews.
I love that it’s not Egypt.
I love the Gaza Strip—it is my favorite drag name.
I love that the Dead Sea was named for my sex life.
I love that Israel has kosher McDonald’s. Instead of a Big Mac they have a Big Macher.
I love that Israel’s cows produce more milk than anyone in the world except Dolly Parton.
And most of all, I love that voice mail was invented in Israel. It said, “Leave a message. Or don’t. I’m only your mother, I’ll be dead by Tuesday, anyway.”
I know, I know, there are thirteen items on the list instead of ten, but since the Israeli network execs are Jews they’ll probably insist on taking something off.
JUNE 30
Dear Diary:
God, I’m on a plane, again! Melissa, Cooper and I are off to Mexico for a wedding and I almost didn’t make it as I needed to update my passport. My current passport photo is a cave drawing. I’m not sure why Americans even need passports to go to Mexico. Not only do 80 percent of the people from Mexico live in America now (most of them within six blocks of Melissa’s house), but I have yet to meet a customs agent who won’t accept a little kindne$$ from a stranger to get into their country. I could have a bazooka on my shoulder and my tits could be ticking, but if I have a couple of pe$o$ hanging out of my purse it’s “Buenos días, Señora Rivers!”
I hope by now you realize that this is a humor book and it’s not meant to be taken seriously. If not, you can’t return it because we’ve got your money and you’re halfway through. Plus I’m sure there are stains on it you’d probably rather not explain to the credit manager.
Can you pick which one has my original nose?
JULY 1
Dear Diary:
I have just arrived at a destination wedding in Mexico. Excuse me, I mean Meheeco .
One of the most annoying things about Americans is that, the minute they leave the mainland, they immediately try to speak the local language, as though they were indigenous to the region, like plants and bugs and fungi. For example, in Hawaii, Mrs. Ginsburg, the Jewish fan who I met in the hotel restaurant, greeted me with, “Alloooohhhhaaaaa, Hunkaluna—want a pastrami sandwich?” In Germany, a bespectacled accountant met me with, “Wilkommen to Deutschland, Fraulein Rosenberg. Oy, did I have a schmeck for lunch.” And in Australia a friend of mine left me in tears, speaking the click language. I don’t know what the fuck she said, except, “Click click click, Joanalah . . . Boomerang . . . Irving’s dead. Click click.” I didn’t know if she was talking to me or chewing gum.
I know a smattering of French, but when I’m in Paris I don’t try to act like the late General de Gaulle. For starters, my nose has been fixed and I don’t sleep with young girls.
Anyhow, back to Mexico. First of all, who plans a wedding in Mexico in July? Even the Mexicans don’t stay there; they tunnel into Arizona to cool off. Second of all, I resent when the bride and groom call it a “destination wedding” and I have to pay to
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