get there. It should be called a “ two destination wedding,” because long before I hit Mexico my first stop is to my bank. Between airfare, hotel and a gift, I figure this fancy-schmancy destination wedding is costing me fifteen grand to attend the nuptials of a couple whose marriage will probably last three weeks longer than my actual trip.
And, if I’m going to pay to go to a destination wedding, make it different. We’ve all seen Hawaii, we’ve all been to the Bahamas and we’ve all gone barefoot in the sands of Iwo Jima. I want it to be unique. Join Fritz and Helga at their destination wedding in Auschwitz. You’ll laugh, you’ll learn, you’ll love! This gives a whole new meaning to the term “bridal shower.” And the gift shop, believe me, is to die for.
Back to the destination wedding in Mexico. For starters the groom is half her age and rumor has it he signed the prenup in crayon. And he’s already cheating on her. My friend is smart enough that the prenup will only leave him $600, a used mink coat * and a couple of tins of Friskies.
JULY 2
Dear Diary:
Just got off the plane from my flight home from Meheeco and I’m tired and cranky. The wedding was horrible; the big attraction was hitting the piñata. There’s nothing worse than watching adults whack furiously at a donkey made out of crepe paper and then push, shove and elbow each other out of the way to get some candy. “Look, it’s a Jujube! Hey, after twenty swings and a crushed disc I got a Jujube.” One of the bridesmaids got into a catfight with the groom’s aunt over a piece of Laffy Taffy. Trust me, there wasn’t a Jew in the bunch. We only push, shove and elbow each other out of the way for diamonds and a 40 percent off sale at Bergdorf. Never mind candy, if Mexicans were smart they’d fill the piñata not with Snickers but with green cards. Believe me, Pedro would’ve broken it open on the first whack.
The best part of the trip home was that I got to sit next to Andrea Bocelli. The guy is blind as a bat and covered with taco stains. I started to strike up a conversation with him but since he wasn’t wearing dark glasses I didn’t know if I was boring him or he just didn’t know where to look. I asked him if he’d ever heard of Joan Rivers and he said, “I thought she was dead.” I was very hurt so I did little petty things to get back at him, such as when the stewardess brought the menu around I shoved it in his hands and said, “He’ll order for both of us.” I just kept making guttural, engine-stalling sounds as well as pointing out the sights off the left side of the plane. Finally I leaned over to him and whispered in his ear, “Please don’t say anything if you feel a little dampness; my strawberry douche is leaking. I was feeling a little yeasty yesterday.”
JULY 3
Dear Diary:
Tomorrow’s the Fourth of July, a day most people think of as a chance to celebrate the birth of our nation. I, however, think of it as a chance for Chinese kids to blow their fingers off with cheap fireworks.
I don’t understand explosives, per se. The only explosive I deal with is colitis, and the only people who celebrate that are the manufacturers of Charmin, Depends and Glade. If you really want to see fireworks, sneak into a staff meeting run by Katie Couric. The workers on Deepwater Horizon had a less explosive work environment.
JULY 4
Dear Diary:
I woke up half an hour ago and I realized just how lucky I am to have been born in the greatest country in the world (except for Malawi, where everything is always on sale, including the children). As I looked out of my window and saw the streets of New York below me, I realized that the people on those streets were below me, too. And not just because I’m on the fifth floor, but because in what other country could an eighty-year-old Jewish widow buy ices from an Italian pushcart operator, get a pedicure from a Vietnamese sex slave or take a ride in a taxi driven by a Haitian
And, if I’m going to pay to go to a destination wedding, make it different. We’ve all seen Hawaii, we’ve all been to the Bahamas and we’ve all gone barefoot in the sands of Iwo Jima. I want it to be unique. Join Fritz and Helga at their destination wedding in Auschwitz. You’ll laugh, you’ll learn, you’ll love! This gives a whole new meaning to the term “bridal shower.” And the gift shop, believe me, is to die for.
Back to the destination wedding in Mexico. For starters the groom is half her age and rumor has it he signed the prenup in crayon. And he’s already cheating on her. My friend is smart enough that the prenup will only leave him $600, a used mink coat * and a couple of tins of Friskies.
JULY 2
Dear Diary:
Just got off the plane from my flight home from Meheeco and I’m tired and cranky. The wedding was horrible; the big attraction was hitting the piñata. There’s nothing worse than watching adults whack furiously at a donkey made out of crepe paper and then push, shove and elbow each other out of the way to get some candy. “Look, it’s a Jujube! Hey, after twenty swings and a crushed disc I got a Jujube.” One of the bridesmaids got into a catfight with the groom’s aunt over a piece of Laffy Taffy. Trust me, there wasn’t a Jew in the bunch. We only push, shove and elbow each other out of the way for diamonds and a 40 percent off sale at Bergdorf. Never mind candy, if Mexicans were smart they’d fill the piñata not with Snickers but with green cards. Believe me, Pedro would’ve broken it open on the first whack.
The best part of the trip home was that I got to sit next to Andrea Bocelli. The guy is blind as a bat and covered with taco stains. I started to strike up a conversation with him but since he wasn’t wearing dark glasses I didn’t know if I was boring him or he just didn’t know where to look. I asked him if he’d ever heard of Joan Rivers and he said, “I thought she was dead.” I was very hurt so I did little petty things to get back at him, such as when the stewardess brought the menu around I shoved it in his hands and said, “He’ll order for both of us.” I just kept making guttural, engine-stalling sounds as well as pointing out the sights off the left side of the plane. Finally I leaned over to him and whispered in his ear, “Please don’t say anything if you feel a little dampness; my strawberry douche is leaking. I was feeling a little yeasty yesterday.”
JULY 3
Dear Diary:
Tomorrow’s the Fourth of July, a day most people think of as a chance to celebrate the birth of our nation. I, however, think of it as a chance for Chinese kids to blow their fingers off with cheap fireworks.
I don’t understand explosives, per se. The only explosive I deal with is colitis, and the only people who celebrate that are the manufacturers of Charmin, Depends and Glade. If you really want to see fireworks, sneak into a staff meeting run by Katie Couric. The workers on Deepwater Horizon had a less explosive work environment.
JULY 4
Dear Diary:
I woke up half an hour ago and I realized just how lucky I am to have been born in the greatest country in the world (except for Malawi, where everything is always on sale, including the children). As I looked out of my window and saw the streets of New York below me, I realized that the people on those streets were below me, too. And not just because I’m on the fifth floor, but because in what other country could an eighty-year-old Jewish widow buy ices from an Italian pushcart operator, get a pedicure from a Vietnamese sex slave or take a ride in a taxi driven by a Haitian
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