Diary of a Mad Diva by Joan Rivers Read Free Book Online Page A

sometimes infanticide—but only if the baby was nice-looking.)
    April Fool’s Day is not a real national holiday. If it was a real holiday, Saks would be selling bedding half off, and I’d be booked at some casino or country club at a wildly inflated price.
    There are a lot of different theories as to how April Fool’s Day came to pass. According to Wikipedia, author/hand model Geoffrey Chaucer—who wrote The Canterbury Tales ,the feel-good book of the fourteenth century—coined the phrase April Fools to refer to the engagement of Richard II to Anne of Bohemia, either because they got the date of their wedding wrong orbecause Anne was a taciturn, butch lesbian and Richard had no idea; he thought she was just a little frigid and a lot handy.
    And as for “jokes” such as undoing the tip of a pen so it leaks or hiding cicada bugs on someone’s food tray, they really aren’t funny practical jokes; they’re stupid. If you want to do something funny, think big. One of my favorite pranks is to run into a kindergarten class and yell out, “Little Billy? Your mommy loves your sister more than you.” Wait five seconds, then run back in and say, “Just kidding! April Fool’s! She actually loves your sister and your brother more than you!” Poor little Billy.
    APRIL 3
    Dear Diary:
    I hate Wikipedia. There’s no guarantee that what they say is true because anyone can go in and change the profile information. Today, I could change the part of Mother Teresa’s profile that refers to her as “a humanitarian who gives assistance and aid to women and children” to “an old lezzie who dressed poorly and liked touching strangers’ feet.”
    APRIL 5
    Dear Diary:
    Went out to dinner last night with one of my closest friends, whose name escapes me for the moment. Anyway, she’s a diabetic and is constantly monitoring her sugar level. It was very exhausting. How many times a day can I say, “No, you’re not pale and you don’t look any worse than normal, but would you like to stop and get a Kit Kat?” She also has no boundaries, so right in the middle of dinner at Joe Allen, just as the waiter was bringing us our lump crabs, she hikes up her blouse, moves her boobs and gives herself a shot of insulin. The place went silent; it was quieter than Auschwitz the morning after shower day. She looked around at the appalled customers and said, “What? I have diabetes!” The guy at the next table said, “So what? I have colitis. You want me take a shit in the coatroom?”
    APRIL 7
    Dear Diary:
    I hate—not dislike; not am mildly annoyed by—really hate that irritating, pasty-faced girl who plays Flo in the Progressive insurance commercials. Those commercials run during every show on every network at all hours of the day. They run so often I’m starting to miss that sexually frustrated couple that sits in separate bathtubs on the side of a cliff waiting for his hard-on medicine to kick in. Or that old couple that rides up and down the stairs endlessly on that easy-lift chair and never once seems to enjoy it and go “Wheee!”
    I hate Flo. I hope she gets run over by a car . . . driven by an uninsured driver. And while she lies there waiting for an ambulance (that, god willing, is stuck in traffic), I hope the Aflac duck walks by and poops on her, just as the Geico gecko comes over and starts nibbling on her exposed, pulsating flesh.
    APRIL 10
    Dear Diary:
    Reading the New York Times obituaries and I am so sad. For the fifth day in a row, not one celebrity who I’m jealous of has died. I get so annoyed reading about the untimely passing of a crossing guard, or the death of a pieceworker after a lengthy illness. These “losses” do nothing to start my day. Unless the crossing guard was run over by a school bus, or the lengthy illness was leprosy and the pieceworker died, so fittingly, piece by piece, all those obits do is waste my time and bore me half to death.
    We’re in desperate need of a good, tragic celebrity