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

death. Or two. And to make it really work for me, it has to be unexpected, not like that Andy Griffith shit. Andy was three hundred fucking years old and hadn’t whistled in Mayberry since 1971. I like shocking. A “Why did Whitney have cocktails in the bathtub before the Grammys?” kind of a death. A “stunning starlet and her hunky boyfriend mutual suicide pact” kind of thing, where the boyfriend “accidentally” forgot to drink the Kool-Aid and is seen “mourning” at the starlet’s funeral with his arm around her best friend, who turns out to be her younger, prettier brother.
    What really kills me is that with all the procedural crime shows these days, it’s getting harder and harder to get away with murder. In the good old days, you shot some son of a bitch, pressed the smoking gun into his hand and you got away with it. I don’t want to sound like a complainer, but nowadays, between DNA, cleaned-up blood that shows under luminol, minute crumbs from popcorn the murderer was eating six days before the crime, carpet fibers from a lesbian brothel and that nosy hag Nancy Grace who never stops prying, there’s just no way a nice person like me can get away with murdering someone who really annoys me. (I personally will never forgive Nancy Grace for her treatment of Casey Anthony. Casey and her kid sat behind me on a six-hour airplane flight a week before the kid vanished. Casey had a point.)
    APRIL 13
    Dear Diary:
    Watched Melissa McCarthy on SNL last night. She’s hilarious. She commits to every single moment. She’s more committed than Lindsay Lohan, which makes sense, since when Lindsay’s committed it’s usually by a court order. I hope Melissa doesn’t do what a lot of stars do, and forget what made her famous. In other words, I hope she stays fat. As long as her ratings are higher than her cholesterol, who gives a shit if she smells like government cheese or has to have handlers come in twice a week to hose her down between her folds? Ruth Buzzi of Laugh-In decided she wanted to be pretty-ish, so she took off the hairnet and threw away the dirty sweater, and today she lives in Texas and makes a living selling nude photos of Arte Johnson on eBay. Carol Burnett went under the knife, got cheekbones and lost her series. Sonny Bono decided to “get in shape,” so he took up skiing. He lost both Cher and his head. Luckily I have changed nothing. The parallel scars running up the back of my head are the result of too-tight forceps when I was delivered—as happened frequently in the fifteenth century. (And you wonder why Torquemada was always in such a bad mood?) I say, dance with the one who brung you. And in Melissa McCarthy’s case, that would be Colonel Sanders and Sara Lee.
    APRIL 14
    Dear Diary:
    I read a story in the Times about how John Hinckley, Jr. is behaving much more normally these days when he’s out of the nut hatch, tooling about town on his day passes. I’m guessing he saw Jodie Foster’s “Yup, I’m a dyke” speech on the Golden Globes and finally realized that his love for her would be unrequited. I hope he moves on with his life and from now on only obsesses about Queen Latifah, Dana Delany and Holland Taylor.
    APRIL 15
    Dear Diary:
    Today is tax day—my favorite day of the year. Not because I like paying taxes—no one does, except for that jackass Warren Buffett, who keeps saying he wants to pay more taxes. Great, Warren, go right the fuck ahead—pay mine. My accountant’s name is Michael Karlin; he’ll be in touch, so have one of your five hundred servants sit by the phone.
    I love tax day because I like to see fat, bald actuaries and the dumpy homely girls with bad shoes who work for them sweat like pack animals carrying supplies across the Pyrenees.
    If I have to pay thousands of dollars for some lazy farmer in Kansas to not grow corn, or for some teenaged mother in Houston to feed her five kids by seven different baby daddies, then I want somebody to be as miserable as I