I Hate Everyone...Starting With Me by Joan Rivers Read Free Book Online Page A

one look at Eleanor and thought,
Back that thing up here, bitch
? Do you think Siegfried saw Roy across a crowded room and said, “I’d like to put my tiger in his tent?”
    My late husband, Edgar, and I got married after knowing each other for four days. He had no idea who I really was. Edgar had no clue that the hair he loved to touch he could take with him to the office. By the time I took off the hair, the contacts, the partialbridges and the padded bra, he didn’t know whether to get into the bed or into the drawer.
    I hate women who say, “I knew he was the one.” How could you know that? Did you already fuck everyone else? Yet with Edgar it
was
love at first sight for me; he was simply everything I wanted in a man: breathing and not repulsed.
    I hate dating. Women go on dates to get free meals. Men go on dates to get free feels. And lesbians go on dates to get camping equipment and unattractive footwear.
    Even as a young girl I was terrible at dating. Compared to me, Carrie had more fun at her prom. Guys didn’t try to get me into the backseat of a car; they tried to get me under the back wheels. I said to one guy, “Why don’t you slip into something more comfortable?” He slipped into someone else’s apartment.
    I hate first dates. Why is it always dinner and a movie? Why not dinner and a trip to Europe, or dinner and a new car, or, if I’m in failing health, dinner and a new valve? Men think going to a movie is a safe first date: They don’t have to make conversation and for eight bucks they might even be able to cop a feel. Or, if they’re on a date with me, four bucks, as I’m a senior citizen. And two bucks if they feel me before 3:00.
    I hate women who date much younger men. I’ll never be a cougar. I don’t like younger men. I don’tever want to wake up in the morning and wonder,
Is this my date or did I give birth last night?
Yet for some it works. I have one friend who dated a guy who was so much younger that when she bought him the book
The Joy of Sex
he sat down and colored in it.
    I hate dating small talk. People don’t tell the truth. Chatting about the weather or movies or books is a complete waste of time. I say be honest right from the get-go. If he says, “How are you?” tell him the truth: “Constipated. I haven’t had a good shit since 9/11.” Get to it right away: “I believe in bestiality, incest and sixth-trimester abortions. I’m in favor of shooting old people who complain about the room being too drafty, and I loathe people who find fault with dogfighting. I have halitosis, my lower jaw clicks when I chew and when I eat soft food it comes out of my nose.” By the time you’ve finished the appetizers you’ll know if the evening is going to end up in a warm bed or a shallow grave.
    I hate couples that make out in public. I always want to yell, “You’re disgusting! Can’t you finger each other in the back of the bus like the rest of us?”
    I hate pretending to like the afterglow of love. You know, that special moment when the sex act is finished and you’re sweating like Roman Polanski at a Girl Scout jamboree and wondering if you’re going to have genital warts in the morning? What
are
you supposed to do when you’re done making love? Somepeople like to smoke, some people like to eat… I like to clean under my nails to get rid of any signs of a struggle.
    The only thing worse than the afterglow is the cuddling. It’s annoying. You crushed my pelvis, chafed my thighs and ruined my sheets. Why would I want to hug you? You got on, you got off, now get out.
    I hate people who say, “There’s someone for everyone.” There’s not. Do you
really
think there was a “special someone” for the Elephant Man? Do you believe that somewhere in the moors lived a nubile, raven-haired beauty who longed for a smelly, pus-oozing, deformed man with greasy hair and an English accent? Don’t be stupid. He could’ve been hung like a hippopotamus and it wouldn’t have