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

mattered. Even ugly girls have a limit. Trust me, if he was getting his cockney sucked, he was paying for it.
    I hate it when ridiculously mismatched couples think their relationship is based on love. Believe me, one of them knows it ain’t. Case in point, Hugh Hefner and Miss May… That’s not a May–December romance; that’s a Miss May–Please-God-may-he-not-live-to-December romance. And I hate it when the hot runway model with the 38Ds is “dating” an eighty-seven-year-old man with a catheter and early dementia and she says, “My Bobbykins is so smart and funny. I love him.” Her Bobbykins is drooling onto histie. Believe me, he doesn’t make her wet. The
only
person he’s making wet is himself. And the only thing she wants to get out of Bobbykins’s pants is his wallet.
    And I hate the naïve people who look at them and say, “She adores him. She talks to him all the time.” You know what she’s saying? “Sign here, sweetheart, it’s okay.”
    I hate having to play along with the happy May–December couple lie. It’s exhausting. One time I was at a book party in the Hamptons and into the soiree comes Bambi the Bimbo, pushing her boyfriend, Methuselah Finklestein (of the Five Towns Finklesteins), across the room in his wheelchair. She’s eleven, he’s a hundred and two and I’m supposed to act like it’s a perfectly normal relationship and that all blond Russian supermodels with slight overbites fall madly in love with wrinkled, liver-spotted, half-deaf pieces of petrified wood. Believe me, it wasn’t easy making conversation that they could both be involved in, but thank God I finally came up with, “Are you two wearing matching MedicAlert bracelets? That is so sweet.”
    I hate it when people introduce you to someone and use the word “lover.” What
lover
means is, “I ingest this person’s bodily fluids.”
Yuuuccck
. Do I really need to have that image in my head two seconds after we’re introduced? “Hi, I’m Jeffrey and this is my lover, Nathan, and I consider his semen to be one of the four basic food groups.” Or “I’m Bob and this is my lover, Susie, and I use her vaginal secretions as an emollient.”This is too much information for an internist, let alone an aging yenta like me.
    To me, “we’re lovers” means (a) they’re a pair of wussies who are afraid of commitment, or (b) there’s something seriously wrong with each one of them (seborrhea, erectile dysfunction, hears voices) and the other one is simply waiting for a new trick to come along before hitting the road.
    The only thing more annoying than the word
lover
is the recently divorced dentist with the ponytail who stays in the back of his cousin’s house in the Hamptons (north of the highway) and introduces you to “my lady.” I usually just throw up right on him.
    I was in a nightclub in Camden, New Jersey, and I was in a bad mood. The opening act was a magician/gynecologist whose big trick was pulling a hat out of a rabbit. Anyhow, a guy comes into my dressing room and says, “I’d like you to meet my lady.” I said, “When were you knighted?”
    I hate the term “partner.” “Yes, we’re partners… This is my life partner, Teddy.” Jacoby & Meyers are partners. Ben & Jerry are partners. Bausch + Lomb are partners. You and Teddy are fuck-buddies.
    I hate weddings. Weddings are nothing more than catering with virgins. Sorry, in the old days it was virgins; now it’s baby mommas.
    I hate when they throw rice. If you want to throw rice put the children of Darfur on the guest list.
    I hate Viennese tables. The only Viennese people I’ve ever heard of were Sigmund Freud, Adolf Hitler and the von Trapp Family Singers—and from what I’m told they all hated fancy desserts, not to mention black-tie affairs and hors d’oeuvres. (And speaking of hors d’oeuvres, never serve pigs in a blanket at a bris. It’s just wrong. Oh, and never call them
pigs in a blanket
. Use the classy term:
pork in a