I Hate Everyone...Starting With Me, page 10
Delta Air Line’s slogan was, “Delta is ready when you are.” Really? Then have the plane pick me up at 6:00, I’ll be in my driveway. I’ll be the one in the red jacket with the suitcase.
I hate what now passes for food and snacks on planes. What’s with the blue potato chips? The only things on the plane that should be blue are the uniforms, the pilot’s balls and the veins on the old flight attendant’s legs. In the old days they’d put a tablecloth on your tray and you’d have your choice of steak or chicken or fish. It was like a bar mitzvah without the complaining. Now they sell you boxes of crackers and slices of apples that looked like they were picked in the Garden of Eden.
The only thing I hate more than some morbidly obese slob waddling down the aisle looking for his seat is trying to look busy so I don’t have to make eye contact with him while praying that the seat he’s looking for isn’t next to mine—and if it is, I encourage him to rethink sitting there by saying something like, “Do you know how to change a colostomy bag?”
I hate flying with Alec Baldwin. He’s a good actor and a funny man, but honestly, unless the electronic device you’re fiddling around with is a pacemaker or a porn app, then turn the fucking thing off. Scrabble can wait until you land.
I hate people who whine about airport security. Not only does the added security not bother me, I actually like it. And not because it makes me feel safe, but because it makes me feel moist. I can’t wait for the TSA agents at the airport to pat me down. It’s like sex without the apologies. I can’t get patted down often enough. I’m at the age where they’re the only ones who want to touch me and that’s only because they have to. You know how most people take off their shoes when going through the scanner? I take off my dress. I’m at the point where I demand a cavity search just to get on a crosstown bus.
My favorite part of the screening process is being wanded, when the TSA agent starts rubbing that electronic magic wand all over me. It gets me all hot and bothered. In fact, when the agent is finished wanding me I sit on the baggage carousel, have a cigarette and sing “The Man That Got Away.”
Sometimes I actually hide contraband in my Spanx just to get patted down. There’s a tall, dark and handsome TSA agent at JFK who had to pat me down six times. He and I still correspond.
But you know what else I hate? Those new X-ray scanning machines that let the agents see right through your clothes. First off, they’re used in lieu of the pat downs and wandings. I hate that. (I also hate the term “in lieu of.”) Second, the agents can see everything: moles, scars, implants—it’s not right! I shouldn’t have to coif my muff just to walk through an X-ray machine.
I hate people who sneak into first class to use the bathroom. I’m sitting there, in 4F, sipping Cristal and admiring my new line of jewelry for QVC, and suddenly, busting through the curtain and rushing toward the bathroom is some doughy soccer mom holding her crotch and yelling, “Emergency, emergency!” No, it’s not!!! Opening the main hatch and pushing you out at thirty thousand feet for disturbing me is an emergency. Peeing on your brown stretch pants is really just a problem; and it’s your problem, not mine. I know that in first class there are four passengers and eleven bathrooms and in coach there are a thousand passengers and only one half bath and a broken chamber pot, but I’m in first class for a reason, and the reason is because I don’t want to pee with you. I say, “Get back in your cabin, grab a couple of paper towels, and look at the bright side: You’re wearing polyester, it doesn’t hold a stain.”
I hate flying on private jets. When someone takes me on a private jet I’m always treated like a queen, but because I’m a guest it means that whoever owns the jet is a lot more rich and famous than I am and if that private jet goes down, the obituary in the New York Times will read: INTERNATIONAL OIL MAGNATE SHEIK ABDULLAH MUCKETY MUCK AND FOUR OTHER (POORER) PEOPLE DIE IN PRIVATE PLANE CRASH. I haven’t spent forty years playing one-nighters in Wilkes-Barre to die as an “other.” So keep your private fucking planes. I’m more than happy to keep badgering commercial airlines into upgrading me to first class.
It’s not just planes I hate. I hate all forms of public transportation. “Why?” you ask. “What’s wrong with public transportation?” And I always answer, “The public, that’s what.”
People are pigs. Not all people—not you, for example. You bought this book, so even if you threw the bag and the receipt on the sidewalk I’d overlook your piggishness because I have your money. But other people are pigs—especially bus people.
I hate bus people. There are only a few kinds of people who truly like to travel by bus: country music stars, white trash, single mothers who were thrown out of their motel rooms for leaving cigarette burns on the night tables and dangerous felons just released from prison. Oh, and old ladies with buckets of nickels on their way to Atlantic City to piss away their Medicare money.
I hate Greyhound’s motto: “Leave the driving to us.” It’s so stupid. What do they think—that I’m planning to take a shift behind the wheel? Suddenly I’m going to vault from my seat, hurdle down the aisle, push the driver out of the way and steer the big rig on its coveted Akron-to-Sheboygan run? Look, I’m only traveling by bus because I have an infectious cough that prohibits me from traveling by plane and spreading germs to people who have more money, power and influence than you do.
I hate it when the local bus has to stop to let a handicapped person on. What a friggin’ nuisance. Everyone else has to wait while the driver stops the bus, lowers the ramp down, loads the paraplegic, locks him into place, raises the ramp, and then starts the bus back up. It makes no sense. I’m late for a pedicure appointment and have to wait for someone who can’t even feel his toes? That’s just plain wrong.
I hate that the first few rows on city buses are reserved for the elderly. I’m tired of tripping over their canes, walkers and companion animals.
Where could they have to go in such a rush that they have to sit right up front near the door—a Widows Without Partners Dance-a-Thon? A new job as a phone sex operator? (I knew a ninety-three-year-old woman who supplemented her Social Security by working on a sex hotline. She was so senile she’d answer the phone and say, “What am I wearing?” The heavy breathing was easy for her; she had emphysema.)
I hate following a man into the toilet on a bus. (When I say “following him” I don’t mean chasing him down the aisle for a quickie; I mean going in there to do my business after he’s finished doing his.) How can I put this delicately—men seem to think that the bowl is merely a suggestion. Also, please note—how a man goes to the bathroom on a bus tells you what kind of a lover he is. If a man can’t hit a hole the size of three basketballs in a fully lit john, how’s he going to perform in a dark room?
I hate country stars who like traveling in giant customized buses so they can schlep their entire families with them: parents, kids, grandkids, goats… Look, I appreciate the sentiment; family is an important thing, but… Dolly, Willie, Garth… I know your hearts are in the right place, but seriously, you’re spending millions of dollars on a bus? When Melissa was a child and I was on the road I took her everywhere I went. But never once did I think about buying her a bus; until she was twelve, she fit perfectly into the overhead. When she got a little older I sent her via cargo—I was told it was usually heated, and she wasn’t in the same compartment as the luggage.
I hate the New York City subway system. They’re not train cars, they’re urinals with wheels. And they’re dangerous. If I want to spend time locked up with a creepy, stinky old perv, I’ll pay a conjugal visit to Phil Spector.
I hate boats. I hate traveling on any form of transportation that can be overtaken by pirates. It’s 2012—how is it there are still pirates? Shouldn’t they be extinct by now? After all, we’ve managed to phase out pilgrims, cavemen and folk singers; surely we can do something about Smee, Blackbeard and Captain Hook. I’m not an expert on maritime law but can’t we call the Spanish Armada to come in and get rid of them? Unless the pirates look like John
I hate cruising. At sea. However, cruising a nursing home for a ninety-year-old man with ninety million in the bank is a whole ’nother story.
The only time people think about ships is when there’s a blurb on the news about a ship that either sank or someone fell or was pushed overboard, or it’s taken hostage by foreign enemies. If you think I’m kidding try to name five ships that are famous for something other than sinking. Go ahead, I’ll wait. Time’s up; I rest my case.
The only hit movies about ships were about ships that sank: Titanic, The Poseidon Adventure, and PT-109, the story of JFK going down at sea instead of on Marilyn Monroe.
And by the way, did you know that referring to a ship as a “boat” is considered bad luck, like whistling in a dressing room, or stepping on a crack?* According to sailors, boats sink and ships don’t. Really? Then apparently the Titanic was just a boat. And by the way, the Titanic didn’t sink because it hit an iceberg; it sank because Kate Winslet was fat. If someone had put that British hag on Weight Watchers, Leonardo DiCaprio would never have drowned in the Atlantic.
I know what you’re thinking: But The Love Boat didn’t sink. Stop whining! For starters The Love Boat was a TV show, not a movie. It’s where has-beens went for one last shot at keeping their Screen Actors Guild cards before they died. Sort of like Celebrity Appren… Never mind, bad analogy.
I hate cruises—especially three-day cruises. Even Leon Klinghoffer was on the goddamned ship for a couple of Tuesdays. Where can you go in three days? The first day you’re still in Staten Island, then you go to the Jersey Shore, and then you have to turn around and go back. That’s not a cruise, that’s a ferry without a GPS. Three days doesn’t make it for me. If I go on a cruise it’s got to be at least a week and the “exotic” ports of call can’t be in Maryland or Virginia.
I hate “the captain’s table.” Being invited to have dinner at the captain’s table is supposed to be some kind of an honor, but I never understood why. What if the captain is dull or stammers or eats with his elbows on the table? Then it’s not an honor, it’s a sentence. When I take a plane to Europe I don’t have dinner on the pilot’s lap. When I go downtown in a taxi I don’t have brunch at the driver’s mosque.
Is the captain such a good host? Is he the Martha Stewart of the high seas? To me an honor is winning an Academy Award or having Judge Judy give you a huge settlement in a questionable malpractice suit you filed. But dinner with a sailor? Please, Popeye was a sailor. Spinach for two is not exactly my idea of haute cuisine.
You have to be invited to sit at the captain’s table, you can’t just plunk your ass down and say, “Hey, Skipper, how’s it hangin’?” These invites are hard to come by. It’s easier to get an audience with the pope than to get an invitation to the captain’s table. And I’d rather sit with the pope—his drag is faaaaabulous.
Cruise ships have morgues on board in case one of the passengers goes “anchors aweigh.” If you’re going to have a morgue on board, placement is important. Don’t put the morgue next to the dining room; not only is having the first seating next to The Last Supper déclassé, it also makes you wonder what the meat is for dinner. Having a morgue on board is just creepy. You could be at the midnight buffet looking at the beautiful seafood spread and suddenly realize that the ice chips surrounding your shrimp cocktail at twelve o’clock might have been surrounding Mrs. Blickstein’s body at eleven.
I hate gay cruises. They’re too gay, even for me, and I love love love my gays. Gay cruises are all about hundreds of gay men drinking, carrying on and having sex. Or, hundreds of gay women drinking and carrying on and building bookcases.
I hate whale watching. It’s stupid. You spend hundreds of dollars to stand on a boat, getting soaked and nauseous just to watch a whale jump around. Save your money—stay home and throw in a DVD of Precious.
I hate rich celebrities who lounge around naked on their private yachts. The paparazzi have long-range lenses, so keep your privates private! Unless you’re Brad and Angelina, I don’t want to get to know you up close and personal. Years ago in Hustler magazine Larry Flynt printed nude photos of Jacqueline Kennedy taken on Ari Onassis’s yacht. I was shocked! Jackie had quite the muff; talk about a grassy knoll.
Traveling in foreign lands is annoying. I hate rickshaws. They’re just pedicabs with peasants. If I’m in a rush, exactly how fast is a ninety-year-old woman with tightly bound feet and a hunchback going to get me to my appointed destination?
I hate traveling by camel. They are not air-conditioned and they smell worse than the New York City subway. Riding on a camel may be the only circumstance under which getting humped is actually not fun.
MY FAVORITE FIRST LADIES
When Lady Bird Johnson died, I was heartbroken. All I could think was, First Eleanor, then Bess, then Mamie, now this. Where have all the pretty girls gone?
Here is my short list of my favorite first ladies:
She’s the premier charter member of the First Ladies’ Hall of Fame. No matter what was going on in the world, she was always able to properly accessorize red. That’s a hero.
She drank, she smoked, she had things removed; you could talk to her.
Hot. George had wooden teeth. Martha had splinters in her thighs. ’Nuff said.
If not for her we’d all be having sorbet for dessert.
William Howard Taft weighed six thousand pounds. That Helen could schtup him and still have the strength to smile for the cameras in the rose garden… a miracle worker.
JFK not only diddled Judith Exner, but also Marilyn Monroe, Angie Dickinson, Jayne Mansfield… every actress he could find. He probably banged Lassie. He slept with more famous women than Rosie O’Donnell. And Jackie knew it and didn’t care. She just kept cashing the checks. I ran into her once and not only was she nice but she looked stunning. I said to her, “My God, that pink suit is fantastic on you.” And she said, “Thanks. Would you believe I just got it back from the cleaners? Good as new. Madame Paulette. She’s a little expensive but well worth it; believe it or not, this was covered with blood and bits of brain.”
What could I say? She shared her dry cleaner’s name with me. The woman was a giver.
You know that old expression, “Looks don’t matter?” Eleanor took it to heart, and made homely women everywhere feel better about themselves. Eleanor was way ahead of her time. If she were alive today she’d have her own series on Animal Planet.
There was talk.
*FYI: I never bought the “step on a crack, break your mother’s back” thing. The only way that works is if mommie dearest is already lying facedown on the sidewalk from your initial rabbit punch to the back of her head, and then you step on the crack.
THE NAME GAME
A rose by any other name would smell just as sweet.
—THE BARD OF STRATFORD-UPON-AVON
A rose by any other name would be a different fucking flower, asshole.
—THE BITCH FROM FASHION POLICE
I hate nicknames. They’re stupid, confusing and a complete waste of time. (Not that I have anything better to do, I just enjoy complaining.) Nicknames are usually a shorter version of a formal name or a term of endearment, but not always. Sometimes nicknames don’t make sense. I hate that. For example, the nickname for Margaret is Peggy. Where does that come from? How is the nickname for William “Billy”? Where did the B come from? The nickname for William should be Willy—that makes perfect sense. And honestly, other than Rosie O’Donnell, who doesn’t like a good willy? I see why a person named Jeffrey would be called Jeff, or Edward would be
Nicknames are nothing new. They’ve been around since the beginning of time. Little known fact: Jesus’ good friends—the ones that really knew him—always called him “Jimbo.”
Remember Vlad the Impaler? Everyone thinks he was nicknamed the Impaler because he killed people by running spears through them. Not so. He was called the Impaler because he was married to Myra, the Distended Vagina.
How about Ivan the Terrible? Why was he called “the terrible”? There are three reasons: one, he killed a million serfs; two, he was constantly interrupting his mother; and three, he liked to fart in closed spaces. Did you know that Ivan the Terrible had a stepbrother, Seth the Mildly Irritating?
Alexander the Great? He was named this by his Jewish mother, Miriam, who played favorites. Truth be told, Alexander was only great compared to his brother, Vinny, the Total Disappointment, who instead of going to medical school worked in a Korean deli.
I hate that states have nicknames and I hate even more that they’re lies. For example, New Jersey is nicknamed “The Garden State.” Really? Have you ever smelled New Jersey? Secaucus smells like a slaughterhouse; Elizabeth smells like an oil refinery and the shore smells like JWoww.
Utah is called “The Beehive State.” Is that because the women there still dress like it’s 1962 or because they live like bees—all sleeping on top of each other in a place everyone else is afraid to enter?
Florida is called “The Sunshine State.” What a misnomer. When is the last time you saw a cheerful, smiley person in Florida? The old Jews are always complaining, the rednecks have no teeth and the immigrants are in hiding. The only person in Florida who’s even a tad sunny is David Caruso, and that’s because he films his show in California.