I Hate Everyone...Starting With Me, page 9
I hate places that are incorrectly named, like Greenland, which is cold and icy. Or Iceland, which is lush and green. I think they took those names just to fuck with us.
I don’t know if the Ivory Coast has any actual ivory in it, but I respect it because it’s the only country named after two deodorant soaps.
I hate Paris. Yeah, yeah, yeah, it’s the most beautiful city in the world, but it’s inhabited by the most disgusting people. Parisians are horrible. If you ask a Parisian for help you’ll die in the rue before they’ll lend you a hand. Their yellow smiley-face buttons are smirking. Parisians always walk around with this expression on their faces like they’ve just smelled something rotten. Well guess what? “Hey, Jean-Claude, the smell is from you! You stink!” The French are not known for their hygiene; in fact, the level of b.o. in Paris is tres horrible mostly because the French always have their arms up in the air—since they’re always surrendering. It is a country of smelly cowards. Do not, I repeat, do not stand downwind on a hot summer day on the Champs-Elysees.
I hate the pretentiousness of Parisians. They name their streets after the literati, like Rue de Victor Hugo and Rue Guy de Maupassant. The only street I like is Rue Honore de Balzac, because “Balzac” sounds so gay, and I love my gays. I might like Parisians more if they named their streets only for gay icons, like Rue Liza Minnelli or Rue Bette Midler or, my favorite, Rue McClanahan.
I’ve always hated Maurice Chevalier. He sang “Thank Heaven for Little Girls” and the French adored him. Creeeeepy! In America we have a word for men like that: Polanski.
I’ve hated the French ever since Dreyfus. The affair, not the actor—although it’s a crime against humanity that Richard Dreyfuss never got to do “En Paris.” Be that as it may, I hate the French because they were big Nazi sympathizers. Sure, there was the so-called French “Resistance,” but I put up more of fight on my wedding night. During World War II they had a rebate program, “Bring in a Jew, get a toaster.” The great designer Coco Chanel was a Nazi sympathizer and a great anti-Semite. Her original fragrances were Chanel No. Fünf and Auschwitz No. Nine.
I hate Winnipeg. It’s cold all the time. No matter when you go there the people are shivering and shaking. It’s like being at a detox center on intake day. Winnipeg is so cold the town witch has no tits. They froze and fell off.
I hate Venice—the city in Italy, not the beach town in California. Venice, California, is just steroid-riddled bodybuilders with bulging veins and shrunken testicles. People think Venice, Italy, is canals, art and romance but actually it has more bums, drifters, vagrants and losers per square mile than anyplace else. It’s like Occupy Wall Street, but everybody has better complexions because it’s near the water.
If I could live my entire life no more than six blocks from Fifth Avenue I’d be perfectly happy. Okay, I wouldn’t be “perfectly happy”; I’d still be sour and unpleasant, but I wouldn’t mind it as much because I’d be close to shopping.
OVERRATED HISTORICAL FIGURES THAT I HATE
First of all I hate him, hate him, hate him! Probably the worst villain of the last five hundred years and on top of that he had zero fashion sense. Brown shirts? Brown was over in 1839, let alone 1939. And the boots in the summer and the armbands and the guns and the epaulets—the whole look didn’t work.
Hitler also had a horrible attitude. Millions of Germans would practically throw their arms out of their sockets saluting him, and he’d make this half-ass wave back at them, as if to say, “Whatever.” These people are getting up early, early, early to march and sing and parade around, the women got up at the crack of dawn to iron lederhosen and put their braids on top of their heads, and all Hitler could manage in return was a faggy little wave? Nice.
I hate him because he was stupid. In 1776, George Washington crossed the Delaware River. February 1776. In the winter! Across snow and ice. Who was his travel agent? Mohamed Atta? Wait till April when it thaws, big boy.
Even more shocking, he went from Pennsylvania to New Jersey? Who goes to New Jersey? Even the bridges and tunnels only charge a toll to get out.
Then there’s that cherry tree nonsense. According to legend, when George was six, he took his hatchet and chopped down his father’s favorite cherry tree, but he didn’t get punished because he confessed to doing the dirty deed. Historians look at this episode as a study in character. I look at as a study in psychosis. What kind of six-year-old has a hatchet? And what kind of grown man has a favorite tree? And then I wonder why, even as president, he walked around in a white shoulder-length wig and tight blue capri pants.
I hate him because he was a total pervert. (And I know perverts: I dated two-thirds of the Osmond brothers; they’re in my little black book of Mormon. And I for one can tell you why Mormons’ underpants are magic.)
Benjamin Franklin discovered electricity by accident. We all know he took that stupid kite with the key on it out in the rain, but when the key got struck by lightning, he loved it. He was turned on like Michael Jackson at a Boy Scout jamboree. In fact, for the rest of his life, anytime it poured he ran out on his roof, naked, and stood there with a fork in his mouth.
Mo, as he liked to be called in bed, was a man on a mission, and the mission was “peace through starvation.” Why he couldn’t pick “peace through retail,” or “peace through clever white wines,” God only knows. To me, giving someone the chance to buy high-quality shoes at low discount prices is a much better marketing tool than starving to death.
He got lost. He left Spain looking for the trade route to South America, zigged when he should have zagged, missed his turn and wound up in Rehoboth instead of Rio. In spite of his wife’s pleadings, he refused to pull over and ask for directions.
Stephen Hawking is brilliant, an absolute genius. He can drool in twelve different languages. But so what? His wife beats the shit out of him twice a week. And this is the second wife, not the first. (How he meets women at all is beyond me; the man’s a coffee table with a tongue.) Stephen left the first wife for this one. I could understand it if the first one whacked him around—I mean, he did cheat on her and roll off with another woman, but why this one is turning his life into a hell on wheels is anybody’s guess. But you’d think, with all of his brainpower, he’d at least have figured out how to blink 9-1-1.
She only wrote the one book and didn’t finish it. What kind of a work ethic is that? She has nothing to do all day long, yet, when it comes to completing the one task at hand, she can’t be bothered. I mean c’mon, maybe this is why Peter Van Daan wasn’t all that interested in hooking up. No one likes lazy.
And don’t say, “Oprah who?” You know who. Stedman’s beard, that’s who. Oh, please. Sure, she denies it but even Abraham Lincoln didn’t have this big a beard. I know Oprah’s opened schools and raised money and given away Buicks, blahblahblahblahblah. But so what? She can’t keep her weight at a reasonable level. One day she weighs 140, two days later she’s being fitted for a boat cover. What kind of a role model is that? Her weight goes up and down more than Monica Lewinsky’s head. And honestly, I don’t know how she keeps gaining the weight; how fattening could Gayle King be?
On July 20, 1969, Neil Armstrong walked on the moon and everyone’s been carrying on about it ever since. I’m not saying it wasn’t a huge accomplishment—being the first person to do anything is notable for sure. But how about a little perspective?
When Neil left Florida that morning for the moon there was no traffic. Plus, he made all the lights, so the trip itself was relatively simple. A couple of hours later he gets to the moon and lands right away. No trouble finding a parking spot. No meters, no loading zones, nothing. So he puts the parking brake on, gets out, walks around, takes a golf swing, picks up some rocks and com
That’s it. He didn’t do any sightseeing, no shopping, no touristy stuff at all; he didn’t even try to lie out and pick up a tan. He just came home. The man had the one vacation the whole fucking year; he drove eight million light-years to get to there and didn’t so much as have a cup of coffee, check into a hotel or buy a T-shirt. What kind of behavior is that? That’s not a hero, that’s a horse’s ass.
And not for nothing, he got the whole fucking vacation for free.
Paul was the “cute” Beatle, but in all honesty, that wasn’t really much of a horse race, now was it? Being the cutest member of the Beatles is like being the smartest person in Sarah Palin’s house—not a huge accomplishment. Compared to John, George and Ringo, I could be the cutest Beatle, and I can’t sing or dance or play an instrument.
But it’s Paul’s taste in women I find so stunning. He’s the richest, most famous rock star in the entire world, and he was married first to a tone-deaf mousy woman who could’ve been his sister, and then to Peg Leg Pete who tried to fleece him for all he was worth.
Mick Jagger looks like an extra from the Planet of the Apes and he has beautiful women hanging all over him. Billy Joel and Keith Richards? Not exactly magazine covers, yet they always have gorgeous girlfriends. Even Elton John has a pretty wife. Okay, her name is David, but still… you get my point.
I do feel bad for Paul that the second wife, the one-legged one, Heather Mills, turned out to be so rotten. He made her rich and famous and he even wrote special songs for her, like “I Saw Her Leaning There,” “I Want to Hold Your Stump,” and my favorite, “Eleanor Rigby (Leaves Her Leg in a Jar That She Keeps by the Door).” And what does she give him, in return? A kick in the ass and a trillion-dollar alimony bill, that’s what.
Paul just got married again. This one’s a Jewish biped. Let’s hope it’s third time lucky and we can all just let it be.
Not to knock his accomplishments, but the worst carpenter ever until Richard Carpenter, who just sat at the piano smiling while his sister drummed and sang and threw up.
Everyone carries on like Jesus was the Second Coming, but let me tell you, he had flaws.
For example, in high school Jesus didn’t apply himself at all. If he had, he might’ve gone to college, and instead of being a carpenter he might’ve owned a lumber company. Or at least been silent partner in a drywall business.
And did you ever see anything he built? No. In the history of the world is there one chair or bookcase or credenza that says “Built in Bethlehem”? No.
Finally: He couldn’t pull himself off a cross. What kind of a carpenter can’t pull himself off a cross? He didn’t have a tool belt? How about carrying a hammer? Boom, boom, you pull the nails out, you clean up a little, you’re at Red Lobster by eight. Eight thirty if there’s desert traffic.
In 1957, Jack Kerouac published the classic novel, On the Road. Twelve years later, at age forty-seven, he was dead.
Moral of the story: Stay home.
I hate traveling and I think it goes all the way back to when I was a little girl. I hated traveling on horses. There I was, in my pretty little bonnet, riding through town, just me and my pa, having a perfectly nice day and all of a sudden the tail goes up on the horse in front of me. Party’s over!
The only, and I mean only, good thing about horses is that they can poop while they walk—they are so lucky. I think about that all the time when I’m at a sale at Gucci.
I hate being on the road; quite frankly, at this point in my life I hate leaving the house altogether. If this book is a success, I may never go outside and see the light of day again. A few years from now local authorities will answer a smell complaint from my co-op board and find me, partially decomposed in a Valentino dress, under a pile of newspapers, rotting away like a housecat in an episode of Hoarders. And all of my neighbors will say, “Who knew Joan was such a homebody?”
I’ve been on the road for my entire life. I remember the day I told my father that I wanted to be a comedian; he was so wonderful and supportive. We were sitting in the living room and he put his hands on my shoulders, looked me in the eye and said, “Joan, get the fuck out.” Since then it’s been hotels and motels and inns and condos and planes and trains and buses and camels. (I once played a Giggle Factory in Cairo. Talk about kill or be killed.)
Life on the road is not as glamorous as you would think. Oh sure, there’s the occasional chiropodist from Ohio who can help turn a Red Roof Inn into a Bunny Ranch, but otherwise life on the road is hell. Remember when Willie Nelson sang, “On the Road Again”? Did you know the record company made him change the original lyrics? What Willie actually wrote was, “On the road, again, oh Christ I can’t believe I’m on the road again.” Even he hated it and he was stoned all the time.
I hate flying. Flying used to be so much fun. I remember the first flight I ever took; I was about sixteen and I got on the plane and said to the pilot, “Orville, I hope you and Wilbur make this a smooth flight.” And he said, “Fuck off, prissy bitch.” Ahh, memories.
Did you know that the slogan “Something special in the air” was about American Airlines? I always thought it was about Ricky Martin’s ass.
I hate stewardesses who insist on being called flight attendants. It’s soooo pretentious, what’s the point? You’re doing the exact same job as before so what does it matter what I call you? The same woman has been working as my proctologist’s assistant for twenty years. She’s always been known as a proctologist’s assistant. Not once in all that time has she ever said to me, “Joan, from now on I insist on being referred to as a doody handler.” What was wrong with “stewardess,” anyway? It’s the female version of “steward.” I hate women who say, “stewardess is pejorative. It implies we’re less than men.” You know who I’ve never heard make that complaint? Countesses. They seem just fine with it. I say, as long as the castle, the land, the servants and the jewels are in my name, you can call me Cuntess for all I care.
I hate preflight announcements. The first thing flight attendants say is that their main priority is safety. “Hi, I’m Missy from your Minneapolis-based flight crew and before we push back from the gate, please remember, our primary purpose is to keep you safe.” Wrong!!! Your primary purpose is to keep me happy. The pilot will keep me safe. Your first responsibility is to tell those whiny brats in row seven to stop kicking and shut the fuck up or I’m going to call Casey Anthony. Your secondary purpose is fresh-brewed decaf and third on your priority list is making sure that the in-flight movie isn’t Alive. “Safety” is not really part of your job. Sorry, Missy, but I just don’t think you and your perkiness are going to be much help in a plunging jumbo jet.
I hate when flight attendants try to be funny with their announcements. Until you can do forty-five minutes on a Friday for three thousand drunken carpet salesmen in Vegas, leave the comedy to me. I won’t try to explain how to exit a burning fuselage and you don’t try to make the Asian high rollers laugh by walking down the aisle and saying, “Hey, srant-eyes, where you flom?”
United Airlines used to have friendly skies. “Friendly skies” meant that the female flight attendants would give blow jobs in the galley. Things have changed. Now only the male flight attendants give blow jobs in the galley.
I hate old flight attendants. They can be very cranky and sour. You enter the plane from the Jetway and there to greet you is Nettie from Kitty Hawk. She has so many “years of service” wings pinned to her blouse her boobs could take off by themselves.
Old flight attendants break down. Oxygen masks drop down every fifteen minutes—for her, so she has the strength to get from business class all the way to coach. She comes down the aisle with her cart, which in her case is really just a walker with snacks, and says, “Coffee, tea… Maalox?” I asked her, “What time do we land?” She replied, “Daddy likes soup.” My opinion? If you trained with Icarus you shouldn’t still be serving coffee in coa
I hate it when my flight arrives early and there is no gate available at the airport. It completely defeats the idea of being early. “Good news from the cockpit, ladies and gentlemen: We’re going to arrive forty minutes ahead of schedule. Unfortunately there’s no gate available so we’re going to be sitting on the tarmac until mid-October.” Why is there no gate available? Did the airline not know we were coming? Did we just drop out of the sky and surprise them? When a baby is born prematurely does the doctor come in and say, “Good news, the baby is fine. Unfortunately we don’t have any incubators available so we’re going to leave her in the lobby near the soda machine for a while”?
I hate airlines that make you pay extra for everything. (Which is pretty much all of them except for Southwest. On Southwest the amenities are free but you have to pay for their pilots’ rehab stints at Betty Ford.)
Some airlines charge six bucks for a blanket. And they’re not even blankets; they’re bibs that got out of hand. They’re barely big enough to keep one tiny part of your body a little bit warm, maybe your hands or your feet or, if you’re Asian, your junk.
I hate paying baggage fees. Paying an airline extra to carry your baggage is insane. It’s like to going to a restaurant and having to pay extra for the plates. If you say “no” what are they going to do, dump piles of food in your lap? The airlines should be thrilled we have luggage, because you know who travels with no luggage? Terrorists and shoe bombers, that’s who. If I have luggage with me you know you’re safe—no way am I going to blow up a five thousand dollar Louis Vuitton ValPak.