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

“I’m too busy to take a pill every day, but with Boniva I only have to take one pill a month.” Too busy? Doing what? Pulling a baby out of a pit bull’s mouth? Sitting at the table with Israel and Palestine trying to negotiate peace? The woman makes one movie every nine years. Big Sal’s got nothing but time on her hands. When did she become so fucking busy? I—who am actually busy—took time off to figure out how long it takes me to take a pill . Two minutes, tops, including getting a glass of water. What has Sally Field got to do that’s so important besides making her daily call to her agent—collect—sobbing and begging for work? I think Sally should stop taking Boniva and just let her bones break. Then she could get an endorsement deal for Rice Krispies, pull in a much younger demo and inspire a new generation of fans who’ll like her, really, really like her. I should call Sally and tell her. But the bitch probably doesn’t have the time to pick up the phone.
    MAY 3
    Dear Diary:
    I read a story in some rag today (the New York Times ) about Chaz Bono, who is still talking about her sex change. Chaz says she “identifies as a man.” Excuse me, Chaz, you still have a vagina. Hold a mirror between your knees and point it up! I don’t care if she lopped off her tits with a Garden Weasel and has mats of hair plus a battleship tattoo on her chest; if she has a vagina, she’s still a woman. What if I decided to identify as a coffee table? Even if I have my legs polished and put a lamp on my head, technically, if I have a vagina, I’d still be a woman. And why give it up? When was the last time a man pulled out a chair for a coffee table? If you want to add a penis, fine, but if you’re any kind of an athlete, don’t give up your vagina. Figure it out! If you’re a runner, how fabulous is it to have a rainproof inside pocket? You can keep your hands free and still be able to have your phone, your mints and even a Kleenex, or if you’re Octomom, a nightstand, a skateboard and a Honda Accord to drive home from the meet in. Also, if you give up your vagina, think of all the pet names you can no longer use for it: Hooha, Vajayjay, Daddy’s Little Clam, Momma’s Twitchy Friend, Whisker Biscuit, South Mouth, and if you’re in the cast of Duck Dynasty —Uncle’s Best Girl.
    MAY 4
    Dear Diary:
    I saw some old musical show on TV last night and I must confess, I still don’t get David Bowie. Since he first broke onto the scene in the ’70s, I’ve tried to figure him out but couldn’t. Even his gorgeous wife, Iman, crosses her eyes and makes faces behind his back. In the ’70s, I wanted people to think I was hip so I pretended to get him. I’d act like I knew what the fuck Ziggy Stardust was all about and only called him Bowie—cool people just called him Bowie. He was like the Bono or Cher of his day except he could actually sing, and even if he couldn’t he was a seminal influence on the music. You want a seminal influence? Talk to Madonna; she considers it a food group. I can’t figure out if David Bowie is straight, gay, bisexual, trisexual, quadrisexual or maybe just a Minotaur. Elton John, I got right from the get-go. He could sing, he could write, he could suck a dick. You always knew where he stood. Or knelt. And I still get Elton today, now that he’s a cutie-pie, rich old queen with a husband, a family, a castle and a bunch of wiglets. But Bowie, even with that stunning, bulimic African supermodel wife . . . not a clue.
    MAY 5
    Dear Diary:
    My birthday is coming up next month and I think Melissa and Cooper are planning a big surprise party because they keep looking at me and then whispering to each other, “How much longer? When is it going to happen already? It’s time, I’m telling you, it’s time.”
    I know they care about me and my quality of life because when I complained about having a bad hair day over the weekend, Melissa went to court to fight for my right to die.
    MAY