Read Online I Hate Everyone...Starting With Me by Joan Rivers - Free Book Online
Authors: Joan Rivers
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double-dippers, those inconsiderate slobs who put their crackers in the dip, take a bite, and then dip in again. That is so disgusting. Now the hummus is contaminated—like the Ohio River or Courtney Love’s bloodstream.
I hate people who blow their nose at the dinner table and then look in their hankie. What do they think they’re going to find? “Look, I just blew out Jimmy Hoffa… and he’s covered in snot!”
I hate nose picking, especially in restaurants. It’s a disgusting habit, but as it turns out, a prerequisite to getting a job as a cabdriver in New York City. I know sometimes you have to remove something from your nose—mucus, dried phlegm, or just part of your old nose—but once you’ve finished the excavation please don’t flick it or wipe it on your napkin. There’s a reason God gave the woman at the next table dolman sleeves.
I hate people who belch. In Japan, burping is the sign of a good meal, but in America it’s a sign that someone needs a good antacid. I used to have a business friend * who burped at the end of every meal and then said, “You know, in Tokyo that’s considered acompliment!” So I went to his house and shit on the table and said, “In Libya that means you’re rich enough to eat.”
I hate people who don’t use silverware. Unless you’re in Morocco or Ethiopia, do not eat with your hands. In Morocco they eat
everything
with their hands, which makes it very difficult to enjoy soup (although it is a lot of laughs watching them eat pudding). Ethiopia’s a little better because they have nothing to eat. So while their stomachs may be bloated, their fingers are squeaky clean.
I hate men who don’t pull out a lady’s chair at the table. Unless it’s a wheelchair. Yes, watching a helpless paralytic wriggle around on the carpet sure is funny, but helping her back into her chair is a huge pain in the ass. I’m a giver, but I don’t lift. And since I’m on the topic: Can we talk about handicapped etiquette?
I hate the handicapped and their privileged parking. Why should the lame be able to park close to the mall entrance while I have to schlep through the rain and the wind and the sleet to do my shopping? Dollars to donuts I’m going to spend more than they will. How many pairs of crutches does one need, or reflector lights or stick-on rails for the bathroom?
I hate people who decorate their wheelchairs with flags and stickers and tinsel and horns and feathers. You’re a paraplegic, not a mummer. I find that kind of “look at me” narcissism terribly inconsiderate. If you need attention that badly, set yourself on fire.
I hate dealing with the handicapped as I never know the proper etiquette. What am I supposed to do when I’m introduced to someone who has tiny thalidomide hands? Nod affectionately and say, “You know,
Flipper
was one of my favorite shows”? Or do I go with something kicky like, “I can see who’s the swimmer in your family”?
I hate that it’s my responsibility to know which ear is your “good” ear. I start talking and five minutes into telling some hilarious story about Tom Cruise and a thermometer you interrupt with, “Could you please speak into my good ear?” So not only have I lost my punch line because you broke the rhythm, but I’m also aggravated because you wasted five minutes of my valuable time—time that could have been better spent shopping or berating others. So unless you’re Vincent van Gogh, wear a sign that reads: TRY THE LEFT EAR. THE RIGHT ONE’S JUST FOR SHOW .
I hate handicapped ramps in sidewalks. They create puddles and are so filled with wheelchair people it’s hard to skateboard down them.
I hate the rules about Seeing Eye dogs or “companion animals.” * The disabled can be so fussy. If you encounter a Seeing Eye dog on the street you’re not supposed to pet them or scratch them or even say “Stop” when they lead their master into oncoming traffic.
I hate having to look the blind in the eye. It
I hate people who blow their nose at the dinner table and then look in their hankie. What do they think they’re going to find? “Look, I just blew out Jimmy Hoffa… and he’s covered in snot!”
I hate nose picking, especially in restaurants. It’s a disgusting habit, but as it turns out, a prerequisite to getting a job as a cabdriver in New York City. I know sometimes you have to remove something from your nose—mucus, dried phlegm, or just part of your old nose—but once you’ve finished the excavation please don’t flick it or wipe it on your napkin. There’s a reason God gave the woman at the next table dolman sleeves.
I hate people who belch. In Japan, burping is the sign of a good meal, but in America it’s a sign that someone needs a good antacid. I used to have a business friend * who burped at the end of every meal and then said, “You know, in Tokyo that’s considered acompliment!” So I went to his house and shit on the table and said, “In Libya that means you’re rich enough to eat.”
I hate people who don’t use silverware. Unless you’re in Morocco or Ethiopia, do not eat with your hands. In Morocco they eat
everything
with their hands, which makes it very difficult to enjoy soup (although it is a lot of laughs watching them eat pudding). Ethiopia’s a little better because they have nothing to eat. So while their stomachs may be bloated, their fingers are squeaky clean.
I hate men who don’t pull out a lady’s chair at the table. Unless it’s a wheelchair. Yes, watching a helpless paralytic wriggle around on the carpet sure is funny, but helping her back into her chair is a huge pain in the ass. I’m a giver, but I don’t lift. And since I’m on the topic: Can we talk about handicapped etiquette?
I hate the handicapped and their privileged parking. Why should the lame be able to park close to the mall entrance while I have to schlep through the rain and the wind and the sleet to do my shopping? Dollars to donuts I’m going to spend more than they will. How many pairs of crutches does one need, or reflector lights or stick-on rails for the bathroom?
I hate people who decorate their wheelchairs with flags and stickers and tinsel and horns and feathers. You’re a paraplegic, not a mummer. I find that kind of “look at me” narcissism terribly inconsiderate. If you need attention that badly, set yourself on fire.
I hate dealing with the handicapped as I never know the proper etiquette. What am I supposed to do when I’m introduced to someone who has tiny thalidomide hands? Nod affectionately and say, “You know,
Flipper
was one of my favorite shows”? Or do I go with something kicky like, “I can see who’s the swimmer in your family”?
I hate that it’s my responsibility to know which ear is your “good” ear. I start talking and five minutes into telling some hilarious story about Tom Cruise and a thermometer you interrupt with, “Could you please speak into my good ear?” So not only have I lost my punch line because you broke the rhythm, but I’m also aggravated because you wasted five minutes of my valuable time—time that could have been better spent shopping or berating others. So unless you’re Vincent van Gogh, wear a sign that reads: TRY THE LEFT EAR. THE RIGHT ONE’S JUST FOR SHOW .
I hate handicapped ramps in sidewalks. They create puddles and are so filled with wheelchair people it’s hard to skateboard down them.
I hate the rules about Seeing Eye dogs or “companion animals.” * The disabled can be so fussy. If you encounter a Seeing Eye dog on the street you’re not supposed to pet them or scratch them or even say “Stop” when they lead their master into oncoming traffic.
I hate having to look the blind in the eye. It
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