I Hate Everyone, But I Love You Joan Rivers
Hello everyone! I know I disappeared for a spell but I’m back and I’ve got my fancy thong on. And by fancy I mean there are no holes in it. In this post I’d like to give a great, big shake of the boobies to one of my favorite comics of all time, Joan Rivers. This woman is a comedic genius who made it in comedy in the 60s, when women were a rarity in the genre.
I watch her every week on Fashion Police*, less for the color blocking tips and more to just hear the crazy shit that comes out of her mouth. And at 79 years old, she hasn’t lost her touch. I’ve recently read her latest book, I Hate Everyone… Starting with Me, and her quips on these pages made me laugh so hard I nearly burst an ovary. Now, I’ve been called raunchy, but Joan makes me sound cleaner than Jessica Simpson’s dessert plate after the Weight Watchers deal ended.
Here are just a few of her gems, excerpted from the book:
I hate “dry” weddings where they don’t serve alcohol. If I want dry, I’ll spend time in the Mojave Desert or take pictures of my vagina.
I hate faking orgasm with an old man. You work and you work and then the whole thing’s a total waste of time because you forget to moan in his good ear. And finally, the only good thing about old sex is you never have to suffer the humiliation of a one-night stand, because there’s no such thing. Just to get him out of the car, into the house, up the stairs, on the bed, on you, off of you, down the stairs, rediapered, and back into the car… minimum, four days. That’s not a quickie, that’s a relationship.
I hate women who feel compelled to have vaginal reconstructive surgery “for their man.” Just because your lips are loose and your vagina’s become a small cabin, why should you have to slice and dice your moneymaker? I say: Let him get a bigger dick.
As an homage to Joan, I am presenting my own list of stuff I hate, SGB style. I know I could never even dream to compare to this comic messiah, but all the same, here’s to you, Joan Rivers.
Dating
I hate men on online dating sites who say they are looking for “a woman who is just as comfortable in heels and a cocktail dress as they are in jeans and sneakers.” Guess what, less attractive Don Draper, no one is comfortable in heels and a cocktail dress, okay? And if you don’t believe me, why don’t you squeeze into some Spanx and a pair of five inchers then trip the light fantastic. Within a couple hours your feet will bear a striking resemblance to Courtney Love’s vagina – all beat up and covered with blisters. And then I don’t want to hear it when we get home and you say you’re too tired for fisting.
I hate men who include a photo of their motorcycle in their profile. When I said I was interested in seeing that supreme machine between your legs, I wasn’t referring to your Kawasaki Ninja 300. And speaking of bad online dating photos…
I hate when guys post a bathroom mirror-style selfie. What gives? Did your morning dump incite such glee it inspired you to capture the moment on digital? Most modern day cameras have a self-timer, and better yet, most men I’d want to date have a friend who can take a photo of them. When I see a grainy, toilet-adjacent self-portrait, I suspect you are lazy and uncreative – and I can only assume this applies to your tongue, too.
I hate when men expect me to go halvsies on a first date. Yes, I realize it’s 2013 and blah, blah. But considering the funds dropped on makeup, haircuts, hair color, waxing, clothing, shoes and assjazzling (that’s a thing now, right?) just to look good for you – I think we’re ahead of you when it comes to the cash investment. And don’t get me started on the time factor. It takes you what, 10, 15 minutes to get ready? Maybe 30 if you’re Robert Pattinson? Yeah, I’ll need at least an hour and a half. And don’t tell me I don’t need all that time – yes, I do. Unless you want to sit across the table from Ugly Betty — before the makeover. So just pay for my damn wine and quit squawking about how I should at least do a fake wallet reach.
The Gym
I hate the new-fangled cardio machines at the gym. I have to answer the equivalent of an eHarmony questionnaire just to get the damn thing started. Can’t there just be a simple ON/OFF switch? The damn thing asks me for my age, height, weight, target heart rate, time, mode, speed, incline, zodiac sign and the first day of my last menstrual period. By the time I’m finished pushing all the buttons I’m too fucking exhausted to work out.
I hate people who fart at the gym. Trust me, there are more than enough offensive odors wafting around that place without a contribution from your butt.
Sex
I hate guys who won’t go down on you. Okay, in a way, I sympathize with them. It doesn’t sound terribly appealing to me either and truth be told, it is the primary reason that’s holding me back from lesbianism. But if you want me to enjoy our lovemaking (translation: if you ever want to see my coochie again), you better start licking, bub. It ain’t like your junk tastes like a fruit tart.
I hate men who pull my hair during sex. You not Tarzan and me not Jane. Just wait till the day you do this to a black girl. You’ll have a weave shoved so far up your ass you’ll have to make an emergency appointment with Dr. Stravinovich, proctologist-at-large.
I hate men who want me to call them “Daddy” in the bedroom. How and when did men get the impression that we wanted to shag our dads? Do I look like Soon Yi Previn? If I wanted to fuck my father, I’d blackmail Jon Hamm into adopting me.
Blogging
I hate people who take my blog too seriously. Within the past five minutes, someone reading this has become offended by something I have written.
I could make a joke about toe fungus and some killjoy would curse me, crying out that toe fungus is a serious condition affecting millions of people and is no laughing matter. I once made a joke about herpes; someone got mad that I didn’t mention syphilis. Another reader took offense to my mocking of Victoria Beckham. Please, if there is one person alive that we can collectively agree to poke fun at, isn’t Miss Pissy Face a safe choice? Is nothing unsacred?
I think the Joker’s father said it best: “Why so serious?” Pay no mind to the fact that he is psychotic and also fictitious. We all need to laugh, and on occasion a subject that’s personal to you is going to be the butt of the joke. So for the love of Joan, take a muscle relaxer, pull Kim Jong-un out of your ass and lighten up already!
***
*After I wrote this post, I learned that the very talented and funny writers of Fashion Police are on strike, asking to be paid for uncompensated regular and overtime hours. This bums me out immensely because as much as I love watching the show, as a writer I fully support them. However, I’d already written this damn piece and I hadn’t written anything in a million eons so, you know, fuck it. But support the writers.
Not Everyone is Going to Like You
Ooh, harsh words, huh? I bet your momma never told you that, did she? Oh, heavens no. Momma said, “Oh, poopsie, you’re so wonderful and special, anyone would be crazy not to love you!”
Listen, I’m sure Momma means well and everything, but she’s seeing you through her extremely biased mom glasses and is generally just blowing sunshine up your ass.
The truth is, the sooner you learn and accept those seven words up there in the title, the easier time you will have at dating and the inevitable truth that goes with it: rejection.
It took one wise bartender (and more than a couple of vodkas) to make me see this. I was bummed out about some dude, lamenting over why, why, WHY didn’t he call me? I’m cute! I’m smart! I’m independent! I’m funny! Whatever did I do???
Wise bartender simply said, “Well, not everyone is going to like you.”
Oh.
Well, goddamn.
It’s so simple, and so obvious. Not everybody wants the same thing. And thank goodness – if we did, we’d all be after the same people.
Example: My girlfriend Gabby likes stocky blond yuppies who golf and discuss crown molding over supper. This type of guy makes me want to blow chunks. Not that there’s anything wrong with stocky, golfing, crown molding-obsessed yupsters, they just don’t happen to tickle my fancy, personally. But clearly, they tickle other fancies. Gabby’s, for one.
Sorry, Ryan Gosling
Get over it, Ryan.
No one is exempt from this rule. Not even Ryan Gosling. I know it seems like every woman and gay man alive are creaming their jeans for Ryan Gosling, but guess what? He doesn’t do it for me. Sorry, Ryan. Not everyone is going to like you.
Maybe you’re a tall blonde and he likes petite brunettes. Maybe you’re a left-winged intellectual and she wants a conservative handyman. Maybe you’re outgoing and gregarious and he wants a quiet, submissive girl. (Or vice-versa, in all of these cases.)
What are you going to do? Dye your hair or change your political views or alter your personality just to attract this person? I certainly hope not. Because sooner or later, the real you is going to come out and your partner is going to see it. And you’ll be pissed off that you ever changed for someone else in the first place.
So the next time someone ignores your e-mail or fails to call you after the first date, don’t call yourself a loser and stick your head in the microwave. It doesn’t mean anything is wrong with you. They just don’t like you. Because not everyone is going to. And that’s okay – someone will, eventually. I promise.
Unless, of course, you’re a total asshole.
***
I originally wrote this post for Singles Warehouse last May, but I think it’s probably the best tidbit of advice I could give to anyone dating, even though we all know how I feel about dating advice. Sorry I disappeared for a bit. I’ve been super busy not dating and not getting laid. But seriously, I have been busy doing something, I just can’t tell you what. Isn’t that just so mysterious? Oooooooooh. Don’t you like me more now? Hehehe, all part of my master plan.
My V-day Guest Blog on My Right to Bitch
Holy crap, VD is back. And this time, I’m not referring to the burning sensation in my nether regions.
No sir, it’s Valentine’s Day, the most shittyful time of the year if you’re single. So to commemorate the occasion, I’ve written a guest post for my good friend Adam over at My Right to Bitch. I never thought I’d find someone who likes to bitch as much as I do, then lo and behold, I discover this beautiful creature who dedicated his whole blog title to the concept. I think I’ve found my soul mate. Of course, it will never work out because we’ll always be out-bitching each other. (I shall prevail.)
Whatever. I know everyone loves to get those candy hearts on V-day, so I’ve created some new ones just for you, people of the Internet. But don’t tell the print folks. They’ll just get jealous.
Go read it here. And take care of that VD.
Note: After this posting Adam has since changed his blog title to Chowderhead. I’m pretty sure he still likes to bitch, though. In case you got confused.
If You’ve Got a Camera and a Penis, Read This
Hey guys, what’s up? Your penis. Right. Very funny. And original, I might add. And speaking of unoriginal matters involving Mr. Winky, I’ve got a question for you: What’s up with the dick pics?
Over the past couple years as a single blogger, I’ve talked to many ladies about many dating issues. And I have learned that a sizable number of women have at least once fallen victim to the unwelcome cock shot. It might appear in a text, an e-mail or just hanging out on an online dating site. In fact, in her hilarious memoir, Jenny Lawson reported that as an HR manager she’d catch a different employee e-mailing his junk at least once a quarter. That’s a lot of peen to screen.
And of course, it leaves us women asking one question:
WHY???
Is “Looking forward to meeting you” code for “Send a portrait of your Johnson”? Are you afraid I won’t recognize it in person? Are you running for Congress?
Now, I’m not talking about the online exhibitionists who get their jollies exposing themselves, hoping for a shocked reaction. I’m talking about guys who are actually trying to score with us.
After musing on it a bit, I’ve come up with the only plausible explanation for this odd behavior: You think it turns us on because it turns YOU on.
Please guys, use your brain. The other one. WOMEN ARE NOT MEN. We know you dudes would love nothing more than to receive copious photos of lady junk. You like porn. We get it.
But let me make one thing clear: seeing a digitized image of your dork does about as much for me sexually as watching my cat vomit and then eat it.
There is no circumstance in which I need to see a photograph of your wang. Not even if we’re just fuck buddies. Not even if it has won some sort of penis pageant. Not even if it bears an uncanny resemblance to Meryl Streep. I don’t need to see if it’s big enough or pretty enough or circumcised enough – I’d honestly rather wait for the unveiling in person. In fact, I kind of like the suspense.
Let’s say I meet a guy on OkCupid and he texts me a visage of his one-eyed wonder worm. Here’s what will happen: First, I exclaim, “Ew.” Second, I consult my friends immediately and we analyze the shit out of it. This is what our conversation might sound like:
Me: Sweet Jesus. This guy just sent me a picture of his dong. Look!
Girlfriend: Whoa. What a weirdo. Why would he do that?
Me: Shit if I know.
Girlfriend: Did you send a boob pic? Did you ASK for it?
Me: No and HELL, no.
Girlfriend: Ewww, look at it, it’s all veiny. And the head is, like, freakishly bigger than the shaft.
Me: Ha! That’s so bizarre! And he didn’t even bother to manscape. It’s like his weiner has an afro.
Girlfriend: And check out the shag carpet in his bedroom. That’s just bad taste. Wait a second, what is THAT?
Me: What is what?
Girlfriend: That little dot right there.
Me: Oh, yeah… Maybe it’s something on my screen. [Wipes screen.] Nope, still there. Perhaps a freckle?
Girlfriend: Perhaps a genital wart?
Me: Omigod. You think?
Girlfriend: You never know. I saw some wart pics online that looked like cauliflower. Do you want cauliflower growing out of your junk? Girl, you need to lose this dude. He’s obviously a major perv who may or may not have genital warts.
Me: Agree. Delete. Wait… let’s show Sharon and Heather and Tony first.
Incidentally, a conversation with my gay bf would go something like this:
Me: Sweet Jesus. This guy just sent me a picture of his dong. Look!
Gay bf: Seriously? Could you forward it to me?
Is this what you want, fellas? To be the subject of ridicule amongst our girlfriends or the subject of masturbation amongst our gay bfs? I thought not.
Trust me, we’re not nearly as obsessed with your manhood as you are. I mean, sure, we love it when we’re in the throes of passion and think of it fondly if it’s given us pleasure in the past. But I don’t need a picture of it. Ever. And if the two of us have not yet met or are just beginning to date, an Instagrammed version of it will not make me want to instantly bang your brains out. This I promise.
So for the love of God, put your camera down and your penis away. And please, tell your friends. Make this go viral. Spread the word, my darlings, spread it like genital warts.
Love,
Women
Was your week as craptastic as mine? Watch this.
So was last week as sucky for you as it was for me and pretty much everyone else I know? Seriously, all my friends have reported an abhorrent week, and mine indeed was positively titsified. And I’m not even on my period.
(I’m not certain what titsified means but it was used by one of my Twitter BFFs @scullerymouse and I quite liked it so I stole it and decided it means “frightfully fucked up.” I’m very pleased to have expanded my vocabulary.)
Anyway. What gives? Are the gods angry? Did Mars take a crap on Saturn?
Then, by the grace of all that is holy, I saw this video yesterday and it made me laugh harder than I have all year (save, perhaps, for the bag scene in Django Unchained – GO SEE IT). So have a laugh on me, and be sure to wait until the end…
Here’s to next week not being such a shit show. xo
A Holiday Letter from Single Girl Blogging
This post was inspired by a series at The Impersonals, taking aim at those annoying holiday “round up” letters we all get from friends and family this time of year. I originally wrote this for them but my ass was too late to make the deadline so it gets dumped here for you all to enjoy. That’s right, you guys were my Plan B. Merry happy!
***
Hello merry asswipes,
I wanted to let you know that I have received your “holiday round-up” letters accompanied by the always-nauseating snapshots of your demon spawn grinning in Santa Claus hats. And out of respect for our friendship, I shall keep these photos amid my ever-growing pile of coupons and unpaid bills until December 26 before throwing them in the alley dumpster for a homeless pedophile to discover and jack off to.
I also want to thank you for your thoughtfulness – you intuitively knew I couldn’t get enough of seeing your kids’ ugly mugs all over Facebook throughout this year and just had to have a hard copy in the event of a power outage. Now I have something to burn when the heat goes out! I love you.
However, I must confess – I didn’t actually read your letter. The first two sentences sent me into a slumber so deep I drooled all over your monogrammed stationary, rendering your novella illegible. But I’ll betcha I can guess the plot: You and the hubby have been working hard all year but still found time to take the entire clan to Hawaii, where you all got a well-deserved lei (lol!). Ashton’s joined little league, tae kwon do, pole vaulting and a myriad of other sports Hal forced him into so he won’t turn gay. And sweet, little Sophia received a gold medal for being positively average. Goooooo Mendelbaums!
As for me? Yes, I am still single. No, I do not know why. And if you offer one more time to set me up with that slightly portly but “really great guy” friend of yours in Oregon, I will tag an assortment of unflattering photos of you on Facebook AND tell everyone you got Botox.
But don’t feel sorry for me. Although I may spend Christmas day crying alone in a can of lentil soup, on New Year’s Eve my still-slender single ass will be bouncing atop a smokin’ hot, gender-bending Latino go-go dancer with rock-hard abs at Miss Kitty’s Fantasy Fetish Ball. But you and the kids enjoy First Night in the ‘burbs.
Since you were so kind as to include a photograph of your loved ones, I’ve done the same. So to you and yours from me, my 10-speed vibrator and my bong:
HAPPY FUCKING HOLIDAYS!!!
No, it’s not actually me. It’s depraved Taylor Swift.
Love & Xanax,
singlegirlie
A Tell-All Interview with Myself About My Most Recent Date
Pretend I’m Jennifer Aniston and Chelsea Handler is me.
I had a date a few weeks ago. Actually, two dates. One guy. It took me so long to write about it because I couldn’t find anything interesting to say. They weren’t bad, they weren’t great, and nothing weird or remarkable happened. He didn’t have B.O. He didn’t scream at the waiter. He didn’t rub his nipples while singing “Shoo, Fly, Don’t Bother Me.” It was just pretty standard.
So instead of writing a whole date recap with paragraphs and stuff, I’ll just do a quick-n-dirty Q & A type thing. With myself.
What was his name?
Honestly, I don’t remember. That’s how memorable it was. Although it’s entirely possible I’m suffering from stage one dementia.
What color was he?
White. Like Mitt Romney.
Did he have hair?
Yes. Not as much as Mitt Romney. But I do recall hair.
Where did you go?
First date, drinks; second date, dinner.
Did you kiss him?
On the second date, I did.
And was he a good kisser?
Actually, he was a very good kisser.
So what was the problem?
I dunno. There was just no spark. No zha-zha-zhu. No breaking into song in the middle of the parking garage. No urge to text him in the middle of the night asking him to sire eight babies with me so we could be just like Jon and Kate before the Ed Hardy shirts. So obviously, it just wasn’t going to work out.
Did you see his penis?
No.
How about the balls?
Um, no. If I saw the balls, don’t you think I would’ve seen the penis and vice versa?
Not necessarily. Not if you were standing behind him and he bent over and it was cold.
Right. Well, that didn’t happen.
Okay. No dick or balls. How about his furry spider?
Huh?
His asshole.
No, I did not see his asshole. In fact, his pants stayed on the entire time so there was no way I could’ve seen any of his man parts, got it?
You could have if they were invisible pants. Or made of Saran Wrap.
Now you’re just being silly.
Well, it sounds pretty boring.
I know! That’s why we’re doing this whole dog and pony show instead of writing a normal post!
So then what?
I e-mailed him and told him I got back together with my ex.
Pussy.
I know.
You know, you probably should’ve given him another shot.
Yeah, maybe, but it’s too late now so quit riding me, motherfucker. Besides, he responded saying he already met someone else and they were getting along great.
What a dick!
Right?!?
So you got anyone else lined up?
No, I think I’m going to refrain from dating for a while and look into adopting a rabbit.
Why a rabbit? Why not a cat, like a normal person?
Duh! Because I don’t want to be a crazy cat lady. (Although it’s a shame, because I actually do adore cats. They’re so funny.)
So you’re going to be a crazy rabbit lady?
No, dum dum. There is no such thing as a crazy rabbit lady.
There’s about to be.
Go fuck yourself.
Alright, let’s go.
What? Oh, I get it.
What about all that round poop?
Hey, I’m no fecalpheliac, sicko. Oh, you mean the rabbits? I’m fascinated by it! How does it come out in such perfectly round little balls?
Rabbits chew a lot, you know. What if it chewed off your lips while you were asleep?
[Pause.] Well… I suppose that would be a risk.
So… this Q&A thing wasn’t really all that quick.
[Looks back at above dialog.] Whoops, I suppose it wasn’t. But it was kinda dirty, thanks to our dick/balls/spider exchange. Thanks for that.
Any time.
