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.
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, as well.
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.
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.
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.
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.