Free Diary of a Mad Diva by Joan Rivers

angry Timmy’s post.
    MAY 11
    Dear Diary:
    Got rid of Facebook today and I feel as free as the woman in the tampon commercial who can go swimming, surfing or cliff diving in spite of her heavy flow.
    MAY 12
    Dear Diary:
    Reread my entry from the other day and I realized I made a mistake—maniacs with AK-47s don’t go into Coffee Beans, they go into schools, which is an ugly phenomenon I really don’t understand. My third grade teacher, Mrs. Gotbaum, was a malevolent cunt, but it never dawned on me to pull an Uzi out of my purse and mow down the entire cafeteria. I was perfectly happy just urinating on the apples I left on her desk every day.
    If these crazies feel the need to gun down strangers, might I suggest they leave schools alone and reroute themselves to local nursing homes or assisted living facilities? I don’t mean to be callous (if Melissa had her way I’d have been in Shady Pines years ago), but all those whiny widows are waiting for the white light anyway, so why prolong their damp diapers and clicking dentures? No one likes a long good-bye. This would also be good for their families because it not only saves money, but it takes away the stress of playing “Who’s Going to Smother Grandma?”
    MAY 13
    Dear Diary:
    Took my darling thirteen-year-old grandson Cooper for a haircut today and the stylist kept asking him if he wanted some “product” in his hair. What the fuck is “product”? If it’s gel, call it gel. Product could be anything—liverwurst, chocolate pudding, uranium . . . Beauticians need to be more specific. When I go out for dinner, I don’t order “mammal” or “aquatic vertebrate.” I order a Porterhouse steak or Flipper au Gratin. When I go shopping at Bergdorf, I don’t say, “Gimme cloth.” I say, “I’d like a couture Dior gown, black with gold trim, sewn together by an old-before-her-time Colombian peasant-woman named Carmela.”
    When we left the salon I paid in “product.” I gently placed my gum in his hand. Mick Jagger’s brings in fifty bucks on eBay.
    MAY 14
    Dear Diary:
    Took the red-eye back to New York last night as we have a co-op board meeting today. We’re hiring a new doorman. Everyone in the building had some specific thing they wanted. I wanted someone who can keep a fucking secret as to who comes in and out of my apartment. I’m lobbying hard for Marlee Matlin. The woman in #13B wanted someone very tall and imposing who would understand that being a doorman is a service job and would be required to service her twice a week whether he wants to or not, even when she keeps her braces on her legs. The gal in #12G wanted someone who speaks at least three languages, as she works for the UN in human trafficking and has taken her girls out of a horrific life and now runs a lucrative business, Maids Without Passports.
    MAY 15
    Dear Diary:
    I can’t believe it. In only twenty-four hours we hired a doorman and nearly everyone in the building is happy. (Except for Alan Alzheimer’s in #12F who thinks he’s in Hawaii and is demanding hula girls and leis every time he comes downstairs.) We hired a six-foot-seven behemoth who can speak nine languages fluently, none of them English!
    MAY 16
    Dear Diary:
    It was all over the news that Angelina Jolie had a double mastectomy to prevent getting cancer. What a role model Angie is. How courageous! I think Paris Hilton should take a page from Angie’s book and step up to the plate and try to prevent STDs. It would be so easy for her. All she would have to do is have her knees fused together. I would be glad to write the first check for a welder’s mask.
    MAY 17
    Dear Diary:
    There’s a new commercial on television that’s really annoying the shit out of me. It’s a military recruiting ad and it says, “Are you strong or Army strong?” Not to diminish our soldiers, because “Army strong” is good, but it’s not the benchmark for strength. Broccoli farts are. C’mon, face it, what do you think will clear out