Free I Hate Everyone...Starting With Me by Joan Rivers

to me I would have joined B’nai B’rith.”
    I hate people who are early to parties. I think of them as premature
conversators
. (And yes, I know “conversators” is not a word; I’m just pandering to an urban demographic.) If I invite you to dinner at seven and you arrive wildly early, let’s say six fifty-nine, I may still be getting dressed, doing my hair or having a face-lift. So before accepting an invite, learn to tell time.
    I hate people who don’t know when to leave the party. If you don’t have a mild case of Asperger’s syndrome, you have no excuse to not pick up the social cues that it’s time to leave. Simple things like the food is all gone, or the servants have finished cleaning and are back in the basement tied to the radiators, or I’m upstairs in my bra and panties, rinsing my falsies and waxing my legs. Pay attention. Get out.
    I hate people who think their medical condition is table talk. Do not show up at an event with any postoperative wounds that require changing. If you reek of salve, stay home.
    I hate people who don’t listen or pay attention. When an invitation says, “No gifts, please,” that means, “No gifts, please.” If you’re not a member of the FBI, the CIA, the NSA, the Stasi or the Penn State football team, chances are no one is speaking to youin some secret code that can only be cracked by an enigma machine. I’m specific when I send out an invitation, so if you bring me a gift when I asked you not to, I’m now in the position of having to scrounge around to find
you
a gift. And that’s a horrible position to be in—almost as bad as double penetration. What am I going to find to give you, an old bra? “That belonged to Marilyn Monroe! Look! One of Joe DiMaggio’s pubic hairs is still caught in the underwire!”
    I hate people who bring lousy gifts to a party. A gift is supposed to be a nice gesture, not a showstopper. Candles, coffee-table books and French chocolates are lovely ideas—and I can re-gift them before you even sit down. Here are some things
not
to give a hostess:
    A litter of piglets
    An ugly orphan (It’s hard enough to love even the pretty ones; don’t bring me Mr. Uggo.)
    Memory albums (You say, “Let’s look at this together!” I say, “Let’s pretend we have Alzheimer’s and not waste the time.”)
    Crabs or any other communicable disease
    Cheap wine (Unless the hostess is a moron, in which case it’s okay. “Vintage, four o’clock? Why, that was a very good time.”)
    A vibrator (Very tough to re-gift—even if you wash it.)
    Never buy gifts on sale. The late Dinah Shore used to do this and it ruined her reputation. She spent years building up her street cred by schtupping Burt Reynolds but threw it all away buying cheap schlock and trying to pass it off as high-end. Dinah would buy some crappy piece of dreck then put it in a Saks bag and give it as a gift. She did it to me once and I said, “Dinah, Saks doesn’t sell toaster ovens!” I don’t mean to trash Dinah Shore, but she’s dead; she can’t sue me, so fuck her.
    I never bring a gift to party. I sneak into the hostess’s bedroom and add my name to cards.
    The worst gifts of all time were bought by the three wise men: frankincense, gold and myrrh. Frankincense is just a candle and not even the good kind like they sell on QVC. Gold is okay but make sure it’s real gold. If I bite it and its chocolate I’m not going to be happy. And myrrh is an anal lubricant. Which makes perfect sense… three men, all alone in the desert.
    I hate people who go to the movies and act like they’re watching Netflix in their den. (And FYI, I say “den” and not family room because the only room the entire family should ever be in together is the lobby in Gutterman’s chapel after an unexpected yet thrilling death of a rich, semi-loved one.) Here are some basic movie theater rules:
    1. Shut the fuck up. I didn’t pay eight bucks to listen to you. If I want to hear what you have to say