Anais Nin, Anne Frank and Sylvia Plath wrote the worlds most famous diaries. And where are they today? Dead. But the worlds OTHER great diarist, Joan Rivers, is alive and kicking. And complaining.

The legendary comedian presents the contents of her diary, offering insights, quips, musings, and critiques on her daily life, pop culture, and celebrities.

Praise for I Hate Everyone…Starting with Me

“More punch lines per paragraph than any book I’ve read in years.”—The New York Times

“Nobody, but nobody, can hate like Joan Rivers. It is a gift. It is also shocking, the things she makes us laugh at...Joan Rivers is extraordinary, but she’s not for the easily offended—or for anyone who gets offended at all.”—People

“Often hilarious, often shocking, totally politically incorrect.”—Liz Smith

“She holds nothing back.”—The Washington Post

“Spares no one.”—Huffington Post

“An entertaining rant...The only thing missing is the sound of a drumroll and cymbals to feel as though one is sitting in a nightclub watching a live comedy marathon…A raucous, biting look at life.”—Kirkus Reviews

“Rivers is equally passionate and opinionated on every subject she discusses. Hilarious and undeniably original.”—Publishers Weekly

Autorentext
Comedienne, Emmy Award–winning TV host, Tony-nominated actress, Grammy-winner (for her audiobook of Diary of a Mad Diva) and CEO, Joan Rivers was an icon of American culture, a bestselling author, Celebrity Apprentice winner, writer, producer, director, and savvy businesswoman who overcame great odds to reinvent herself time and time again. She hosted E! Network’s popular series Fashion Police, and starred with her daughter, Melissa, in their own weekly reality show, Joan and Melissa: Joan Knows Best? on WEtv Network. Her critically acclaimed documentary, Joan Rivers: A Piece of Work premiered in theaters nationwide and is available on DVD. Amongst all of her success, Joan’s most joyous triumph was being a mother and grandmother.

Zusammenfassung
From the headline-making, New York Times bestselling author of I Hate Everyone...Starting With Me comes another intimate glimpse into the delightfully hilarious mind of Joan Rivers.
When her daughter Melissa gives her a diary for Christmas, at first Joan is horrified—who the hell does Melissa think she is? That fat pig, Bridget Jones? But as Joan, being both beautiful and introspective, begins to record her day-to-day musings, she realizes she has a lot to say. *About everything. And everyone, God help them.

• The result? A no-holds-barred, delightfully vicious and always hilarious look at the everyday life of the ultimate diva. Follow Joan on a family vacation in Mexico and on trips between New York and Los Angeles where she mingles with the stars, never missing a beat as she delivers blistering critiques on current events, and excoriating insights about life, pop culture, and celebrities (from A to D list), all in her relentlessly funny signature style.

  This is the Diary of a Mad Diva. Forget about Anais Nin, Anne Frank, and Sylvia Plath. For the first time in a century, a diary by someone that’s actually worth reading.

  Leseprobe

This diary was written to the best of Joan Rivers’s memory. As such, some of the events may not be 100 percent . . . or even 5 percent factually correct. Miss Rivers is, after all, 235 years old, and frequently mistakes her daughter, Melissa, for the actor Laurence Fishburne.

Miss Rivers wrote this diary as a comedic tome, not unlike Saving Private Ryan or The Bell Jar. While Miss Rivers doesn’t really like skinny models and actresses, she doesn’t actually believe that they’re all bulimics and they all carry buckets instead of purses. Similarly, she doesn’t really think that all Germans are anti-Semitic Nazi sympathizers, that all Mexican Americans tunneled in across the border, that all celebrities are drug addicts, shoplifters or closet cases, or that Noah built his ark with non-union labor.

Miss Rivers does, however, believe that anyone who takes anything in this book seriously is an idiot. And she says if anyone has a problem with that they can feel free to call her lawyer, Clarence Darrow.

Fuck Lamaze. You try downing a bottle of Barbies with a dry throat.

JANUARY 1

Dear Diary:

This diary is my Christmas gift from Melissa and Cooper and I’m more disappointed than I was on my wedding night when I found out that Edgar was half Chinese—and not the good half. And this diary’s not even from a good store. I was hoping for at least a Car-tier watch. I wouldn’t even have minded if it was spelled with a K. I know, it’s Christmas season and we’re Jewish and we shouldn’t care about gifts, but if indeed we did kill Christ—and I’m not saying we did; for all we know he could have slipped and fallen onto that cross (maybe he was clumsy; maybe he drank)—then something’s got to ease the guilt. And the more expensive that something is, the less guilty I feel.

Anyhow, this is a new book for a new year and I’m feeling great. To celebrate, I got matching vagina piercings with my two best girlfriends, Margie Stern and Brucey Jenner.

I’m writing this in Mexico. On the spur of the moment, Melissa, Cooper and I decided to fly down here, and we were right: It’s a perfect way to ring in the New Year—great resort, private beach and plenty of servants who’ll do anything for a thirty-cent tip. This place is kind of like Downton Abbey with sombreros. Last night I got an eight-hour pedicure from Maria while resting my feet on her “brother,” Jose, who was crouched over like a footstool. I let him switch positions every two hours so he wouldn’t cramp and, more importantly, so Maria wouldn’t slip and accidentally paint my ankles dusty coral. Unfortunately I can’t take credit for the position-switching thing; I got the idea by watching Amistad on cable last week. I think if the ship’s captain had let the slaves switch sides every couple of days not only would they have rowed faster but they would have had the strength to make faces at Anthony Hopkins.

This morning when I woke up and looked out my window, there was Conchita, out in the field threshing wheat so that her “brother,” Juan, would be able to make me toast for my morning breakfast. I appreciate all of my south-of-the-border neighbors’ semi-hard work and hope they’ve stolen enough loose change and shiny trinkets from my bureau so that when they get caught trying to tunnel into America next month, they’ll have money to pay a mediocre deportation lawyer.

JANUARY 2

Dear Diary:

I haven’t kept a diary in years. The last time I kept one I had just come back from a girls-only weekend with Eleanor Roosevelt and her best friend, Gayle. We all giggled that girls are better than guys, and then we douched with Gatorade and wrist-wrestled till we fell asleep.

I wasn’t planning on keeping a journal this time, but when I told my friend Bambi I was going to Mexico for the new year, she said, “Oh, you ought to keep a diary, like whatshername did . . . oh, like Anne Frank did.” Like Anne Frank did???? Did you read Anne Frank’s diary??? What a bitch Bambi has turned out to be, to compare me to Anne Frank! I’ve written six books, and Anne? She didn’t even complete her one. She’s no writer. Did you ever read her book? She has no ending! “Uh-oh! The Nazis are coming up the . . .”

I’m trying…