Turner Classic Movies. I’d forgotten how moving it was. And I’d forgotten that Marlee Matlin won the Oscar for Best Supporting Actress. And I’d forgotten that I couldn’t understand one word she said. Even last night, the second time around, I couldn’t figure it out. She’s moaning, she’s grimacing, she’s signing . . . I didn’t know if she was an actress in a role or a gangbanger having an orgasm.
APRIL 23
Dear Diary:
Last night while trying to find the Sex Toy Channel, which was featuring Japanese rabia tickrers, I watched the news. Some athlete was being interviewed after a game and he said he was “FUstrated” at his team’s losing. What’s with the FUstrated? What happened to the r ? It’s not silent. The word is FRustrated not FUstrated. That sort of stupidity drives me cazy.
Also, I hate it when people drop the g at the end of a word. “He was runnin’ and playin’ and singin’ . . .” Again, the g is not a silent letter. Letters are meant to be used. And where will it end? How would you like it if I walked into Red Lobster and ordered an Angus burger, but I didn’t pronounce the g ?
APRIL 24
Dear Diary:
Couldn’t concentrate on anything today. I kept thinking maybe we should just start all over and change the rules of spelling and pronunciation. For example, if we changed the first letter on a lot of words, we’d never have to worry about political correctness again. Example: I wouldn’t be upset if Mel Gibson called me a d ike. And Paula Deen surely would be back in business if she said, “I hate T iggers, don’t you?” Just by changing one letter, making “gook” into “kook,” Ann Curry would have laughed her tight little laugh when Matt Lauer said, “Here comes that dog-munching k ook.” And I would not be upset when Father Desmond Tutu called me a p unt. This could be the end of hatred, worldwide! If Nelson Mandela was alive I would say, “Somebody get me that old toon on the phone. Tell him it’s the Newish Witch.”
APRIL 25
Dear Diary:
I hate the autocorrect on my computer, phone and iPad. It’s humorless and doesn’t understand nuance; it’s the Jay Leno of apps. Today I was writing a pretty little poem called “I Hope You Die,” about all of the skinny bitches in Hollywood—okay, it was more of an homage to eating disorders—and I wrote that one starlet, who shall remain nameless (and FYI, it’s not Ashley Olsen) looked a little “AIDS-y.”
The autocorrect kept changing AIDS-y to “antsy” or “artsy.” This starlet doesn’t look nervous or creative; she looks like she has six T cells. I know what I meant; autocorrect doesn’t. So let’s lose that “tool,” shall we? I spent a hundred grand on a degree in linguistics; I don’t need a phone app telling me what to do with my colon.
Although in fairness, the autocorrect isn’t always wrong. Every time you type the name “Joan Rivers,” autocorrect changes it to “Insufferable Cunt.”
APRIL 26
Dear Diary:
Some day! Sat down on my sunny terrace to enjoy a nice latte and answer my hate mail, which has been piling up since last Valentine’s Day. (Good news is, my house is under consideration to be on Hoarders. ) My neighbor Leah came over here hysterical because she found out her husband, Murray, has been cheating on her. I felt sorry for her, not because he was cheating but because she’s a dope; everyone knew he was cheating. Friends, coworkers, doormen knew, a blind passerby could figure it out in two seconds. But not Leah. I said to her sweetly, “Leah, you fucking moron, what kind of an asshole idiot are you? How did you not know? For openers, Murray has teeth marks on his dick and you wear a denture. Second, half the kids in the neighborhood have his nose. And third, when you go to a Yankees game and thirty thousand fans yell out, ‘Hi, Dad!’ aren’t you a little suspicious? And let’s not forget the time I got into a taxi and said to the driver, ‘Where can a girl
APRIL 23
Dear Diary:
Last night while trying to find the Sex Toy Channel, which was featuring Japanese rabia tickrers, I watched the news. Some athlete was being interviewed after a game and he said he was “FUstrated” at his team’s losing. What’s with the FUstrated? What happened to the r ? It’s not silent. The word is FRustrated not FUstrated. That sort of stupidity drives me cazy.
Also, I hate it when people drop the g at the end of a word. “He was runnin’ and playin’ and singin’ . . .” Again, the g is not a silent letter. Letters are meant to be used. And where will it end? How would you like it if I walked into Red Lobster and ordered an Angus burger, but I didn’t pronounce the g ?
APRIL 24
Dear Diary:
Couldn’t concentrate on anything today. I kept thinking maybe we should just start all over and change the rules of spelling and pronunciation. For example, if we changed the first letter on a lot of words, we’d never have to worry about political correctness again. Example: I wouldn’t be upset if Mel Gibson called me a d ike. And Paula Deen surely would be back in business if she said, “I hate T iggers, don’t you?” Just by changing one letter, making “gook” into “kook,” Ann Curry would have laughed her tight little laugh when Matt Lauer said, “Here comes that dog-munching k ook.” And I would not be upset when Father Desmond Tutu called me a p unt. This could be the end of hatred, worldwide! If Nelson Mandela was alive I would say, “Somebody get me that old toon on the phone. Tell him it’s the Newish Witch.”
APRIL 25
Dear Diary:
I hate the autocorrect on my computer, phone and iPad. It’s humorless and doesn’t understand nuance; it’s the Jay Leno of apps. Today I was writing a pretty little poem called “I Hope You Die,” about all of the skinny bitches in Hollywood—okay, it was more of an homage to eating disorders—and I wrote that one starlet, who shall remain nameless (and FYI, it’s not Ashley Olsen) looked a little “AIDS-y.”
The autocorrect kept changing AIDS-y to “antsy” or “artsy.” This starlet doesn’t look nervous or creative; she looks like she has six T cells. I know what I meant; autocorrect doesn’t. So let’s lose that “tool,” shall we? I spent a hundred grand on a degree in linguistics; I don’t need a phone app telling me what to do with my colon.
Although in fairness, the autocorrect isn’t always wrong. Every time you type the name “Joan Rivers,” autocorrect changes it to “Insufferable Cunt.”
APRIL 26
Dear Diary:
Some day! Sat down on my sunny terrace to enjoy a nice latte and answer my hate mail, which has been piling up since last Valentine’s Day. (Good news is, my house is under consideration to be on Hoarders. ) My neighbor Leah came over here hysterical because she found out her husband, Murray, has been cheating on her. I felt sorry for her, not because he was cheating but because she’s a dope; everyone knew he was cheating. Friends, coworkers, doormen knew, a blind passerby could figure it out in two seconds. But not Leah. I said to her sweetly, “Leah, you fucking moron, what kind of an asshole idiot are you? How did you not know? For openers, Murray has teeth marks on his dick and you wear a denture. Second, half the kids in the neighborhood have his nose. And third, when you go to a Yankees game and thirty thousand fans yell out, ‘Hi, Dad!’ aren’t you a little suspicious? And let’s not forget the time I got into a taxi and said to the driver, ‘Where can a girl
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