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switched to the Downward-Facing Pig. On our way home, Melissa and I swung by a fast-food chicken place. When we got to the counter the idiot taking our order says, “We’re out of breasts.” I said, “Who are you? A Beverly Hills plastic surgeon a week before the Oscars?” I was livid. How is it possible that there were no breasts? Did all the chickens have mastectomies? Maybe they’re roosters in drag and this is a gay chicken store and no one told the manager. If you only make one thing, there’s no excuse to run out. For example, I know for a fact that if you swing by George Michael’s pad, he’s never out of butt plugs.
    MARCH 9
    Dear Diary:
    I hate people who are lousy at their jobs. If you don’t do something well, then don’t do it. For example, if you weigh four hundred pounds and can’t cross the street without having a triage unit on standby, don’t become a personal trainer. If you stutter, don’t look for work on a suicide hotline (“D-d-d-d-d-on’t j-j-j-j-jump . . .” Too late). And if you give a rotten blow job, then don’t become a hooker. If you can’t suck a nice dick well, then find a job that doesn’t require that skill, like lesbian golfer or Midwestern housewife.
    MARCH 10
    Dear Diary:
    I’ve got to get caller ID. Too many people I don’t know are getting through. Tonight I was lying in bed struggling with a crossword puzzle (four-letter word beginning with “c” for mean, horrible bitch; I wrote small and put in “TYRABANKS”), when the phone rang and I heard bereft sobbing.
    So I listened, because at my age my friends’ husbands are dropping faster than Justin Bieber’s balls. And I sighed in all the right places and said “tsk-tsk” and acted like I really cared until she said, “I really be missing my Darnell.” Darnell? I don’t know anyone named Darnell.
    From here on in, anyone who calls me better fucking identify themselves, just like they do at AA meetings. Those old winos always announce themselves. Okay, they’re wrong a lot because they’re drunk, but they try. “Hi, I’m the Dionne Quintuplets and I’m an alcoholic . . .” No, you’re not the Dionne Quintuplets. You’re a thirty-eight-year-old carpet salesman from Sheboygan named Edwin, and you have beer foam on your pants.
    MARCH 11
    Dear Diary:
    That call about Darnell got me thinking: Names are crazy; they have no rhyme or reason. I was hoping that maybe Gwyneth Paltrow was starting a trend by naming her child after her favorite food. Her kid’s name is Apple. My niece could be named Peach. And Christina Aguilera’s next kid should be called Potato. I know for a fact Connie Chung’s second-born is named Dog. And Kanye West’s new son is going to be named Pussy in honor of where he came from.
    MARCH 13
    Dear Diary:
    I can’t stand it when an actor wins an Oscar or a Golden Globe and gets to the stage and stutters and mutters and says, “I didn’t prepare anything because I didn’t think I was going to win.” Why the fuck didn’t you prepare anything? You knew you were nominated. You had at least a 20 percent chance of winning, or 40 percent if Amy Adams was in your category. Would it have killed you to make a list of people who helped you make the movie and got you out of rehab/prison so you could make the damned thing, or your mother or your family, or your life partner, Jimmy, who makes your world go round?
    I hate people who don’t prepare. Who wants to walk into their accountant’s office during tax season and find him shocked at having to do so much arithmetic? Or go to a proctologist and have him blurt out, horrified, “Oh, wow! Look at all the doody!”?
    MARCH 16
    Dear Diary:
    Had lunch with my friend Brian, who’s in AA, and his sponsor and his sponsor’s sponsor. Ordering food took longer than the Hundred Years’ War. “Is there alcohol in tiramisu?” “Does the wine burn out of the mussels?” “I could be wrong, but is there rum in the rum cake?” I’m hoping