Having worked on TV and in the media for the last 33 years, I’ve run into tons and tons of celebrities.
(Once, I was even nearly run over in a Gelson’s Supermarket parking lot in Malibu by Steven Spielberg. Gawd, that would have made me rich!)
And honestly, most of the time, the rich and famous, as Us Magazine used to say, are just like us. But – shock! – sometimes even raging narcissists who live for external validation can be a bit much.
I’ll begin with everyone’s favorite TV show star to hate on ABC’s The View.
In 2003, I was summoned to New York to audition for the show, and even though I had just been accepted to UCLA, I was intrigued by kickstarting my TV career on an established network show.
Star Jones was lovely (though she talked a lot about her flatulence), Meredith Vieira was a classy goddess who made me want to be her handmaiden and Joy Behar was a ghoul.
On set, I delivered a few punchy lines that had the audience chuckling, but despite employing a writer to feed her jokes, Joy Behar (pictured) was about as unfunny as a toddler’s funeral.
I was in the Viper Room at a post-Oscars party when Ben Affleck (pictured) started lecturing me about being a ‘right wing motherf****r.’
In the makeup room, I was attempting to make small talk with her about stand-up comics whom we both knew when she snapped, ‘We could play the who-do-we-know game all day, I’m not interested.’ Then she hopped on her broomstick and flew down the hall to her dressing room.
On set, I delivered a few punchy lines that had the audience chuckling, but despite employing a writer to feed her jokes, she was about as unfunny as a toddler’s funeral.
In the commercial, she whipped around and spat, ‘Leave the jokes to me, got it?’
‘Sure Joy,’ I smirked. ‘As soon as you start being funny, I’ll stop.’
But she never did.
And speaking of insufferable, entitled snoots, Ben Affleck is an turd.
He has hated me ever since I interviewed actor/writer/director Kevin Smith in the late ’90s about his breakout cult classic Mallrats. Ben played the vain manager of a cheesy upscale men’s fashion store who was unlucky in love. (Life imitates art.)
Smith complimented Ben’s acting (this was pre-Good Will Hunting days), to which I replied, ‘No one will ever care about Ben Affleck!’
A few years later, I was in the Viper Room at talent agent Ed Limato’s post-Oscars party (Ed was a legend and his get-togethers were the most A-List events I’ve ever attended) and Ben was glaring at me from another table.
At the time, I was an out Republican (I have since refined my views to devoutly libertarian, aka ‘Freedom Chic’) and Affleck started lecturing me about being a ‘right wing motherf****r.’
By this point in his career, he had developed a healthy ego and a solid drinking habit. I could almost hear the Jack Daniels sloshing around his empty, Masshole brain, as he lobbed slurred insults.
‘Ben, no one cares about your politics, not one person,’ I said.
Three decades later, am I wrong?
Indeed, celebrity-chef Giada De Laurentiis (pictured) – whose teeth are only slightly bigger than her funbags – is a total snob.
I joked that Ryan Seacrest (pictured) got the job on American Idol gig because he was the only person short enough to perform a certain variety of sex act. (OK, I threw the first punch, but it’s a roast!)
My next story hits quite closer to home. When my girls were young, they were lucky enough to attend a sweet preschool in Pacific Palisades that has since, sadly, burned to the ground.
All the moms there would volunteer and bring snacks and art supplies, except for one. She’d constantly complain to the school director or any teacher who would listen and turn her nose up at all the other parents.
Indeed, celebrity-chef Giada De Laurentiis – whose teeth are only slightly bigger than her funbags – is a total snob.
One day, when I was leaving the preschool, she and I were the only ones in the hallway. Giada slipped on her oversized Bono-bug sunglasses and waltzed passed me as I held the door open for her, without saying thank you, like I was some lowly servant.
‘You’re welcome!’ I yelled.
Nothing.
So, as she was stomping away, I called after her, ‘You know in our country, it’s customary to say “thank you” when someone holds the door open!’
Next time, Giada, I’ll let the door hit ya where the Lord split ya.
That brings me to Ryan Seacrest – a short man with a tall ego.
The first time I almost appeared on stage with him it was at a ‘roast’ for sexpot sportscaster, actress Jillian Barberie, but instead of roasting her I took a dig at Seacrest.
I joked that he got the job on American Idol gig because he was the only person short enough to perform a certain variety of sex act. (OK, I threw the first punch, but it’s a roast!)
Shockingly, a few years later, I was asked to be a guest on a pilot episode of his daytime snoozefest, On Air with Ryan Seacrest, which was supposed to compete with MTV’s Total Request Live, hosted by Seacrest nemesis Carson Daly.
Ryan introduced me and brought me out on stage. And I pulled a Richard Dawson and kissed him right on the mouth. I haven’t felt such an astonishing dearth of chemistry since I bear-hugged my gay cousin Richie.
Ex-governor Chris Christie (pictured) seems to be one of the most thin-skinned (I bet he’s never been called that before) pucker-butts.
Needless to say, the affection was not reciprocated, and the next time I saw him it was in the parking garage of the radio station group where we were both working, and he was icier than a popsicle in Antarctic.
Seacrest, who didn’t even broadcast out of that building, was inexplicably granted three prime parking spots where I would stick my station wagon pretty much every shift until one day he caught me.
‘Hey man, don’t park in these spots. Ok? They’re mine.’
‘Oh my garden, these are yours? Holy s***, I’ll never do that again.’
I looked at him with as much false sincerity as I could muster.
The next day, and from every day thereafter, I parked in not one, but two of his parking spots for spite.
And, finally, a dishonorable mention: New Jersey man Chris Christie.
This ex-governor seems to be one of the most thin-skinned (I bet he’s never been called that before) pucker-butts.
He apparently cannot stand any form of criticism because nearly every time I’ve ever poked fun at his girth (which, in the age of Ozempic, is inexcusable), one of his minions calls the network to complain, which, of course, only encourages me to do it more.
Now that I think of it… am I the obnoxious celeb?
Nah!
