In Roseanne Barr's third book, "Roseannearchy: Dispatches from the Nut Farm," the actress-comedian confesses to all her celebrity grudges and tells it like it is, in true Roseanne form.
Read an excerpt of the book below and then check out the "GMA" Library for more great reads.
The first thing I asked myself after making everyone I know check around to see if they could get me a book deal was, Why the hell am I thinking about writing another book? After all, everywhere you look, some pouty intellectual is whining about how we live in a postliterate age, which means that nobody reads anything longer than a text message, and even those are just a few dumb-ass abbreviations strung together -- LOL (laugh out loud), LMFAO (laughing my f****** ass off), ROFLMAO (rolling on floor laughing my ass off), TTYL (talk to you later), or LOLSTC (laughed out loud scared the cat!).
Now here I am, almost fifty-eight years old, being completely honest with myself as I begin to approach middle age (LOL), full to the brim with wisdom, grandmotherly love, and the kind of gas that only a whole head of roasted garlic can generate, so you, dear reader, are in for a treat. I wanted to write the kind of book that I'd like to read, but my publishers, who just got bought again (this time by a Chinese hedge fund or something), told me that trashy crime novels full of lurid sex and gory details that forensics freaks love to revel in are just rotting on the racks. So I went straight to Plan B: a timely, eclectic book by a Baby Boomer that even younger people could take home and read, if they could in fact read after coming up through our skool systom (ROFLMAO).
Speaking of younger people, my five kids (I used to be pro-life), who think of me as a Mominatrix who has somehow always managed to both cruelly neglect them and butt into their lives too much, are glad I'm writing it. In fact, my whole formerly estranged extended family is happy about it. I think it's because it'll give them a chance to really consider my words carefully, get to know me all over again, and then see if there's anything in here that would give them grounds to sue me. God love 'em.
I know damn well that there are a lot of people who never really got to know me and still don't like me, but this really isn't a book about ex-husbands. Some people are almost incurable hardcases, and despite the fact that legions of Roseannethropologists have determined that I've done our desperately diverse, dynamically dysfunctional culture way more good than harm, some folks just won't let me live down that night all those years ago when I started the National Anthem too high, and ended up sounding like a screechy but brittle blend of battlefield surgery and a pterodactyl with its tit in a wringer. I've said I'm sorry a million times! I know this is a Christian nation and all that, but can't they at least consider forgiving me after all these years? Talk about going the extra mile: I'm a Jew and I dressed up like Hitler and baked little burned people cookies to atone for my poor performance! What more can I do, for Christ's sake?
I know that there are a lot of books out there right now by well-known people in the comedy business, people who are utterly brilliant and have timely, relevant things to say -- funny things, poignant things that go straight to the heart after tickling the funny bone. Some of these talented figures, many younger than I, have enjoyed big success on TV more recently than I have, and they're getting rave reviews. I'm not too proud to say that I hate those people. But I can't let the jealousy I feel for them and my inability to focus keep me from trying to show them up and get out there and have my say, too!
I just know this book will be wildly successful and well received because I'm someone who surrounds myself with positive energy and light, someone who doesn't let negative, demoralizing words like failure or disappointment or exercise even begin to creep into her life. I learned an important, valuable lesson years ago, when I used to smoke three or four packs of cigarettes a day: I am no quitter! I do whatever it takes to make things work -- to make them fulfilling and joyous.
Hell, you want to see determination? I'll take my son's college money (I don't think he's college material anyway, but let's just keep that between us), give it to my personal assistant when she gets out of rehab, and have her buy thousands of these sons of bitches, ten at a time. I don't need Oprah's Book Club; I'll spend myself into the goddamn poorhouse, buying my own books by the truckload, and then get me one of them government bailouts! See what I'm saying? Those rookies at Goldman Sachs will come to me and ask how to work this free market ba-ziz-ness up in here! I do hope you like it, though -- yes, you, who are reading my words at this moment, this very moment, the only one we really have. Okay, there's this moment, too, but you know what I mean.
Think of this book as a big, fun, shiny fridge that you can open at three in the morning when your pill wears off and you realize your nightmare was more fun than your real life and you're looking for something tasty to read. Open this book and the light will come on, and you can just stare into it, like a clueless zombie who doesn't give a damn about low fat or fiber or cholesterol or corn syrup or blood pressure or any of that other crap the science nerds try to scare us into caring about -- then you can just start grabbing at things, unwrapping them, smelling them, trying some of this or that. Don't think of the slabs and slices and chunks of words as chapters that unfold in a logical manner or reveal some artfully woven plotline or ironclad womanifesto. Logical shmogical!
Think of it more like "Hey, this chocolate-covered strawberry really tastes good with a mouthful of bean-and-cheese burrito!
Now, where's the rest of that pumpkin pie?" (I just made myself hungry.)
Anyway, thanks for buying my book, my friend! Eat hearty, and we'll start our walking program next week -- next week for sure.
Till then: Bon appétit!