Griffin - Official Book Club Selection

Dear Oprah.

Hi, how are you? Hows Gayle doing today?

Nice to hear.

Get ready, cause after you read this barn burner, youre gonna want me on for sweeps week. Youre gonna want to open a school in my name, and have a special edition white ladies legends ball, just for me. Barbara Walters can cater. Maybe.

I know you have questions about whats wrong with me. Call Dr. Oz, he can be on with me during my hour, too. You dont have to call Nate. Hes already on my team. But dont act like you dont want to see my post-op plastic surgery photos, if you havent already flipped to that chapter. You probably dont remember that I was actually a guest on your show. Once. Im on a lot of shows once, for some reason. But just know that if my house ever catches fire, Im grabbing my two dogs, my picture with you, and running for my life. My mom is on her own. By the way, dont even think about Skype-ing my mom for this episode. Shell throw me under the bus in a heartbeat. Shes got a thing for Gayle. Ring a bell?

Lets establish some ground rules for my much-anticipated appearance on your show. First of all, Id like to sit on your lap, at a moment of your choosing. Please wear peach. I love you in summer colors. Were going to cold-call Steadman, because Im no longer convinced he even exists. And you will have to introduce me using your signature vowel-elongating bellow. Repeat after me: KAAAA-THAY GRA-A-A-A-FF-A-A-A-A-A-N! I already have chills.

Heres my promise to you. This will be the most talked-about episode of your career. Well, after the one where Dr. Oz showed pictures of your poo. And maybe the one where the Olsen twins shocked the world with their tales of the difficulties of living in the public spotlight while trying to sell their sassy-themed tween fashion clothing line.

I know that you like to do episodes that help women put themselves first on their list, that inspire lightbulb moments, and that lead to revelations that are big. BIG, PE-E-E-E-PUHL! Our hour together on camera, in front of your global audience, will surely motivate, challenge, and most important, help the children. After all, it is about the children. They are our future.

Here is what you will admire about me. Im living the life you secretly wish you could. Ive got the dysfunctional family story just like a lot of people. Ive bitten, scratched, and clawed to get where I am, just like you. But I dont have to be nice about it. Im naming names and telling tales out of school. I will be your guilty pleasure. I will be your new showbiz confidante. I will be your new Julia Rob-iston-altrow-avolta-angelou.

So strap yourself in, O. You may be the only person who will still be talking to me by the end of this journey. Keep a bunk open at that school in South Africa. I may need to lay low for a while.

Come to think of it, Im not sure you can handle this book. Im going to Tyra.

XXOO
Kathy Griffin

Go fuck yourself.

Have you ever looked at the online photos of Britneys peesh?

I probably shouldnt start my book with that question, but I just cant get enough of those photos. I find it nearly impossible to turn away from an online snapshot of any celebritys peesh. All right, Kath. Focus. This is the story of your life.

Wait! Have you seen that TV commercial with Wynonna Judd where she hawks diet pills? Look, I dont mean to be rude, but maybe a gal with a big voice and a bigger um talent shouldnt be hawking diet pills. Come on, you know those pills are just tiny donuts. Teeny, tiny powdered donuts.

All right, that wasnt very nice. In fact, it was inappropriate, and nothing short of cheap gossip. But lets face it, thats why you bought this book. Thats right, Im bringing it: gays, women, and the occasional DL (down-low) husband. The pages you are about to read have a lot of gossip, but guess what? Most of its about me. Im going to try to make this book a recipe (shout-out to Paula Deen!) of equal parts shit-talking about myself and others. Yeah, I go down pretty hard on myself in this book. Not as hard as Steve Martin does, or my drunken Irish Catholic relatives do, perhaps. But Ive had some heartaches and bumpy passages on this road to notoriety. Basically, I take great pride in the fact that Im a professional. Youre in good hands. This is a job Ive been training for my entire life.

How did I get here, then?

Ill start with a statement so shocking you might have to burn this book immediately:

I was a kid who needed to talk. All the time.

I mean, whats a beleaguered Mary Margaret Griffin to do when her mouthy little daughter wont shut the fuck up? Breathe a sigh of relief, for one thing, whenever I would bolt out the front door of our house on Home Avenue in suburban Oak Park, Illinois.

But Mom was really of two minds about my exit. While part of her was thinking, Thank God, get her out of my earshot, the other part surely thought, Uh-oh. Thats because Id just go next door to the Bowens house, where I first learned the power of juicy material.

The Bowens were an older couple, and they lived with Mrs. Bowens mother, Mrs. Tyres. The Bowens, Mrs. Tyres, and I had a mutual understanding. They would bribe me with Pepperidge Farm Milano cookies, and Id freely spill our family secrets, all to my moms horror, of course. She knew exactly what was going on because she could see it all through our kitchen window, which had a perfect view into the Bowens formal dining room. Mom would be doing dishes, occasionally nursing a nice highballboxed wine innovations hadnt arrived yetthen look up, see my mouth moving, and then see the Bowens shaking their heads.

It was good stuff I was slinging, too. Id reveal how one of my older siblings would have had a kegger the night before, and Id run right over with the latest. Yeah, Joyce had a party and one guy just fell asleep right on the lawn! Id excitedly report. He was real drunk and everything! There was puke everywhere! My mom made me promise not to tell anybody! I dont think she meant you, Mrs. Tyres! Boy, these cookies sure are good!

From my perch at the Bowens table, I could see my poor mom waving me over, mouthing, Get back here! Get back here! If either Mrs. Bowen or Mrs. Tyres looked over, too, my mom could turn on her party face instantaneously and be all smiles: Oh hell-o-o-o-o-o-o, Mrs. Bowen!

Everything was so prim and proper at the Bowens, with doilies on the table, and cookies neatly laid out on a plate. It was like high tea. At our packed house, it was a bag of cookies thrown out and all of us diving for them like animals, with no Kate Gosselin there to spank some sense into us. So naturally I thought it was my job to go next door to these fancy people and try to tell the most graphic, shocking, and horrible stories I could. I mean, havent you sold your soul for a good slice of cake? (More on that later.)