Some folks just aren't happy with their 15 minutes of fame. Consider this from Roseanne Bar. A more disgusting display is hard to find. The cookies are gingerbread men which she refers to as "jew cookies" as she pulls them out of the oven.
“Hello,” she barks in a general greeting to everyone and no one. I approach with the kind of caution usually reserved for wild animals and salute her with a “Sieg Heil” in honor of our shoot. She looks at me blankly and asks, “Who are you?” I do my best to explain, then abruptly break the second Roseanne commandment: “Sorry, I’m a bit nervous,” I stammer. The second the words are out of my mouth I brace myself for the onslaught, but to my surprise I seem to have amused her and Barr softens into the loving, if somewhat irritated, matriarch who charmed a generation.
As the “Domestic Goddess” dons the famous moustache, transforming into “Domestic Goddess Hitler,” I notice that she’s beginning to have fun. She nails the Fuehrer’s facial expressions with twisted glee, and as she takes the burnt gingerbread “Jew Cookies” out of the oven it occurs to me that Barr may be the last celebrity utterly incapable of giving a fuck—a quality theoretically easy to embody until it’s time to face the practical repercussions. “Franklin Ajae, Paul Mooney, Mort Sahl and Dick Gregory’s passings will tear my kishkas out,” Barr laments. “They gave everything they had to just tell the truth, and they couldn’t make a decent living because of the choice they made—not selling out to Hollywood.”
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