Lies That Chelsea Handler Told Me Read online

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  Table of Contents

  Copyright Page

  This book is dedicated to Michael Broussard. He is responsible for every book I’ve written, and for every bridge I’ve burned in the book world. I love you dearly, you great big homosexual. Stay gay. It gets better.

  Introduction

  My name is Chelsea Handler and I’m not proud of myself. I have made a career out of being a misanthrope with the maturity level of an eight-year-old who had to repeat the third grade several times. Am I pleased with myself? Sort of, but I am definitely not proud. I know that I should be more mature than I am, and I have sometimes tried to curb my behavior, but it never seems to take. I have to come to terms with what it is I have to offer the world, and obviously what it is isn’t mind-blowing.

  So, in the vein of giving back to the community, I have figured out a way to give back to a handful of the people I harass on a regular basis. Everyone who contributed to this pile of nonsense is someone who is very dear to me, and someone who needed cash. I believe in spreading the wealth. Give, give, give, and laugh, laugh, laugh. Even when it’s at the expense of others, it’s important to laugh. Laugh loudly, laugh often, and most important, laugh at yourself.

  For those of you who have read my other books, the names of some of the recurring characters in this book may confuse you. The reason being, when I first started writing books, I was instructed to change all names and likenesses to protect people and their privacy, and also to protect myself from being sued by people I had allowed to penetrate me.

  However, it turns out that everyone in my life has somehow warmed up to the idea of being humiliated in print, and are now adamant about my using their real names going forward. Here’s a key:

  Sidney = Simone

  Sloane = Shana

  Greg = Glen

  Ray = Roy

  There are more, but I’ve already lost interest in explaining this and would prefer for everyone to get to the part of the book that will, I hope, hold your interest the longest.

  In closing, I would like to thank each and every one of you for making me a New York Times bestselling author. It is a sad testament to the state of this country, but I will take what I can get, when I can get it, and try to laugh at the fact that it happened at all.

  xo,

  Chelsea

  Chapter One

  Zookeeper

  JOHNNY KANSAS

  Chelsea Handler is a menace. Working for her is very much like working for a highly functioning, oversexed, drunken chimpanzee. Just when you think you’re part of the family and it’s all fun and games, she turns on you and bites off your fingers, nose, and genitals.

  Chelsea and me in Anguilla last Christmas.

  As with any volatile primate, you can never tell when she’ll attack, but through years of experience and close observation I have concluded that she is most dangerous when she’s bored or has a little free time and is looking to entertain herself. Now I understand why they put toys in monkey cages. You want to keep them busy so they have no time for mischief. The thought has crossed my mind to buy Chelsea a tire swing for her dressing room.

  For some unknown reason, I seem to be one of Chelsea’s favorite targets. Brad Wollack thinks she fucks with him more than anyone else, but he is sadly deceived. Brad Wollack is a whiner and an obsessive-compulsive, so not only does he talk about how Chelsea fucks with him more, he thinks about it over and over and over again while he counts the ceiling tiles and cleans his computer mouse with a Clorox wipe.

  Brad Wollack

  I also feel that Brad should be used to any abuse by now. I mean, just look at him. He’s ridiculous.

  I apologize to his parents, whom I have met multiple times, and who are lovely and very attractive people. Honestly, I wouldn’t mind taking his mom for a spin around the dance floor, but I’m sorry, Brad looks like a newborn piglet with a red Jew fro. If you didn’t know better, you’d think Little Orphan Annie had had a sex change operation with less than optimal results. Add some big glasses and a twitch and you’ve got a guy who got his ass kicked religiously in high school. I’m sure people have been fucking with him for most of his life.

  Getting back to Chelsea… Just so you know what I’m dealing with, let me explain. Chelsea introduces me as a “little girl” to everyone, whether it’s her family, new people at the show, people at dinner parties, or entertainment executives. I guess you could call that a lie because, for the record, I am not a little girl. I’m a grown man and a producer at Chelsea Lately. Even though little girls are cute and cuddly, they don’t exactly command a lot of respect in the rough-and-tumble, dog-eat-dog, who-took-my-sandwich world of Hollywood.

  I didn’t really mind it at first, but then I realized that even though people probably didn’t think I was actually a little girl, I could tell they were assessing my physique and thinking, “Well, he does kind of have an adolescent female body.” “I don’t know what it is about him, but for some reason I can’t stop thinking about that robot girl from Small Wonder.” This doesn’t give me the biggest boost of confidence about myself, everybody thinking that I have the body of a teen girl and that my name is Jill, not Johnny. That’s also what Chelsea introduces me as, Jill.

  If she doesn’t introduce me as Jill, she introduces me as Baby Bird. I believe Baby Bird came from the size of my body and the fact that I’m not really a big eater. You wouldn’t be either if you were looking over your shoulder during every meal, keeping your eye out for a lonely marauding basic cable host. I guess I don’t put much effort into eating, and I will admit that when everyone at the table is finished I’m usually about three bites in. But what the fuck does that have to do with being a baby bird? It’s not like I’m having someone chew up my food for me and then regurgitate it into my mouth. That happened only once, in Cabo, with a banana, but that was for a movie, one I remain extremely proud of to this day, titled Drunken Jackasses: The Quest. Netflix it.

  The only conclusion that any normal person can come to is that Chelsea is infatuated with my body. She won’t admit it, but come on, that’s all she talks about. I’m sure right now she’s probably somewhere thinking about my slim, petite body. Maybe she’s attracted to little girl bodies and that’s why she’s always talking about mine. I believe she probably wishes she had my body.

  Another thing you should know is that Chelsea gives me three to four wedgies a week. Not your cute, giggly, “oh, you silly goose” wedgies. We’re talking tear-inducing, ball-crushing, bloodstain-producing underwear wedgies. I’m sure by now I have the words Fruit of the Loom permanently embossed on my asshole.

  This insane behavior is perfectly acceptable in the Chelsea Lately offices. How is this possible? Is that any way to run a television show? Do you think at The View the morning starts with Joy Behar emerging from what I’m sure is three to four hours of makeup, taking hold of an intern’s boxers, and screaming, “It must be Christmas because I just gave you a Nut Cracker”?

  But in this asinine workplace you have to learn to grin and bear it and laugh because, well, it’s part of the job. “Ha, ha, ha, Chelsea just severed my left testicle. Hilarious.” I know some of the writers can feel my pain and humiliation when she’s doing it, but still they laugh along. I once saw it in Sarah Colonna’s eyes, I saw the sadness and compassion for me through her giggles, but I don’t blame her, she has a career to look out for. To this day I’ve never held it against Sarah.

  Sarah Colonna

  To mix it up, Chelsea doesn’t always go for the wedgie. At least once a week she strips off other articles of my clothing: shoes, socks, belts. Ripping my shirt over my head is a standard. She will pretend to be having a simple, sweet con