Lies That Chelsea Handler Told Me Read online

  As a big F-U to me, Jax and his lesbian moms ended up moving into our summer house. On top of that, Mom’s brother Uncle Roy moved in with—get this—a fucking Jack Russell asshole who yapped from morning till night. Luckily, my mother got sick of that dog just as quickly as I did and had it transported on a pet airline to her sister Shoshonna in New Jersey. If I never see that dog again, it will be too soon.

  On top of that, our quiet little abode soon became Grand Central Station for all of Mom’s idiotic staff. It was like a new train came in every day with a fresh load of mumbling ignoramus passengers. It was the opposite of being alone. It was Moron Day every day. This was not turning out like I had planned. Or like how Mom had promised. Instead of dealing with one annoying person, I now had to deal with a whole array of them. I don’t know if she realized it, but in getting me out of one mess she’d brought me into a much bigger mess altogether. On second thought, I bet she did realize it.

  The constant barrage of irritation followed me to work as well. I mean, Jax literally followed me to Mom’s office every day. Hanging out with that dog is like being at a sleepover with some kid you don’t really like but your mom makes you hang out with him because she’s friends with his mom. The hitch was that this sleepover never ended. Every night the dumb kid’s like, “Hey, do you want to build a fort in the living room?” All I’m thinking is, Yes, if you’ll go inside it and stay there for a long time without me.

  The problem with Jax is that all the boneheads at Mom’s office really like him. That’s actually an understatement. They absolutely love that dog. And I get it. He’s very “dog.” He has a nice short coat that screams “I never have to get groomed but you can always see my muscles.” He loves balls. I like saying that: “Jax loves balls.” He runs up to everyone all happy-go-lucky. “Rub my belly!” this, “Scratch behind my ears!” that, “Hey! Let’s play fetch!” He’s always smiling, he’s always happy. He’s everything I’m not, and I’m forced to face that fact twenty-four hours a day.

  It’s really exhausting being around Jax. If my eyes could roll back any farther in my head in reaction to him, they would be staring at the front of my brain. I started hiding in the bathroom just to get away from everything. Like an old book in the public library, I often check myself out of the situation. Sometimes someone walks in, say, Loren, Chelsea’s assistant, and she’ll be like, “Oh, poor Chunk, you got locked in the bathroom again… by accident. Here, let me bring you out.”

  No, Loren, this is not an accident. I would rather sit on this cold tile floor in the bathroom, listening to the tinkle of girls going to the bathroom, than be subjected to everyone out there.

  I’m just not part of that group, and I don’t have to try to be. Mom loves me because I’m authentic to who I am, right? Not because I act like Jax, or like Johnny, or like Heather. I’m just different from all those people out there. I know dogs are supposed to be pack animals, but I feel more like a “pack of cigarettes” kind of animal. All I need is myself, my smokes, and that tornado of thoughts swirling around in my head. I don’t really smoke. Because dogs can’t actually smoke, you silly goose.

  Which brings us to Mom’s big Fourth of July pool party.

  Los Angeles had been hit with a heat wave. I always thought a heat wave had something to do with a bunch of female dogs in heat waving at me. But I guess it just means that it gets hot as balls outside. (I don’t have balls anymore, FYI.) So, due to this heat wave, Mom’s lesbian stylist, Amy, had my entire body shaved to keep me cool, but they left the hair around my head and my neck all bushy. I looked like a stupid lion.

  Hanging out at one of Mom’s parties is like dropping acid and watching Teletubbies. All the usual suspects were in full form. Brad Wollack was under an umbrella applying SPF 200. He likes to brag about being a cancer survivor and that his sunscreen has to be specially ordered from Canada. Ben Gleib was busy running the Ping-Pong table, which is appropriately placed between the lesbian quarters and the horse stables. The camera guys were smoking pot somewhere. A topless security guard was playing badminton against himself. And Heather Long Boobs was walking around in a cocktail gown, which was way overdressed for a pool party. Heather’s a real C word—a real cougar.

  You get the idea. The party was a traveling circus full of carny-style freaks. You people wonder why I’m a little aloof and antisocial? Take a look at yourselves, you sickos. I’m not like you.

  Mom had a new boyfriend at the time. I’ll call him Salami, because his neck was so big it reminded me of a giant tube of salami. Anyway, Salami was some kind of “animal trainer,” and I think he felt he needed to drive that point home by using me as his “animal trainee” all day. I tried telling him, “Look, you aren’t the Dog Whisperer, and I’m not a wild lion from South Africa. So let’s just try to have a normal relationship here and avoid each other.”

  Much to my dismay, Salami kept picking me up and walking around the party with me in his arms. It was humiliating. I’m not a lapdog. I’m a big dog, and big dogs don’t get carried around in people’s arms like that. To make matters worse, he carried me into the pool and started wading around the water with me still in his arms. Look, I’m a grown dog. If I want to go swimming, I’ll do what normal dogs do and just jackknife off the diving board.

  As I was wading around the pool with Salami, I noticed Jax barking at a bush. He is such a summer bummer. I can’t believe Mom surrounded me with all these weirdos. If I had a cell phone, I would call my Chunk counterpart, Chocolate Chunk Sylvan, to come pick me up and drive me to the Jersey shore or somewhere else tropical. He has a nice big car, and he always drives Mom around when she’s on tour.

  Salami was done with our little synchronized swimming routine. Nobody seemed very impressed. He lifted me out of the pool and my wet body felt so naked without all my fur. So I ran inside to find my mom and complain about our new living situation.

  That house is like a giant maze. I felt like a rat trying to find Cheese Whiz. I don’t think I’ve even seen every room in the place yet. I cruised through one of the guest rooms and then into the bathroom. Oh shit, I didn’t want to see that.

  “Might want to knock,” said some guy.

  I had accidentally walked in on Geof, who was changing into a bathing suit.

  “I don’t have thumbs,” I told him. “Makes it hard to knock.” And I darted off.

  Geof books all the shows for Mom’s tour. I’ve got a few problems with this guy. First of all, he spells his name wrong. Second, he has more hair on his body than I do. Watching him apply sunscreen is like watching someone rub Ranch Dressing into a brown shag carpet. Doesn’t that thick coat of body hair block the sun enough? And finally, since he’s constantly taking Mom on the road, I barely get to see her anymore. In my opinion he overbooks her. I’m worried she’s going to develop comedic fatigue stress syndrome disorder. I don’t know if that’s a real disease, but it sounds pretty serious. Mom’s on tour a lot now. That’s good for Geof, but it’s bad for me. I really don’t care about anybody’s wellbeing other than mine and my mom’s. Remember, people, the only person who’s ever going to have your best interest in your life is yourself and your dog, if you have one. Unless your dog doesn’t like you.

  I passed through the kitchen, where Uncle Roy was cooking food for everyone. I think he likes cooking. I just don’t think he likes cooking for all these thankless a-holes. Roy’s head looks like a Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade balloon, and his body is like those ropes holding the balloon to the ground. He never gives me table scraps. He’s pretty much good for nothing.

  Some dumb kid was munching out of a giant bowl of candy that Mom leaves out for them. It’s like every generation of crazy is partying here today. These kids remind me of Children of the Corn, but today they’re “Children of the Candy Corn” because they’re stuffing fistfuls of it into their little saccharine-soaked bodies. I just hope they don’t find any of the marijuana candy that’s floating around here. On second thought, that would be really funny. I hop