Lies That Chelsea Handler Told Me Read online

  That night in Cabo, Heather stumbled on to the patio where we were all sitting and was thrilled to share Gina’s fur-coat-limo-sunroof story with us while doing her newfound impression of Gina. Chelsea laughed and then noticed that one of Heather’s eyes was pointing off to the right. Heather is a pretty bad drunk, so Chelsea demanded that she go to bed before she started becoming really annoying. Heather stumbled away on her weird little legs, and the rest of us laughed at her.

  “That impression is pretty good,” I said. “She sounded just like Gina.”

  “Where is Gina?” Amy asked. “I think I’m sharing a room with her, aren’t I?”

  “She’s passed out,” Chelsea said. “You can sleep in my room.”

  “Wait, I’m sleeping in your room,” Sarah reminded Chelsea. “Amy can go get in bed with Gina. I doubt she’ll wake up.”

  “No, Sarah,” Chelsea said. “Amy can’t share the bed with Gina. Roy has to.”

  “What are you talking about?” I asked. “I’m sharing a room with Michael.”

  “Not tonight, you aren’t,” Chelsea informed me. “Tonight you’re sharing a bed with Gina.” She went on to tell me that she thought Gina liked me. “She’s always talking about what a good cook you are.”

  “That doesn’t mean she likes me, stupid. And, by the way, it’s called a ‘chef.’ ”

  “Sorry, that’s what I meant. I mean, you’re a pretty good chef, but you aren’t worth going on and on about the way Gina does. She likes you. She’s alone in bed, and this is the perfect opportunity for you to go in there and bring your relationship to the next level.”

  I don’t have a ton of self-confidence, due to the circumference of my head. When someone tells me that a pretty girl is interested in me, even if it’s Chelsea, I want so badly to believe it that I just do.

  Since Chelsea’s friends have all been trained by Chelsea, they joined in with her. Amy started saying that she’d noticed Gina giving me the eye a couple of times while we were lounging at the pool, and Sarah said she thought she’d overheard Gina asking Michael Broussard if I had any interest in a long-term commitment. Pretty soon all three of those assholes had me considering changing my Facebook status to “It’s complicated.”

  “Roy, go in there and get in bed with her,” Chelsea demanded. “She’ll like it. Every girl loves to be held, especially after a long day of drinking in the sun.”

  I don’t drink as much as my sister or the losers she hangs out with, but I’d had a couple of sips of tequila that day, so I was finding what they were saying very interesting. Plus, I hadn’t been with a makeup artist before. I had heard they’re pretty crazy in the sack.

  Even though I had already made up my mind to do so, I let Chelsea tell me a few more times to go crawl in bed with Gina. “I expect a full report,” she yelled as I got up and walked slowly toward my newfound lover’s room.

  About two and a half minutes later I walked back to the patio to rejoin Chelsea for a nightcap.

  “What happened?” Amy asked.

  I went to grab a chair.

  “Don’t sit down. You don’t get to sit down until you tell us what happened,” Chelsea warned.

  “She didn’t go for it,” I mumbled as I ignored Chelsea’s command and sat down.

  “What do you mean she didn’t go for it?” Chelsea asked. “We need details, Roy. Let’s get serious.”

  I sighed. I was tired, ashamed, and defeated. “I went into the room, just like you told me. Gina was passed out. I quietly shut the door so that I wouldn’t startle her. Then I took off my T-shirt and my boxers.”

  “Wait, what?” Sarah asked as she choked on a lemon. “You took off your boxers?” She, Amy, and Chelsea all started laughing hysterically.

  “You told me to get in bed with her!” I semi-yelled. I don’t really like to raise my voice.

  “I didn’t tell you to get in bed with her naked,” Chelsea shot back. “What is wrong with you?” She then proceeded to laugh harder than I think I’ve ever seen her laugh. “What did she do?” she said, rolling on the patio.

  “Well, she woke up and asked me what the hell I thought I was doing. I quickly realized that she didn’t want me in bed with her—even though you told me that she did—so I panicked. I told her I was just trying to get some shut-eye.”

  “Some naked shut-eye,” Amy said with a laugh.

  “Shut up, Amy. What do you know about sex. You’re a lesbian,” I fired back.

  “Roy, please continue,” Chelsea said.

  “Well, she told me that she’d heard my T-shirt and boxers hit the floor, which is ludicrous. Pants maybe, but who hears boxers hit the floor? She said that she knew I was naked. She told me to get the fuck out of the room and to stay away from her for the rest of the trip.”

  Chelsea was delighted. In her wildest dreams, she didn’t imagine that I would have removed all of my clothing.

  “It’s not funny, Chelsea,” I scolded her. “Now Gina thinks I’m a sex offender. We were kind of friends before, and now she probably hates me. I wonder if she’s going to press charges.”

  “Oh, calm down,” Chelsea said with a sigh. “I’ll take care of it.” She assured me that she would tell Gina the next day that she had made me get in bed with her. I don’t know if she planned to tell her that the naked part was my idea, and I didn’t ask.

  “Thank you, Roy. That’s the hardest I’ve laughed since I broke up with Ted.”

  I looked at my sister, feeling glad that I could give her that gift. So what if Gina started carrying a rape whistle around me? At least my little sister was happy. As Chuy so wisely put it once, “When Chelsea’s happy, everybody’s happy.”

  Gina and me on the plane ride home from Cabo that weekend. You can see the distance between us. Chelsea took this photo and laughed the whole way home. Gina and I have recently been able to cook together again. It took some time.

  “Just so I’m clear,” I asked Chelsea, “do you still think she likes me?”

  For the record: my brother is the horniest person I have ever met, and although I find that disturbing, it is one of my great pleasures in life to be a catalyst in his getting penetration.

  —Chelsea

  Chapter Five

  My Name Is Brad Wollack and I Am Unattractive

  BRAD WOLLACK

  Me and Chelsea in a rare tender moment when she allowed herself to be vulnerable to my advances.

  Chelsea Handler is a hypocrite. The one thing she hates more than anything in life is a liar, and yet Chelsea lies more than anyone else. And not simple lies like “Brad, you were on TMZ last night—oh, wait, it was just a shot of Kathy Griffin’s pubes.” No, we’re talking about emotionally crippling lies.

  If she sees your weakness, she pounces. In fact, that’s really the underlying premise of this book. The back cover doesn’t say it, but it should read, “Here’s the deal, Chelsea Handler mercilessly fucks with those around her. They all just have to take it, and here are some of their pathetic stories.”

  There are some of us she abuses more than others. Sadly, I’m one of them. It almost feels like I’m a recovering addict. “Hello. I’m Brad Wollack and I’m a constant Chelsea Handler victim.” Chelsea knows all too well that I’m a psychological mess, yet this only fuels her desire to prey on my weaknesses.

  Chelsea relishes the emotional strain she places on me when she fucks with me, and, truthfully, she probably doesn’t care. For her, wreaking havoc on my nerves is a good thing. As long as she’s letting off some steam, who cares if I’m contemplating suicide? And if you think suicide is out of the question for me, let me offer you some background…

  Shit really started to go downhill for me at around age five. When I wasn’t threatening to kill myself, which was most days, I would throw monumental tantrums for legitimate reasons, such as again being served chicken stroganoff made with low-fat yogurt, or my parents not letting me watch Ponch and Jon exact justice on LA’s worst freeway criminals on my favorite TV show of all time, CHiPs.