Lies That Chelsea Handler Told Me (24 page)

3:24: Please completely bleep “fags” and “fag hags” in “fags and fag hags fighting.”

3:24: Please completely bleep “fags” and “fag hags” in “fags and fag hags together—there are going to be fights.”

3:24: Please completely bleep “fag hag” in “Have you ever been a fag hag?”

3:24: Please completely bleep “fag hag” in “I am the biggest fag hag in the world.”

3:24: Please completely bleep “fag hag” in “You are, you are a fag hag.”

3:24: Please completely bleep “fag hag” in “I am such a fag hag.”

3:24: Please completely bleep “fag hag” and “jerking off” in “I’m such a fag hag, now they’re jerking off to me.”

3:25: The 9.2 inch penis discussion. Please cut back per above.

3:25: Because it is used in a sexual context as a substitute for “penis,” please completely bleep “poppycock.”

3:26: We can get back into the interview around Chelsea’s “putting things in your mouth” line.

Thanks

FROM:      Chelsea Lately Staff

SENT:       Wednesday, August 04, 2010, 1:09 PM

TO:           E! Entertainment Television

SUBJECT: For approval, closing joke 5107

I tried to Tweet this photo this weekend and Twitter turned it down. Fortunately I have another outlet here at the E! Network. Suck on this Twitter.

Since my publisher is also preventing me from printing the photo due to its content, I will give you a full description. The photo is of three elderly men naked in bed together. Two are lying next to each other and French kissing; one man’s hand is on the right breast of the recipient of the kiss, and the third gentleman is performing oral on the man who is getting his breast massaged while also getting a tongue in his mouth.

Obviously, this is what love is. Beautiful, natural, elderly love. The photo is called the Lemon Party. I highly recommend you Google it.

FROM:      E! Entertainment Television

SENT:       Wednesday, August 04, 2010, 1:49 PM

TO:           Chelsea Lately Staff

SUBJECT: RE: For approval, closing joke 5107

Sorry, folks, but this photo isn’t even remotely suitable for air. Please find another closing joke.

FROM:      E! Entertainment Television

SENT:       Monday, November 08, 2010, 2:26 PM

TO:           Chelsea Lately Staff

SUBJECT: S&P Notes for CL: daily topics

Where to begin with Topic #2? And how do we keep this from going badly very quickly?

Since the topic is cunnilingus and the context is only sexual, all of our usual euphemisms (spicy tuna, dining at the Y, etc.) don’t work here and will have to be bleeped or removed.

Just as we have to bleep both “suck” and “dick” in any topic about fellatio, in any jokes that contain the phrase “eat my pussy,” both “eat” and “pussy” will have to be bleeped. This includes “eat my blank” (only indicates a sexual context) and the “Eat-vite” joke. (Again, there’s no food context, so it only means cunnilingus.)

The “smell my finger” joke in this sexual context paints too graphic a picture. Please lose the joke.

In the past, Chelsea has usually sensed when the jokes are getting too explicit and tries to steer it away. That would be the best course of action today as well.

Thanks

No. Thank you, Comcast Entertainment.

—Chelsea

CHUNK

The extent to which Mom will lie has no limits. She lies to her friends, her coworkers, her family… even to her dog. I’m Chunk Handler and I’m Chelsea’s dog. I am half-Asian and half-German shepherd. Please don’t try to adjust the pages of this book. You read that correctly: I’m a dog. I have thoughts, dreams, and feelings all my own, and this is my story about the last time Mom pulled the dog fur over my eyes.

It was at our old place, sometime ago, and I was in the middle of another “home-school obedience lesson.” Her then-boyfriend was constantly training me to “sit,” “stay,” and “heel.” He always spoke real loud and slow, as if I’d just stepped off the short bus. So, as I said, he was trying to get me to do some dumb trick. I don’t know. I wasn’t really listening. I was just thinking, How about I play dead, and you walk away for a long time? Mom was watching this from across the kitchen, nursing a Belvedere and soda. She had pity in her eyes. I couldn’t tell if it was pity for me or just self-pity. After a while of me pretending to be a dumb dog, her boyfriend got frustrated and huffed away. I couldn’t believe this was going to be the rest of my life. I mean, it beats the dog pound, but it wasn’t great either.

Once he was gone, Mom walked over to me, kneeled down, and said, “Don’t worry, Chunk, I’m going to get us out of this mess.” That was music to my ears. Finally, we were going to be alone.

A lot happened the next year. But the biggest development was that Mom and I moved out. All I ever wanted was a quiet place with no annoying people around. The large, modern home we moved into that summer was perfect—or so I thought.

“Lots of rooms,” she’d asked for. I had hoped it was because she wanted to give me different areas to explore. But no, she wanted to fill those rooms with people. This was an “if you build it they will come” type of summer house. It had a giant pool, a diving board for her brother Roy, a big backyard, and a horse stable. Thank god those dumb horses moved out with the owners of the house. A horse is not my idea of a good time, and neither are the dumps they take. It was summer bliss but also summer hell, because I realized on the day we moved in that we were never going to be alone again.

It’s not that I don’t like people. I just think I’m better than most of them. There are a lot of idiots at Mom’s office. And I have the reputation around there of being a little aloof and antisocial. These are some of the things I’ve heard them say about me behind my hairy back:

“That dog is an asshole,” Johnny Kansas has repeatedly said, before I’ve even left a room.

Johnny, Mom calls you The Bird because your body is frail like a little girl’s. Who’s the asshole now?

“He’s not my type of dog,” said Chris Franjola one morning after I averted my eyes from his horse-like smile. The thought wasn’t lost on me to store his ass in one of the stables at our new pad.

Chris, you don’t have a type. Your only “type” is a girl dumb enough to text you naked pictures of herself. Thumbs up, my brother.

My first day at the office was kind of like my first day at the pound. Basically you have to find the weakest link and make him your bitch. I found a guy named Ryan Basford. He was the perfect man bitch. Just “goofy” enough to take me on walks, feed me, and entertain me while Mom was too busy. He is also known to sit down when he urinates and to wipe his ass from back to front.

It was painful enough to spend most of my days with all the pedestrian people at Mom’s work. But another little problem presented itself. His name was Jax, and he’s a boxer. No, not a Mike Tyson–type boxer, because that would be cool. Jax is a boxer dog, and he pretty much sucks boxer balls.

Jax is a purebred, and purebreds are always such egomaniacs. They think they’re so great looking, but usually they have a few screws loose upstairs due to inbreeding. He’s also a real “man’s dog,” the type that’s basically responsible for why dogs ever got the moniker “man’s best friend” in the first place. Ironic that he belongs to a couple of lesbos.

Jax used to live in Dallas with the said lesbos, Shelly and Kelly. One day, about seven dog years ago, Mom and I flew to Dallas with five of her friends after she ditched her then-boyfriend. What happened between my mother and Jax upon our arrival was one of the most horrific sights I’ve ever seen. I can hardly think about it, let alone tell the story. Johnny Kansas was sick enough to videotape Jax forcing himself on my mom until she was on the ground, and then humping her with his red rocket lipstick penis. He was rubbing it all against her back as he licked her entire face with his big tongue.

It was repulsive. It was like accidentally watching a porn movie starring your mom and David Hasselhoff having doggy-style sex on top of that stupid Knight Rider car, except there wasn’t even a car. I didn’t bother trying to protect my mother that day, because she was laughing, and I didn’t want to look stupid. The main problem with my mother is that she laughs at everything, especially her own jokes.

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.