Lies That Chelsea Handler Told Me Part 14

This is me on that day on the boat, pre-urination. This is me on that day on the boat, pre-urination.

I was sunbathing on the front deck, when Handy came and got me. She said, "Amy, I want to show you something."

We went to the back of the boat and she told me to sit in the captain's fishing chair. She climbed up with me and said, "I just wanted to share this beautiful view with you. We are so lucky that we get to live this amazing life and I'm so glad that I get to share it with you." As she spoke these lovely words, she urinated on me.

That pretty much sums up our beautiful and weird friendship.

This is me contemplating when my life took a wrong turn, post-urination. This is me contemplating when my life took a wrong turn, post-urination.

I would like to take this opportunity to say that I would only ever urinate on someone I truly adored, and I would only do it pool- or seaside, so we could immediately rinse off... together. When all is said and done, it is a bonding experience, and there is only a handful of people who can say they have been urinated on by me. I take my urination very seriously and am selective about whom I share it with. I also promise never to take it any further than that. Shadoobies are off limits. I would like to take this opportunity to say that I would only ever urinate on someone I truly adored, and I would only do it pool- or seaside, so we could immediately rinse off... together. When all is said and done, it is a bonding experience, and there is only a handful of people who can say they have been urinated on by me. I take my urination very seriously and am selective about whom I share it with. I also promise never to take it any further than that. Shadoobies are off limits.I believe the real question here is who are all these people who continue to be friends with me after they've been peed on?-Chelsea

Chapter Eleven.

p.u.b.escent and Adolescent Mendacity, 19851991 GLEN HANDLER.

Chelsea has three older brothers, of whom I'm the youngest.

In the summer of 1974, my parents told me they were "thinking" about having another baby. This was alarming news to me. I was a serious ten-year-old boy and I strongly advised my parents against this idea, because it was clear there were already way too many people in the family, and none of them seemed particularly solvent. My parents smiled politely at my counsel, and my mother, Rita, offered some soothing words of encouragement about how much I'd enjoy another sister or brother, since I had been so helpful and supportive with baby Shoshonna.

Easy for her to say, since it became obvious later that she was already three months knocked up, had no relationship with birth control, and was not "thinking" about having another baby; she was having having one. Since I was eleven years old when Chelsea was born, I helped raise her with my mom. My father (aka Platypus) never changed her diaper. one. Since I was eleven years old when Chelsea was born, I helped raise her with my mom. My father (aka Platypus) never changed her diaper.

1979, Chelsea on my shoulders in Martha's Vineyard with Simone, Shana, and our family friend Sam Gaidemak. 1979, Chelsea on my shoulders in Martha's Vineyard with Simone, Shana, and our family friend Sam Gaidemak.

Growing up with five much older siblings made Chelsea older through osmosis. She also was forced to think for herself, since no one in our family provided guidance of any kind. Don't get me wrong. Our family was very loving and nurturing; we just were not in the business of offering one another meaningful counsel on how to navigate the world. Our upbringing was a very comforting, warm, and directionless love-in, but any efforts involving parental guidance and/or social interaction outside the four walls of the house were nonstarters. If you wanted a ride somewhere, to sign up for Little League, or your parents to go to the parent-teacher conference, you were completely out of luck, unless you a.s.sumed the role of the parent and became your own parent. So that's what we did. We were child adults.

Not surprisingly, it was clear early on that Chelsea was advanced beyond her age in terms of sensibility and wit and that she enjoyed the attention of others, especially older people, while simultaneously barely tolerating those in her own age group. Her older-than-her-years outlook shaped her entire existence. It basically allowed her to skip the long parts of childhood that are a complete waste of time, such as art and music cla.s.s and the Girl Scouts, and concentrate on the more interesting parts of life, such as why most people are so hopelessly f.u.c.ked up in the head.

Chelsea was six when I left for college at age seventeen, and ten when I graduated at age twenty-one. She visited me at college with the rest of my family and was a little too comfortable hanging out with me and my fraternity brothers at the AEPi fraternity house at Emory University, in Atlanta. It's always rea.s.suring when your ten-year-old sister very easily flirts with your twenty-one-year-old fraternity brothers, who themselves act as if she's just a fellow co-ed. It's even more rea.s.suring when the gaping age difference completely vaporizes the second your sister starts butchering your frat brothers' hair, clothes, faces, and witless comebacks.

"You know she's ten years old," I'd occasionally remind my lecherous university comrades.

"I know, Glen, but I could really see myself going out with her," said more than one frat brother.

"That's great, guys," I said. "Statutory rape has always been underrated."

I moved back home after college, since my first job was with a CPA firm half a mile from my house. It was a fun place to work. It was full of weirdos, and was not too uptight as workplaces go. There was the usual collection of social misfits who formed the melting pot of mid-1980s New Jersey-lots of Jewish, Italian, and Irish accountants debating the dreadful merits of debits, credits, balance sheet adjustments, and deferred income taxes. Fortunately, most folks had a decent sense of humor, except for one or two born-again Christians and one or two complete p.r.i.c.ks.

At this firm, one was required to work Tuesday and Thursday nights and Sat.u.r.days during the busy so-called "tax season." The company provided dinner, so the accountants could quickly get back to churning out tax returns. These extra hours were somewhat flexible and not strictly enforced, so I always went home after the day shift ended, since home was just up the block. I would eat my mother's cooking, get rid of my suit and tie, and come back in a more reasonable wardrobe: jeans and a T-shirt. Sometimes I would take a nap and come back to work kind of late.

I started bringing then-twelve-year-old Chelsea to the office on those nights, most likely because there certainly was nothing for her to do at home and because I thought she was the perfect party favor for a wretched evening of tax-related drudgery. Naturally she was a huge hit at the office, and she loved it because there was no real supervision, since the partners didn't work late. She had an instant large audience of mutant adult accountants to insult, and there was free Coca-Cola, which we would eventually wind up stealing by the caseload when we expanded our visits to even more oddball hours.

Chelsea didn't exactly befriend people as much as steal coins from their desks, insult the introverts and the socially awkward, and entertain anyone whom she wasn't insulting. Typical of the conversations she had with the staff were the following: CLOSETED h.o.m.os.e.xUAL AND AWKWARD ACCOUNTANT STAN ISAACSON (after being introduced to Chelsea): Well, it was nice meeting you. (after being introduced to Chelsea): Well, it was nice meeting you.CHELSEA: I wish I could say the same... Why would you ever choose to be an accountant?SI: It's what I do best and I enjoy it... Why are you so obnoxious?CHELSEA: It's what I do best and I enjoy it... Now, moving along, did you dress yourself this morning or did your mother pick out your clothes, because you look ridiculous.SI: Glen, what's up with your d.i.c.k of a sister?CHELSEA: Oh, did I hurt your feelings?SI: I don't have to put up with this nonsense.CHELSEA: No, you don't... but you will and you'll enjoy it.SI: Get your little sister out of here, Glen.

These encounters were par for the course and they went on ad infinitum. It was a pleasure. Chelsea used the CPA office as a sort of tree house escape from our regular house. Inexplicably, no one really questioned why an overly developed teenage girl was there during working hours, and most of my coworkers got used to her presence.

On a few occasions, when I worked alone past midnight and long after everyone else had left, Chelsea would pa.s.s out on an empty couch in a partner's office, presumably after stealing all of the desk change first. Sometimes she would leave early without telling me and walk the half mile back home alone. Sometimes, not realizing she was pa.s.sed out on one of the couches, I would leave without her. That was a small problem, because one time she accidentally activated the security alarm when she tried to escape the locked office and ran back to the house in full criminal mode. Fun stuff, especially when you're a twelve-year-old girl.

When I worked late and n.o.body else was there, Chelsea would walk around the office making phone calls to friends and family from people's desks. Sometimes my work buddies knew Chelsea was there and they'd call in just to talk to her. Stan the h.o.m.os.e.xual had no personal life and he would often call in to speak to Chelsea in a lame attempt to psychoa.n.a.lyze her. Chelsea would proceed to psychoa.n.a.lyze him and tell him to get a f.u.c.king life. They would then proceed to give each other the silent treatment over the phone for about thirty minutes before one of them hung up. Deranged? Certainly, but refreshing nevertheless. Stan still talks about those phone calls.

I was particularly friendly with coworkers Marco, Mitch, and Ross, since we all were in our early twenties and liked to drink, smoke pot, and try to meet girls on the weekends. In fact, there were plenty of other twentysomething aspiring accountants in the company and they all joined in on the frivolity; it was more or less like one big happy fraternity. Most of us played on the company softball team together and got drunk afterward, and went to the same big alcohol-cocaine-pot-fueled house parties and got absolutely wasted. Chelsea would sometimes accompany me to those parties. Hey, why not not let your underage high school sister tag along for some wholesome fun? let your underage high school sister tag along for some wholesome fun?

Obviously I wasn't the most responsible brother Chelsea could have had, but it would be too much for me to shoulder the blame for her errant behavior. She was going to do what she wanted. She was on a mission, and that mission was to party and meet men.

Chelsea spent several summers with her insane girlfriend Nicole rampaging through the house party scene on the island playground that is Martha's Vineyard. I don't know exactly what they did, except that they were always cheerfully drunk and slept very late. They worked as waitresses at the local restaurants; in exchange for good customer service, they managed to systematically ingratiate themselves with their customers for the specific purpose of being invited to all the alcohol-fueled house parties that might be occurring anywhere on the Vineyard. In spite of their very teenage DNA, they somehow came off as legitimate, albeit somewhat fermented, twenty-two-year-old women who were trying and wildly succeeding at having a good f.u.c.king time.

Chelsea at a teenage beauty pageant. She was fourteen in this picture. Chelsea at a teenage beauty pageant. She was fourteen in this picture.

My mother and father had essentially abandoned any further parental supervision, since that was the equivalent of trying to paint the ocean; it couldn't be done and it had never worked and they were tired anyway. Besides, our mother, Rita, was busy most of the time reading nine-hundred-page books and befriending strangers she met at the A&P. The best strategy for raising Chelsea was to hope for no disasters while endlessly shaking your head in disbelief at her daily encounters with the neighborhood watch, at the confused victims of her prolific storytelling, at Nicole's German shepherd's psychological and self-esteem issues, and at Chelsea's run-ins with Carly Simon.

In spite of Chelsea's completely adult lifestyle, my parents had persuaded her that she needed to continue with high school. Chelsea halfheartedly agreed, but she was violently opposed to returning to Livingston High School in New Jersey, since she felt that the student-teacher-a.s.shole ratio, combined with the demanding structure of actually attending standard cla.s.ses, was unacceptable and outrageous. Fortunately, my parents were able to enroll her for the next two years at the Livingston Alternative School, which of course was a wayward public school program for the disabled, unmotivated, agoraphobic, triskaidekaphobic, and/or those students who were unusually high on marijuana.

Chelsea flourished at the Alternative School because absolutely nothing was expected of the students there. Self-study was the prescribed teaching plan; this entailed reading books of your own choice and talking about them later whenever the h.e.l.l you felt like it. Homework didn't exist, teacher interaction was like camp counselor interaction, and attendance was not viewed as an indicator of achievement. Lunch was served, but only after most students got high together. There were only a small number of students at the Alternative School, and the student-teacher-a.s.shole ratio was nil. My mother often asked Chelsea how her day at school was. "Reeeally good" was Chelsea's general reply, which was proof-positive that nothing educational was happening. Chelsea continued to have minor flare-ups and meltdowns during her last two years at Happy High School, mostly mild bouts of teenage girl clinical insanity, but they were relatively benign compared to her much more turbulent early teen years.

The longer-term concern, though understated, was what the h.e.l.l would happen with Chelsea when she was finished with Happy High School. The other five siblings had mysteriously found random professions-mechanical engineer, culinary chef, CPA, lawyer, and registered nurse-but somehow a profession didn't quite seem plausible or logical for Chelsea. She clearly didn't belong in college-or high school, for that matter. Neither my family nor I had any idea what would become of her. She was clearly entertaining to be with, but how was that going to translate into supporting herself, given her exasperating, volatile, and unpredictable daily behavior? Maybe she'd turn out fine, but she might just as easily spiral violently out of control. Because of her penchant for an off-the-charts lifestyle, I was impressed that she was even alive and had avoided a fatal accident, the mental ward, and spontaneous personal combustion.

After high school, she attended a semester and a half at the local county college, but everyone knew it was a charade, like putting a tomato in the microwave and expecting a nice gla.s.s of tomato juice to jump out after two minutes on high. After dropping out of college, she waited tables and drank her way around New Jersey for another year or two before getting bored. At that point, I used some frequent flyer miles and brought nineteen-year-old Chelsea to Los Angeles to visit our aunt, uncle, and nine cousins.

Before the return trip to the airport, I said, "Chelsea, let's go to LAX. We have to fly back to New Jersey."

She faked a polite "have a good flight" to me and stayed in Los Angeles for good. That was the beginning of Chelsea's brand-new foundation of fresh lies to be shared with a brand-new audience of unsuspecting Angelinos.

When I returned to New Jersey, my parents, in a rare act of parenting, asked, "Where's Chelsea, Glen?"

"Don't worry, Mom, Dad. I donated her to Los Angeles."

My brother Glen thinks that he is the funniest and smartest person in the family. He is funny, but I don't find him hilarious. They all had to put up with a lot of my chicanery and wild ways, and the truth is, they've all been rewarded tenfold for it. My brother Glen thinks that he is the funniest and smartest person in the family. He is funny, but I don't find him hilarious. They all had to put up with a lot of my chicanery and wild ways, and the truth is, they've all been rewarded tenfold for it.-Chelsea

Exhibit A: The five of us in Anguilla this past Christmas. Shabbat shalom. Exhibit A: The five of us in Anguilla this past Christmas. Shabbat shalom.

The following is an example of a typical birthday note Glen sends me each year. I'm convinced that he's convinced himself that he's a direct descendant of Socrates. The note's sentiment is nice, and imagine his surprise when I use one of these very same quotes when I give the commencement speech at Emory University this spring, the college he graduated from and I was denied entry to. The following is an example of a typical birthday note Glen sends me each year. I'm convinced that he's convinced himself that he's a direct descendant of Socrates. The note's sentiment is nice, and imagine his surprise when I use one of these very same quotes when I give the commencement speech at Emory University this spring, the college he graduated from and I was denied entry to.P.S.: For the record, I didn't get accepted into any college.

Chapter Twelve.

Standards and Practices S&P is the abbreviation for Standards and Practices. This is the department of Comcast Entertainment that reminds us on a daily basis to bleep bad words we say on our show, and the department that attempts to rein us in when we've crossed the line, language- or taste-wise. Every day after we tape an episode of Chelsea Lately, we receive an e-mail from someone named Tom O'Brien outlining what needs to happen before the show airs on the East Coast. S&P is the abbreviation for Standards and Practices. This is the department of Comcast Entertainment that reminds us on a daily basis to bleep bad words we say on our show, and the department that attempts to rein us in when we've crossed the line, language- or taste-wise. Every day after we tape an episode of Chelsea Lately, we receive an e-mail from someone named Tom O'Brien outlining what needs to happen before the show airs on the East Coast.It is hard for me to take seriously any department that specializes in monitoring me. Much like the gays in the South, the more the powers that be say no, the more I say, "f.u.c.k off."I have included what I consider to be the ten most amusing e-mail exchanges of this kind.Sincerely,Chesty FROM: FROM:E! Entertainment TelevisionSENT:Monday, December 20, 2010, 1:50 PMTO:Chelsea Lately StaffSUBJECT: S&P Note for CL: jokes 5181 S&P Note for CL: jokes 5181 One S&P heads-up on today's script: One S&P heads-up on today's script:TOPIC #4 v.a.g.i.n.a Steaming"Queef" will need to be bleeped, so you may want to lose the joke.Thanks FROM: FROM:E! Entertainment TelevisionSENT:Monday, October 11, 2010, 4:02 PMTO:Chelsea Lately StaffSUBJECT: S&P notes for Chelsea Lately #5141, taped 10-11-10 S&P notes for Chelsea Lately #5141, taped 10-11-10 Hi everyone, Hi everyone,Here are the S&P notes for today's show:ROUNDTABLE2:57: Welcome back. Let's talk about fingering. When specifically used in a s.e.xual context, we can't go there. But a line like "This is as close as any girl is going to get to one of his fingers" is OK because that could mean a lot of things. In the lower 3rds, describing his new nail polish line as a "finger blast," it could be argued that you're talking about the bright color. (When "finger blast" is used in a s.e.xual context, however, the phrase would have to be bleeped.) Well done. However, Chris' line about "having Justin Bieber's fingers in your daughter's v.a.g.i.n.a" paints too explicit a picture. Please lose the line. Thanks.2:58: Please completely bleep "f.u.c.king" in "That wouldn't f.u.c.king f.u.c.king help us." help us."3:00: Please completely bleep "s.h.i.t" in "s.h.i.t that goes down there." that goes down there."3:02: Please completely bleep "f.u.c.k" in "f.u.c.k you." you."3:09: Please completely bleep "s.h.i.t" in "Oh s.h.i.t s.h.i.t, you're right."TRACE ADKINS3:16: Please completely bleep "f.u.c.king" in "He's a real f.u.c.king f.u.c.king mess." mess."3:19: Please completely bleep "c.o.c.k" in "Instead of saying c.o.c.k c.o.c.k..."Thanks FROM: FROM:E! Entertainment TelevisionSENT:Thursday, July 22, 2010, 4:17 PMTO:Chelsea Lately StaffSUBJECT: S&P notes for Chelsea Lately #5100, taped 7-22-10 S&P notes for Chelsea Lately #5100, taped 7-22-10 Hi everyone, Hi everyone,Here are the S&P notes for today's show:ROUNDTABLE3:11: Please completely bleep "s.h.i.t" in "I'm too old for this s.h.i.t s.h.i.t."3:13: Please completely bleep "f.u.c.k" in "He should f.u.c.k f.u.c.k Britney Spears." Britney Spears."3:14: Please completely bleep "f.u.c.king" in "You should f.u.c.king f.u.c.king end it." end it."3:15: Please completely bleep "s.h.i.t" in "beat the s.h.i.t s.h.i.t out of his fiancee." out of his fiancee."3:19: Please completely bleep "f.u.c.ked" in "doubly f.u.c.ked f.u.c.ked."3:20: Please completely bleep "f.u.c.k" in "go f.u.c.k f.u.c.k herself." herself."3:21: Please completely bleep "f.u.c.ked" in "f.u.c.ked somebody's wife." somebody's wife."a.r.s.eNIO HALL3:29: With regard to our previous discussions with Ted about using "shuttlec.o.c.k" as a euphemism for p.e.n.i.s ("shuttlec.o.c.k" alone is OK but, when "c.o.c.k" is paired with a word like "suck" as in "suck my shuttlec.o.c.k," it's not, because of the s.e.xual context), please lose a.r.s.enio's "suck her Cochran" joke.3:30: Please completely bleep "n.i.g.g.e.r" in "Put the n.i.g.g.e.r n.i.g.g.e.r on the toilet." on the toilet."3:30: Please completely bleep "s.h.i.t" in "I don't give a s.h.i.t s.h.i.t."Thanks FROM: FROM:E! Entertainment TelevisionSENT:Tuesday, July 20, 2010, 4:21 PMTO:Chelsea Lately StaffSUBJECT: S&P notes for Chelsea Lately #5098, taped 7-20-10 S&P notes for Chelsea Lately #5098, taped 7-20-10 Hi everyone, Hi everyone,Here are the S&P notes for today's show:ROUNDTABLE (SHOW #5098)3:09: Please completely bleep "s.h.i.t" in Brad's "Aw s.h.i.t s.h.i.t."3:11: Please completely bleep "Jesus" in Ben's "Aw Jesus! Jesus!" (just as Chris comes on camera).3:14: Please lose Jo's r.e.t.a.r.ded impersonation.SUSAN SARANDON (SHOW #5098)3:27: Please completely bleep "s.h.i.t" in "We'll ping-pong the s.h.i.t s.h.i.t out of Milwaukee." out of Milwaukee."CHICKEN CHARLIE (SHOW #5103)S&P approved.Thanks FROM: FROM:E! Entertainment TelevisionSENT:Thursday, November 18, 2010, 5:15 PMTO:Chelsea Lately StaffSUBJECT: S&P notes for Chelsea Lately #5165, taped 11-18-10 S&P notes for Chelsea Lately #5165, taped 11-18-10 Hi everyone, Hi everyone,Here are the S&P notes for today's show:ROUNDTABLEOverall note: A lot of p.e.n.i.s and v.a.g.i.n.a talk for our post-Thanksgiving show. Can we dial some of this back, particularly the "eating p.u.s.s.y" discussion in Act 2? Thanks.4:27: Please completely bleep "f.u.c.k" in "Oh f.u.c.k f.u.c.k."4:33: Please completely bleep "d.i.c.k" in "Your Mom knows her way around a d.i.c.k d.i.c.k."4:35: Please completely bleep "p.u.s.s.y" in "And get some p.u.s.s.y p.u.s.s.y."4:35: Please completely bleep "p.u.s.s.y" in "I want some of that p.u.s.s.y p.u.s.s.y."4:36: Please completely bleep "p.u.s.s.y" in "oh, p.u.s.s.y p.u.s.s.y!"4:36: Please completely bleep the entire phrase "eating p.u.s.s.y."4:37: Please completely bleep "s.h.i.t" in "You should hear the s.h.i.t s.h.i.t I say." I say."DONALD SCHULTZ4:42: Please completely bleep "f.u.c.ker" in "You little f.u.c.ker f.u.c.ker."4:44: Please completely bleep "s.h.i.t" in "Oh s.h.i.t s.h.i.t."4:45: Please completely bleep "hole" in "Look at that a.s.shole."Thanks FROM: FROM:E! Entertainment TelevisionSENT:Monday, November 15, 2010, 4:51 PMTO:Chelsea Lately StaffSUBJECT: S&P notes for Chelsea Lately #5161, taped 11-15-10 S&P notes for Chelsea Lately #5161, taped 11-15-10 Hi everyone, Hi everyone,Here are the S&P notes for today's show:ROUNDTABLE (SHOW #5161)3:42: Please completely bleep the entire phrase "jerking off" in Natasha's "You can't stop jerking off jerking off to p.o.r.n." to p.o.r.n."3:45: No need for a fight on the "toilet babies" joke. It's incredibly tasteless, but it doesn't violate our standards. Besides, it's pretty funny.3:47: Please completely bleep "f.u.c.ked" in "Girls like that like to get f.u.c.ked f.u.c.ked."MONICA POTTER (SHOW #5161)4:02: Please completely bleep "f.u.c.king" and "holes" in "Those f.u.c.king f.u.c.king a.s.s a.s.sholes."TREY SONGZ (SHOW #5162)4:18: Please completely bleep "s.h.i.t" in "Oh s.h.i.t s.h.i.t."4:21: Please completely bleep "s.h.i.t" in "s.h.i.t can jump off." (Chelsea) can jump off." (Chelsea)4:21: Please completely bleep "s.h.i.t" in "s.h.i.t can jump off." (Trey) can jump off." (Trey)Thanks FROM: FROM:Tom O'BrienSENT:Tuesday, July 21, 2009, 4:30 PMTO:Chelsea Lately StaffSUBJECT: S&P notes for Chelsea Lately #4093, taped 7-21-09 S&P notes for Chelsea Lately #4093, taped 7-21-09 Hi everyone, Hi everyone,Here are the S&P notes for today's taping:ROUNDTABLE3:11: Please completely bleep "s.h.i.t" in "You guys hear a ton of s.h.i.t s.h.i.t."MARGARET CHO The "f.a.gs and f.a.g hags" exchange. The word "f.a.gs" by itself is not acceptable in any circ.u.mstance, and every use of the word will need to be bleeped. Once before, we have allowed the term "f.a.g hag" in an episode in a context that's very similar to the way Chelsea used it in today's roundtable discussion of the gay penguins. We're OK with that one use. But when Margaret repeatedly uses the term during the interview, it totally changes the tone of the program. We request that the term be bleeped throughout the interview or, ideally, the whole conversation be removed. Can we find another way to get into the "Project Runway" discussion?

The description of the p.o.r.n star's p.e.n.i.s. The mention of his 9.2 inches is graphic but the quick mention is defendable. But Margaret crosses the line when she begins the detailed description and visuals of the volume of the p.e.n.i.s and talks about her not being able to get it into her a.s.s. It's just too graphic. Please lose.

Here are the line-by-line notes for the sequence: Here are the line-by-line notes for the sequence:3:23: Please completely bleep "s.h.i.t" in "I think I'm a fat piece of "s.h.i.t."3:24: Please completely bleep "f.a.gs" and "f.a.g hags" in "f.a.gs and and f.a.g hags f.a.g hags fighting." fighting."3:24: Please completely bleep "f.a.gs" and "f.a.g hags" in "f.a.gs and and f.a.g hags f.a.g hags together-there are going to be fights." together-there are going to be fights."3:24: Please completely bleep "f.a.g hag" in "Have you ever been a f.a.g hag f.a.g hag?"3:24: Please completely bleep "f.a.g hag" in "I am the biggest f.a.g hag f.a.g hag in the world." in the world."3:24: Please completely bleep "f.a.g hag" in "You are, you are a f.a.g hag f.a.g hag."3:24: Please completely bleep "f.a.g hag" in "I am such a f.a.g hag f.a.g hag."3:24: Please completely bleep "f.a.g hag" and "jerking off" in "I'm such a f.a.g hag f.a.g hag, now they're jerking off jerking off to me." to me."3:25: The 9.2 inch p.e.n.i.s discussion. Please cut back per above.3:25: Because it is used in a s.e.xual context as a subst.i.tute for "p.e.n.i.s," please completely bleep "poppyc.o.c.k."3:26: We can get back into the interview around Chelsea's "putting things in your mouth" line.Thanks FROM: FROM:Chelsea Lately StaffSENT:Wednesday, August 04, 2010, 1:09 PMTO:E! Entertainment TelevisionSUBJECT: For approval, closing joke 5107 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. 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 ma.s.saged 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: FROM:E! Entertainment TelevisionSENT:Wednesday, August 04, 2010, 1:49 PMTO:Chelsea Lately StaffSUBJECT: RE: For approval, closing joke 5107 RE: For approval, closing joke 5107 Sorry, folks, but this photo isn't even remotely suitable for air. Please find another closing joke. Sorry, folks, but this photo isn't even remotely suitable for air. Please find another closing joke.

FROM: FROM:E! Entertainment TelevisionSENT:Monday, November 08, 2010, 2:26 PMTO:Chelsea Lately StaffSUBJECT: S&P Notes for CL: daily topics S&P Notes for CL: daily topics Where to begin with Topic #2? And how do we keep this from going badly very quickly? Where to begin with Topic #2? And how do we keep this from going badly very quickly?Since the topic is c.u.n.n.i.l.i.n.g.u.s and the context is only only s.e.xual, all of our usual euphemisms (spicy tuna, dining at the Y, etc.) don't work here and will have to be bleeped or removed. s.e.xual, 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 "d.i.c.k" in any topic about f.e.l.l.a.t.i.o, in any jokes that contain the phrase "eat my p.u.s.s.y," both "eat" and "p.u.s.s.y" will have to be bleeped. This includes "eat my blank" (only indicates a s.e.xual context) and the "Eat-vite" joke. (Again, there's no food context, so it only means c.u.n.n.i.l.i.n.g.u.s.)The "smell my finger" joke in this s.e.xual 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. No. Thank you, Comcast Entertainment.-Chelsea

Chapter Thirteen.

Raise the Woof CHUNK.

Me taking a dump. Me taking a dump.

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? 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. 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 G.o.d 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 h.e.l.l, 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 a.s.shole," 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 a.s.shole 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 a.s.s 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 b.i.t.c.h. I found a guy named Ryan Basford. He was the perfect man b.i.t.c.h. 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 a.s.s from back to front.

Chris Franjola Chris Franjola 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 Tysontype boxer, because that would be cool. Jax is a boxer dog, and he pretty much sucks boxer b.a.l.l.s.

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, Sh.e.l.ly 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 p.e.n.i.s. He was rubbing it all against her back as he licked her entire face with his big tongue.

Jax and me on one of the days Mom brought us to work. Obviously, not ideal. Jax and me on one of the days Mom brought us to work. Obviously, not ideal.

It was repulsive. It was like accidentally watching a p.o.r.n movie starring your mom and David Ha.s.selhoff having doggy-style s.e.x on top of that stupid Knight Rider 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. 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 f.u.c.king Jack Russell a.s.shole 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 pa.s.sengers. 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 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 b.a.l.l.s. I like saying that: "Jax loves b.a.l.l.s." 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 a.s.sistant, 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 b.a.l.l.s outside. (I don't have b.a.l.l.s 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 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 b.o.o.bs was walking around in a c.o.c.ktail gown, which was way overdressed for a pool party. Heather's a real C C word-a real cougar. word-a real cougar.