Lies That Chelsea Handler Told Me Part 5

Chelsea's quest to find me a little bit of penetration hasn't stopped since I moved to LA. I appreciate it, but more important, I know better than to get in her way when she is on any kind of mission. I once got between her and a plate of chicken fingers and my finger still hasn't completely formed back to its original state.

In 2010, Chelsea was the host for the MTV Video Music Awards. Between doing Chelsea Lately Chelsea Lately, her book tour, and preparing for the VMAs, she had a pretty full plate. She decided that the weekend after the awards were over, she was going to blow off some steam in her favorite place to relax, Cabo San Lucas. I don't know why she calls it "relaxing," because as soon as her feet hit the sand she consumes more alcohol than David Ha.s.selhoff at Oktoberfest. It's pretty impressive what goes down when she has a couple of days off.

Chelsea invited everyone who'd worked so hard for her on the VMAs: her annoying writers, her lesbian stylist, and her semi-b.i.t.c.hy makeup artist. She also took me and her f.u.c.ked-up book agent, Michael Broussard, who hadn't done s.h.i.t for the awards show but was fun to be around and a good backup in case Brad Wollack had too many shots of tequila and tried to put his toe in Chelsea's v.a.g.i.n.a, which, by the way, happened again on that trip.

Chelsea's makeup artist, Gina, and I had become some version of friends. She seemed a little distant when I first met her, which I mistook as her having complete disdain for me, but according to her she's "been in the business a long time, sweetheart," and tends to be "guarded." Whatever... She's got pretty hair and a plump pout, so I don't really take issue with her. She fancies herself a green thumb and also thinks she can cook, so I've spent a little time with her in both the yard and the kitchen. I've definitely seen worse things bent over.

This is Michael Broussard on our family vacation in Anguilla, but he was in this same bathing suit on that trip to Cabo. It's the one Chelsea wore on the cover of Shape magazine. Several people have worn it since, none of them women. This is Michael Broussard on our family vacation in Anguilla, but he was in this same bathing suit on that trip to Cabo. It's the one Chelsea wore on the cover of Shape magazine. Several people have worn it since, none of them women.

One night while we were in Cabo, everyone got really drunk. Well, that happened every night while we were in Cabo, but during this particular night most of the group had trailed off. Gina had pa.s.sed out, Brad had facial-ticked himself into a coma, Johnny "The Bird" Milord had finger-blasted some stranger on the couch, and Chris Franjola had disappeared at some club downtown where you could buy s.e.x for less than two dollars. I had no idea where Michael Broussard was, but I do know that one of the resort busboys went missing for three full hours. The only people who were still up and drinking were me, Chelsea, Amy the lesbian stylist, and Sarah Colonna. Sarah may have been in a blackout, but at least she was still sitting upright.

We were staying in two villas: boys in one and girls in the other, although n.o.body ever slept in their appointed room. As you may have heard, Chelsea has some very questionable sleeping tendencies. Maybe it's because we have a big family and she's used to having people around, but she likes to share her bed with random people. When she's actually involved in a s.e.xual relationship with someone, she prefers that person to sleep in an entirely other state.

Heather McDonald had been studying Gina over the weekend and was working on an impression of the poor girl to add to her repertoire. In case you didn't know, Heather does borderline decent Drew Barrymore and Celine Dion impressions, and an impression of some poor girl who was popular in the '80s and had cerebral palsy. I have to say, though, that her impression of Gina was dead-on. Like I said, Gina has been in the business a long time. She likes to talk about movie sets she worked on in the seventies, and she acts as if she's met every big-time Hollywood person there is to know. I guess at some point in her life she threw a fur coat out of the sunroof of a limo on Sunset Boulevard and told Heather about it.

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 is Gina?" Amy asked. "I think I'm sharing a room with her, aren't I?" Gina?" Amy asked. "I think I'm sharing a room with her, aren't I?"

"She's pa.s.sed 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 circ.u.mference 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 a.s.sholes 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 pa.s.sed 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 h.e.l.l 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 s.e.x. 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. .h.i.t the floor, which is ludicrous. Pants maybe, but who hears boxers. .h.i.t the floor? She said that she knew I was naked. She told me to get the f.u.c.k 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 s.e.x 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 a.s.sured 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. 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 h.o.r.n.i.e.s.t 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. For the record: my brother is the h.o.r.n.i.e.s.t 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. 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 p.u.b.es." 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 f.u.c.ks 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. "h.e.l.lo. 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 f.u.c.ks 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...

s.h.i.t 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. CHiPs.

I was sent to a psychiatrist at age six for regular sessions and I never again ate chicken stroganoff made with low-fat yogurt. After a couple years of weekly meetings with Dr. Hansen, most of which were spent with me pretending to be a pizza deliveryman and robbing the doctor, the best a.n.a.lysis the good doctor could come up with was that I was "too rational" for my age. What screams "rational" about a kid consistently wanting to rob innocent people? Even more confounding: Why was I pretending to be a pizza deliveryman when, like most Jews, I preferred Chinese?

That remains a mystery, but I do know that eight-year-old kids don't rationalize. For example, most of my peers didn't appreciate the fact that, while playing with model airplanes, I would insist that before flying, the planes taxi to a runway, get clearance from the control tower, and then proceed down a long runway before lifting off, front wheels first. Plus, my friends could never grasp the notion that there were always fog delays due to low-pressure zones at San Francisco International Airport-my hometown airport-and that flights would be delayed or cancelled. They clearly expected more from a playdate than just sitting there waiting for the fog to lift. Needless to say, I should have selected LAX, with its eternally sunny skies. I preferred solo playdates, where I could control the order and outcome, where everything was neat and organized. Plus, for the reasons just given, I wasn't anyone's first, second, or even third choice for a playdate.

Come college, it became clear that I had more than just a rationality issue. I was checking door locks religiously. At first it didn't seem like a problem; my school was in the gang-ridden South Central area of Los Angeles and it appeared as if I were just taking appropriate safety measures against the rampant home invasions in the neighborhood. But slowly, excessive lock-checking was complemented by constant hand-washing. I had become a full-blown obsessive-compulsive with skyrocketing hand soap costs.

One night I got in and out of bed twenty-eight times to make sure the front door was locked. I seriously thought someone was going to come in and violate me. Ironically, my new therapist told me that this was an entirely irrational irrational fear. What the h.e.l.l had happened to my rationality? I didn't think it was so irrational-who wouldn't want to rape me? I was adorable and extremely rape-able. In fact, I was the only guy in my school who carried mace fear. What the h.e.l.l had happened to my rationality? I didn't think it was so irrational-who wouldn't want to rape me? I was adorable and extremely rape-able. In fact, I was the only guy in my school who carried mace and and a rape whistle. a rape whistle.

My obsessive nature stems from a family history of absolute anxiety and neurosis. I'm a cla.s.sic neurotic Jew. In our defense, Jews have been f.u.c.ked with so many times throughout history that I think it's okay to be a little on edge. I'm always apprehensive when getting on a train or into a shower. In fact, I am anxious 24/7. As a result, I'm heavily medicated. I have been on a steady dose of antidepressants since I was twenty. In theory, the pills control my anxiety and depression. (Suicide runs in my family, and that just kills me.) Fortunately for me, my anxiety isn't just manifested by compulsions. I also exhibit a wide range of tics and twitches; so much so that I self-diagnosed myself with Tourette's because it's just easier to explain. You should know that it's not the kind of Tourette's that makes one swear uncontrollably. I just happen to like profanity and use it often.

My bodily twitches are always morphing. There is the constant teeth grinding and jaw clenching, and, currently, I'm gnawing on the inside of my left cheek, which is causing a widening wound that's the size of Kate Gosselin's v.a.g.i.n.a. I also blink my eyes rapidly, drying them out, and flex the veins in my neck, which makes me look like a Velociraptor. Or at least a Velociraptor that's had a stroke and whose mouth is pulled back at the side. It's really unattractive... especially when I'm making love.

In fifth grade I got in trouble once for raising my eyebrows-my twitch of choice at the time-at my teacher. She thought I was flirting with her. How she even thought that, I will never know. I was (and still am) a clean freak, and she was a hippie teacher who worked in the Peace Corps in Nepal and had hairy underarms. f.u.c.king gross... and that's just concerning the Peace Corps.

My twitches aren't lost on Chelsea. She thinks they are hilarious and is constantly noting new ones. But rather than being sympathetic, she attempts to mimic the twitch for comedic effect. She'll usually do this when I come into her office to talk about something personal or request a day off. In the middle of a serious conversation she will start squinting her eyes uncontrollably and exaggeratedly and then start gnawing on her lower lip.

Now that you understand my emotional fragility, you can better a.s.sess the psychological toll Chelsea and her lies take on me and my weak mental state. I'm incredibly insecure, and she has no trouble exploiting that.

In truth, her lies start innocently enough, kind of like one of those guys pretending to be a teenage girl in a chat room. At a party once, she said she was going to the bathroom and hadn't returned after twenty minutes. I thought she was taking a ma.s.sive dump, but she had slipped out the back door. At another gathering, she insisted on driving me home because I was "too drunk," but she just wanted to get away from a creepy guy who was trying to aggressively pet her. Turns out, she ended up dating that "creepy guy" for four years.

Don't get me wrong. Her lies can be hilarious, but not when you're the poor p.a.w.n in her cruel game. Just this past year several of us were on a vacation in Napa Valley. My wife, Shannon, and I were staying with my parents at their home, while Chelsea, Johnny Kansas, and the Texas lesbians were staying at a high-end luxury resort. Their hotel had a strict "no dog" policy, which Chelsea found out when she called to reserve the room and inquired about bringing her dog, Chunk. She felt so bad about leaving Chunk at home most every weekend while on tour, so despite the resort's policy, she opted to bring him that weekend anyway.

Chunk was sneaked into her room and didn't cause a problem until the final night. After a debauched evening of drinking and smoking weed provided to us by one of the resort employees, we got hungry at around two in the morning and ordered some room service. Too high to recall the stringent no-pet policy-and too hungry to care-we carelessly opened the door without any concern when room service arrived. No one seemed to remember that a large, dopey German shepherd/chow mutt might alarm hotel staff. Chunk, clearly not aware of the anti-pet policy, trotted into the main room of the suite to greet the server and inquire about his own order.

"Is this your dog?" the hotel employee inquired.

The rest of us were dumbfounded, entirely ill equipped to answer the question. We'd been busted. No way out of this. I picked up my iPhone and started dialing the local cab company, knowing we were about to get kicked to the curb and that none of us would be able to drive back to my parents' house in our condition. But Chelsea didn't miss a beat.

"No, not at all," Chelsea said, sounding concerned. "We just found him wandering the parking lot, lost and scared, and we brought him in, poor thing." Then she turned toward Chunk, got on one knee, and said, "What's your name, little puppy? I think he must be lost." She turned back to the hotel employee and said, with a completely straight face, "I don't even know if this is a dog. It might be a cat."

I was stunned, and it took all my might to keep from laughing. There was no way this guy would believe that. First of all, Chunk is clearly a dog. He was also perfectly groomed, had dog tags, and looked totally at home in the room. Plus, how many guests at a five-star resort, upon finding a one-hundred-pound stray dog, instead of calling the front desk, bother to take it in and put it up for the evening?

The man stared at Chelsea. I was sure we were busted. But all he said was, "Oh, okay. That was nice of you. If you need any a.s.sistance with the dog... or the cat in the morning, let us know."

Either he was the biggest idiot ever, or Chelsea Handler is the best liar in the world. As I've found out on several occasions, it's definitely the latter. And the following lies have permanently scarred me.

JOHNNY MOVES IN.

Chelsea is one of the most impatient people I know, but when it comes to playing pranks, she has nothing but time. She'll let things fester forever. A lot of times she starts a lie and then actually forgets about it, leading someone to believe a falsehood for months or even years. Even if she doesn't forget it, she rarely, if ever, has an expiration date or an end to a prank. She'll just let it linger...

If you watch Chelsea Lately Chelsea Lately regularly or follow Chelsea on Twitter, you are very well aware of Johnny "Kansas" Milord, aka The Bird. Chelsea dubbed him The Bird because of his frail frame and the way he eats: he kind of just pecks at his food. In truth, I've never even seen him finish a meal. He looks like a little girl. regularly or follow Chelsea on Twitter, you are very well aware of Johnny "Kansas" Milord, aka The Bird. Chelsea dubbed him The Bird because of his frail frame and the way he eats: he kind of just pecks at his food. In truth, I've never even seen him finish a meal. He looks like a little girl.

Johnny is a lovable little guy, and Chelsea has always had a soft spot for him. Personally, I think they are in love, but Chelsea thinks I'm r.e.t.a.r.ded. She actually thinks I'm r.e.t.a.r.ded for a lot of reasons, not just because I'm convinced she wants to make babies with Johnny.

Johnny eating his lunch at the office. I mean, really. Johnny eating his lunch at the office. I mean, really.

Regardless, Johnny can be a mess. He always drinks too much and is a nervous wreck, but unlike me, who externalizes all of my thoughts and concerns, Johnny internalizes and frets over everything. That's why he's twenty-nine and has already had an ulcer. He can't make a decision to save his life.

So, a month into the start of Chelsea Lately Chelsea Lately, after Chelsea told me that Johnny's apartment had flooded and he was temporarily moving in with her and her boyfriend, Ted-the CEO of our network, E!-I didn't think twice. Of course Johnny's apartment had flooded; he lived in some s.h.i.tbox on the east side of Los Angeles. After the flood, he had no game plan as to where to move to or what to do. He had to let Chelsea dictate all of that for him.

Even though Johnny's submissive, I was still surprised that he accepted Chelsea's offer to move in with her and, in effect, his big boss, Ted. It's a bit odd, but knowing Chelsea, I'm sure she insisted that he stay with them. She always has people staying with her. She'll have the most random people crash with her, most of the time even in her own bed. She's basically become the Michael Jackson of comedy.

A couple of nights into Johnny's stay and all seemed fine. I was really curious about the specific living arrangements and how everything in the house was playing out. After all, this wasn't a little weekend getaway for Johnny; he was full-on living with his bosses. That meant sleeping, meals, laundry, etc.

From the outset, I was so uncomfortable with this setup that I needed to know every detail. For example, what did Johnny sleep in? I, for one, sleep in boxers and nothing else (that's right, ladies, start visualizing). But I'm not sure I could wear just boxers while residing in someone else's home. What if there were a midnight fire alarm, an earthquake, or an early morning visit from the Breakfast Burrito truck and everyone had to get outside quickly? It would have been a little inappropriate if Johnny came running out in underwear and nothing else. How would they take him-and his girlish figure-seriously at the office the next day? That could negatively reflect on his capabilities as an employee. Besides, in someone else's pad, you must be ready for anything. In fact, in this situation, I'd sleep in jeans so I could be prepared for whatever went down. Perhaps a sweatshirt, too. My nipples harden quickly in the cold air.

At every chance I got, I expressed my discomfort with the arrangement, but Chelsea insisted that this was standard operating procedure and made me sound like I was the idiot.

"Brad, it's not that big a deal. He stays in the guest room, wears boxers and a T-shirt, and, yes, we have dinner together every night."

I was a little disappointed in Johnny's choice of sleepwear, but it wasn't my place to correct him. One morning Chelsea said, "Ted makes breakfast for everyone. Johnny loves Ted's oatmeal." That's stupid. Who has a special oatmeal recipe? (By the way, if someone were to have a special oatmeal recipe, it would be Ted Harbert.) As days turned into two weeks, any comfort I had with this deal completely subsided. This was not healthy and it couldn't end well. Johnny was getting too intimate with his bosses.

I began a.s.sessing how I would have handled the situation if I had been Johnny. First, I would most likely have tried to get the landlord of my flooded building to pay for a hotel for me, or at least crashed at a buddy's place. In my obsessive mind, I can't get comfortable staying in someone's home unless they are a direct relative or an old friend. I always feel like it's an imposition and that the person hates me and resents my existence. I even feel like that at home with my wife at times, but that's another book. I think it's a reflection on how I would feel if someone I wasn't close to stayed with me: What the f.u.c.k are you doing here? Don't touch my s.h.i.t, and did you pick up my dry cleaning? They'd have to earn their room and board.

I constantly asked Johnny how long he planned on staying with Chelsea and Ted, yet he couldn't give me a straight answer. "I don't know" was his standard response. I was livid; how could he not know? It's not like he'd been displaced by Hurricane Katrina and lost all his worldly goods and maybe even a few family members. There'd been a little flood in his s.h.i.tbox of a studio apartment. This didn't require FEMA-type relief. For some reason, I needed a timeline for exactly how long Johnny planned on shacking up with his boss. This couldn't be an open-ended stay; that was just not appropriate. And while Johnny, in my mind, had already done the unthinkable and accepted Chelsea's invitation, I knew that he was a good kid with good manners and he'd never overstay his welcome.

I pressed him further. Was this stay going to last another week? Another two weeks? A month? When he refused to give me a hard-and-fast date, I became preoccupied with calculating the amount of time-based on Johnny's description of what had happened to his apartment-it would take for his landlord to fix the flood damage.

As a Jew who never does manual labor, I could have been slightly off in my calculations, but a.s.suming they had stopped the gush of water in Johnny's c.r.a.ppy studio apartment, I figured the whole process couldn't take longer than two weeks. Again, I'm not a contractor, but I have certain expectations and know the timeline I would have accepted.

I impressed this upon Johnny, but he couldn't be bothered. How was he not concerned with how long he was going to be put out? He was effectively homeless. He had some clothes and that was about it. Didn't he want to go home to his things and his own s.p.a.ce? Even if the remodel was going to take a year, he couldn't realistically think he was going to live with Chelsea and Ted the whole time, could he? What kind of a sick world were we living in?

It wasn't even so much his overstaying his welcome with Chelsea that concerned me. Because of her age, relative immaturity, and obsession with Johnny, she was much more of a peer than a boss to him. What I was fixated on was how Johnny could live with Ted Ted. After all, Ted is somewhat of a legend in the TV landscape. He ran ABC and NBC studios and is considered a big-time television executive. I mean, he was the guy responsible for such hits as Boy Meets World Boy Meets World. To an up-and-coming producer like Johnny, it was best not to overstep his boundaries with a guy like Ted, but Johnny seemed to have no concerns.