Lies That Chelsea Handler Told Me (9 page)

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.

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 analysis 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 fear. What the hell 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 a rape whistle.

My obsessive nature stems from a family history of absolute anxiety and neurosis. I’m a classic neurotic Jew. In our defense, Jews have been fucked 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 vagina. 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. Fucking 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 assess 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 massive 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 pawn 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 assistance 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.

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 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 retarded. She actually thinks I’m retarded for a lot of reasons, not just because I’m convinced she wants to make babies with Johnny.

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, 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 shitbox 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 assessing 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 fuck are you doing here? Don’t touch my shit, 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 shitbox 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.