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.
As I was wading around the pool with Salami, I noticed Jax barking at a bush. He is such a summer bummer. I can’t believe Mom surrounded me with all these weirdos. If I had a cell phone, I would call my Chunk counterpart, Chocolate Chunk Sylvan, to come pick me up and drive me to the Jersey shore or somewhere else tropical. He has a nice big car, and he always drives Mom around when she’s on tour.
Salami was done with our little synchronized swimming routine. Nobody seemed very impressed. He lifted me out of the pool and my wet body felt so naked without all my fur. So I ran inside to find my mom and complain about our new living situation.
That house is like a giant maze. I felt like a rat trying to find Cheese Whiz. I don’t think I’ve even seen every room in the place yet. I cruised through one of the guest rooms and then into the bathroom. Oh shit, I didn’t want to see that.
“Might want to knock,” said some guy.
I had accidentally walked in on Geof, who was changing into a bathing suit.
“I don’t have thumbs,” I told him. “Makes it hard to knock.” And I darted off.
Geof books all the shows for Mom’s tour. I’ve got a few problems with this guy. First of all, he spells his name wrong. Second, he has more hair on his body than I do. Watching him apply sunscreen is like watching someone rub Ranch Dressing into a brown shag carpet. Doesn’t that thick coat of body hair block the sun enough? And finally, since he’s constantly taking Mom on the road, I barely get to see her anymore. In my opinion he overbooks her. I’m worried she’s going to develop comedic fatigue stress syndrome disorder. I don’t know if that’s a real disease, but it sounds pretty serious. Mom’s on tour a lot now. That’s good for Geof, but it’s bad for me. I really don’t care about anybody’s wellbeing other than mine and my mom’s. Remember, people, the only person who’s ever going to have your best interest in your life is yourself and your dog, if you have one. Unless your dog doesn’t like you.
I passed through the kitchen, where Uncle Roy was cooking food for everyone. I think he likes cooking. I just don’t think he likes cooking for all these thankless a-holes. Roy’s head looks like a Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade balloon, and his body is like those ropes holding the balloon to the ground. He never gives me table scraps. He’s pretty much good for nothing.
Some dumb kid was munching out of a giant bowl of candy that Mom leaves out for them. It’s like every generation of crazy is partying here today. These kids remind me of Children of the Corn, but today they’re “Children of the Candy Corn” because they’re stuffing fistfuls of it into their little saccharine-soaked bodies. I just hope they don’t find any of the marijuana candy that’s floating around here. On second thought, that would be really funny. I hop
e they find a lot of that marijuana candy that’s floating around here. That’ll teach them.
I passed by Chuy. He’s the only person I really see eye to eye with. I stay out of his way; he stays out of mine. We have a common understanding. That’s probably because we’ve both served time in the pound at one point in our lives.
Finally, after endless searching through this carnival un-funhouse I found my mom.
She was in the bedroom getting changed. Most people think it’s so cool that she changes in front of me. First of all, she’s my mom. And second of all, if you want to see her breasts all you have to do is get a job on her show. Everybody there gets to see those things at one point or another.
I figured this was my moment. It was my last chance to plead my case and to inject some sort of normalcy into her brain, so I said, “Mom, this situation is terrible. My summer is ruined. People think I’m an asshole and I don’t even care, because all your friends and your brother, they’re all freaks, and we can do better than them. It would be so much nicer with just you and me. So, what do you say? Take my paw, take my whole life, too. Let’s get out of here, girl.”
Of course, she couldn’t understand a word I was saying because to her it all sounded like “pant pant pant pant pant pant pant.” Someone should invent a device to translate dogs’ thoughts. They’d make a killing.
So, Mom was like, “Oh hey, Chunk. Amy got you this really stupid cowboy hat and…” I was like, “Oh no you don’t, girl,” but it was too late. Mom strapped this ridiculous-looking spring break cowboy hat to my head and, against my will, sent me back out to the party. No surprise that everyone had a good hearty laugh at my expense.
Me at the fucking party.
I mean, all those whack jobs, and they were laughing at me? I couldn’t believe it. Jax was still barking at a bush. The camera guys were getting drunker and more stoned. Roy was teaching my bitch, Ryan, how to dive into the pool. Chris Franjola was hitting on some girl young enough to be his granddaughter. And the topless security guard was still beating himself at badminton. Salami came over and lifted me up in his arms again.
“Ugh, will this ever stop?!” My head was starting to spin; the world was like a dreidel. I was hyperventilating, which, again, just looked like I was panting. I was ready to pass out. But then everything stopped, and my jaw dropped.
I caught my reflection in the pool and saw myself as the world saw me—as just another member of this motley crew. I realized that I had turned into one of them. I looked like a wet mutt/stupid lion/gay cowboy on spring break/half-Asian dog. I don’t know if I’d always been such a misfit, or if I’d caught it, like the flu. All I knew was at that moment I truly was one of them.
Mom had said that she was going to get me out of that mess. And she had. But she’d brought me into a bigger mess. I guess her lie was that she never told me this was where I belonged. I belonged there because I was a mess, too. I’d always thought I was better than or different from all these people, but I guess I’m not. I’m like the pitcher on their dumbass softball team. I feel like such a dumb-dumb now for not seeing it all along.
You have to realize that if my mom picks on you, it’s because she likes you. If she lies to you, it’s because she loves you. All it means is that you’re one of the lucky messes in her pack. And as I was looking around at all the oddballs and outcasts having a blast at her Fourth of July pool party, I realized that she hadn’t rescued just me.
She’d rescued all of us.
I love you, too, Chunk. You’re a real asshole, and I respect that. I’d also like to apologize for the bevy of men you’ve had to share our bed with. I have tried to be more selective in my thirties, but not every day is a home run. I do promise never to let another man pick you up and force you to swim in our pool. Thank you for your patience, and thank you for not being a racist during that one brief period.
—Chelsea
This is Michael Broussard, my book “agent,” with his dog Dino (fucking mess), feeding alcohol to Chunk. As if I needed more proof, this made it clear that Chunk is my offspring.
Acknowledgments
Sarah Colonna, Sue Murphy, and Jeff Wild were also contributors to this book. They helped the people who have never taken part in a creative writing course or learned how to spell.
Me and Sue Murphy in the Bahamas.
Me and Sarah in Cabo.
Me and Jiffy at a Dodgers game in 2010.
A special thank you to my Borderline Amazing partner, Tom Brunelle, aka the man “behind” the scenes.
Me and Tom.
Table of Contents
Front Cover Image
Welcome
Dedication
Introduction
1. Zookeeper:
Johnny Kansas
2. Pap Smears and Punctuation Marks:
Stephanie Stehling
3. How to Make a Marriage Work:
Heather McDonald
4. A Brother’s Testimony:
Roy Handler
5. My Name Is Brad Wollack and I Am Unattractive:
Brad Wollack
6. Dial Tone, a Chelsea Specialty:
Amber Mazzola
7. Go Lakers:
Josh Wolf
8. Sisterly Love:
Shoshonna Handler
9. Eva Is My Name, Comedy Is My Game:
Eva Magdalenski
10. Lies and Other Things I Wish Were Lies:
Amy Meyer
11. Pubescent and Adolescent Mendacity, 1985–1991:
Glen Handler
12. Standards and Practices
13. Raise the Woof:
Chunk
Acknowledgments
Other Books Starring Chelsea Handler
Copyright
OTHER BOOKS STARRING
CHELSEA HANDLER
Chelsea Chelsea Bang Bang
Copyright
Copyright © 2011 by Chelsea Handler, Inc.
All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior written permission of the publisher.
A Chelsea Handler Book/Borderline Amazing® Publishing
Hachette Book Group
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New York, NY 10017
Visit our website at www.HachetteBookGroup.com
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First eBook Edition: May 2011
A Chelsea Handler Book/Borderline Amazing® Publishing is an imprint of Grand Central Publishing. Grand Central Publishing is a division of Hachette Book Group, Inc.
The Grand Central Publishing name and logo is a trademark of Hachette Book Group, Inc.
The publisher is not responsible for websites (or their content) that are not owned by the publisher.
ISBN: 978-1-455-50465-7
Chelsea Handler, Lies That Chelsea Handler Told Me
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