Lies That Chelsea Handler Told Me - Chelsea's Family, Friends [1]
Getting back to Chelsea… Just so you know what I’m dealing with, let me explain. Chelsea introduces me as a “little girl” to everyone, whether it’s her family, new people at the show, people at dinner parties, or entertainment executives. I guess you could call that a lie because, for the record, I am not a little girl. I’m a grown man and a producer at Chelsea Lately. Even though little girls are cute and cuddly, they don’t exactly command a lot of respect in the rough-and-tumble, dog-eat-dog, who-took-my-sandwich world of Hollywood.
I didn’t really mind it at first, but then I realized that even though people probably didn’t think I was actually a little girl, I could tell they were assessing my physique and thinking, “Well, he does kind of have an adolescent female body.” “I don’t know what it is about him, but for some reason I can’t stop thinking about that robot girl from Small Wonder.” This doesn’t give me the biggest boost of confidence about myself, everybody thinking that I have the body of a teen girl and that my name is Jill, not Johnny. That’s also what Chelsea introduces me as, Jill.
If she doesn’t introduce me as Jill, she introduces me as Baby Bird. I believe Baby Bird came from the size of my body and the fact that I’m not really a big eater. You wouldn’t be either if you were looking over your shoulder during every meal, keeping your eye out for a lonely marauding basic cable host. I guess I don’t put much effort into eating, and I will admit that when everyone at the table is finished I’m usually about three bites in. But what the fuck does that have to do with being a baby bird? It’s not like I’m having someone chew up my food for me and then regurgitate it into my mouth. That happened only once, in Cabo, with a banana, but that was for a movie, one I remain extremely proud of to this day, titled Drunken Jackasses: The Quest. Netflix it.
The only conclusion that any normal person can come to is that Chelsea is infatuated with my body. She won’t admit it, but come on, that’s all she talks about. I’m sure right now she’s probably somewhere thinking about my slim, petite body. Maybe she’s attracted to little girl bodies and that’s why she’s always talking about mine. I believe she probably wishes she had my body.
Another thing you should know is that Chelsea gives me three to four wedgies a week. Not your cute, giggly, “oh, you silly goose” wedgies. We’re talking tear-inducing, ball-crushing, bloodstain-producing underwear wedgies. I’m sure by now I have the words Fruit of the Loom permanently embossed on my asshole.
This insane behavior is perfectly acceptable in the Chelsea Lately offices. How is this possible? Is that any way to run a television show? Do you think at The View the morning starts with Joy Behar emerging from what I’m sure is three to four hours of makeup, taking hold of an intern’s boxers, and screaming, “It must be Christmas because I just gave you a Nut Cracker”?
But in this asinine workplace you have to learn to grin and bear it and laugh because, well, it’s part of the job. “Ha, ha, ha, Chelsea just severed my left testicle. Hilarious.” I know some of the writers can feel my pain and humiliation when she’s doing it, but still they laugh along. I once saw it in Sarah Colonna’s eyes, I saw the sadness and compassion for me through her giggles, but I don’t blame her, she has a career to look out for. To this day I’ve never held it against Sarah.
Sarah Colonna
To mix it up, Chelsea doesn’t always go for the wedgie. At least once a week she strips off other articles of my clothing: shoes, socks, belts. Ripping my shirt over my head is a standard. She will pretend to be having a simple, sweet conversation with someone, and then, out of the corner of my eye, I’ll start to sense her slowly sidling up to me. I’ll flinch. Then she’ll start in. “What? Why are you flinching?