Lies That Chelsea Handler Told Me - Chelsea's Family, Friends [2]
Chelsea is a very strong woman, in almost a mannish way. She has the shoulders of an outside linebacker. Chelsea and I once actually met Brian Urlacher, linebacker for the Chicago Bears, when we were in the Bahamas, and I’m positive I caught him looking at her build with surprise and envy.
There are times when I’m in the middle of a skirmish with Chelsea, with my arms pinned above my head and my shirt pulled over my face, when I think she may have missed her calling and that she should have taken advantage of her surprising retard strength and gone into professional wrestling. “Now entering the ring, from the great state of New Jersey, Coslopus Face.”
One of her favorite times to assault me is right before we tape the show. She’ll be all dolled up, with hair, makeup, and six-inch heels ready for the camera. If I try to fight back at such a moment, she pulls out the “Don’t mess up my hair. Watch out, Baby Bird, this journalist has a show to do.” Standing alongside her, wearing bright red lipstick, will be her rather questionable lesbian stylist, Amy, yelling at me not to mess up Chelsea’s clothes. Really? Maybe someone should tell Chelsea not to start a wrestling match in the hallway before she steps in front of an audience.
On occasion she has actually called to others for help in holding me down. Now throw in the largest lesbian on record, Fortune Feimster, who thunders out of her office to grab me. It’s criminal. While she picks me up by the scruff of my neck with one massive hand, Chelsea rips my shirt off and displays it like some sort of washable all-cotton trophy.
I can only assume this is her pre-show prep to get fired up for the taping. A simple prayer circle would work for a more reasonable person, but where is the invigorating humiliation in that? Chelsea needs more, just like the ancient warriors who sacrificed a virginal goat before battle. That is, if they ripped the goat’s shirt off first.
All this leaves me standing in the office without a shirt on. Wandering around at work topless just screams professionalism. That’s one of the first things you learn in business school. It’s hard to take a man seriously when you can see his nipples. I don’t want to give you the impression that I’m not proud of my nipples. My right nipple, if I leave it to its own devices, will grow a single long silky brown hair. When I was in college I named him Harold.
Anyway, being topless on the job leaves me no other choice but to go to the wardrobe room to find something to wear. Unfortunately, for the fashion-forward hipster that I am, Wardrobe is filled only with crap for Chelsea. So now I’m stuck wearing one of Chelsea’s tops the rest of the day. And her blouses are normally baggy on me. I don’t know who this is more embarrassing for, me or Chelsea. The only saving grace is that we both have blue eyes, so a lot of her tops are somewhat flattering on me and have been known to make my eyes pop. This can turn your day around after being physically violated by a woman.
This is me on some stupid yacht in the Bahamas. The crew offered to put Chelsea in a mermaid costume and film her swimming underwater. But because of my feminine physique, she insisted it be me. Thank you, Chelsea.
All of this may help you understand why I am rarely at my desk during the day. First, I’m obviously out and about shooting different segments for the show, but it’s mostly because it’s good to keep on the move when Chelsea is roaming around looking for a target. If I’m in my office, I’m a sitting duck. It’s better never to be in the same place for long. But this brings up a whole other set of difficulties. If she can’t fuck directly with my person, she will fuck with the next best thing: my desk.
If it’s not a jar of salsa emptied onto my chair, it’s steamed clams (without butter or oil; that’s how she pretends to like them) in my top drawer. Numerous times I’ve come into my