Lies That Chelsea Handler Told Me - Chelsea's Family, Friends [3]
Why would I expect her to respect my desk when she doesn’t even respect me or, more important, my Cadillac? It’s a fucking Cadillac. A vehicle that combines power, performance, and luxury should command respect. When I’m on the road, people pay heed because I am behind the wheel of an American driving machine. You might ask me, when I turn it on, does it return the favor? The answer is yes.
The first day I got it, I proudly took Chelsea for a ride around the block so she could “experience Cadillac.” First, she refused to sit in the front seat like a regular person and insisted on sitting in the back like Driving Miss Daisy, saying the only time she rides around in town cars is when she’s being chauffeured. And you know what that big-titted, loud-mouthed New Jersey broad did? She hid two turkey meatballs in each of the backseat pockets in my brand-new Cadillac. Chelsea basically survives on turkey meatballs, arugula, and pints of hummus, not unlike an actual chimpanzee. Her brother Roy prepares these by the dozen each week, so Chelsea can try to avoid her natural instincts, which would be to gorge herself on raw meat and nacho cheese.
I drove around for a week with all four windows down at high speeds trying to drain out the stench I assumed had been left behind by Chelsea’s own vileness. It wasn’t until I had two actual backseat passengers in my car a week and a half later that I discovered the two dried-up Handler meatballs. I don’t care if you hang a real fucking pine tree from your rearview mirror, that foul turkey meatball stench will be in your car forever. And even if by some miracle I could ever exorcise it from my beautiful Cadillac DTS, I still will never be able to exorcise the thought of her violation.
The favorite target of the abuse she heaps on me is my computer. To Chelsea, discovering an unattended, unlocked computer is like finding a giant bowl of dicks. She can’t keep her hands off it. Until I started working with Chelsea, it had never occurred to me that I would need to lock my computer. Why would it ever cross my mind that if I left my computer unattended, some crazy person would use it as a device to demolish my life? I know why that sick bitch loves it. Because with my computer, it’s not just a ripped shirt, stretched-out underwear, or baked beans piled high on my new Sports Illustrated. It’s deep, it’s personal, and it’s devastating.
One of the things she does when she finds my computer unlocked is respond to my e-mails or randomly pick out a name in my contact list and e-mail them a message. This would be fine if she signed the messages, “Sincerely, Chelsea Handler,” but what would be the fun in that for a deeply troubled thirty-five-year-old woman? No, it’s much more entertaining to write a humiliating note to someone I haven’t spoken to in five years and sign it, “Miss you tons, my cat died of AIDS, XOXO Love Johnny.”
I think I should mention a couple of things here. First, Chelsea is an insanely fast typist. She’s like one of those idiot savants you see on 60 Minutes who can’t tie their shoes but can play the shit out of Rachmaninoff on the piano. Chelsea can’t sing, can’t cook, and she looks like an asshole on the dance floor, but she can type like a coked-out court reporter with a plane to catch. I don’t know why or when she learned to type like that, but my guess is that in high school someone said, “We’re giving free abortions to the fastest typist in the room.”
Second, Chelsea shows up to work every single morning dressed from top to bottom in workout clothes. She pretends that after the morning meeting she’s going to the gym,