Lies That Chelsea Handler Told Me - Chelsea's Family, Friends [37]
At this point, I was not sure how any answer I gave would help the situation. If, for some reason, I did admit to telling someone I wanted to rape them, what was Chelsea going to do about it? Probably not a whole hell of a lot. It was safer to deny everything, but I had second thoughts. Maybe, I thought, I’ll admit to one rape comment to make it more believable that I’m denying everything else.
It was at that point that even Chelsea couldn’t take it anymore. She clearly saw the torment I was going through and had a rare soft moment. She initially presumed—and rightfully so, given my history—that I would go apeshit and throw a childish tantrum and start telling everyone that they could “Fuck off and suck my big, long balls! You can’t bring Brad Wollack down!” Instead, I succumbed to the severity of the situation. No ranting or raving, just quiet panic.
I was terrified and had just turned, if possible, a paler shade than I normally was, when I saw her face softening into a wide smile and she began cracking up. Within seconds, tears were flowing from her eyes.
I turned to Gary, who was also laughing. Tom and Sue, who had been waiting outside the office listening to the whole exchange, came in applauding. Chelsea was now pointing to one of Gary’s shelves.
I was so caught up in the moment I hadn’t even noticed the video camera with the blinking light resting on the bookshelf behind Gary. These assholes were taping the whole thing, hoping to show my complete mental breakdown on a future Chelsea Lately episode.
I had never experienced a greater wave of relief at seeing a video camera taping me. I realized this was all a prank. Gary pointed to the camera on the bookshelf as if he were the Armenian Ashton Kutcher and we were on Punk’d, but all I could manage to say was, “You fuckers. I saw my whole career flash before my eyes!”
The tape never made air. At least there was one real takeaway from that day: Grumpy Gary isn’t a bad actor.
GUESS WHO’S COMING TO THE OFFICE
Chelsea has never, for the life of her, understood what my wife, Shannon, could possibly find attractive about me—a pasty, red-haired, nerdy Jew. Nonetheless, her disapproval of our nuptials, strictly on an aesthetic basis, didn’t stop her from attending our wedding in June 2008.
A drunk Heather McDonald and her husband, Peter; me; Ted; Sue Murphy; Chelsea; and Johnny.
It was a beautiful summer evening as I wed the love of my life in Beverly Hills. At the end of the evening, Chelsea approached me and handed over an envelope containing a very generous check. She never said what we should use the money for, but my best guess was that she probably wanted us to put it toward adopting a child in hopes of our avoiding procreation, thus altogether eliminating the possibility of a child coming out looking like a mini version of me.
We, on the other hand, applied the whole thing to our lavish honeymoon. Shannon and I had planned a ten-day trip to the gorgeous seaside town of Positano, Italy, and the island of Santorini in Greece. We’d spared no expense, opting to stay at the nicest of hotels, eat the best of foods, and go on whatever excursion we desired.
Ten days with your new bride and away from work seems idyllic, but I think the honeymoon is really an old-fashioned phenomenon. I haven’t cross-referenced this, because I hate research, but it obviously dates back to the days when couples didn’t know each other at all and women were still virgins when they got married. Basically, honeymoons, in my mind, were created so newlyweds could get emotionally and physically acquainted with their life partner.
However, Shannon and I had been together for six-plus years. We had been living together for two years, already had a healthy sexual relationship, and knew everything there was to know about each other. Needless to say, no matter how exotic the locale or romantic the setting, after ten days alone, two people run out of things to do and shit to say.
We were so desperate