Lies That Chelsea Handler Told Me - Chelsea's Family, Friends [5]
Subject: RE: Sunday, Sept 28: Wilshire Closed Between Fairfax and San Vicente
I feel exactly the same way. However, I do feel like there’s a lot more I could know, and I’d love someone with more experience and the same like—mindedness to kind of spitball with. Do you have any free time over the weekend?
From: Kenneth Falcon
Friday, September 26, 2008, 11:47 AM
Subject: RE: Sunday, Sept 28: Wilshire Closed Between Fairfax and San Vicente
I’m actually in the desert this weekend. Maybe we can hook up for lunch or coffee next week. You’re in the 12312 building right?
From: Johnny Milord
Friday, September 26, 2008, 12:00 PM
Subject: RE: Sunday, Sept 28: Wilshire Closed Between Fairfax and San Vicente
I could come out to the desert.
From: Kenneth Falcon
Friday, September 26, 2008, 1:43 PM
Subject: RE: Sunday, Sept 28: Wilshire Closed Between Fairfax and San Vicente
It’s actually a working weekend. My partner and I are putting one of our places in Palm Springs for sale this weekend and we need to wrap up some things before we meet with our agent Sunday.
Let’s shoot for lunch next week… Wed is the best day for me as I can sit in on Tammy and Lauren’s weekly meeting.
Let me know.
“I could come out to the desert.” What the fuck did he think when he read that? “I’d love someone with more experience and the same like-mindedness to kind of spitball with.” Why hadn’t I just come out and asked him if I could French-kiss his soft mouth during a steamy slow dance at this year’s Palm Springs White Party? Maybe in between the Appletinis and tea-bagging perhaps we could have discussed the complex situation in the West Bank.
This was not an ideal situation for many reasons. I didn’t know anything about Israel or Jews in general, I didn’t particularly care for the desert, and oh yeah, I happen to have an affinity for vagina.
At this point Chelsea showed up at my desk to see the results of her handiwork and to bask in her glory. This is the moment she lives for, and as soon as she saw the panic on my face she doubled over in uncontrollable laughter and peed in her stupid workout stretch pants. Whenever Chelsea laughs really hard, the veins in her neck protrude, her face turns red, and she wets her pants. Not a lot, but just enough to make it look like she sat on a large lemon wedge. I think she should get that checked.
So now she was rolling around in her own urine, crying, and gasping for air, and everyone was gathering in my office laughing just as hard as Chelsea. And to make matters worse, Chelsea’s older, more mature lover, Ted, who just happens to be the president of E!, stopped by and wanted in on the sick fun. He came into the room like the dorky kid in the cafeteria who walks up to a group of cooler kids who are cracking up and stands there laughing along like he’s one of the gang.
“What are we all laughing at? What’s so funny, guys?”
Chelsea was laughing so hard she could hardly lay out the story between the tears, the drool, and the pee that I was sure by then had soaked her socks. When it became clear to Ted what exactly was going on, he immediately stopped smiling.
“No, Chelsea, you cannot do this.”
“Oh shut up, Ted. This is hilarious.”
Ted was adamant. “Chelsea, no! You’ve gone too far. This is unacceptable!” He was so animated that his middle-aged silver hair helmet almost moved. “Chelsea, you cannot do this to an executive at E!.”
Apparently silly little e-mail jokes to the staff of Chelsea Lately were fine. Like when she sent a message from me to our newly hired production assistant, Ian, saying, “Welcome to the team, buddy. I love what you’re wearing today. I think we’re going to hit it off. What size shoe do you wear? XOXO Johnny.” Ted didn’t give a shit when “I” e-mailed the new production assistant, but when it came to corporate officers, it seemed Chelsea had gone way too far.
Ted and I were on the same page here, and I don’t always agree with him. For example, I would never wear monogrammed shirts or get my jeans pressed. But