Lies That Chelsea Handler Told Me - Chelsea's Family, Friends [82]
Once he was gone, Mom walked over to me, kneeled down, and said, “Don’t worry, Chunk, I’m going to get us out of this mess.” That was music to my ears. Finally, we were going to be alone.
A lot happened the next year. But the biggest development was that Mom and I moved out. All I ever wanted was a quiet place with no annoying people around. The large, modern home we moved into that summer was perfect—or so I thought.
“Lots of rooms,” she’d asked for. I had hoped it was because she wanted to give me different areas to explore. But no, she wanted to fill those rooms with people. This was an “if you build it they will come” type of summer house. It had a giant pool, a diving board for her brother Roy, a big backyard, and a horse stable. Thank god those dumb horses moved out with the owners of the house. A horse is not my idea of a good time, and neither are the dumps they take. It was summer bliss but also summer hell, because I realized on the day we moved in that we were never going to be alone again.
It’s not that I don’t like people. I just think I’m better than most of them. There are a lot of idiots at Mom’s office. And I have the reputation around there of being a little aloof and antisocial. These are some of the things I’ve heard them say about me behind my hairy back:
“That dog is an asshole,” Johnny Kansas has repeatedly said, before I’ve even left a room.
Johnny, Mom calls you The Bird because your body is frail like a little girl’s. Who’s the asshole now?
“He’s not my type of dog,” said Chris Franjola one morning after I averted my eyes from his horse-like smile. The thought wasn’t lost on me to store his ass in one of the stables at our new pad.
Chris, you don’t have a type. Your only “type” is a girl dumb enough to text you naked pictures of herself. Thumbs up, my brother.
My first day at the office was kind of like my first day at the pound. Basically you have to find the weakest link and make him your bitch. I found a guy named Ryan Basford. He was the perfect man bitch. Just “goofy” enough to take me on walks, feed me, and entertain me while Mom was too busy. He is also known to sit down when he urinates and to wipe his ass from back to front.
Chris Franjola
It was painful enough to spend most of my days with all the pedestrian people at Mom’s work. But another little problem presented itself. His name was Jax, and he’s a boxer. No, not a Mike Tyson–type boxer, because that would be cool. Jax is a boxer dog, and he pretty much sucks boxer balls.
Jax is a purebred, and purebreds are always such egomaniacs. They think they’re so great looking, but usually they have a few screws loose upstairs due to inbreeding. He’s also a real “man’s dog,” the type that’s basically responsible for why dogs ever got the moniker “man’s best friend” in the first place. Ironic that he belongs to a couple of lesbos.
Jax used to live in Dallas with the said lesbos, Shelly and Kelly. One day, about seven dog years ago, Mom and I flew to Dallas with five of her friends after she ditched her then-boyfriend. What happened between my mother and Jax upon our arrival was one of the most horrific sights I’ve ever seen. I can hardly think about it, let alone tell the story. Johnny Kansas was sick enough to videotape Jax forcing himself on my mom until she was on the ground, and then humping her with his red rocket lipstick penis. He was rubbing it all against her back as he licked her entire face with his big tongue.
Jax and me on one of the days Mom brought us to work. Obviously, not ideal.
It was repulsive. It was