Free Lies That Chelsea Handler Told Me by Chelsea Handler Page A

boyfriend, Ted, rented a ridiculous house in Brentwood, and proceeded to move me, her Pilates instructor, and two Dallas lesbians into it.
    “This is your new family,” Chelsea informed me.
    I started catering for Chelsea Lately right away. I’d work there twice a week and pick up random catering gigs on the side. Chelsea immediately started putting me on the show and taking me with her on the road on weekends. I was getting more action in six months than I had in my entire life. Before I knew it, my bald head had become the characteristic that separated me from all the other guys on the show trying to get laid. People on the street were recognizing me, I was a burgeoning television star, and I was flying around the country in private jets. I felt like a Rolling Stone, only I couldn’t sing and I was thirty-five thousand dollars in debt. Chelsea eventually paid that off, but not before she took away all my credit cards and told me I should be ashamed of myself.
    Chelsea’s quest to find me a little bit of penetration hasn’t stopped since I moved to LA. I appreciate it, but more important, I know better than to get in her way when she is on any kind of mission. I once got between her and a plate of chicken fingers and my finger still hasn’t completely formed back to its original state.
    In 2010, Chelsea was the host for the MTV Video Music Awards. Between doing Chelsea Lately, her book tour, and preparing for the VMAs, she had a pretty full plate. She decided that the weekend after the awards were over, she was going to blow off some steam in her favorite place to relax, Cabo San Lucas. I don’t know why she calls it “relaxing,” because as soon as her feet hit the sand she consumes more alcohol than David Hasselhoff at Oktoberfest. It’s pretty impressive what goes down when she has a couple of days off.
    Chelsea invited everyone who’d worked so hard for her on the VMAs: her annoying writers, her lesbian stylist, and her semi-bitchy makeup artist. She also took me and her fucked-up book agent, Michael Broussard, who hadn’t done shit for the awards show but was fun to be around and a good backup in case Brad Wollack had too many shots of tequila and tried to put his toe in Chelsea’s vagina, which, by the way, happened again on that trip.
    Chelsea’s makeup artist, Gina, and I had become some version of friends. She seemed a little distant when I first met her, which I mistook as her having complete disdain for me, but according to her she’s “been in the business a long time, sweetheart,” and tends to be “guarded.” Whatever… She’s got pretty hair and a plump pout, so I don’t really take issue with her. She fancies herself a green thumb and also thinks she can cook, so I’ve spent a little time with her in both the yard and the kitchen. I’ve definitely seen worse things bent over.
    One night while we were in Cabo, everyone got really drunk. Well, that happened every night while we were in Cabo, but during this particular night most of the group had trailed off. Gina had passed out, Brad had facial-ticked himself into a coma, Johnny “The Bird” Milord had finger-blasted some stranger on the couch, and Chris Franjola had disappeared at some club downtown where you could buy sex for less than two dollars. I had no idea where Michael Broussard was, but I do know that one of the resort busboys went missing for three full hours. The only people who were still up and drinking were me, Chelsea, Amy the lesbian stylist, and Sarah Colonna. Sarah may have been in a blackout, but at least she was still sitting upright.
    We were staying in two villas: boys in one and girls in the other, although nobody ever slept in their appointed room. As you may have heard, Chelsea has some very questionable sleeping tendencies. Maybe it’s because we have a big family and she’s used to having people around, but she likes to share her bed with random people. When she’s actually involved in a sexual