Chelsea Chelsea Bang Bang
Format: PDF / Kindle (mobi) / ePub
WHAT . . . A RIOT!
Life doesn't get more hilarious than when Chelsea Handler takes aim with her irreverent wit. Who else would send all-staff emails to smoke out the dumbest people on her show? Now, in this new collection of original essays, the #1 bestselling author of Are You There, Vodka? It's Me, Chelsea delivers one laugh-out-loud moment after another as she sets her sights on the ridiculous side of childhood, adulthood, and daughterhood.
Family moments are fair game, whether it's writing a report on Reaganomics to earn a Cabbage Patch doll, or teaching her father social graces by ordering him to stay indoors. It's open season on her love life, from playing a prank on her boyfriend (using a ravioli, a fake autopsy, and the Santa Monica pier) to adopting a dog so she can snuggle with someone who doesn't talk. And everyone better duck for cover when her beach vacation turns into matchmaking gone wild. Outrageously funny and deliciously wicked, CHELSEA CHELSEA BANG BANG is good good good good!
CHELSEA HANDLER ON...
Being unpopular: "My parents couldn't have been more unreasonable when it came to fads or clothes that weren't purchased at a pharmacy."
Living with her boyfriend: "He's similar to a large toddler, the only difference being he doesn't cry when he wakes up."
Appreciating her brother: "He's a certified public accountant, and I have a real life."
Arm-wrestling a maid of honor: "It wasn't her strength that intimidated me. It was the starry way her eyes focused on me, like Mike Tyson getting ready to feed."
bathtub. Friday night I went over to a different friend’s house and got back home at around two in the morning. Perfect, I thought. I’ll sleep in, get up, go for a run, write all day and maybe into the night, and then, depending on my productivity, maybe even make a field trip to Dunkin’ Donuts as a reward. The next morning I woke up at eight-thirty and couldn’t go back to sleep. I was pissed. I knew myself well enough not to get up and start being productive. I was thirty-four now. I was a
wall or running it through the dishwasher. Since I am also unable to operate the dishwasher, this option is less frequent as it would have to be coordinated with a visit from our cleaning lady, Maria, who comes only on Tuesdays and Fridays. In Ted’s never-ending interest in television, he had also recently installed television screens in every ridiculous oversized appliance or mirror that would allow it. There was a TV screen in the bathroom mirror, one on our treadmill, and one in the microwave
but also how, if he was going to insist on wearing sweatpants, he would have to use support briefs or put one or both balls in a Ziploc bag before getting dressed. I was willing to accept either option, which I thought generous considering my hatred of men in sweatpants. “Even Russians have the decency to wear tracksuits!” I howled. I was the last one to leave Stacy’s house the next day and didn’t question until much later in life why no one said good-bye to me. I was doing the walk of shame
her theory. “I guess I’m just bursting into womanhood” became my byline. When my brothers would come home from college, they would always hang out in the second living room, but that didn’t stop me. I would sandwich myself in between one end of the sofa and the ottoman, and all they could see was my head pop out so I could check to see if they were watching me and wipe my brow with a beach towel. I sometimes wondered if they had any idea what I was doing, but I had grown so accustomed to
problem with in that whole list, Dad? Underwear?” “Chelsea, this woman is mental, and she is exaggerating. She’s a loose lemon, and she is trying to get money from me. You can tell wealth on a man based on his stomach, and I, my dear, have a very wealthy stomach.” “This is the tenth letter we’ve had in the past three years asking for a refund. Do you even have any renters that don’t ask for a refund?” “What kind of question is that, Chelsea? I’ve been renting in the Vineyard for years, and