Lies That Chelsea Handler Told Me Part 6

In truth, I was actually a little envious of Johnny getting so much face time with Harbert. I relished any one-on-one time with Ted so I could pepper him with questions about the industry. Now here was Johnny going to sleep in his boxers and T-s.h.i.+rt and waking up with the guy. In my mind, his future as a successful TV producer was a lock. I was now obsessed with a.s.suming that Johnny was quickly becoming Ted's "guy."

If you think I was overreacting, then you're right, I probably was, but Johnny and Ted's relations.h.i.+p was rapidly blossoming. Stories of their camaraderie were making me sick.

First came Chelsea's announcement at a meeting that Ted had gone into Johnny's room that morning and said, "I'm doing a load of laundry. Do you have any colors, Johnny?" Really? Johnny was letting his host, the CEO of Comcast Entertainment, do his dirty laundry? I started to twitch.

Then came the dinner at Katsuya, Chelsea's favorite LA restaurant. It was a Thursday night, and my wife and I were there with Chelsea, Ted, and another couple. I was conveniently situated at one end of the table, next to Ted, and hoped to capture some wisdom or insight from him. Ted loved answering my questions, and I saw this as a chance to rea.s.sert myself as his number one. I always had this weird fantasy that I'd say something so profound that he'd respond with "You're right, Brad. That's genius!" and anoint me as his new programming guru and I'd become his most trusted adviser. In reality, I usually ended up getting drunk and pa.s.sing out. Yet I always clung to that dream.

We'd been seated for fifteen minutes when Ted's cell phone rang. He looked at his screen. "Oh, it's Johnny. Hold on." With that, he answered the phone. "Hey, Johnny. What's up?"

Wow, I thought, I thought, I can't believe Johnny has the f.u.c.king nerve to call during dinner. I can't believe Johnny has the f.u.c.king nerve to call during dinner. What was so important that Johnny, knowing full well that Ted was out to dinner, would call him? It had to be a critical, time-sensitive matter... something like Ryan Seacrest wanting to refrost his hair and needing Ted's approval on the color scheme. Johnny hates imposing on anyone at any time, so he would never be so forward as to interrupt someone's dinner. What was so important that Johnny, knowing full well that Ted was out to dinner, would call him? It had to be a critical, time-sensitive matter... something like Ryan Seacrest wanting to refrost his hair and needing Ted's approval on the color scheme. Johnny hates imposing on anyone at any time, so he would never be so forward as to interrupt someone's dinner.

"You want to watch a DVD in the living room?" Ted asked. "Sure, I'll walk you through how to do that."

Unreal! That took major b.a.l.l.s to call and ask something like that.

"Oh, that's cute," Chelsea said. "He wants to watch a DVD."

That's not "cute." That's obnoxious. Figure it out yourself, Johnny. Suddenly I envisioned Johnny lounging around Ted and Chelsea's condo like a sloth, probably in his underwear, helping himself to popcorn and whatever booze they had, wanting to watch a DVD. I couldn't believe he had the audacity to call with such a concern. If I were Johnny, I'd have sat in total f.u.c.king silence until they got home. But no, not Johnny Kansas. He wanted his DVD on demand and had no qualms about ringing up ol' CEO Teddy and asking him to put down his Tuna with Crispy Rice sus.h.i.+ to walk him through the process of starting a DVD on a sixty-inch HDTV. Johnny was getting too comfortable, and I was fuming.

"What DVD do you want to watch?... Oh, that's a good one," Ted a.s.sured Johnny. I was beside myself. Ted was not only unperturbed by the interruption, but he'd actually offered Johnny kudos on the DVD selection he'd just made! He suddenly admired Johnny's taste. All sorts of a.s.sumptions ran through my head about how Ted and Johnny would start their own guys' movie night and discuss the films afterward, Ted anxiously awaiting Johnny's honest feedback because he "always has the most refres.h.i.+ng perspective on things."

How could this be happening? How was Johnny getting away with being so brash? The only rationale I could conjure up was that Chelsea loved Johnny, and that Ted was so in love with Chelsea he would accommodate any of her demands, including allowing an employee to live with them. If Chelsea was cool with it, so was Ted. It was a demented love triangle... and someone was going to wind up hurt.

I was having immense trouble coming to terms with this situation. As long as I had known Johnny, he had never wanted to overstep his bounds or inflict his presence on anyone. If anything, there had always been a lot of me telling him, "Don't be a p.u.s.s.y. Just do it!" Add to all of this the fact that Chelsea was his boss so he now lived with both of their bosses, and I felt totally distressed on Johnny's behalf. This was not not going to end well. going to end well.

Two full months in and Johnny was still living with Chelsea and Ted. I questioned Johnny every now and again and he was rather dismissive. I had graduated from being a concerned friend to a guy who thought Johnny was just blatantly rude. I kept inquiring about the status of the renovations on his apartment, and he'd just say they were still working on it. He didn't seem to mind. Wasn't he paying rent? Didn't he want to go home? Didn't he feel uncomfortable in someone else's house?

Over the next couple of months, Johnny progressed from house guest to full-fledged family member who was factored into every major decision.

"Of course Johnny's coming with us to St. Barths over Christmas," Chelsea a.s.sured me one morning. "He lives with us, Brad."

I couldn't contain my surprise. "He's staying with you temporarily temporarily, Chelsea. You don't have to bring him on vacation. He's not your child."

"He is our child, Brad. And you need to start dealing with it."

It was at this moment that she felt compelled to offer me the grand perspective on her relations.h.i.+p with Johnny.

"Ted and I are looking at new homes and we're getting a bedroom for Johnny."

His own bedroom in a new home?! We're talking LA real estate. An additional bedroom could easily run you $500,000 to a $1 million extra. Johnny was suddenly worth hundreds of thousands of dollars to them? Chelsea and Ted were delusional. What power did Johnny possess?

He was technically a grown man-and an employee of Ted's company-and he was being treated as if he were their seven-year-old son. In fact, one weekend Johnny casually mentioned that he was going with Ted and his son, Will, to San Francisco for a 49ers game. What? Johnny was now being included in father-son bonding trips? That was b.a.l.l.sy, but apparently Ted now loved Johnny like one of his own. We might as well have started calling him little Johnny Harbert.

"It was great," Johnny a.s.sured me upon his return from the game. "We stayed at the W Hotel and we all shared a room. Lots of fun."

Any hopes of me becoming Ted's programming muse were crushed when Johnny lumbered in to work one morning looking exhausted. "Why do you look like s.h.i.+t?" I asked.

"I was up late watching TV pilots and helping Ted decide which shows should be ordered to series," Johnny answered.

I lost my mind. Johnny had officially a.s.sumed the role I had been dreaming of, and he had far less experience in television. He was only an a.s.sociate producer, yet he was now guiding Ted's decision on which new show would follow Keeping Up with the Kardas.h.i.+ans Keeping Up with the Kardas.h.i.+ans on Sunday night. I was crushed. on Sunday night. I was crushed.

I'd finally had enough and needed to speak my mind. This, after all, was not rational, to me or anyone else. Employees don't live with their bosses. Was I the only one who understood this? This is like airplanes not taxiing before takeoff; it just didn't happen.

"Chelsea, Johnny can't live with you."

"Why not?" she asked. "Why can't he be happy?"

Wow. That was a good question, one for which I didn't have an answer. He did seem content and at peace for the first time since I'd known him. I always sensed that Johnny longed for the family and connections he gave up when he moved from Kansas to California. I guess he'd found them in an eighth-floor condo in Marina del Rey, California, with a burgeoning TV star and her executive boyfriend. Who was I to deny him happiness?

After long talks with my wife and others, I came to accept the arrangement and understood that it made Johnny and Chelsea happy. I couldn't be convinced it made Ted happy, but he did whatever Chelsea said. I stopped asking about the progress of Johnny's apartment and a.s.sumed Chelsea was helping him cover his lease, after which he'd be free and clear to live with Chelsea and Ted wherever they ended up. He was now a full-fledged Handler-Harbert.

Six months after Johnny moved in with Chelsea and Ted, we gathered for Chelsea's thirty-third birthday party at a restaurant in Venice, California. I'd had plenty to drink, and after I insisted, to the woman's face, that one of the makeup ladies on the show was not thirty-four and had to be "at least forty," it was time for the obligatory toasts.

Ted was always so awkwardly effusive when it came to Chelsea, and he was no different this time. He gushed about what a great person she was and how she'd turned his life around. At one point in his speech he remarked that Chelsea, on the one hand, could be so wonderfully caring and giving while at the same time "She can be so conniving and mercilessly f.u.c.k with people. Where's Brad Wollack?"

Ted looked around for me, and I excitedly waved like an unsuspecting idiot. "Over here, Ted!"

"Brad," Ted continued, "Johnny Kansas has never never lived with us. He has never even set foot inside our condo! He's not coming on vacation with us; we're not getting him a bedroom in a new home. You are one big idiot." lived with us. He has never even set foot inside our condo! He's not coming on vacation with us; we're not getting him a bedroom in a new home. You are one big idiot."

I was floored! For six months I had wrestled with my emotions. I was concerned for Johnny, wrought with jealousy, and tormented by the ridiculous amount of time and patience a landlord had been granted to repair a f.u.c.king leak.

Johnny was relieved. He no longer had to avoid me for fear of slipping up. He had resorted to having little to no conversation with me, knowing full well he couldn't keep the secret anymore. He had been pulled in two different directions: one, obeying Chelsea; and two, revealing the lie to me so I wouldn't think he was a total mooching p.u.s.s.y.

Ultimately, I think the lie took as much of a mental toll on Johnny as it did on me. He was terrified of Chelsea and obeyed her every command, but he couldn't stand the fact that I thought he was living off her with no care in the world. Chelsea should really be thankful that he didn't have another ulcer.

s.e.xUAL HARa.s.sMENT.

It was December 2007, and Chelsea had been asked to host a year-end special for E! A few of us writers-Tom, Sue, and I-had been hired to help write the show. To avoid any conflicts with the Chelsea Lately Chelsea Lately production schedule, the special was to be shot at our regular studio on a Sat.u.r.day. production schedule, the special was to be shot at our regular studio on a Sat.u.r.day.

That morning, I awoke to find an e-mail from Gary Snoonian, our executive in charge of production. Gary handles all of the budgets for our show and takes care of any logistics, including human resource matters. Gary, a self-loathing man of Armenian descent, is only remotely approachable when smoking a cigar or talking about horse racing, but is otherwise a coldhearted p.r.i.c.k. Like any stiff, unfeeling jacka.s.s, Gary drives a no-frills Mercury Sable and is all business, all the time. You just don't f.u.c.k with Gary and the constant frown he wears on his pudgy, goateed face.

The e-mail he sent to me was brief: "Brad, please stop by my office when you get into the studio this morning." There are only two reasons you're called into Gary's office: one, to be scolded; or two, to be scolded, fired, and then physically removed from the premises by security. It's weird that workplaces never tell you when someone's getting canned, and you just have to sit there and pretend nothing's wrong while a poor girl sobs uncontrollably, makeup streaming down her face, and throws s.h.i.+t from her cubicle into a cardboard box. I really wish they could give more of a warning. It's just so awkward for everyone.

While getting ready to head to the office, I racked my brain for any possible infraction on my part. Sure, I was always saying inappropriate things. The rule at Chelsea Lately Chelsea Lately is that it hasn't been a productive morning writers meeting if I haven't made a 9/11 or Holocaust joke (and I'm talking about the Jewish Holocaust, not the Armenian Holocaust-no reason to get on Gary's bad side). is that it hasn't been a productive morning writers meeting if I haven't made a 9/11 or Holocaust joke (and I'm talking about the Jewish Holocaust, not the Armenian Holocaust-no reason to get on Gary's bad side).

As I drove in that morning, I continued to ponder what Gary could possibly want to meet with me about. Obsessive thoughts and concerns ran through my head. As soon as I arrived at the studio, I walked into Gary's office and he instructed me to have a seat.

He was calm, mild-mannered, and even showed concern for me, which made it that much worse.

"So, someone has filed a hara.s.sment suit against Comcast," Gary said.

My heart skipped a beat. What did a hara.s.sment suit against a major corporation have to do with me?

"More specifically, they've made the complaint against you."

Oh, that's what.

"Who did?" I asked.

"I can't legally say," he added. "Can you think of anything inappropriate you may have said to someone in this office?"

I was shocked. Immediately a flood of memories of the horrible, degrading, and malicious things I had muttered around the halls of Chelsea Lately Chelsea Lately for the past seven months came rus.h.i.+ng back to me. Man, I'd been a major, chauvinistic p.r.i.c.k so many times I couldn't believe it. for the past seven months came rus.h.i.+ng back to me. Man, I'd been a major, chauvinistic p.r.i.c.k so many times I couldn't believe it.

"Nope," I said, looking straight into Gary's dark, scary eyes. "Can't think of anything inappropriate that I've ever said, Gary."

h.e.l.l, yeah, I remembered everything, but I was not about to admit it... and certainly not to a Mercury-driving Armenian. I didn't know which side Gary was on. For all I knew, Comcast was paying him to try to trap me.

My stomach dropped and my eyes drifted to the crayon doodles strewn across Gary's wall that his daughters had drawn. The contrast between the innocence of those pictures and the severity of the moment wasn't lost on me. Neither was the realization that I, too, would someday have to hang on my office wall the s.h.i.+tty little drawings my kids made.

"Really, you can't think of anything you've ever said?"

"No," I insisted. After a moment of silence, I asked, "Was it Elvira?"

The lady I was referring to wasn't actually named Elvira, but it was the name we a.s.signed to the security guard who'd just been fired from the show. She was black, but had these electric blue eyes, and when she spoke, it was with an indistinguishable accent. It was kind of faux-British, but not really. She wore the strangest, witch-like outfits, which made no sense since there was a uniform for security guards. She was f.u.c.king creepy. It had to have been her. She was clearly p.i.s.sed about being let go and wanted retribution. And even though she and I rarely, if ever, spoke, I was loud, outgoing, white, and well known in the office. I was an easy target. "Blame that boisterous fire crotch." Everyone else did.

"I can't say, Brad. Listen, Ted is on his way in to talk with you. We'll reconvene when he gets here."

s.h.i.+t, this was serious. It was Sat.u.r.day and Ted, the CEO, was on his way in to dress me down personally? It had gotten that high up already? Immediately my entire career flashed before my eyes. This was it. My stupid mouth was going to cost Comcast millions of dollars to settle this suit, I would be fired, and the entire industry would turn its collective back on me.

What would I tell my parents? What would I tell my fiancee? How would I earn a living? Did this go on some permanent record? Would I go to prison? I couldn't go to prison-I'm small, white, and, again, very rape-able.

After leaving Gary's office, I lumbered back toward my own office, where Tom and Sue were waiting.

"You're never going to believe this," I said as I walked in. "Someone is suing Comcast for hara.s.sment based on something I said."

Immediately they peppered me with questions. Who was suing? What had I said? How did I react when Gary told me? What was I going to do? I slinked down in my desk chair and stared off into the distance, pondering my fate.

"Well, let's finish writing this stuff," Sue suggested.

Had she not heard me when I said that Comcast was being sued by some unidentified loon because of something I'd said? If the tables had been reversed, I would have been a little more concerned with consoling my officemate than making another f.u.c.king Lindsay Lohan joke.

Sue clearly didn't understand the gravity of this situation. Soon all of the big Comcast executives in Philadelphia-these industry t.i.tans-would not only know who I was, but would despise me for costing them millions of dollars. I was toast. f.u.c.k, I was also a Comcast cable subscriber. Would they raise my rates or, worse, drop ESPN from my cable lineup?

My anxiety was increasing as I kept replaying the conversation with Gary over and over in my head. That's what compulsives do-we continuously replay the same scenario in our heads, hoping for an alternative resolution or perspective on the event. That's what compulsives do-we continuously replay the same scenario in our heads. That's what compulsives do-we continuously replay the same scenario in our heads. We wonder if there was anything we could have done differently. It never helps. We just end up wallowing in our dread. With that, the twitches came roaring back and I was soon making popping noises with my lips.

I called my fiancee for some consolation. "I don't know what I'm going to do if I get fired, Shannon, but we'll stick together." She didn't admit it, but I could hear the concern and panic in her voice. She was clearly wondering how she'd gotten engaged to such a perverted loose cannon.

After twenty minutes of sitting in shock, I was jarred to my senses by my office line ringing. It was Gary. "Come down to my office. Chelsea's here and we want to speak with you."

Oh s.h.i.+t. I hadn't even thought about Chelsea. A new terror was upon me. When Chelsea gets mad, she gets bright red and the veins in her neck flare up, kind of like mine when I have that certain twitch. She, too, looks like a Velociraptor... only redder and with huge b.r.e.a.s.t.s. She was clearly going to be p.i.s.sed. I shuffled back down to Gary's office, all the while picturing Chelsea yelling, "I f.u.c.king told you. You just couldn't shut your mouth."

Gary was in his chair and Chelsea was in one of the two chairs on the opposite side of the desk. Before I could even sit down, Chelsea launched into me.

"What did you say, Brad?!"

Yep, there were those veins... and those b.r.e.a.s.t.s.

"I don't know, Chelsea. I haven't said anything you haven't heard. I think whoever this is is just crazy."

"You must've said something, Brad. These things don't just come out of nowhere."

"I mean, you know we say all kinds of things in the writers' room."

"Well, Ted is on his way down here," she a.s.sured me. "And he is not happy. You'd better start thinking. Never mind this is a Sat.u.r.day and this is his swimming time. Think, Brad!" Chelsea screamed. "What did you say?"

I racked my brain. Again, a million things came to my mind, but I was not about to incriminate myself.

Then Chelsea launched into a barrage of ridiculous questions.

"Did you ever say that someone had a nice a.s.s?"

"No," I insisted.

"Did you ever ask someone to lift their s.h.i.+rt and show you their b.r.e.a.s.t.s?"

"What? No!"

"Did you ever tell someone you m.a.s.t.u.r.b.a.t.ed thinking about them?"

"That's f.u.c.king gross, Chelsea. No!"

And then came the question to end all questions.

"Brad, did you ever say you wanted to rape someone?"

For a moment the world stood still. I had to repeat Chelsea's question in my own head just to make sure I'd heard it correctly.

"What?!" My face became flushed. "No, I never said I wanted to rape rape someone, Chelsea!" The truth is, at one time or another, we've all said these things to each other. someone, Chelsea!" The truth is, at one time or another, we've all said these things to each other.

"Even as a joke?" Gary added.

I whipped my head around. "No, Gary, not even as a joke," I said, even though I knew, for sure, that not only had I been threatened with rape, but I had also threatened a rape. We all threaten each other all the time. But I had never, nor would I ever have, gone up to someone and said, "Hey there, I want to rape you."

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 h.e.l.l of a lot. It was safer to deny everything, but I had second thoughts. Maybe, Maybe, I thought, I thought, I'll admit to one rape comment to make it more believable that I'm denying everything else. 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 apes.h.i.+t and throw a childish tantrum and start telling everyone that they could "f.u.c.k off and suck my big, long b.a.l.l.s! You can't bring Brad Wollack down!" Instead, I succ.u.mbed 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 a.s.sholes were taping the whole thing, hoping to show my complete mental breakdown on a future Chelsea Lately Chelsea Lately episode. 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 Punk'd, but all I could manage to say was, "You f.u.c.kers. 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.