Chelsea Chelsea Bang Bang by Chelsea Handler Read Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Chelsea Handler
couldn't fight it. I had to go with my creator.
The fact that Sex and the City: The Movie had come out a year before and I'd had less than no desire to see it yet was about to buckle myself in for a second showing in less than twelve hours meant that all proverbial ducks were not in a row. They weren't even ducks. They were seagulls. Dirty seagulls.
I hated Big. I hated everything about him and this story line. First of all, it didn't make any sense that he was getting out of the car to tell her he would marry her and never once said that when she's throwing the flowers at him. I wanted Big dead. I wanted to take the fork that was sitting in my bathroom and stab him in the eyes, right where he has those big puffy circles under them. Stupid-ass shitstain motherfucker. Then Carrie wastes all of her energy being mad at Miranda when the real problem was and always will be Charlotte. Forget what Miranda told Big about getting married. How about being mad at Charlotte for being so stupid? The only decent thing Charlotte's ever done on the show or in the movie is shit her pants, and that does not make up for years of Type 1 retardation.
My friend Sarah called me at around seven-thirty to ask me what time I wanted to go to our friend's barbecue. "Not happening," I told her. "Shit's really hit the fan over here big-time."
"Are you crying?"
"Yes. Have you seen Sex and the City ?"
"Really, Chelsea?"
"Yes! Really! You were left at the altar, Sarah. Hello! Have some compassion for Sarah Jessica Parker." (See Are You There, Vodka? It's Me, Chelsea. )
"So you're going to stay in bed on a Saturday night crying? Is that your game plan?"
"That's my plan, but it ain't no game, girl."
"Have fun. Call me tomorrow if we're all doing happy hour."
"I'll be there for happy hour." I hung up the phone.
My Bloody Mary from earlier had evaporated, so I went to make myself another one and was glad to see the sun had gone down. "Thank God."
As I was stirring my drink, I asked the Clamato juice container, "What is Clamato juice exactly? It sounds like a yeast infection."
After reviewing the label and coming upon the words "clam juice," then spitting out my drink, I moved on to my next drink of choice when resting. A scotch neat with a splash of Crystal Light Hawaiian Punch.
Back in the bedroom, I pressed "play" on the remote, and in doing so felt like I was finally taking control of the situation. Now the girls were in Mexico, and Sarah Jessica Parker was listless and slept and didn't eat. Conversely, I was in Marina del Rey, in my bed, crying into my scotch. I wished Sarah Jessica Parker and I could be in bed together so I could roll over, brush her cheek, and assure her that everything would be okay. Then I remembered that having a guest visit would require me to tidy up. And I was back to being okay without company.
I fell asleep again toward the end of the movie, so I've now seen the movie twice and never seen the ending. I know that Sarah Jessica Parker and Big get back together, but I don't approve of it, and I won't endorse it. The more interesting news is that I woke up the next morning, got out of bed, took a look around my condo, and got right back into bed.
Another sunrise, another movie marathon. The next morning I worked my way up to Lifetime, but after two commercial breaks I was back to the Starz networks. There's nothing more annoying than infomercials when you can't find your wallet.
After viewing Reservation Road , Revolutionary Road , and one episode of Real Housewives of Orange County , I went online to shop for a handgun with the letter R on the barrel.
Sarah called me at around 3:00 P.M. on Sunday, and I burst into tears.
"Chelsea," she said, "you sound like a real asshole. Get your ass out of bed and get in the shower."
"I know! I want to, but I can't. You should see this place. I don't even know how to begin cleaning."
"Don't clean anything. You don't even know how to clean. You're a hot mess."
"I can't go out.
The fact that Sex and the City: The Movie had come out a year before and I'd had less than no desire to see it yet was about to buckle myself in for a second showing in less than twelve hours meant that all proverbial ducks were not in a row. They weren't even ducks. They were seagulls. Dirty seagulls.
I hated Big. I hated everything about him and this story line. First of all, it didn't make any sense that he was getting out of the car to tell her he would marry her and never once said that when she's throwing the flowers at him. I wanted Big dead. I wanted to take the fork that was sitting in my bathroom and stab him in the eyes, right where he has those big puffy circles under them. Stupid-ass shitstain motherfucker. Then Carrie wastes all of her energy being mad at Miranda when the real problem was and always will be Charlotte. Forget what Miranda told Big about getting married. How about being mad at Charlotte for being so stupid? The only decent thing Charlotte's ever done on the show or in the movie is shit her pants, and that does not make up for years of Type 1 retardation.
My friend Sarah called me at around seven-thirty to ask me what time I wanted to go to our friend's barbecue. "Not happening," I told her. "Shit's really hit the fan over here big-time."
"Are you crying?"
"Yes. Have you seen Sex and the City ?"
"Really, Chelsea?"
"Yes! Really! You were left at the altar, Sarah. Hello! Have some compassion for Sarah Jessica Parker." (See Are You There, Vodka? It's Me, Chelsea. )
"So you're going to stay in bed on a Saturday night crying? Is that your game plan?"
"That's my plan, but it ain't no game, girl."
"Have fun. Call me tomorrow if we're all doing happy hour."
"I'll be there for happy hour." I hung up the phone.
My Bloody Mary from earlier had evaporated, so I went to make myself another one and was glad to see the sun had gone down. "Thank God."
As I was stirring my drink, I asked the Clamato juice container, "What is Clamato juice exactly? It sounds like a yeast infection."
After reviewing the label and coming upon the words "clam juice," then spitting out my drink, I moved on to my next drink of choice when resting. A scotch neat with a splash of Crystal Light Hawaiian Punch.
Back in the bedroom, I pressed "play" on the remote, and in doing so felt like I was finally taking control of the situation. Now the girls were in Mexico, and Sarah Jessica Parker was listless and slept and didn't eat. Conversely, I was in Marina del Rey, in my bed, crying into my scotch. I wished Sarah Jessica Parker and I could be in bed together so I could roll over, brush her cheek, and assure her that everything would be okay. Then I remembered that having a guest visit would require me to tidy up. And I was back to being okay without company.
I fell asleep again toward the end of the movie, so I've now seen the movie twice and never seen the ending. I know that Sarah Jessica Parker and Big get back together, but I don't approve of it, and I won't endorse it. The more interesting news is that I woke up the next morning, got out of bed, took a look around my condo, and got right back into bed.
Another sunrise, another movie marathon. The next morning I worked my way up to Lifetime, but after two commercial breaks I was back to the Starz networks. There's nothing more annoying than infomercials when you can't find your wallet.
After viewing Reservation Road , Revolutionary Road , and one episode of Real Housewives of Orange County , I went online to shop for a handgun with the letter R on the barrel.
Sarah called me at around 3:00 P.M. on Sunday, and I burst into tears.
"Chelsea," she said, "you sound like a real asshole. Get your ass out of bed and get in the shower."
"I know! I want to, but I can't. You should see this place. I don't even know how to begin cleaning."
"Don't clean anything. You don't even know how to clean. You're a hot mess."
"I can't go out.
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