Read Lies That Chelsea Handler Told Me for Free Online

don’t think it’s a good idea to leave you alone with your thoughts right now.” She sized me up then grabbed two bras from a drawer and threw them at me. “Jesus, when did your boobs get so big?”
    As we ran that morning she grilled me about my career and love life, which were at that point both turning up big fat goose eggs. Even though she was doing what she always did, trying to cheer me up and help me pull my head out of my ass, it didn’t work. The downward spiral continued, with a lot of partying, which led to a general lack of productivity. Chelsea was unimpressed with my lack of progress reports and suggested one of her vacations, which anyone with a pulse would enjoy, to help get me out of my funk.
    “That sounds amazing!” I exclaimed, then proceeded to ask her who was bringing the drugs, specifically the Ecstasy.
    “Really, Stephanie? After everything we talked about?”
    “It’s vacation! Come on, people are going to love it!”
    Chelsea stared at me for a moment then let out one of those guttural sighs signifying supreme annoyance. She said, “I’ll take care of it,” and walked away.
    On the day we were leaving, as I was about to enter the Santa Monica hangar where Chelsea had chartered the flight, she approached me with a very delicate matter.
    “What are you saying? You want me to be your drug mule or something?”
    “That’s exactly what I’m saying,” she calmly replied.
    “But I thought you said you—”
    “If you want them, bring them.”
    “I’m willing to do that,” I quickly responded.
    “Here’s a bunch. Now stick ’em up in there,” she said, handing me a Ziploc bag filled with little blue pills and directing me toward the women’s room.
    “Wait, what if I get caught?”
    “I’ll bail you out and hire you a good lawyer. Simone. Simone’s an excellent attorney.”
    I knew her sister was a lawyer and assumed she was a good one, as I’d met her and she had seemed smart. “Doesn’t she do patents or something?” I countered.
    “Yes, but that’s just a hobby. Her main line of work is international crime,” Chelsea responded with a tinge of annoyance in her voice. It was exactly the amount of annoyance that I always knew meant not to ask any more questions.
    “Okay, but do I really have to have them up there for the entire flight?”
    “Yes. At some point everyone has to take one for the team. This is your time. Just fucking go.”
    I headed for the women’s room feeling a bit nervous, but also like a proud renegade who was doing everyone a favor.
    Once we arrived in Mexico and deplaned, I was feeling confident if not uncomfortable. A three-hour turbulent flight is made slightly less fun when there’s a plastic bag up your coslopus. I was wearing a sundress and taking small steps, which I hoped might pass for normal. From beyond the security line I was approaching, Chelsea motioned for me to hurry up. I picked up the pace, all the while telling myself to act cool and be normal and just make it that last fifty feet. I made it only five.
    In order to “hurry the fuck up,” which was what Chelsea was now saying, along with waving, I expanded my stride, which expanded the area housing the vacation contraband. In the split second I felt the Ziploc dislodge, I tried everything I could think of to keep it up there, while maintaining composure and speed. I even attempted Kegel exercises, but only ended up peeing on myself and the baggie, which flopped to the floor right in front of someone I was certain was a federale. He picked up the baggie, careful to avoid what was either my perspiration or my urine, and examined its contents.
    It’s amazing the thoughts that run through your head when you’re in a foreign country, with bright lights flickering above you and a uniformed officer with a badge you can’t read staring at you and holding the Ziploc bag filled with little blue bippies that just fell out of your vagina.
    I started thinking about my dog and how much I