Okay, so, full disclosure: I am not a huge Chelsea Handler fan. So take what I am going to say with a grain of salt.
This book is…embarrassing. Like, I know her brand of humor is less…sophisticated than TFey’s or Demetri Martin or Ricky Gervais. I knew that going in. But that still didn’t prepare me for the first chapter. It was entirely about Handler’s discovery of how to…self complete, if you catch my drift. And apparently once Handler learned how to, ahem, self complete, she spends all her time doing it. Everywhere. Like in the family den when everyone is watching TV. Or while riding a bike. Or at the family table during Thanksgiving dinner. Erk. ERK, guys. I don’t think that’s funny. That’s the kind of stuff you keep to yourself and pray that everyone else involved forgets about. Amiright?
I always knew that Chelsea Handler’s humor centered on the uncomfortable and playing practical jokes on close friends. And I don’t mind that. Her comments are usually the funniest on those VH1 shows. And a few of the stories on the book are great. Like the one where she convinces her boyfriend she killed a friend’s dog and now they have to attend the dog’s funeral. But then there was the one where she spends the whole day eating hot pockets, drinking alcohol and watching the Sex and the City movie. I mean, that’s just sad. Get it together, woman. You are an adult.