Lies That Chelsea Handler Told Me is an odd book. But I knew that going in. That's because it wasn't written by Handler herself, but is rather a collection of anecdotes penned by her nearest and dearest. Each sap expresses outrage at being the victim of one of Chelsea's pranks, then backpedals by insisting that such treatment only proves the mettle of her love. Each storyteller is also quick to add that the vacations and cash that Chelsea lavishes as consolation prizes aren't bad either. So, reading Lies That Chelsea Handler Told Me was like reading the outpourings of in-crowd kids simultaneously denouncing and revering their queen bee. Which was entertaining in a fly-on-the-wall Mean Girls sort of way. But mostly it made me glad I wasn't one of them.
Back when I posted about Mindy Kaling's Is Everyone Hanging Out Without Me? (And Other Concerns), I listed some of Kaling's alternate book titles, one of which was, "So, You've Just Finished Chelsea Handler's Book, Now What?" Now that I've read both of them, back to back, I can in good conscience say that Kaling penned the far funnier memoir. Now, I realize this isn't completely fair because Handler didn't write this book pe se (and I did so enjoy Are You There Vodka? It's Me, Chelsea). Even so, I prefer Kaling's style. Her benign but trenchant humor makes Handler come off as a menace. A generous menace mind you, but a menace nonetheless.
Apples and oranges, people. Apples and oranges.
