Chelsea Handler - Are You There, Vodka, It's Me Chelsea

“Let me guess what’s next.” I giggled. “Touch my nose with my index finger, I suppose.”

“That’s exactly right,” he said. “Have you done this before?”

“Yeah,” I told him. “Plenty of times.”

Had they not come up with any new sobriety test moves in recent years? I actually felt bad for him for a minute. It was a shame that the police weren’t smarter. I did what was asked of me and then he told me to walk in a straight line with one foot in front of the other.

“My heels are too high,” I told him. “I wouldn’t be able to do that sober.”

“Well, you can either take them off or take a Breathalyzer.”

“You’re turning into a real nightmare,” I said as I leaned one hand on his large shoulder and took my heels off. “Okay, you know what? I had one drink. One very small drink.”

This is when Lydia decided to slide over to the driver’s side of the car and climb out. “Ma’am, I told you to stay in the car, and if you don’t listen, I’m going to have to handcuff you and read you your rights,” her officer said.

“Lydia, stop it!” I yelled. “Sit down!”

“Faggot!” was her next attempt at mollifying the situation.

“All right, miss,” said her officer as he whipped out his handcuffs. “You’ve been warned, and now I’m placing you under arrest and taking you to jail.” Upon hearing that, I immediately fell over and hit the pavement with one heel on and one heel off.

I looked up at my officer, knowing this was not going the way I had planned. “She always gets like this when she has a cold, plus with her dog dying and everything, please don’t arrest-”

He interrupted me as he helped me to my feet. “I thought it was her cat.”

“It’s a hybrid,” I mumbled as I looked down at my freshly pedicured toes, wondering why they couldn’t all just be the same length.

“Miss, you can either take a Breathalyzer here, or we can test your urine down at the station. Which would you prefer?”

“That depends,” I said. “Is there any way to detect marijuana through a Breathalyzer?”

Lydia was now sobbing heavily while also screaming obscenities at her cop as she was being escorted into their squad car.

“Let’s go,” he said. “We’ll take you downtown for a urine test.”

“No,” I said. “I don’t even have to go to the bathroom.”

“Fine,” he said, and went to retrieve the invention I now feel immense hatred for-the Breathalyzer is second only to the answering machine, which has led to three separate breakups.

It turned out that I was, in fact, intoxicated. I blew a 2.4, which far exceeds the legal limit of 0.8.

Once handcuffed in the squad car next to Lydia, my blood really began to boil. “So this is how it’s gonna go down, huh? You can’t just turn around, drive the fifty yards back to my house, and drop us off? NO! Of course not, because I fought the law and the law won!”

After a pause I murmured “racist” under my breath, loud enough for both of them to hear.

The cop in the passenger seat turned around with a confused look on his face. “We’re all white.”

“Whatever,” I said.

“Well…still” was Lydia’s comeback.

“I’m Jewish,” I told them. No response. “Did you hear me?” I said. “This is racial profiling, and I won’t be a party to it. Let me out!”

“Anti-Samoans!” Lydia yelled.

“You girls will be released when you sober up. You’ll be charged with a DUI, Miss Handler, and your friend will be charged with being drunk and disorderly. Would you like us to add obstruction of justice to those charges, or would you two like to be quiet until we get down to the station?”

“There better be air-conditioning there,” I mumbled.

“We’re going to prison!” Lydia bawled. She was still sobbing heavily.

“Don’t worry. Just calm down. My father’s an attorney.”

“No, he’s not,” Lydia replied.

“Shut up,” I growled. “What’s going to happen to my car?” I asked the officers.

“It will be impounded,” the officer said.

“More great news,” I huffed. “Is this going to be an overnight thing?”

“We’ll release you girls when you sober up,” replied the cop who was driving.

“Well, then, can we at least stop by my apartment so I can get my contact solution?” I asked him.

Once again both officers ignored me, and Lydia was now moaning like she had been mauled by a grizzly bear. As ridiculous and belligerent as Lydia was, I still felt bad for her. I have a very hard time maintaining my composure when I see anyone cry. It only takes a few seconds for me to start crying too, which has ruled out any chance of me becoming a rape crisis counselor.

“Okay, girls, let’s get you booked,” my cop said as we pulled up to the police station. He got out of the car and opened my door. Finally, some chivalry.

We went through the motions of the fingerprints, photo shoot, and paperwork. Then we were thrown into a holding cell with one other woman who looked like Courtney Love’s twin sister.

“What about our phone call?” I asked the female officer who brought us two blankets.

“Would you like to make one?” she asked.

I looked at Lydia, who was already sleeping in the fetal position on her blanket.

“Yes…no, just forget it!” I yelled, realizing no one we knew would be sober enough to pick us up.

I looked at Courtney Love’s doppelgänger biting her nails. She had no shoes on and her feet were filthy. She was wearing a white pleather miniskirt and sitting with her legs wide open.

I smiled at her.

“Fuck off” was her response.

“Roger that,” I said, and turned to lie down.

I don’t remember falling asleep, but I do remember an officer coming into our cell a couple of hours later when it was light out.

“Okay, Lydia Davis. You can go now. You’re being released. Chelsea-who’s Chelsea?” I sat up and raised my hand. “Okay, yes, you’re going to be transported downtown to Sybil Brand.”

“Huh? What’s that?”

“That’s the Los Angeles County women’s prison,” Courtney Love chimed in.

“What? Why?”

The female officer looked down at some paperwork in her hand. “We ran your name in our computer and there seems to be an outstanding warrant for your arrest, for fraud. Something about using your sister’s identification. Someone reported you to the Federal Bureau of Investigation, and you have been on the government’s watch list for a year and a half.”

“The government’s watch list? Don’t you think that’s a little dramatic? I was using it to get into bars!” I exclaimed, now in tears. “She gave it to me,” I lied, trying to pin the blame on my sister.

“Well, it says here that she was the one who filed the complaint,” the officer informed me.

“What?”

I couldn’t believe what a nightmare my sister was. My own sister. How could she be so stupid? What was her problem, anyway? It’s not like I was using her license to rent apartments or apply for credit cards. All I wanted to do was get a little buzz going.

“There’s a bus that comes down here after picking up the inmates in Malibu, and it will take you to Sybil Brand, where they will put you into the system and you’ll stay there until someone posts your bail.”

“Bail?” I asked. This was turning into a bad episode of Law & Order. “How much is my bail?”

“Ten percent of $100,000, which is $10,000,” she told me.

“That’s not bad,” Courtney Love chimed in. “Mine’s $15,000.”

“Don’t worry, Chels, I’ll figure it out,” Lydia said.

Now I was crying, and Lydia hugged me. “I’m not leaving you. I’ll go to prison with you.”