Suck It, Wonder Woman!: The Misadventures of a Hollywood Geek by Olivia Munn Page A

assistant . Really?! He talks to his assistant that way? What an asshole. Not wanting to cause a stink or mess up the shoot I bit my tongue and ran off in search of his stupid bottle of water.
    Jim helped me get over the whole horrible incident by bringing me down to “video village,” where all the most important people on the set hung out. Suddenly I was sitting with the director—yes, that director—the producers, and the script supervisor. Who the hell was I? This was so f’ing cool.
    Then the love scene they were shooting started and…
    “Cut!” yelled the director as he hopped off his chair. “This scene needs more goddamn romance.” At which point he waddled over to the lovemaking bed, undid his jeans—I could already sense that those must be the hardest-working buttons in show business—and proceeded to dry hump the actress in order to demonstrate what he believed was the missing level of romance.
    The poor thing—her face sparkled with the sweat falling from his second or third chin. When he finally finished the assault he barked, “Let’s take twenty!” I’m pretty sure it would take a lot longer than that for his starlet to recover from the trauma.
    The crew dispersed—production assistants fondled their walkie-talkies, key grips wandered off in search of a quick beer and craft services prepped for the ravenous hordes to lunch. Jim was out of his head busy so he asked me to deliver a “diet plate” to the director’s trailer. I was eager to help a new friend in any way I could. “No problem,” I chirped. No way I could’ve known then how wrong I was.
    I knocked on the screen door to the trailer and when no response came I tiptoed in. No one was around so I gently put down the high-fiber, protein-rich, calorically correct plate of food and turned to go. That’s when I noticed an already mauled additional plate of grub that looked like a meal made to feed most of the hungriest parts of Africa. A half-eaten tub of lasagna. A mangled basket of garlic bread. Other chewed-up carb bits. And then also: the loneliest untouched plate of vegetables ever prepared for a gluttonous bastard. The whole thing was just—ew.
    I shuddered and began tiptoeing back out of the disaster zone that was his trailer. And then I heard, “Why so fast?”
    I turned and confronted a waking nightmare: fresh from the toilet, The Director emerged with jeans buttons bursting, swooped up the “diet plate” and disappeared into the back of the trailer. Did I really just see that? I’m afraid I had. Now out of view, I could still hear him gobbling and slobbering up the “diet plate,” which was obviously one serious misnomer. I turn to walk out and then the beast called out, “Come in here.”
    “Thanks,” I offered meekly, “but I really should go.”
    And that’s when it happened again: “Don’t you know who I am?” He ticked off a few of his bigger box-office blockbusters, hoping to jog my memory. I couldn’t help myself:
    “Uh, no, sorry, doesn’t ring a bell.”
    “Nope. Never saw it.”
    “Oh, yeah, saw the trailer for that one. But, no. Didn’t see it.”
    I turned again to leave.
    “Wait,” he begged.
    Slowly, like in a bad horror movie, I turned around once more. And I remember first noticing him wearing an Oxford shirt and holding a fistful of cocktail sauce–smothered shrimp. He popped one down his throat and then another and another, the red sauce collecting like so much baby’s blood at the corner of his smirking mouth before dribbling down his front and settling as glistening stains on his shirt.
    As if in competition with himself to drop all the worst lines on me at once, in order to win the Douche Olympics or something, this A-list schmuck then has the nerve to say: “You have such an interesting look—what ethnicity are you?”
    Again: Was he for real? All too real, I’m afraid. Because—and this is where things crossed over from merely disturbing to downright horrific—that was the