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

exact moment I noticed what was either a tiny gnarled doggie toy or this adult man’s penis being stroked by his own stubby hand. The winner and still champion! Douche Gold would be his! I mean— what the fucking fuck?!!
    He was masturbating. Right there. With shrinp in one hand. And me standing in front of him.
    He was masturbating. Right there. With shrimp in one hand. And me standing in front of him. Masturbating. Masturbating. I’m not even kidding.
    And dude was going for it, too, furiously pulling at the tragic stub. Before I could even begin to make sense of the whole deal, he was moaning, moaning and then—fire hose. On steroids. The Mt. Saint Helens of man-juice. An eruption the size of which Los Angeles County had never before had the misfortune of bearing witness to. I am not being hyperbolic when I report to you with no small measure of dismay that this slob’s cum hung from the ceiling. I could see it made its way to the stereo and draped over the buttons. Collateral damage had even claimed the doorknob, which was so integral to my escape and, thus, my sanity.
    In terms of thinking on my feet this may have been among my proudest moments: there was nothing to say so I didn’t bother trying; instead, I quickly located a Taco Bell wrapper, threw it around my hand, and reached for the doorknob.
    For all I know the director was calling out for me to stay longer but I didn’t hear a thing. Athletes sometimes talk about being in the Zone, when time slows down and they are able to focus on the task at hand with inhuman levels of concentration. Nailing a three-point shot at the buzzer. Tossing a sixty-five-yard strike in the fourth quarter of a tie ball game. Crushing a hanging curve with the bases loaded. When it comes to fleeing cocktail-sauce-stained, half-naked, masturbating Hollywood big shots, I was in the Zone. Before I knew what had happened I was through the screen door to the other side, leaning safely against the wide side of the trailer—freedom.
    We’ve all heard tales of the debauchery and Rome-like orgies that take place in eternally flesh-loving Los Angeles. For the hedonistic, there is no shortage of three-way, fourway, or even five-way action that can be had. There is no want of coke-and hooker-fueled parties to attend. We know this. And yet…and yet, nothing really can prepare you for confronting what I had just seen. A grown man in an oversized shirt holding his undersized manhood in hands glistening with shrimp fat. Not to put too fine a point on it. I had looked into the face of my own blockbuster-making Kurtz—and you know what? I’d survived. Not only that, I felt very much intact. After the dust settled and I had a moment to analyze the day’s myriad disturbances, it occurred to me that I hadn’t actually been shocked by anything I had seen. Appalled? Sure. Disgusted? You bet. But not shocked. And this idea gave me comfort. In an odd way it was comforting to know that people you imagine are oversexed, misogynistic pigs are, in fact, oversexed, misogynistic pigs. It made me realize that sometimes people are exactly who you expect them to be.



Assholes—they’re everywhere. But how to spot ’em? It might be a trickier question to answer than you’d think. Consider a famous asshole like Bill Clinton. At first blush you might think he was a cool motherfucker, right? Like, as president, Clinton totally got us out of major debt and oversaw an unprecedented modern era of peace and prosperity. Plus he seems to really care about poor people.
    And yet…and yet…hotheaded assholes, the both of them.
    The truth is, you never really know when you might be surrounded by assholes (unless you are at the Hollywood club du jour , in which case you can be sure you are absolutely neck deep in them—what a relief to know!). There might be one lurking in your bed AT THIS VERY MOMENT! Or under the couch. Or playing skeeball. And there is certainly one on the TV right now.
    The truth is, you never