Suck It, Wonder Woman!

by Olivia Munn; Mac Montandon

  As the months went on in this class, I watched Annie make lots of friends and every teacher dote on her. Annie was always great at being loveable and pretty and smart. And I could see how much adults loved it. They loved it so much it made me not want to be like that at all. Why couldn’t adults be nice to me simply because I was a little girl who tried to do the right thing? Just because I didn’t always wear perfect dresses with the perfect matching bow didn’t mean that I wasn’t a sweet girl, too.

  From very early on in my life I realized how most people are nicer to prettier people. I know that sounds horrible, but think about it. Look around. Look at how you act with attractive people. It’s like a moth to a flame. A gorgeous, beguiling, astonishingly attractive flame. Little Annie with her sweetness oozing out of her pretty pigtails was hard not to love. And little Olivia with her freckles and mismatched leggings was a little easier to overlook. I don’t think it means we’re bad people for catering to the perfect…I honestly don’t think it’s a conscious decision. But when you’ve been on the other side of it, the side that is pushed out of sight, you become very aware.

  In this kindergarten class, there was a playhouse in the back corner. And because it was a small enclosed area, the teacher had a rule that only five kids were allowed to play house at a time. And to keep it fair, it was the five who got to the house first who could play in it. Playing “house” was my favorite game. I loved acting out different parts of the family and play-cooking and-cleaning. So every playtime I would race to the back corner and jump in the house. “We’ve got one!” I would yell. And the other girls would race to the house. And every day, there’d be one too many girls who wanted to play. And every day the other five girls, including Annie, would turn to me and say, “We don’t have room for you and we want to play.” So, with what little pride I had at four years old, I would hold my head high and act as if I didn’t really want to play. “Oh, I know. I didn’t want to play house. I was just holding it for you guys.” Could you just die?!

  It crushed my heart every single day. I didn’t understand it. I was always nice to everyone. I swear. I ended up realizing through life, that at that age, kids looked at Annie and me as two sisters to choose from. One or the other.

  And for whatever reason, I never got to be the one they wanted.

  It crushed my heart every single day. I didn’t understand it. I was always nice to everyone. I swear.

  I remember once Annie coming home with a birthday invitation from one of the girls in class. She handed it to my mom and asked if she could go buy a present for the birthday girl. My mom turned to me and asked if I wanted to go pick out a present, too. I told her that I actually hadn’t been invited. I remember the look on my mom’s face. Pure anger. She picked up the phone and called the girl’s mother and asked her how she could invite one sister, but not the other. That phone call earned me my own invitation to the party. But I didn’t want it. I knew it was a pity invite. And I would much rather be at home playing LEGOs with my brother than be with some girl who didn’t want me there. Yes, I was hurt. And yes it was embarrassing to see my mother so confused with the fact that I wasn’t invited. I was less confused. I knew that I just didn’t fit in.

  Then, one day after I was kicked out of the playhouse yet again, I came up with a plan. A genius plan. You see, there was no baby doll in the playhouse. Every playhouse needs a baby doll. So that night, I took all the books and papers out of my backpack and stuffed my Cabbage Patch doll into it.

  The next day playtime was called and I got up and ran to the house, just like I did every day. I was hoping I wouldn’t have to resort to Plan B. I was hoping that maybe this day would be different. Maybe this was the day they wanted to play house with me, or at the very least be short one person and could let me stay. I stood at the front of the house, hopeful, and counted five girls walking up.

  It was time for Plan B.

  I went over to the hooks and grabbed my backpack and pulled out my doll. I was sitting directly in their line of sight. And then I unfolded my brilliant plan. I began playing with my baby doll by myself, making big, oversized gestures and rocking her and laughing and cooing loudly so they could hear. Out of the corner of my eye I could see them stop playing and notice me…they were whispering…it was working! I continued to play as if I didn’t see them at all. Then one of the girls walked out of the house and came over to me.

  “Hi. Can we use your baby doll? We don’t have one.” Aha—she walked right into my baby-doll trap!

  “Yeah, you can use it,” I responded, playing it cool. “You can use it if I can play with you guys.”

  She looked at me, looked at the doll and turned back to the house. She started whispering to the other girls, then turned back around toward me.

  “Okay. You can play with us,” she said. “But you have to be the dog.”

  The dog?!! Seriously. The dog? Hells, yeaaahh!!!! I was gonna be the dog! I know now how pathetic and sad that was. But in that moment, I felt happy. I was playing house with them and that’s all I wanted. Bring on the dog!

  Oh, and one last thing: You know about the rule, right? Oh, yeah, I didn’t know this back then, but apparently it’s a steadfast rule: When you play house, the dog has to stay outside.

  One night I was at dinner at Ago with a friend, a famous Hollywood director and the famous Hollywood director’s girlfriend du jour. We were sitting there eating a massive spread of carpaccio, caprese, steaks, and pastas, and drinking what I’m assuming was really, really expensive wine (I really don’t know wine at all—in fact, I think Boone’s Farm is delicious). As we sat there, the waitresses, restaurant managers and chefs all came out to kiss the ass of the director sitting to my right. No one seemed to mind the fact that he was throwing food into his mouth like a baby whale, and there was an interesting green stain down the front of his shirt, even though there was nothing green on the table. I guess the rest of us weren’t entertaining the director enough so he took it upon himself to do the entertaining.

  He turned to his date—a very thin, beachy-blond-haired, twenty-three-year-old, wearing tight jeans, a T-shirt deliberately ripped to hang off one shoulder and red-soled Christian Louboutin shoes—and he says:

  “Doesn’t she look like a whore?”

  Just like that. Like he was asking if we thought it might rain later. The three of us sat and stared, waiting for him to continue his train of thought because it was clear this was a rhetorical question. Also, I suppose there was some morbid curiosity—I for one was wondering if this train of thought might smash into the mountain of asshole-ness. Excitement!

  “She went to Harvard, but she looks like a fucking whore.”

  Okay, here we go. I couldn’t stop staring. She was sitting directly in front of me and could obviously hear every single word. It looked like that had affected her but I wasn’t totally sure. I didn’t bother looking at Director Guy, as I’m sure he was just staring at her as well, waiting to see how far he could go.

  He continued, “I mean, people who go to Harvard are smart, right? She’s not. She’s just a whore. Look at her. She just looks like a slut.”

  Boy, I wonder how he talks to people he doesn’t like. Or maybe he didn’t like her? He just wanted to fuck her? Los Angeles was still a strange new world for me, and I didn’t yet understand the often insane-seeming ways its denizens interacted. The weird part: He said all this with a smile and a laugh. Kind of the way girlfriends will talk with each other—you know, “Shut up, you whore!” But this was different.

  “I mean, people who go to Harvard are smart, right? She’s not. She’s just a whore. Look at her. She just looks like a slut.”

  There were no giggles, no trust built from years of friendship and bonding. Just…eww. Right?

  The girl sat there for a moment, then summoned her grand retort: “Shut up.”

  She didn’t say it with authority or with fear or really any emotion at all. You’ve got to feel it, sister! Shut. The. Fuck. Up. Followed up with a cocktail
shower! That’s what she should’ve done. But she didn’t.

  So he continued, “Why did you go to Harvard if you’re such a slut?”

  I have to confess I was intrigued. (Does that make me a horrible person? Don’t answer that!) Most women would be appalled to hear a man degrade another woman like that. And I am definitely one of those kinds of women. Generally I find this kind of boorish, sexist behavior as nauseating as mom jeans. But all of it was complicated by the fact that she had made a specific choice to hang out with this guy…this director…this slobby boy who’s famous in Hollywood not so much for his body of work, but for his ability to be such a complete and utter asshole. So this was more entertaining. I mean, why should I or anyone feel bad for this girl, who clearly chose with her own free will to hang out with this douchebag just because he’s famous? I was intrigued at this interaction. And I soon found myself asking:

  “Why are you putting up with this?”

  Instant silence. Everyone turned and looked at me, including the director. It felt odd to put the girlfriend on the spot like that, but shit, what was she thinking? Her response did nothing to illuminate that.

  “Putting up with what?”

  Dude.

  “Um, putting up with him calling you a slut and whore and trying to embarrass you in front of us.”

  She sat there collecting all of her Harvard thoughts and then after a deep breath said something that you could tell she thought was poignant and profound and made complete sense. “Okay, like ninety-nine percent of the time he’s this asshole. But, one percent of the time, he’s really, really amazing.”

  She seemed very content and proud of her answer. The director, beaming, looked back at me for my response. He was obviously really enjoying this.

  I said, “Okay, see that busboy over there? What if he was one hundred percent of the time as amazing as you say ass-scratcher here is one percent of the time—would you hang out with the busboy?”

  The director knew exactly where I was headed and quickly turned and asked with a very large and amused smile, “Yeah…why are you hanging out with me?”

  She thought for what seemed like five minutes as we all waited, the director with a huge smile on his face, so happy with the conversation. Then homegirl finally took a deep breath and, to no one in particular, said:

  “Shut up.”

  I couldn’t help myself—and yes, this was maybe not my proudest moment—and asked, “Have you fucked him?”

  This time she was quick to respond, “No! Of course not…I’ve only sucked his dick.”

  What? I swear, I couldn’t make this shit up. And she said it with a straight face, without a hint of embarrassment.

  The director, meanwhile, wouldn’t let the answer to the previous question slide and asked again, “So, would you hang out with the busboy?”

  She took another long breath and then stood up and said, “Shut up. I went to Harvard and I don’t have to take this.”

  All right, there it was. Finally. I felt good—she had stood up for herself (literally!) and I’d helped her do it. Amen! Look, the fact of the matter is that she was a pretty girl who came out to Hollywood for fame and fortune. She somehow met this director who had all this money, power and fame, and she got lost for a minute. Maybe she thought that some of his good luck would rub off on her. Who knows? But now she had finally stood up for herself. She realized she doesn’t need him, his connections or his money. Hallelujah! She was saved!

  Or was she?

  Girlfriend grabbed her purse, then turned around to face the director. She was going to tell him off. She was going to tell him not to call her a slut or a whore, to really let him have it. She was not going to let him get away with treating her like that no matter who he was. She took one last deep breath and said:

  “Give me some money. I have to pay for valet.”

  Are you kidding me, woman?!

  He reached into his pocket, pulled out a roll of hundred-dollar bills and handed her one. She looked down at him, threw down the bill and grabbed the entire roll from his hand.

  I guess you really can buy love—or whatever passes for it in a dimly lit banquette at Ago.

  I sat waiting for my car while she drove hers away from valet. And that’s when I saw it: a bumper sticker on her Toyota Forerunner announcing to the world: UNIVERSITY OF NEW YORK COMMUNITY COLLEGE.

  So. Awesome.

  1. I will designate $3 billion in taxpayers’ money to the invention of affordable hoverboards.

  2. I will fix America’s obesity problems by taking all motorized transport away from fat people. In turn, I will build an infrastructure of Fat Tunnels, where all the fat people can walk. This will create jobs and subsequent weight loss.

  3. The judicial system will be abolished in favor of a UFC/MMA fight between the two opposing parties.

  4. The creation of a new cabinet post, Secretary of Bread and Gardening. Guess who the first appointment will be? My mom!

  5. Pie would be its own category, placed at the top of the Food Pyramid.

  6. Change the official language of the United States. The new language: texting.

  7. Everyone is now required to adopt one Asian baby. Even Asians.

  8. There would be a permanent ban on balloon-popping. Not balloons, just popping them. We will just have to wait and watch them get saggy, sad, and eventually be no fun for anyone. Yay?!

  9. Forget what I said about pie as a category. Pie should actually be our new monetary unit. People will now haggle by saying, “That’s not worth 5 Meringues! Maybe two peach cobblers at most.”

  10. Every citizen will be required to take an Asian-Recognition Course. This will enable everyone to appropriately identify what kind of “–nese” an Asian person is. This should drastically reduce the number of people who think I am Japanese.

  Sometimes I like to joke about the fact that pretty soon the planet Earth will be invaded by a robot army that will quickly overtake the U.S. military, the UN and even China to conquer the world and make us their slaves, just like in a science fiction story. When that happens we will all toil in a gray-black Blade Runner universe until we die at a tragically young age, cold and alone, on the futuristic chain gang. It’s hilarious, see? And also not that farfetched—I mean, we already have robots working in some of this country’s most powerful sectors like politics (where they’ve served as White House press secretaries for the last three decades), business/retail, and media. But perhaps I should stop joking and get serious because it seems that this possibility is entirely too real. And, um, what then? Let’s explore.

  As far back as the year 2007 CBS News reported that scientists at Tokyo University had built a robot nurse that “follows you around with all your pills and potions, and tells you off in a hectoring tone if you forget to take them on time.” I know what you are thinking: How do they know those are robot nurses and not just someone’s mom? Good question. The answer: they just do.

  As if that isn’t sinister enough, the Koreans are apparently working on a robot soldier that can move, detect an assault, shoot in retaliation, play poker for cigs and jerk off to porn. Okay, not really—everyone knows robots don’t smoke! And right here in the good old U.S. of A., the Pentagon would like to soon launch what has been described as an “airborne robot hit man,” which sounds like Iron Man, but with none of those messy human emotions and feelings.

  So what does all this mean to you and me? Probably nothing. But maybe everything. Feel better? No, really, I’m no alarmist so I wouldn’t be saying all this unless there was something to it. I think the best thing we can all do for now is be vigilant, but not too vigilant. Like, I don’t think you need to go out immediately and buy a shitload of survivalist gear—night-vision goggles, a flashlight, bottled water, a new sleeping bag, microwave popcorn and a gun that can kill robots—but in life it is always best to be prepared. That means there are a few basic precautions that we can all take should this fantastical notion actually happen in real life. Below, the three best p
lans for combating a robot invasion, in order of effectiveness.

  • Learn how to deflect an attack from a robot’s laser eyes. This is not as hard as it sounds. All you really need is a metal trash-can lid, a lightweight thermal shirt that breathes and a small, cute kitten. Here’s what you do: When it becomes apparent that the robot in front of you plans to attack with laser eyes (this will be evident because the eyes will turn red, which is the color of lasers), grab the kitten and throw it in the opposite direction of where you intend to run. The robot will be distracted and may even zap the poor little creature to lifeless fluff. That’s sad, but when the robot invasion comes, you will think that is much less sad than it seems now, trust me. With its attention shifted to the airborne kitten, you will only have a few seconds to make your break, so don’t dawdle—no Facebook status updates, no G-chatting, and especially, no tweets! Just run. You will likely escape but if the robot still manages to zap at you, raise your trash-can lid (which has been strapped to the forearm connected to your non-driving hand by a super strong twine), to fend off the attack. With any luck you can redirect the laser beam to cause a direct hit on the robot’s heart—or what passes for a heart in that tin chest of his, strangled with wires—but any kind of redirection will work. Once you have successfully executed that maneuver, continue running. You will actually run a lot while escaping the robot’s laser eyes, which is why you are wearing a thermal shirt that breathes. That’s called thinking ahead!