All you really need is a metal trash-can lid, a lightweight thermal shirt that breathes and a small, cute kitten.
• Make the robots fall in love with you. This is admittedly trickier to pull off than the above idea. First of all, how do you know if it is a male or female robot that is attacking you? Well, you might not, but that doesn’t mean this technique still can’t work. Everyone craves love and affection, after all, even robots. And it is possible that all robots, as they are from the future, are bisexual, so don’t let figuring out its sex distract you from the urgent matter at hand. What my research has indicated is that, when it comes to being crushed on, robots are very much like human women: they like conversation, someone who is a good listener, a frequent bather and, more often than you might think, movies featuring Kate Hudson. And gifts. And reverse cowgirl, which they call—get this—“reverse robot-girl.” If you can successfully get the robot to fall in love with you, that will greatly reduce the chance that it will mangle you with its insanely violent metal claw-hands or singe you with those aforementioned laser eyes. Romance has never been more complicated—but the payoff here (getting to live) is huge.
• Hide really good. Just because robots have laser eyes doesn’t mean they have X-ray vision, right? So it’s a good bet that you can actually simply hide from robots in a well-constructed fallout shelter in your backyard, at a Detroit Lions football game or while mingling at the Cheney family reunion (and you just know that Lynn cooks up a mean-ass BBQ!). Of course this approach still requires sacrifices on your behalf. For instance, your life as you know it will never be the same and you can never see your family again. So there’s that. But isn’t that a small price to pay for the very sake of our great nation? Because if we don’t give up our lives in order to go to the awkward family get-togethers of former vice presidents and then hork down on free BBQ, then the robots have already won.
To be clear—and because my legal team made me put this part in—none of these ideas are guaranteed to save your life when a robot army invades our land. (Yes, when.) But what they will do is this: allow you to trick yourself into thinking you have a chance. While spending more time with cute kittens and the Cheneys.
I’ve never been into stimulants. I’ve never smoked weed or done mushrooms or Ecstasy or any drug that wasn’t prescribed by a doctor. Never even smoked a cigarette. I drink from time to time, but not that much. Not because I’m a saint or conservative or think there’s anything wrong with doing recreational drugs (as long as you don’t hurt anyone). I just have never had any desire to do them. And also, aside from it never smelling or looking good, I don’t like the way I feel when I’m drunk and not in total control of myself. Because when I’m not in control, something like this next story is inevitably going to happen.
A couple of years ago I was at a destination wedding in Mexico and I had about six or seven tequila shots. I had just recently learned how to properly drink tequila shots. The trick is to never taste it. To begin with, you have to drink Patrón Silver because it’s the cleanest and doesn’t have that thick tequila taste. And after every shot, you chase it with pineapple juice. The juice is so acidic and strong, it instantly kills the taste of tequila. And that’s why someone like me, who never drinks, can do six or seven shots in one sitting. (You’re welcome for that tip, by the way. Just be careful!) Tequila is great as long as you don’t know you are drinking tequila.
At some point later in the night, sometime after my seven shots, so hard to know exactly when, the bride grabs my hand and takes me up to her hotel suite. She reaches into her bag and hands me a little white pill.
“Here, take this,” she says, as she downs hers. “It’s a Soma. Muscle relaxer.”
I’m already wasted, of course, and so I think that a Soma sounds like a great idea. Within minutes we decide we need to get everyone, including the mother of the groom, in the ocean naked. Obviously. Naked Wedding Ocean Party!!!!
We run downstairs and corral the whole wedding party out to the beach. It’s Mexico, so the water was as warm as a bath—no excuse not to go in. I watched as everyone stripped down to nothing. Now, by the grace of God, I somehow did not get naked. I remember thinking that if I did, my then-boyfriend would be so angry with me. Especially since there were men around that I didn’t know. So I ran into the ocean fully dressed.
A Fun Fact about muscle relaxers? They relax the hell out of your muscles. Yeah. I guess when you’re drunk and taking pills from a bride’s purse, you don’t really think about what that means. Now apparently it can be very dangerous to take a muscle relaxer. People have been known to break bones while using a relaxer because their muscles can’t support them or something. So think about that. Now think about me, seven shots of tequila in my body and I’m on a muscle relaxer and I’m swimming in an ocean at night. Fully dressed. So I start to do what anyone in those circumstances would do: I start to drown.
I’m flailing around, not able to control my arms or legs and laughing hysterically with every gulp of ocean water I accidentally swallow. Thankfully my boyfriend is watching all this unfold and he jumps into the ocean to save me. I remember hearing him scream my name and seeing him come for me. And then I remember thinking we had started a game of “Marco, Polo” and so I begin swimming away from him, deeper into the ocean. I get to a point where I am literally beginning to drown. I can’t stay afloat. Just then I feel an arm come around me to pull me back to shore. When we get back to the beach, I’m gasping for air and lying in the sand. We’re both coughing up ocean water. As my boyfriend lies there in shock over how close I was to drowning, I bounce up and follow the maid of honor, who screams for me to come take a shower. You heard that right. The maid of honor screams for me to take a shower. With her. (Note: You are about to be fully rewarded for buying this book.)
I leave my boyfriend on the beach, pretty oblivious to how stupid I was being and how I put both of our lives at risk, and run up the stairs to the nearest room. I strip down and the maid of honor and I jump into the shower and warm up under the single showerhead. Now, I don’t know who initiated what or how it started, but next thing I know, I’m kissing her in the shower…with the water falling on top of us. I know! I had never, ever, ever kissed a girl or even come close to that. This was my first brush with a lesbian experience ever. Need a minute? Okay, I’ll continue.
We’re in the shower kissing and making out. At one point I put my hands on her chest to feel her breasts. She was a gorgeous girl with a great body, but she was really flat-chested. Which actually might have worked out in my favor. I started to feel her up and thought to myself as I touched her breasts, “Oh…she’s like a boy.” Not in a bad way at all, because remember she was a gorgeous girl. Just that she had very small breasts. And since I’m not a lesbian (and I’m pretty sure she isn’t either) in that moment it was kind of comforting to find something familiar in this very not-familiar situation.
I’m sorry to have to tell you that my first lesbian foray ended quickly after we knocked over a champagne bottle that was sitting on a shelf in the shower, brought in, I’m assuming, for Olivia’s First Gay Night of Fun. After it shattered all over the shower floor, we had to leave. How we were able to do that without cutting our feet wide open? I can only guess that it was the power of same-sex love that carried me over the broken shards of glass.
The last thing I remember is pulling out shorts and a T-shirt for her to wear and saying good night. I don’t remember falling asleep or changing into pajamas or anything. My boyfriend said he came in the room right after our shower (oh too slow, sorry!) and helped me into bed. But for some reason, and maybe it was just a dream, I remember things a little differently. But since I’ll never know for sure, let me leave it for you all to decide.
What do you think happened after I made out with the maid of honor, broke a champagne bottle and gave her some dry clothes to wear?
I:
Fell asleep
Went to her room to finish what we started
Had an
orgy with her husband and my boyfriend
Went back to the ocean and almost drowned again
Maybe one day I’ll tell everyone what I think really happened. Maybe I’ll put it in the next book. To be continued….
How many of you have had a crush on a teacher? I mean, remember that Physics professor? Law One is so steamy, I’m getting worked up just thinking about it: Every object in a state of uniform motion tends to remain in that state of motion unless an external force is applied to it. Mee-yow. Okay…maybe that was just something I experienced.
But just in case you’ve gone through the same infatuation I have, I’ve come up with a list of lines you can use on your, um, object of desire—whether they instruct in history, math, English or a foreign language like the language of love! Memorize these can’t-miss lines and you’ll be on the dean’s list for doing it in no time.
Some women achieve remarkable greatness by soulfully stitching together the rough red, white and blue fabric that made up the very first American flag, thus bringing Old Glory herself into existence. Other women find greatness in the hot chamber of a .22-caliber rifle. Others marry into greatness and then play an integral part in the fight for civil rights for every human being on Earth. And some women assume the mantel of Empress of Russia before allegedly assuming the position in order to make great, sweet love to horses. Some simply rock their great asses in electric blue short shorts adorned with glittering stars.
So while all of the great women portrayed here in this Gallery of Great Women arrived at greatness by vastly different routes, they all helped pave the path before me. As a woman, I am always looking to other women for inspiration, courage and determination to help me achieve in what is still, in many ways, a man’s world. Several of the women pictured here have inspired me in just that way, and I am not only talking about Wonder Woman, Princess Leia and Sailor Moon. The others are pretty cool, too. Please enjoy these stirring and heroic images of great women throughout history.
Something totally crazy just happened to me and I have to tell you about it: I got the offer. Yep. The cover of Playboy. I was really surprised. I thought the only people who were offered a Playboy cover were celebrities trying to prove they’re still hot at forty, and reality stars with sex tapes. Let me check—nope, I’m neither of those things. I had done a celebrity page for the magazine a few years ago, but that wasn’t anywhere near nude or as high profile as the cover.
My publicist and I instantly—and politely—responded with, “No, thank you.” But, still, I couldn’t resist telling everyone that I got the offer! It was hilarious to me. I mean, I’m not super-skinny, I don’t have huge boobs—and do people really know who I am? I was flattered. To be offered the cover of Playboy is prestigious in its way…or was at a time. And I was pretty happy to get the offer—even if I did turn it down. Without even asking how much it would’ve paid. From what I hear, to do a nude cover could’ve easily fetched a cool seven figures. Seven! As in the number just after six! Wow…
So why didn’t I do it? Well, first off, a million dollars is not enough for me to get nude for the sake of…getting nude. Second, everyone I knew agreed with me that it was not the right time. When is the right time? When I want to prove I’m hot at forty! Thirdly, I couldn’t imagine my stepfather, brother, or cousins seeing me spread-eagle in any magazine, let alone spread-eagle surrounded by feathers or pearls or on top of a car or eating a cheeseburger or whatever the hell else it is people do while they happen to be butt-ass naked. But more than all of that, I couldn’t and wouldn’t do it because I didn’t want the fans to be disappointed.
Okay, maybe that sounds crazy. I know a lot of people think my fans are sweaty, overweight geeks who want to see me naked. Well, they might be right. But they’re mostly wrong. I think the fans would look at me like a sellout, a fame whore who is trying to get by on her looks alone—well, that and her vagina. My fans and I have something special that most people in the spotlight don’t have: it might sound cheesy, but the truth is we are friends. And I wasn’t about to let down my friends.
So I turned down Playboy and everyone I knew was in support of it. Oh, wait. Everyone except for one of the higher-ups at G4 (the network I host Attack of the Show! on). I sent the Playboy e-mail to a bunch of my colleagues as a “can you believe the offer I just got?” laugh. I was surprised by the response; people thought I should do it—saying it would be great for my career. In some ways, I think they were right. Everyone would know my name for like a week. Sure, my “career” would be “great” for a week. What about after that? I’d just be another chick who got naked for Playboy. And at this point, there isn’t a price tag on that for me.
A few weeks later I get an e-mail from my publicist. It’s Playboy. And they’re offering me the cover…again. But this time no nudity. Wait. What? They want to put me on the cover of Playboy and I don’t have to get naked? Weird but true. Playboy, it seems, is in a rebranding period and they thought I represented the “new era” of Hollywood, celebrity and all that stuff. Wow. Okay. I’m in.
For this shoot, I requested my normal glam team—makeup artist, hair stylist and wardrobe stylist. Playboy sent some suggestions for photographers they wanted to use. I chose a photographer I’d previously worked with on a different magazine shoot and whose work I really like.
I get a call saying that this photographer insists on using a different wardrobe stylist. He has a guy that is “fantastic” and “would really make the shoot great.” Some photographers in this business insist on working with the same stylists, makeup and hair people. So much so that sometimes the entire shoot hinges on it. Now the same goes for the celebrity. Especially for someone like me. Look it—I’m half Chinese and half white. My face is not like a normal person’s—my cheeks are big, my eyes are small; a little bit of makeup goes a long way on me. And despite my hair being heavy and long, it can hold a curl super well. These are all things you have to know to help me look my best. I’ve had one too many bad experiences with so-called “fantastic” artists and stylists and I didn’t want the cover of Playboy to be something I wasn’t proud of. Like that time I made out with that boy throughout the entirety of Forrest Gump! This was not about to be another Forrest Gump make-out session!
But this photographer was really pushing his stylist on me and since he had done numerous GQ UK covers and we could talk about the look and feel of the shoot ahead of time, I figured it would be okay.
I had once seen some pictures of Heidi Klum that I liked. She was sitting on the grass, smiling and being very flirty, playful and summery. I sent the pictures to the photographer, stylist and Playboy. Everyone loved them and agreed the shoot should have the same spirit.
Playboy then said that if I flash the same amount of skin that Heidi had, they would pay me a certain amount—I’m not gonna reveal too much here (it’s a trend!) but suffice it to say it was a very good amount of money. No seven figures, of course, but still. Heidi had only showed some side boob and maybe the top of her butt. Hell, I’d shown that much in surf magazines. We agreed. After all, I wanted the pictures to be sexy and would’ve felt comfortable showing that much with or without the money.
Before the shoot, my poor publicist had to have legal conversations that I’m sure she’d love to forget: side boob, no nipple, no pink. No butt crack, but you can show top of back. No vagina, no anything. Yes, you can show underboob, but there can be no areola. Again, only side boob, no pink anywhere.
Yes, you can show underboob, but there can be no areola. Again, only side boob, no pink anywhere.
By this point, I’d had numerous conversations and e-mails with both the photographer and the stylist. Everyone was on board and it was gonna be a great shoot.
The day before the shoot I go and get spray-tanned at Playboy’s request—they want me to have a nice glow. I like a good glow as much as the next girl, so sounds good to me! The night before the shoot I eat a salad of iceberg lettuce, tomatoes and balsamic vinegar for dinner and hit the hay at 10 P.M.,
wanting to get all the beauty sleep I can.
I wake up the next morning at 6 A.M. and head to the shoot at a house in Venice. When I get there my makeup artist is setting up and the stylist, Gustav, whom I had only spoken to on the phone, was lining up shoes. He is a tall, heavyset, bald man from Scandinavia with a very heavy accent.
“Oh my God! Gorge! Gorge! So much more gorge! Olivia, you are so gorge! You have to see this stuff I get for you. It is so amazing…Zia is ze one that Steven ze photographer just looooooves.”
Suddenly and quite horrifyingly, he pulls out—and I’m not making this up, I swear—a black, fishnet, one-piece bathing suit where you can see everything going on. And by everything I mean my vagina would be completely exposed and look like a honey-baked ham trapped in supermarket netting. Um—no! On the top were two small, pink half-cups. As I scanned the teeny tiny garment—waiting for the punch line to this bad joke—Gustav explained:
“You would be wearing nothing under here and then your boobs just hang right over ze pink part. Zis is sooo gorge, no?”
Before answering I scanned the rest of the clothes on the rack—black leather, shiny silver, crazy tranny heels. Wait, is that a whip? Holy crap. This is nothing like we discussed. Fun, flirty, playful? What the hell?!!
I calmly tried to gather all the spit in my very dry mouth that I could and said: “Um, this is a non-nude shoot. I told you that.”
“Vat? Oh, no dahling. Zis is Playboy—you show everything!” Gustav replied.
“No. Who told you that? I told you it’s not nude. We talked about this. There’s a contract that says no nudity.” I felt woozy and tried to understand what the hell was happening. When had I wandered into a Franz Kafka story as imagined by Larry Flynt? Was I about to turn into a giant insect wearing a leather G-string?
Suck It, Wonder Woman! Page 5