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 really know when you might be surrounded by assholes.
How do I know? I just do. Some people have great gaydar; me, I’m lucky enough to have superior assdar (holedar?). So as a public service I’ve compiled the following list of ways you too can spot an asshole. There are surely many, many more ways than the ones I’ve noted here, but this is a good start. Clip it and save!
1. Drivers who don’t do the “thanks for letting me in wave” when you let them in.
2. People who give you gifts for your home and get pissed if you don’t display it every day of your life.
3. Someone who texts in the theater.
4. Observe the cell phone holster on some fella’s belt and look up at the person wearing it.
5. Any guy who doesn’t at least pretend to reach for his wallet when the check comes (see pg. 135 for more on this).
6. Any guy who interrupts and answers questions meant for his wife/girlfriend/girl you’re fucking.
7. Any guy who quotes Napoleon Dynamite too often and acts like no one has ever done that before. You know who you are.
8. A guy who decides what to do in his life by saying aloud, “What would Paul Newmando?”
9. Anyone who decries something by saying it’s “totally gay.”
10. Anyone who is rude to people in the service industry.
11. If he throws toast at the wall just because they forgot the jelly.
12. People who don’t like pie.
13. If the guy in front of you at Starbucks takes more than fifteen seconds to communicate his drink order, then guess what? Good spotting!
14. Dick Cheney.
15. Walking around with Bluetooth without a hint of embarrassment.
16. People who force their pets to wear clothes.
17. People who don’t say their name when you meet them.
18. Meteorologists.
19. Accidental transvestites/hipsters wearing insanely tight jeans.
20. Someone who constantly looks around for someone better to talk to.
21. People who drive a Prius and act like they’re doing something more to save the world than you.
22. Middle-aged ponytail wearers who are not Johnny Depp.
23. Chronic salad eaters.
24. People who honk their horns the freaking second the light turns green.
25. Jabba the Hutt.
I probably don’t need to say this but I will anyway: I love boys. I grew up with two brothers and around lots of male cousins and friends. Now I very much enjoy kissing boys and I often get to third base and even farther.
But that doesn’t excuse the fact that—and this is a true fact—they can annoy the crap out of me sometimes. You know why? Because they can be…well, annoying as crap.
So if you are a boy reading this and we ever get to hang out, please keep the following things in mind and please, for the love of all that is sacred, try to avoid them:
1. DO NOT BECOME A WHINEY BITCH WHEN YOU GET SICK. Why do boys always turn into such babies when they’re sick? It really is unbelievable. I was dating a guy once where every time he got sick I prayed for the sweet release of death. He would get sick and immediately start whining and crying for things.
Why do boys always turn into such babies when they’re sick?
“Can I get some soup…I’m sick. Can you turn on the TV…I’m sick. Can you bring me another blanket…I’m sick. Can you create a time machine so I don’t get so bored…”
It never stopped. Men—correction, boys—almost literally grow a vagina the minute their temperature hits ninety-nine degrees. I don’t understand it. One minute my boyfriend is working out, smoking weed, drinking scotch…the next he can’t even get his own fucking water and needs lavender-scented candles to “relax his spirit.” Yeah, okay—I understand that when anyone is sick they like to be babied and taken care of. So then, what happens when a dude’s girlfriend gets sick? Caring, understanding, returning the same kind of attentive treatment the girlfriend just gave? Yeaaaah…No. They freak out. First, they insist you’re not sick.
“It’s just in your head. You’re just tired. You need to exercise and get some more energy. Even better? We should go skydiving since you’re staying home from work anyway.”
What!? I’m sick. Remember when I brought in the space heater and rubbed your feet for TWO hours while you lay in bed watching a Sober House marathon? Or how you insisted that I make all of your EmergenC drinks with a straw because it hurt to bend your neck to drink? Yet, when I’m sick we’re jumping out of a motherfucking plane? When they finally realize that I am actually, truly ill, then they become too afraid to be in the same Zip code practically.
“Okay, honey. Stay in the room, in bed and if you need anything…anything at all, call my cell and I’ll put it outside the door.”
Um…thanks?
2. DON’T TALK LIKE AN ASSHOLE. Okay. I know this might not apply to all boys, but it does to a good amount that I’ve met in recent years. And it goes something like this:
“All hands on deck!”
“It’s really blowing up!”
“Let’s kick things into gear!”
“It’s better to give than receive.”
Sure, all common sayings. But most people use really popular sayings—that is, clichés—in jest. No one really uses them seriously.
Sadly, I’ve heard so many boys use them completely unironically in regular conversation. My friend recently signed a new contract at his work and was also developing some new projects. In his excitement he actually said, “It’s about to be really huge—I’m talking ‘all hands on deck right now.’” I had to laugh a little. Really? People talk like that? I guess so.
Another time this guy at work made an Internet video and I overheard him telling another coworker, “Yeah, you should totally check it out. It’s really blowing up on the Internet right now.” Okay: You are not allowed to be the one saying that your shit is blowing up. (Note: If your shit is truly blowing up, you don’t have to tell someone.) The best part about this statement was how casually it was dropped. “Oh you know, I just fucked a supermodel, whatever, not a big deal…wanna grab lunch?” Classic. Totally pimp yourself but act like it’s not a big deal. Sure, no one will see past that.
This time, I couldn’t help myself and actually asked, “Did you really just say ‘it’s blowing up on the Internet’?” He blushed and walked away. I guess it doesn’t sound so cool and casual when you hear someone else say it. And yet I’m pretty sure I overheard him say the exact same thing like an hour later to someone else! WTF!?
Then there’s the time-tested double up. That’s when a guy says the same line twice as if they came up with it themselves. So, like, you’re pissed that your sister forgot your birthday even though she shares your same birthday…and you say:
“Hey, it’s always better to give than receive…(Long pause to make sure you’re taking it in and also to make it seem like he came up with it, partnered with an intense look in his eyes, then repeat.) “It’s better to give (pause for dramatic effect)…than receive.”
Okaaaay…are we really pretending you made up that quote, Bartlett? Or are we agreeing that you didn’t make it up, but you feel that after all these years of hearing teachers say that in elementary school, it’s finally sinking in because you’re saying it with such a dramatic pause?
Bottom line: only time it’s acceptable to use such hoary clichés is when you’re trying to be funny or lame. And you really have to be trying.
3. HAVE A MÉNAGE À TROIS ALREADY. A boyfriend told me once, “Having a threesome for a guy is like doing anal—everyone’s done it, and if you haven’t done it, you need to.” Men are obsessed with having threesomes. They just can’t get it out of their heads (pun intended…hehe). If you’ve ever dated a guy who hasn’t had a threesome, it’s so incredibly annoying. It’s like dating a dirty virgin. All he can talk about is how all of his friends have done it and he feels left out. What’s worse than dating a threesome virgin? Dating a guy who got this close to a threesome but either chickened out at the last minute or was interrupted and couldn’t complete the act. Why is it worse? Because he just won’t stop talking about it and reliving the moment with every detail in hopes that you might hear it, turn into a fairy godmother and grant him the wish of finishing that story. Then, all the questions come in:
“Would you ever do a threesome? Which one of your friends would you most likely do a threesome with? Who’s the hottest girl you know? Would you ever kiss a girl?”
Then as he starts to realize you’re not taking the bait, the questions get really pathetic:
“Okay, if we have a threesome—and I’m just saying ‘if’ because you never know what tomorrow will bring (another annoying damn saying!!)…you never know…what tomorrow will bring (with the dramatic pause!!!)…would you be cool if I just fucked you while you go down on her? Okay, okay…what if I don’t even touch her but I get to watch the two of you make out? Okay, okay, okay…what if…ummm…I fuck you and then you two just braid each other’s hair?”
My advice? Have a damn threesome. Like, now. If you get the opportunity, do it. And they don’t have to be hot. They just have to be born with a vagina, still be in possession of said vagina and you have to have sex with both of them. Don’t get bogged down in details like their looks and stuff—just get the threesome out of the way! Like Kanye says, “They might be fives but together they’re a ten.”
And do it before you get with a girl you really want to settle down with. Because—trust me on this one—it’s very, very hard to find a girl that you’d want to take home to Mom, have a meaningful relationship with and possibly bear your children, who will also finger-bang another girl while you do her doggy-style. Get it done. Get it out of the way. If you don’t do it, you will regret it and never move past it. You will be the new virgin. And no one wants that, especially your girlfriend.
I moved from Japan to Oklahoma when I was sixteen years old. Yeah, exactly, great time to move to a completely new school. Most people ask me if living in Japan was hard. But the truth is that living in Oklahoma was the hardest place I’ve ever lived. The thing about living in Oklahoma, or any part of the Midwest, is that people grow up together from kindergarten on. So when I come to this new school as a junior, it was like walking onto the set of Degrassi High or some shit. Oh, and in this season of Degrassi, I wasn’t even a regular character; I was more like the weird girl who occasionally gets a bone thrown her way in the form of a line or two. And then dies of some terminal disease.
What made my transition to the school even harder was that I had come from a school in Japan where, after a year of struggling through the typical high school hazing bullshit, I had somehow climbed my way to the teeny top. What does it mean to be at the top in high school? People actually stopped to say hi to me. They wouldn’t move away when I sat next to them in the cafeteria. Seemingly normal things when you look back as an adult, but back then, it meant everything to me. But now, in this foreign land called “Oklahoma,” no one knew me. No one saw me.
Now I should explain my look at this time in my life. Back then trends in Japan, were like four or five years behind. So at this point, I was in the alternative “skater” phase. I wore men’s big baggy jeans, with Converse sneakers, men’s T-shirts and my hair parted down the middle and hanging halfway in my face. I looked like the saddest Chili Peppers’ roadie. And what was the prevalent style in Oklahoma? Preppy. Insanely preppy. Gap sweater vests and cargo shorts and button ups, striped Polos and clean white sneakers. Oh, and one more thing to complete the picture of me as the absolute outsider? I didn’t wear any makeup. I was modeling and cheerleading in Japan so I already had enough people putting makeup on me, and I didn’t want to wear it in my everyday life. So, I never wore any makeup. And the Oklahoma girls, well, I’m pretty sure they were born with a curling iron in their hand. They had it all—beautiful faces slathered in mascara, hair perfectly curled, draped in the perfect little preppy outfits. Somehow I’d wandered into a freaking Ralph Lauren photo shoot dressed like Pete Wentz or a Madden brother. Sweet!
The first month of school was almost unbearable for me. I would walk through the halls in my big baggy jeans and oversized shirt, and look around. I was hoping to make eye contact with someone. Anyone. Any recognition that they actually saw me. I cried for the entire first month I was at that school. Every morning I would pull into the parking lot in my maroon Honda Accord with every intention of making friends and having a great day. But as soon as I walked through the front doors, I would smell that familiar waft of cafeteria rolls baking and hear the indecipherable chatter and gossip of people who were around me every day, yet did not even know I was alive. The combination of those two senses would bring something up inside me that no matter how hard I prayed to suppress it, would force tears to pour out of my eyes. You know how at Cheers everyone knows your name and you get free mugs of beer? I just thought I’d mention that so you could understand how not like Cheers my life was like at that moment.
I would walk the hallway to first period, crying. I would sit down in first period crying. We would begin class and I would stop crying. I would look up at the clock and count only five more minutes until the bell would ring and I would be forced back out in the hall…I started crying. And it went on like that for every period, ever
y day for a month.
One day I decided I wasn’t going to wallow in this pity anymore. I had, after all, managed to persevere through the brutality of every new school I’d attended. After all those years, I had to have learned something about adapting. So I stopped being sad and started thinking about what I could do to make friends. First things first—I noticed I wasn’t dressing like the girls at all. I immediately went and applied for a job at The Gap. I figured I could get discounts on a whole new wardrobe and also make new friends with my Friends and Family discount! Great plan. I’m nothing if not a problem solver, right? I bought some cargo shorts, a button-up jeans shirt and white Keds. Then I looked at what group I wanted to hang out with. I noticed a sign for students to sign up and make banners for the weekend football game. Pep Squad? I like pep. Sounds fun. Honestly, at this point, it didn’t matter who they were, I just wanted one friend. I mean, for God’s sake, I was so pathetic, my older sister used to drive forty-five minutes from her college just to have lunch with me, so I wouldn’t have to sit by myself. Seriously, anyone would do. The only requirement was they had to have a pulse and even that was negotiable. (Oh, and not have bad breath. I draw the line with bad breath.)
And that’s how I found myself sitting in the driveway of some girl’s house, painting stars onto a banner.
And that’s how I found myself sitting in the driveway of some girl’s house, painting stars onto a banner. I was wearing my cargo shorts and striped two-button shirt. Everyone was nice but not really talking to me. Then one girl turned to me and said, “Great cargos!” I was so excited. I was noticed and my outfit worked! I asked her if she wanted to go to The Gap and use my discount. She said she’d call me. Yes! (Note: She never did call me, the preppy skank.)
Suck It, Wonder Woman! Page 9