Suck It, Wonder Woman!

by Olivia Munn; Mac Montandon

  The other girls around me starting laughing and I suddenly realized what he meant. He stood there by himself, no friends around, awkward and nerdy. And he was the only one, since the week that I’d been at this new school, who had said anything to me. He was a loner nerd and I was a loner new girl with weird fucking hair hiding my face. If it wasn’t exactly love, it was better than nothing at all. I could almost hear the drum solo of our own personal power ballad.

  We went on our first date to the mall and went to a Spencer’s gift store and to the arcade. We didn’t exchange more than ten words all day. It was like a date with a mime. That was our only date and while Jeremy would never be confused for Han Solo or Leonardo DiCaprio, it was still awesome. Finally someone had been nice and sweet to me.

  As I went through different schools and continued being the new girl there was always one thing I desperately wanted—to be in the popular group. Who didn’t, right? That to me was the answer to all my problems. When you were in the popular group no one fucked with you, you always had someone to eat lunch with and you had a team of classmates to cheat on tests with. The thought that I might be popular some day gave me something to shoot for; it was what I aspired for in every school. And Lord knows getting there was not going to be easy. But you know what? Through every school and state and country, the one group of kids I could always count on to be sweet and welcoming and let me eat lunch with them was the geeks.

  After a few years of moving to new schools I stopped being afraid to be lonely. It took me a while but I finally realized that there would always be geeks. And geeks aren’t concerned with being popular or making sure they’re voted homecoming princess because their whole life they’ve been on the outside. And let me tell you, once you’ve been on the outside, you find out that it’s actually pretty awesome out there. It’s much easier to be yourself when nobody is watching…or better yet, you don’t care if anybody is watching.

  So why would I rather date a geek? Because they’re who I relate to the most. They’re the ones who always saved a seat for the new girl at the lunch table, or invited me to play Dungeons & Dragons in the computer lab at recess (when they needed the services of a halfling illusionist) instead of sitting in the shade by myself. (Like the good geek I was, I avoided the sun.) Because geeks are smart and passionate and really sweet people. And because geeks made me comfortable being myself and not feeling the need to conform.

  I’m asked a lot if I’d ever date a geek. The answer is hell, yes. I’d prefer to date a geek. And let me be clear that the word “geek” today does not mean what it used to mean. A geek isn’t the skinny kid with a pocket protector and acne. Being a geek just means that you’re passionate about something. There can be computer geeks, video-game geeks, car geeks, military geeks, and sports geeks. Geeks are now sexy and empowered and strong and creative. I mean, just look at Bill Gates. Or the Google guys. Geeks are empowered and strong and creative. And that’s sorta sexy, right?

  So if you are you there, Geeks, it’s me, Olivia. Would anyone like to come over and play Call of Duty 4 with me? Or, if you’d rather, I’m sure I’ve got a twelve-sided dice somewhere around here.

  When I started working at G4 I thought I would be able to continue acting in other projects at the same time. And within the first six months of starting on Attack of the Show! I booked two different theatrical jobs. But because of my G4 time commitments, I wasn’t able to take on the additional work. I started to become creatively frustrated and stunted. I was having a great time on AOTS and the ratings were fantastic. But I needed to do something else, too. I needed to become a different character and create something new for myself. That’s what I love about acting—putting on a new persona, delving into a new world and just pretending. Or, alternately, putting on tights and gold, bullet-deflecting bracelets and letting ’er rip!

  So, yes, I had an artistic void that needed to be filled. A creative itch that needed scratching. A performance bug that needed…swatting? An inspired vaginal condition that needed ointment.

  Um, forget that last one.

  Anyway, I decided to start doing skits for Attack of the Show!. This was around the same time that rumors were circulating that Wonder Woman was going to be made into a feature film. I called up G4’s comic book expert and my close friend Blair Butler, and told her I’d love to do a skit about Wonder Woman and what it’s like for her to be a female superhero—there are no pockets in your super-spandexy hot shorts, invisible jets are hard to find and the bad guys are always hitting on you.

  We shot the Wonder Woman skit and it was so much fun. I put on the spandex starry shorts, red bustier, tall red boots and headgear. I felt…powerful and indestructible—I felt like a superhero! I felt badass enough that if I saw the real Wonder Woman I would’ve told her to suck it! It’s funny how putting on a costume can completely change your state of mind and how you walk. I totally now understand how everyone looks forward to Comic-Con and dressing up. You feel invincible and strong and any social awkwardness you might normally have is hidden behind a mask…literally. Blair and I had a blast shooting the skit. I was running around, posing, being a badass saving people…but eventually you do start to feel like you’re becoming the character—and that’s when trouble happens. There was a fight scene where Blair dressed up as Cheetah and I had to take her down. I threw her to the ground and the next thing I heard was a loud crack—it was Blair’s head hitting the concrete. Oh, shit. I completed the scene and didn’t let her injury ruin the shot. Because hey—it’s already happened. Why ruin the shot and have to have her do it again? And yes, I would’ve stopped if she screamed out in pain or yelled “cut,” but she didn’t. Thankfully, the cost for Blair was just a small bump. But now when I shoot skits I’m much more careful when I bludgeon someone to the ground. In fact, we’ve come up with a safe word: Petunia. When I hear that, I know we’ve got to stop immediately. Or buy flowers. Luckily we’ve never had anyone use the safe word…yet.

  But now when I shoot skits I’m much more careful when I bludgeon someone to the ground.

  Now, little did I know at the time, but this was the beginning of what would turn out to be my calling card on the network. Soon after the great response came back from the network on that first skit, we created a master list of all the geek icons that we could turn into a skit for me—Slave Leia, the Baroness from G. I. Joe, Emma Frost from X-Men, Silk Spectre from Watchmen, Lara Croft, the Wonder Twins, and Catwoman, just to name a few.

  I love doing these skits, but at some point it gets to be a little much. I mean, really, can someone answer this for me: Why are all female superheroes packed into spandex and hot shorts? Okay, of course I know the answer. I know why they’re all scantily clad. It’s because men draw them and if there is one thing men love it’s boobs! And legs! And boobs! But really what they love is boobs.

  The truth is, I actually dig the outfits. They’re sexy and fun and I feel really fucking awesome in them. But, Jesus Christ, you can’t eat for a good week before you put these things on. Not even pie. Sigh.

  When I put on Wonder Woman, I didn’t eat any carbs for a week (suck it in, Wonder Woman), didn’t eat past 7 P.M. and did Pilates morning and night. I got a spray tan for the first time (first of many) and hated every second of it. When you get spray-tanned you are in a booth with a total stranger and you get completely naked. It’s like Times Square in the seventies. As she sprays you with the cold dark liquid, you can see the tan land on your skin. It’s as if you’re getting painted. I call it “getting dipped” because that’s what it feels like. Like you are just a giant human ice-cream cone getting dipped in delicious caramel dipping sauce. Holy crap, I’m hungry.

  And then there’s the bustier. Contrary to popular belief (and what you see thanks to the magic of Photoshop), I don’t have very large breasts. I actually created my own bra that specializes in giving you amazing cleavage, especially when you wouldn’t normally have it. I created this bra on the set of the Wonder Woman skit. Because when I first put
on that bustier I noticed how sad my boobs looked, how very un-Wonderful they looked, and how powerful the outfit was. Didn’t really match, you know? So I fashioned my own bra. I’d love to tell you exactly how I created my bra, but I can’t. Trade secrets, bitches! Because I’m in the middle of creating and patenting it as you read this. But I promise, for the next book, I’ll give out a free bra with every book you buy. Deal? So I invented a bra and my boobs have never been the same. Some mornings they thank me and other days they just scream at me and cry, “Just leave us alone! We’re not meant to be pushed up so goddamn high! We need a break. Just one day of relief.” Which reminds me, I have got to get back to listening to my How to Speak Boob in Five Weeks or Less tapes.

  Now for something a little bit unpleasant: the hot shorts. Every girl hates her ass. It’s true. And I am no different. Except that no girl hates her ass as much as a girl whose ass is packed into a Wonder Woman costume. So here was the scene: Me, hating my ass, in full Wonder Woman gear and hot shorts. Running. (Despite how horrible I’m making it sound now, it is actually one of my favorite outfits. And I hope to one day put it into the Smithsonian…or at the very least be able to wear it when I’m eighty. Sorry for that visual. Old lady ass in hot shorts is generally not a pretty image.) In short, I could’ve used the assistance of another superhero: Magical Ass-Slimming Man.

  This is difficult to admit out loud, but one outfit that I actually 100 percent regret is the Slave Leia outfit. I know it’s a surprise that I regret it because the pics have gone everywhere and a lot of people seemed to really like it.

  Here’s what happened. We were going to shoot a Highlander skit at the Star Wars 30th Anniversary Celebration. I had my outfit specially made for me and it was very expensive. And rad. Before a shoot like this I usually diet for at least three days to look as lean as possible. But for this one, I guess I was just having one of those weeks and I thought to myself, “Whatever, you look fine. Just eat what you want.” Big mistake. Big, big, enormous, jeans-busting mistake. When I shoot a skit in our studios, it’s a controlled environment and I know where the camera is at all times. I know how to position my body for an angle and how to yell at someone for taking a picture of my ass. (Note: like this—“Don’t take a picture of my ass!”)

  But when you’re in a public setting, with massive amounts of fans, and you’re dressed as the sexiest character of that genre in barely anything, you DO NOT get photo approval over everyone’s cameras at the event. Ipso facto or whatever, there were pictures of me from every angle, and not all of them were flattering. When people tell me I’m being silly for thinking that and that I “looked great,” I tell them they’re wrong. Then I yell: “Don’t take a picture of my ass!” So that’s why I have vowed to never wear the Slave Leia outfit in public again. And most likely not even for a skit. Sorry, but I just can’t do it. Hey, you try putting on a gold bikini and hang out with Jabba the Hut. It’s no picnic. It’s not even a light snack.

  The Lesbionic Woman was a fun one to shoot with less anxiety because I was fully dressed for that skit. The premise of the skit is a parody on The Bionic Woman, but instead of bionic, she becomes faster, stronger, and incredibly good at munching female muff. In the skit you see me wake up and, realizing I’ve become lesbionic, I begin to fight crime with my lady powers. I save the world by making out with the female assassin and my kiss is so powerful she caves in right away.

  Before we did that shoot, the producer asked if I wanted to cast the girl to kiss, or if I knew someone I was comfortable kissing. The only person I could think of was my spray-tan lady. She wanted to be an actress and she saw me naked all the time anyway, so I thought it was perfect. I’ll help her out and she’ll make me less nervous. Plus—discounted spray tans for life!

  I’d never kissed a girl before on camera and was not really looking forward to this one. Not that there’s anything wrong with it or with my spray-tan lady, it’s just not something I’ve ever wanted to do. And it probably didn’t help that my spray-tan lady was really excited about the scene and told me how she practiced with friends.

  (I will pause here while you run to your computer, search for the video and possibly rub one out and/or consider hooking up with your own spray-tan lady. Ready to continue? Great.)

  So we went in for the kiss and it was so…glossy. Just totally glossy. Two girls, both wearing a shit-ton of lipgloss. And, I’m sorry to report, it wasn’t very nice. She was a good kisser, but all that gloss just made it gross. It was like kissing a Slip ’n Slide that had dressed for a night out. Perhaps you’d like me to say that it was amazing and we went home and finger-banged each other. And, sure, that would be hot in a way. But, sadly, what you see in the Lesbionic skit is as far as I took it. But hey, at least I saved the world.

  The last thing I will say on all this costumery for now is that dressing up as a superhero is surprisingly hard. But despite all the working out, tanning, makeup, special bras, not eating and spandex…it’s also pretty fucking cool. I mean, there aren’t many jobs around where you get to beat up bad guys while wearing go-go boots. (And, no, vigilante stripper does not count.) So it’s just too bad for me that being Wonder Woman is not a real vocational possibility (it’s not, right?). Guess I’ll just have to settle for the next best thing—dressing up like Wonder Woman, crushing fake fools to dust and shouting intimidating smack at anyone who dares cross my path.

  Stuff like: Don’t take a picture of my ass! And: Suck it, Wonder Woman!

  As I sit writing this—in late 2009—there is perhaps no scary creature as hot as zombies, though Glenn Beck is certainly giving the undead a run for their money. Zombies are hot at the movies, hot in books and hot on our trail—gotta go! I kid, but not really. That is actually part of the appeal of zombies, I think: they seem like they could exist. Unlike vampires, who may or may not come from Transylvania and speak with absurd accents, and werewolves, who would never survive in warm climates under all that fur, zombies could be real; they are, in many ways, just us—with terrible skin. And gimpier walks. And an unyielding, unceasing, absolutely all-consuming desire to eat brains. But otherwise, they are just like us. And if that’s the case, then shouldn’t we be able to learn something from them? Call me crazy but I think so. And in considering what zombies could teach us, let’s go for something big—something about life or money or death. Or love. Yes, love, let’s go with love! Now that I think about it, zombies really could teach us something about the lovemaking arts. Sure, they may not always be that easy on the eyes but in the way that they live their lives (or whatever it is the undead do), there are a few excellent lessons we can all remember when it comes time to Make Love Like a Zombie.

  *BE A GREAT LISTENER. Communication is so incredibly important if you are interested in becoming an accomplished lover. And if you’ve seen so much as one scene from a George Romero movie then you know that nobody is as devoted to paying attention as zombies. Without their unflinching desire to attain a goal, the villains in Night of the Living Dead would never have been able to satisfy their monomaniacal urges. Think about that the next time you engage an object d’amour in spine-tinglingly deep conversation over dinner. The great news is that you don’t need to have gone through a face-ravaging toxic accident to also excel in this department. The key is to lock in on your partner with zombielike intensity. That can, of course, be hard to do in this multitasking, highly-distracting, tweet-packed world we live in, but it can be done. You simply must tune out all the white noise that threatens to disrupt your intimate hours with your lover. Be present. You will thank me and, more important, your lover will thank me, especially if you can also give such single-minded attention to…down there.

  *GO SLOW. You know how most zombies walk at such a slo-mo molasses pace that it’s a minor miracle they can catch even one victim? Well, apply that same principle to honoring and pleasuring your lover and s(he) will never forget you. I have read the statistics and so I know that women overwhelmingly say that they would like to have more foreplay i
nvolved in their lovemaking sessions. In other words—don’t be all vampiric and go straight for the neck; sloooooow it down to zombie speed, bro. I know what you are thinking: But if I go too slowly, won’t I miss some opportunities to party down? Of course you won’t! Haven’t you seen the creep-along orgy that is the original Dawn of the Dead? Those brain-suckers ambled so ridiculously slowly, you’d think they would’ve sprouted moss. And yet, they all totally nailed their target. And you will, too, if you take the time to explore each and every nook and valley of your lover’s rocky physical terrain. Think of your partner’s body as a postapocalyptic wasteland of scorched and still-smoldering Earth and treat it like a ravenous zombie who’s dead-set on fulfilling its every bloody desire. Sexy!

  *FONDLE THEIR BRAINS. As any good zombie can tell you, brains are not just for breakfast, anymore. The brain, as the saying goes, can be the largest erogenous zone on a human body. So once again the undead were ahead of the lovemaking curve by placing so much emphasis on brains. The only error zombies make, as far as I can tell, is that they spend too much time trying to eat brains and not enough time stimulating them. How you choose to stroke and stoke your lover’s cerebrum is, of course, up to you, but there are a handful of ways I’ve found to turn on the top light. Phone sex, for example, is all about titillating your special someone’s imagination, which is just another way of saying you are giving him or her a brain erection—or “brection.”