Folks, we’re about to go deep down a douche rabbit hole here, so fair warning. I promise it will be interesting, but you dance with the devil and the devil don’t change and all of that. Just know what you’re getting into. So, a while back, Olivia Munn wrote a book (“Suck it, Wonder Woman”). One of the juicier passages, so to speak, was a story about short, fat, egotistical director who performed a horrible act on himself while she was alone in a dressing room with him. Now, king crotch-fondler himself, Brett Ratner, has come forward to admit that the crotch-fondler in question was him, though he denies some of her story’s more crotch-fondly aspects. (I believe him, but we’ll get to that).

On Thursday [during an appearance on Munn's old show, Attack of the Show], Ratner came clean, saying that he was that bigwig director, but denied ever having such glistening, self-pleasuring hands. “I used to date Olivia Munn, I’ll be honest with everyone here. But when she was ‘Lisa.’ She wasn’t Asian back then,” he said.

HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA. Ah yes, the old she-wasn’t-even-Asian defense. “And bros, I think I know Asians, I’ve done three movies with Jackie Chan.”

“She was hanging out on my set of ‘After the Sunset,’ I banged her a few times, but I forgot her. Because she changed her name. I didn’t know it was the same person and so when she auditioned for me for a TV show, I forgot her, she got pissed off, and so she made up all these stories about me eating shrimp and masturbating in my trailer. And she talked about my shortcomings.” [HuffPo via TheSuperficial]

Yes, pure class, that guy. Now, as luck would have it, I actually had the misfortune of reading Olivia Munn’s book. It might be hard to remember now, but there was a time when I thought she might actually have something to say and just hadn’t been given the opportunity yet. She wrote a book? Ooh, that’s interesting, I thought, now was her chance to open up, tell the world who she really was, beyond a pretty girl in a Star Wars outfit. Instead, it was 300 pages of pictures of Olivia Munn dressed as sexy versions of historical women, badly photoshopped Olivia Munn fan art (from the chapter “My fans rule”), and bold, scintillating assertions such as, “Maybe I’m alone in this, but I don’t think so. Nerds are sexy.”

Basically, a doubling-down on her semi-fake “hot nerd girl” persona. Anyway, I say this only to dispel anyone who reads the following passage from buying the book thinking it’s going to be all anecdotes about fat directors masturbating. Ho no no, don’t we wish. In any case, here are some excerpts from the lone chapter about a fat director masturbating.

“Don’t You know who I am?” was exactly what I heard uttered by a fat, slobby, smug, and ridiculously rich and famous blockbuster film director at the very first movie premiere I attended. Was he for real with this? Apparently so.

Later in the chapter, after, through a series of coincidences, she finds herself on a film set with that same smug slob.

“Cut!” yelled the director as he hopped off his chair. “This scene needs more goddamn romance.” At which point he waddled over to the lovemaking bed, undid his jeans– I could already sense that those must be the hardest-working buttons in show business– and proceeded to dry hump the actress in order to demonstrate what he believed was the missing level of romance.

The poor thing — her face sparkled with the sweat falling from his second or third chin. When he finally finished the assualt he barked, “Let’s take twenty!” I’m pretty sure it would take a lot longer than that for his starlet to recover from the trauma.

Later on, she finds herself in his trailer (again purely through coincidence):

“Wait,” he begged.

Slowly, like in a bad horror movie, I turned around once more. And I remember first noticing him wearing an Oxford shirt and holding a fistful of cocktail sauce-smothered shrimp. He popped one down his throat and then another, the red sauce collecting like so much baby’s blood at the corner of his smirking mouth before dribbling down his front and settling as glistening stains on his shirt.

[...] This A-List schmuck then has the nerve to say: “You have such an interesting look– what ethnicity are you?”

I’m assuming this part’s actually true, since it would explain Ratner’s “She wasn’t Asian back then” comment.

And this is where things crossed over from merely disturbing to downright horrific–that was the 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. [...]

He was masturbating. Right there. With shrimp in one hand. And me standing in front of him. Masturbating. Mastur-bating. I’m not even kidding.

And the 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.

Ah, the old cum-on-the-door-knob-so-she-can’t-leave trick. Hell, I practically invented that.

Anyway, I don’t actually believe any of that story, except the part where they used to date, because Olivia Munn and Brett Ratner dating makes complete sense. But you know that old story about Hunter S. Thompson, about how he used to type The Great Gatsby over and over just to see what it felt like to write a masterpiece? Well after feeling Olivia Munn’s words* come through my fingertips for that long, I think I can actually feel Brett Ratner’s sweat on my skin. It smells like nacho cheese and Cristal. (*or her publicist’s words. Still applicable.)

Video of Ratner on AOTS on the following page.