Tell us a tale about shrimp fat glistening on a portly man’s penis, and we’ll spin you a meme. FilmDrunk has transcribed the chapter (Which I highly recommend scoping out.) from Olivia Munn‘s book where she describes her now-career-defining moment in Brett Ratner‘s trailer. A moment where one man’s love of shellfish and self-pleasure combine in borderline-racist euphoria. On that note, you might want to dim the lights, fire up a few candles because, baby, we’re going to Ambiance Town:
“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?”
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.
In related news, Brett Ratner has officially been barred from every Red Lobster in the continental U.S. “At least until the lobsters have been fully spayed,” a company spokesman added. “Brett Ratner’s films and a night of Red Lobster are a masturbate made in heaven. Match. MATCH made in heaven.”