I Sacrificed a Chicken and Drank Vinegar in the Name of Megan Fox
Jul 13 2013
Image by Marc Clamage
I’m probably the only person with ovaries excited about Michael Bay’s Oscar-bait remake of Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles. I’m excited, because the movie stars Megan Fox, and Megan Fox in movies means Megan Fox interviews, and Megan Fox interviews are like slot machines that dispense 20-carat diamonds and owl pellets in equal turn. Sometimes she makes brilliant statements about how actresses need to recite their “word of the day” calendars to be taken seriously,and other days she admits to being sexually attracted to the Transformers robots.
While I find this charming, Megan’s candor nearly destroyed her career. After Megan told UK broadcaster Jason Solomons about the run of the mill human resources practice that is Michael Bay forcing her to wash his Ferrari while wearing a bikini during her audition for Transformers, Megan became known as a Hollywood pariah and certified idiot.
Of course, the other reason Megan is depicted as an idiot is that she makes comments that, at best, come off as eccentric and, at worst, come off as bat shit insane.
As a feminist, I want to love Megan because she stood up to Michael Bay, but as a sane human being I struggle to love a woman whose favorite restaurant is Red Lobster. That said, eccentricity is a quality we tolerate in male stars, going as far as allowing a white boy named Johnny Depp to star as a Native American in an obviously racist movie nobody has bothered to call racist, so I decided to take Megan up on some of her oddball lifestyle choices to see if she is a rough gem in a celluloid industry or a Gary Busey-style nutcase.
First, since Megan is a teenage boy’s wet dream, I researched Megan’s beauty habits. According to Cosmopolitan, she attributes her covetable physique to drinking shots of cider vinegar. This makes no sense, but whatever. I continued down the k-hole that is the internet’s recommended uses for vinegar, discovering drinking vinegar is something health loonies do to "flush the system." I would rather be gargling with a bottle of Italian dressing, but I was on a mission in the name of feminism—I poured myself a shot of vinegar, diluted it with water to make it more palatable, and began drinking Megan’s magic sauce.
It didn’t feel like splashing battery acid down my esophagus, but the mixture smelled like a cup of Easter egg dye—to swallow, I had to sip the juice slower than a 16-year-old nursing an Arbor Mist. Although I didn’t notice myself looking hotter, I could understand why Megan’s potion would dampen her appetite. Is Megan onto the next trendy diet? I don’t know. But in comparison to Megan’s religious views, the vinegar diet is mainstream.
The author's chicken nugget sacrifice.
Megan grew up in the Pentecostal church, where she learned how to speak tongues. She thinks this is normal. She once asked an interviewer, “Have you ever watched footage of a Santeria gathering or someone doing voodoo? You know how palpable the energy is? Whatever's going on there, it's for real." I was afraid to waltz my Middle Eastern ass into a Pentecostal revival meeting, but one time on Law and Order: SVU, I saw a Santeria ritual featuring candles, effigies, and a chicken sacrifice—the Santeria suggestion seemed both doable and exciting. I wasn't about to schlep off to a farm for live poultry, so I found the next best thing: a dozen or so spicy chicken nuggets. I lay the nuggets at the alter I built, lit several candles, and then covered the alter in ketchup blood. (I also poured out a libation of Bloody Marry for good measure.) I waited for a spirit that looked like George Clinton to appear and shake a demon out of me, but the spirit never came, and I wasn’t moved to tongues—it was becoming obvious there was something wrong with Megan.
But I had one last experiment: I needed to try out Megan’s job.
In the Transformers movies, Megan plays an “auto mechanic” who wears the shortest short-shorts imaginable and sweats profusely while tinkering with cars, her back arched in a way that would be ineffectual for checking a fan belt. On Tuesday night, I slicked my body in bronzer, put on hoop earrings and the most Michael Bay-approved short-shorts I own, and then “worked” on my mother’s Ford Fusion. After about 5 minutes of confused puttering under the hood, I felt disgusting. My tanner picked up tons of dirt and grease, and touching the hot metal car made my body feel like it was about to catch on fire. The most humiliating part was the weird looks from my neighbors.
No wonder Fox got sick of this shit and started rambling about Red Lobster's biscuits—she has crews of men watching her as she writhes around like a hormonal cat. Even if I was becoming a millionaire who owns shit tons of purses, like Megan, I wouldn’t be able to hold my designer clutch without thinking, I earned this shit by shaking my butt at Louis Stevens.
Megan Fox is not an idiot for complaining about Michael Bay. Doing what she does for a living would drive anyone insane.
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