Megan Fox always makes me think of the Sound of Music. No, not in an adorable Austrian children or despicable Nazis or drapes turned into jaunty jumpers way; in a “How Do You Solve a Problem Like Maria” way. As in, how do you solve a problem like Megan Fox?
What’s the problem exactly? Well, to look at her, nothing. Duh. (She’s not AfterEllen.com Hot 100 hottie No. 32 for nothing.) But then sometimes when she starts talking my head involuntarily becomes acquainted with my desk. Like, say, when she tells Esquire magazine:
Wait, um, wait – what? Well, I give her five points for recognizing the inherent hypocrisy in her own statement. But then I’m going to have to deduct 10 for her bizarre somewhat self-directed biphobia. I repeat, um, what?
There are many, many admirable things about Megan beyond the obvious empirical ones. I like that she has a refreshingly unapologetic take on female sexuality. I like that she recognizes and plays with the power it brings. I like that she calls foul on Hollywood’s double standard for outspoken men and women. I like that she speaks her mind, whatever that may be. But sometimes it’s just what whatever is on her mind is somewhat perplexing.
Sure, who hasn’t wanted to strangle a mountain ox with her bare hands for Olivia Wilde? But Wonder Woman is lame and now so is Superman? “I just think he’s a lame superhero … He’s just kind of a douchebag.”
Superdouche? I don’t care how good you look in a men’s shirt, no, Megan, no.
And then there’s the stuff she told Esquire about being a sex symbol:
Oh, sweetie. You’re kinda right and kinda wrong, all at the same time. Many a thing you know you’d like to tell her, many a thing she ought to understand. Oh, how do you solve a problem like Megan? Good question.