Brandon from BroBible sent this to me late yesterday and now, not surprisingly, it’s everywhere. What we know is this: a woman who works in entertainment, who’s since been identified by Deadspin and others as Beejoli Shah (note: used to work in entertainment), sent an email to 15 (allegedly) recipients (many of whom forwarded it to websites), recounting the story of how she’d hooked up with Quentin Tarantino after meeting him at a party. Highlights of the email (below) included her referring to her vagina as “my Britney”, saying Quentin had a “the most unnatractive” “nub-like” “chode” penis, as well as calling him a sweaty weirdo who looks like Frankenstein. Jeez, what does she call dudes she doesn’t hook up with? The coupe de ville was her claim that he’d asked her to let him suck on her feet while he tugged Mr. Purple until Mr. White showed up (after she’d refused to give him a Beejoli).
The only proof of this encounter are the photobooth pictures to your right (in which Gawker blacked out Shah’s face, presumably to protect the honor of girls who write dishy mass emails about celebrity peen). So is her story true? Meant as a joke? Viral marketing? (What’s with the script underneath the pictures, for instance?) You be the judge (I mean, not, like, legally…). At the very least, she seems heavily influenced by the work of Chelsea Handler.
You are either getting this e-mail because I’ve promised I would tell you this story and haven’t yet, you’re besties with someone I used to hook up with, or because my need for attention and adulation has reached such an all time high that I decided to pick 15 of you at random to listen to this story (most likely explanation), but all the same, below is the (in)famous but true story of how I met Quentin Tarantino…Adam and Ethan [Shankman and Coen, I assume -Ed.], I’ll be expecting your short film script of this in my inbox in the next couple of weeks…
Wednesday, June 1st, 2011:
Get a BBM at 8 [Either “Blackberry Message” or “Big Bowel Movement”] in the morning from my friend Nicki [Hilton, obvi] telling me we’re going to a party in “the Hills” that night because the Yankees were in town [isn’t this a Ke$ha song?]. But this party now presents a conundrum as a) I didn’t know people partied on Wednesdays because I’m uncool and b) I had just run out of clean underwear and hadn’t shaved my legs in three days, so I wasn’t really in a “party” sort of place. (what’s that you say? You’re surprised I’m single?) However, after being told to grow a pair, I decided to join the girls after work for this fiesta.
Party time rolls around that evening and despite being a Wednesday, and based on how many trashy girls in short dresses there are, it looks like the inside of any club in Las Vegas has vomited inside this music producer’s home. Minus all the hordes of Asians you get in real Las Vegas [Note: only Mongols travel in hordes, other Asians flock, like birds]. I spend my first hour at this party irritated at having to even be there [Like ugh, I was so over it], and then telling the Yankees picture Joba Chamberlain how he’ll never be as great as my beloved Brian Wilson. I think he may have called me a lesbian as I was walking away, but I guess you can’t blame him since I did choose to wear pants [This was DEFINITELY a scene in Scarface]. Anyways, I digress.
Heading back inside, bored out of mind [And not the only one, at this point…], I look over and notice Jamie Foxx and Quentin Tarantino have joined the melee.
Joy. Two more people at this party who could not give a sh*t about who I am. I go back to texting in the corner while stuffing my face with a hot dog [They have hot dogs at music producer parties? Was there also a carousel and petting zoo?]. About an hour later I’m making a drink and realize the pasty tall fellow pouring orange juice into my glass is the man himself, QT. Realizing I kind of have to go for at it this point, in all my nerd glory blurt out: “I’m sure everyone tells you this but I f*cking loved Reservoir Dogs. I watched it when I was 11 for my school newspaper, and it’s badass.” He starts laughing, thanks me, pleasantries are exchanged about how I was clearly a f*cked up 11 year old for watching Reservoir Dogs, and we start what appears it might be a delightful little chat about film. Until this happens:
Quentin: Wow so you really loved Reservoir Dogs, huh? Which of my other films do you like?
(this blatant arrogance is the type of douchebaggery that really gets my gourd about Hollywood, so now my film boner has turned to film hate f*ck, and I feel the need to cheekily undermine Quentin.)
Me: Oh wow. You know, I really didn’t like Kill Bill...
Quentin: What? What do you mean? 1 or 2?
Me: Ehh, a little bit of both. I just didn’t care for them.
Quentin: Wow…I don’t think anyone has said that to my face about my seminal films.
Me: Perhaps it’s because you call them your seminal films. Shouldn’t you wait for someone else to say that?
Quentin: You know, you’ve got a mouth on you. I like that. [Because mouths can be used for sucking, you see.]
At this point, QT puts an arm around me and I’m acutely aware that Quentin Tarantino has an arm around me [Having retained most of the nerves in my back even after that smelting accident]. As are my four friends, who are all looking at me as if I have grown a second head. To be fair, I am easily the most uncool out of all my friends (I go to Q’s in Brentwood four nights a week [HAHA WHAT A F*CKING LOSER!]), so the fact that anyone even mildly famous wants to speak to me is pretty shocking. He’s chatting with my friends and I like it’s no big deal, I am pretending like this happens every night of my life, and out of nowhere he leans in for the makeout . Yes. True story. I am pulling a frat move and making out in a crowded kitchen with Quentin F*cking Tarantino [And emailing all my friends my hook-up story — another frat move]. I cannot stop laughing AS this is happening, mainly because I see my friends Nicki and Jen [Aniston?] literally gag behind Quentin’s head, and I really am doing this for the story at this point. We make out some more, take a walk, keep making out, get more drinks, lather, rinse, repeat. Believe me when I say I’m not bragging, because..well…have you looked at a photo of Quentin Tarantino recently? (Please refer to: http://bit.ly/jL4ORR) [I mean, he’s been looking especially Quentin Tarantino-y lately]
At some point in our public makeout, Jamie Foxx comes over and without acknowledging me goes, “Yo QT, ready to roll?” Quentin looks at me and says “Want to come to my house?” Ummmmmm…f*ck yes? We get in an SUV and off we go. As I’m in the car though, I realize two things: 1) Making out with Quentin Tarantino is a great story, but there is no way I plan on putting out [Because clearly you were taught better at finishing school], and 2) This is a director who makes up f*cked up films for a living, there is a 23% chance he could Phil Spektor me, and I’m definitely not ready to die. But alas, I’m already in the car and we’re off.
We get to the house, which is gorgeous, and Jamie Foxx takes off with his lady friend (I try to say bye to him and he doesn’t even look at me. Jamie Foxx could not have given 2 sh*ts who I was. This is probably karma because I snuck into a screening of Ray in 2004 with my black boyfriend [obviously a white man would never agree to watch Ray. Important factoid.] who worked at AMC at the time, instead of buying a ticket). Which leaves me and QT alone in his bar. I spot a photo booth and immediately realize that we must take photos, if for nothing else, proof that this story even happened. (Because I know at least 7 of you right now think I’m still lying, and are pissed you had to read this much. It gets even better, I promise!!) We get a few good photo strips, which I immediately buried at the bottom of my purse lest he take them from me, and go on talking about film. (For you film geeks, this was a great conversation that led to QT cutting me a trailer of my five favorite bad movies, but for sake of some semblance of brevity, I will leave that aside for another day)
After a lengthy film discussion, Quentin suggests we head to bed, which is the point where I really start panicking. I have stalled for a good long time but the makeouts were really losing their appeal because you can only be sweated on so much, and we were getting closer to the moment of truth on whether I’d have to put out or not. The makeout continues for a while longer, and I’m really getting nervous about where the night may lead, kicking myself over not pretending to be more drunk and “passing out”, and wishing he’d turn the damn lights off so that he won’t notice that I’m wearing Hanes Her Way underwear the size of Canada that I bought at CVS that morning because my life is really just that sad and pathetic. We make out some more, there’s a little below the belt action that I try to avoid, as QT has the most unattractive penis I have ever seen (short. fat. nub-like. The chode of all chodes. Boys, those junior high pamphlets are lying when they say that all shapes and sizes are normal. Lying.) [I can only imagine what a Middle Eastern chick looks like “down there” after a couple days of not shaving — I imagine a permed honey badger trying to devour her crotch first] Just as I’m about to hyperventilate over the fact that he may try to put that horrific bodily implement anywhere near my Britney, he leans over and goes “Hey…” [He wanted to Spear my Britney, lol!]
I know this “Hey.” This is the “Hey, should I get a condom?” hey that accompanies 20 minutes of ungratifying sex [20 minutes and still unsatisfied?! Catherine the Great here sounds insatiable.]. As I’m trying to rapidly think of ways I can agent myself out of this deal [Good one, Piven], I hear what is without a doubt, the strangest question in the history of my life. Quentin Tarantino asks, “Can I suck on your toes while I jerk off?” What. The. F*ck.
Many of you may have seen this coming, as his foot fetish is WELL documented [though he’s always denied it], but for some of us who spend more time watching Kate Hudson than we do Quentin Tarantino [in case you forgot I was a dumb skank], this was a huge shock. On top of that, I don’t even like weird sex habits! [I go to Q’s in Brentwood four times a week!] A saucy hookup for me is on the foot of the bed, instead of on a pillow. Someone tried to talk me into a threesome once and I cried for an hour. Having someone ask to fellate my feet while rubbing one out was a world I was not prepared for.
But desperate times call for desperate measures, and I realized this just might be my get out of jail free card on the whole chode in vag issue [chode-in-vag issue should obviously be hyphenated, you illiterate bitch]. After some negotiations about how I would not partake in any of the hand job action were nailed down, I begrudgingly acquiesced. (And by begrudgingly, I realized I didn’t have to shtup the dude and said sure why not in about 0.03 seconds) And thus began the weirdest ten minutes of my life – having my feet made out with by an Oscar winning filmmaker while he pleasured himself. Truth be told, it wasn’t so bad. I didn’t have to do anything (a nice bonus, since I am undoubtedly the laziest person in bed, which some of you can attest to), no bodily secretions were ejected anywhere near me or my feet (thank god, because I imagine it would feel like walking in sand with wet feet I f*cking hate that), and just as I hoped, we went to bed right after.
In the morning, I snooped through Quentin’s belongings while he was in the bathroom and now know his e-mail address [I know the email address of a guy I hooked up with for once! Why didn’t I think of this before?]. He fooled around with my feet one more time (this time without asking, which I found rude), and then drove me back to Nicki’s apartment in Weho and that was that.
Most insane experience of my life, and without a doubt, probably the best story I will ever get to tell. Those of you who know me well know of my love of hyperbole, so I’m actually rather sad that I won’t get to use “best story ever!!!” when talking about how I scored a free topping at Yogurtland anymore [actually this story is just a version of that, euphemistically speaking], but I suppose for Quentin I can make an exception. I’ll try not to forget all of you little people when my feet and I make our meteoric race (foot pun intended) to the top of the A-List soon.
Till then, I’ve attached our photo booth photos for those of you who think I still just have a vivid imagination…and yes, he does look like Frankenstein.
Phew, well that was certainly… verbose. But the story of how Beejoli got a free topping at Yogurtland was obviously too important to be truncated. So is it true? I dunno, man, what am I, the skank whisperer? (Don’t answer that). What I can tell you is that I received ANOTHER unverified, second-hand story about Quentin Tarantino’s sexual proclivities, which verified his penchant for footsucking, but refuted the Il-Chode-Di-Tutti-Chode accusation, saying Quentin was actually quite well hung. But Beejoli did say she used to date a black guy and thinks good sex last 27 minutes or some ungodly amount of time, so it’s quite possible she’s as much of a size queen as she is a time queen. One woman’s chode is another woman’s monster donkey schlong and all of that, as grandma used to say. You know… ALLEGEDLY.
BONUS VIDEO: Here’s video of Beej on Wheel of Fortune, presumably just before her and Sajak went munging at his private mortuary. Oh, you didn’t know that about Sajak? Everyone knows about it.