Congratulations on Fucking Woody Allen!

You’re going to fulfill every 14 year old Malaysian girl’s dream tonight. You’re going to fuck Woody Allen’s brains out!

That makes it sound a lot more graphic than it actually will be. But we’re getting ahead of ourselves.

You’ve been in the Malaysian child acting scene for three years now. Mostly that means you’re involved in relatively “clean” child pornography, which means it’s not snuff. You hate it, but it keeps your family fed and pays for your little brother’s Leukemia treatments.

But next week Woody Allen is going to roll in to town with his latest production, a movie about an middle aged New Yorker searching for a diamond in Malaysia, surrounded by at least two implausibly attractive and apparently interested women at all times. The entire premise will be ludicrous but you’ll be happy for the opportunity when the production puts out casting calls for young women to play the river guide in the film.

Of course as you, and every other Malaysian child actress knows, the casting couch is less a myth and more a necessity of business. As a result it won’t be long before Woody Allen’s casting director, a two hundred and eighty pound man who took the job solely to have sex with pubescent Asian girls, propositions you and you tearfully nod your head.

But at the last moment, just before the casting director whips it out and fills the room with a smell that would make the devil weep, Woody Allen will burst in and start screaming at the man. You’ll be shocked that the normally restrained, awkward Allen has such rage in him (you’ve been watching his movies as they trickle in to Malaysia on a ten year delay, so you still think he’s hilarious and adorable, by the way).

Once he’s finished excoriating the casting director he’ll fire the man and tell him to avoid any productions related even tangentially to his creative mien again. Once the casting director, crestfallen, shuffles out of the room, Allen will press his fingertips against the bridge of his nose and sigh. Then that classy old nasally voice will come back and he’ll apologize to you.

He’ll tell you that, if you’d like to try auditioning based solely on your merits he’d be glad to see you perform, and that he totally understands if you’re uncomfortable doing so right now and want to reschedule. You’ll be a little shocked. You’d heard that he was a mincing, perverted pedophile, but he’ll seem more like a professional with deep-seeded issues relating to the divide between his stage persona and who he really is.

You’ll tell him that you’d like to go ahead and try your hand at the part anyhow, so that he can see how you’ll work under the worst pressures of the film. He’ll smile genially and nod, and you’ll give him a few readings that will knock his fucking socks off. You’ll be signed within the hour and your first casting call will come early the next morning.

Production will go smoothly, and you’ll sleep with Allen out of a combination of loneliness, respect, and love. No one will ever find out: not the tabloids, not his wife, not the many private investigators who now trail Woody Allen hoping to dig up some dirt on him.

It’ll be okay. He’ll be super awkward in bed, but he’ll be nice afterwards and really, considering you’re a 14 year old Malaysian girl who’s been subjected to some of the most hellish sexual conditions imaginable, it’ll be the best sex you’ve ever had. You’ll hold him afterwards as he extols your virtues and you’ll both part ways the next day feeling good about it, knowing it was a one time thing.

It’ll easily be the least horrible thing we’ve ever predicted, despite the revolting subtext of the fact that you’re basically still a child (Not emotionally. Emotionally you’re considerably more mature than most American senior citizens.) and it will be the spark which begins a career rivaling that of Sandra Oh.

And you did it all on your own merits. You just happened to make one little slip of the heart along the way. And while we’re on that subject, congratulations on fucking Woody Allen. The heart wants what the heart wants, n’est pas?