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An Open Letter to Sue Storm in 'Fantastic Four'

By Rebecca Pahle | Miscellaneous | August 10, 2015 | Comments ()

By Rebecca Pahle | Miscellaneous | August 10, 2015 |


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Hey, Sue. How you holding up? Between your movie getting terrible reviews and the fact that you’ve had to spend a lot of time around Miles Teller lately, I’m guessing the answer is “not good.” Or maybe “not Fantastic!” HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA ohhhhhhh, Sue.

Sue.

Look, there’s no point in trying to distract you with hilarious and completely original puns from the elephant in the room. I know there’s something on your mind, and it won’t go away until you let it out. I’m here to help.

Why the hell didn’t they let you go to Planet Zero, Sue?

You remember that, right? Jesus Christ, Sue, stop throwing crockery—you know very well that was a rhetorical question. You and the rest of your Baxter Institute buds—Reed, Johnny, Victor—had just finished building this sweet-ass interdimensional portal, and then Tim Blake Dickhead comes in and says he’s going to send some rubes from NASA instead of you, the people who made it. Imagine. Some jackasses with decades of work experience under their belt instead of you, college students. NASA’s full of squares.

You, not being a Do Nothing Bitch, go to talk to the higher-ups about it, while Baxter’s resident jagoffs get drunk and practice their world’s tiniest violin skills. No, I don’t know why they didn’t invite you, Sue. Did they think women are by necessity lifeless killjoys, rolling their eyes in bemused tolerance while their male contemporaries go out and have all the fun? Did they watch too many pre-Trainwreck Judd Apatow movies?

Next thing you know they’re drunk of their asses and fucking off to another dimension, determined to plant their penises flag there before those idiots at NASA (fuck Neil Armstrong, right?) can bogart their glory. Because they built the fucking transporter, after all.

I know, I know. You can stop yelling.

So did you, Sue!

So did you!

You dedicated years of your life to the team—longer than Reed did, and much longer than Johnny, who joined up like five minutes ago—and you don’t even get a courtesy text. “Hey, we’re going to fulfill our collective lifelong dream of exploring the outer reaches of space—want to come along? Can we pick you up a Starbucks on the way back? Some tampons?” Even before you were invisible, you were invisible.

Men.

Billy Elliot gets to go! Reed calls up his childhood friend from LONG FUCKING ISLAND, and he gets your spot. It’s the middle of the night—you know it took him at least an hour and and a half to get into Manhattan. I bet he had to stop for like 15 minutes on the way out the door to explain to his brother Chet Haze why he’s not allowed to use the N-word. It was probably a whole thing.

“SUE U UP? WANA GO TO OUTER SSPPAC?”

Nothing.

If that’s not bad enough, you get stuck with a God-awful wig for a third of the movie due to reshoots:

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Though Doom ended up looking like cyberpunk Sub-Zero, so really, I think you came out OK there.

I know, I know. It’s no consolation. You got to go to Planet Zero later, but the whole “One small step for man” moment… well, you’re not a man, right?

Fuck ‘em.


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