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Harvey Weinstein. Yeah, I’ve heard of him. Heard all about the guy.

I’ve been in a number of films and worked with a lot of actors. And though I’m certainly not buddy-buddy with any A-List celebrities, the likes of which Weinstein has harassed and abused and exploited, I’ve heard their stories many times. And frankly, his abuse of power sickens me. It makes the hair on the back of my neck stand up.

And I say that as a bloodthirsty, feral, and technically cannibalistic werewolf.

I mean, I’ve done a lot of terrible things in my “day”—by which I mean one night every lunar cycle—but never anything quite so depraved as Weinstein. I kill indiscriminately. I terrorize communities. I eat children. I am a five-star, Grade-A, certified monster.

But that Weinstein asshole? He’s all human.

Oh yes, I’ve heard you call him a monster. I’ve heard you and your friends try to pawn him off on us. Heard you sling around the term “monster” like it’s OK for you to say the word.

And frankly, it’s offensive.

As a hellbeast that can only be brought to submission by a silver bullet (or the placating glow of the rising sun), I resent your lazy, self-righteous, and downright ignorant characterization of monsters.

Harvey Weinstein is a man.

Sure, he seems dignified. He wears fancy suits and drives a fancy car and uses utensils. But this guy has no respect for women, his privilege, his craft, or his station in life. I find it appalling. Is there anything quite as morally bankrupt as someone who is gorily bankrolled and still unsatisfied?

You call him a monster, but what makes Weinstein grotesque isn’t that he was developed in a lab, or marinated in a toxic swamp, or bitten by a spookily attractive Balkan with a widow’s peak. Weinstein’s particular brand of evil comes from a consciousness that monsters simply don’t possess.

It secretes from special glands within the back fat of wealthy, balding uglymen after they’ve experienced their first failed boner. And unfortunately, we all have to suffer the fallout of these flaccid geezers.

Ha! And they think they have it so bad.

On account of my chronic werewolf condition, I have not felt the gentle, loving touch of a woman in many, many moons. And yet, you don’t see me asking any of Hollywood’s leading ladies to watch me shower. Pardon the moon-pun, but that kind of evil eclipses what a mere werewolf is capable of. (I’m sorry. I had to.)

Frankenstein (the monster, not the doctor) lacks a fully developed frontal cortex to control his emotions, and I’ll bet that guy he has never even considered jerking off into a flowerpot.

And look, I’m no angel. In fact, I’m a shapeshifting demonspawn. The scent of primal fear is like bacon to me. It literally makes me howl with joy. But you’ve got to understand that in my case, it’s not about power or exploitation. I’m just hungry.

Just looking at his bloated, hideous face, it’s pretty clear to me that Weinstein isn’t hungry. I mean, the man literally had everything he could possibly want. An amazing job, unparalleled access to the most respected creative minds in the world, money, influence, an Academy Award, 7 Tony Awards, a paid specialist who will help him with unwanted body hair, a loving family.

ALL OF THAT, and it wasn’t enough for this fucking guy. Can you even imagine?

I mean, what kind of monster takes obscene, dehumanizing pleasure from exploiting the power gap like that, threatening careers and bodies and minds for sport?

Not a monster, folks. That’s what I’ve been telling you. None of the monsters I know are capable of Weinstein’s particular brand of evil.

Make no mistake. He’s one of yours.

Kelaine Conochan

The editor-in-chief of this magazine, who should, in all honesty, be a gym teacher. Don’t sleep on your plucky kid sister.

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