Guest essay: The Mila Kunis Experience, by Theo Von

Yesterday I saw Mila Kunis. Yes that MILA KUNIS. The hot one. The funny one. The small, bigger-than-life one. I saw her in the flesh. At Starbucks. Cuz you know, Mila and I go to the same Starbucks. I looked up from writing a script/facebooking/waiting-for-my-big-break, to see this petite, semi-Middle Eastern, maybe-Latin, quasi-Hawaiian, possibly-Russian Hebrew girl, standing around with an even-smaller-than-her adult gentleman. I didn’t think anything of it, because it wasn’t HER at first. I mean it was, but I didn’t recognize her. It was just another Hollywood temptress who’d chosen to leave her small dog at home and bring a small tender-looking boy with her on a coffee run. The twentieth like-duo I’d seen in the past hour. Toy Poodle or Boy Poodle? A mourning routine decision for a tinsel town vixen. Nothing novel. The norm.

I went back to creating dialogue/counting ‘friends’/imagining-my-red-carpet-outfits, when that feeling that ‘someone you know is near you’ brought my attention back to the caffeine cul-de-sac where you pick up your order. SHE was saying something to her Toto. I couldn’t hear exactly what she was talking about. There long journey from West-Holly-Oz? How she missed her real pup at home? Her voice wasn’t loud enough, or my ears weren’t large enough, but there was something distinct so that her words stayed longer than usual in my sound canals. I knew that voice. I distanced my thoughts from my character-plot lines/status updates/Oscar acceptance speech, and took in her ambiance a bit more.

Most guys would know if Mila Kunis was within a hundred mile radius. There Kunis-dar would go off, or their pants Doppler would point her out. But in the heart of L.A.’s entertainment district signals get mixed as celebs cross paths like lost gorgeous zombies. Not to mention that imagining seeing her and actually seeing her are two different things. There aren’t doves or backup dancers. Or back up dancing doves. No trumpets. No billboards or posters. No harps or red carpet. Just an attractive chick taking her Male-tese for a latte trot.

I still couldn’t place where I knew her from. Acting class? Whole Foods? Pilates? Lamaze? (I’d gone to a lame class once when I was overwhelmed with loneliness and feeling like I was ready to have a family at the same time. I was hoping to find a solo baker with a bun in the oven, actually ended up dating a woman during her seventh month). But it wasn’t the typical, I “knew I’d seen her before but unable to recollect where” type scene, I’d seen her somewhere recently and repeatedly.

I glanced back and forth now between my computer and HER. Thankfully, I was sitting in First Class at the Starbucks. You know— the section with the decent leather chairs, where people sit that are making things happen. Where there’s ‘two’ outlets, and you can act a little better than the people sitting over in the subsidized area, fighting over just ‘one’ outlet. From here I didn’t feel as bad gawking some, because obviously I was no pauper.

I scanned my memory. Did I get her number once? Did I work on a show with her? Eve’s ‘Who’s that Girl?’ started playing in my head. She was small. Lean denim jeans. Basic blue top. Wristlets. Maybe 5’6. Then I noticed her hair. Not small. At least seven percent of her height (3 in.) was hair. Mane-ish. Long. Outgoing… As if Snookie were playing Jasmine in Aladdin. Gorgeous. Viney. Wild. Natural. Overgrown, but by a majestic farmer. Like a Hair Preserve. An Amazon on her head. If she donated it to locks for love they may find a cure for cancer amongst its stalks.

And then it all went from analog to Blu-ray. I did know her. I’d eaten half my meals this month with this girl. I’d had conversations right in front of her. She’s seen me run through my apartment dripping wet to get a clean bath towel out of the dryer. This was the girl from the cover of the unread August GQ magazine on my dining room table.

That was our connection. I was a subscriber to an outlet for her stardom. It was Mila F. Kunis. It sure was! I know her middle name doesn’t start with and F. But when, you realize its HER that you’ve been gawking at for two minutes, there’s an F-word in there. I kept repeating her name in my head. How did I not notice her? Only this morning I’d joked ‘Please pass the milk’, as I poured Life cereal into a bowl, and peeked over at her on the mag front. It was MILA.

My libido started cheering at the realization, shaking hands with my eyes and ears for putting it all together. Case Solved!! Hooray! Her name splashing around in my mouth, like the first sip of wine. Mila. M, I, L, A. It roles off your tongue like a rare milk. M..I..L…Ahhhhhh. More than a name. A prestigious title. Probably Latin for Heaven, or Eternal. Mila. It sounds like a gated community, on a high end planet that poor people don’t even know about. Or the name of a Spa where they bathe you in the sweat of lesser attractive people, because its detoxifying to wash yourself in the drops of others hard earned labor saline.

And then she looked at me. She looked right at me. I know she did, because people that weren’t Mila Kunis have looked at me my whole life, and this felt totally opposite to that. And in one mila-second of eye contact I gave her that ‘Im sorry I didn’t notice it was you and you are so beautiful and I thought I’d seen you on my table and I loved That ’70s Show and the girl-on-girl in Black Swan was so f’ing solid’ look.

‘Mila!’ the barista said. Not too loud, because its Hollywood and you gotta’ show respect. That’s when you’ve made it, when the barista at any Starbucks just whispers your name. And as quick as an animated moment in Family Guy, she grabbed her coffee, wrangled her He-huahua, and made her way out of my world. Like the old saying, Mila come, Mila go. She was gone.

I sipped my coffee to cleanse my palette. As far as pairings go, I must say that a 2011 Starbucks Pike’s Place goes very well with seeing Mila Kunis. In a minute I’d drank the whole thing. I looked at the other girls in line. Just regular Hollywood darlings. I had no choice but to get back to Final Draft/changing my status update to ‘MILA!’/waiting-for-my-big-break-again.

Theo Von

Theo Von is a comedian based in Los Angeles. You can check him out at and follow him on Twitter at @TheoVon and on Facebook at

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