50 Redundant Shades of Hues and Tints of Tones of Gray or Grey or Gray.

I’ve moved on from art critic to literary critic…mainly because I just have to say what I’m about to say.

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Because I care so very much about the value (or lack thereof) of literature, I am going to spare you the wasted $9.99 I spent on 50 Shades of Grey and give you the EZ Cliffs Notes version. This will help you sail through any possible middle school assignment you or your child might have on this piece of tripe book without ever having to endure actually read it. Here, for your reading pleasure, is all of 50 Shades of Grey, in 600 words or less.

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Ahem

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There I sat in Grey’s lobby, all frizzy haired, lip biting and otherwise not requiring description, pondering my impending graduation. It was so hot and it made me feel all hot down there. Suddenly in he walked. Oh my. He’s so freaking hot. I bite my lip. With his red hair and the same pair of grey flannel pants he wears every time I see him, despite being a billionaire who could afford to change occasionally. As usual he’s all wet hair and bare chest with those same grey flannel pants hanging off his hips that way that everyone seems to love, but I won’t describe, not even the first time. I think I might convulse as he whips out a condom and tears it open.

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I smile a Cheshire cat grin. He touches my hand and electricity flows between us like it does every. single. fucking. (staccato.) time we meet, because he’s smiling a Cheshire cat grin. I bite my lip. My subconscious is snoring. My inner goddess is masturbating. I cannot help wondering, as I convulse…does he really like me? Does he care for me? He’s talking to me, but all I can think about, all awkward and poorly dressed and clumsy, is whether he might like me and how all confused, horny and unhappy I am.

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Oh, no. His mood has changed again, all hot and mercurial and still wearing those flannel pants that hang on his hips that indescribable way I like. He’s so mercurial. Now he’s smiling. Why is he so mercurial? Oh, he’s grim again. It makes me convulse. We’ve only just met yesterday, but he’s leading me to his Red Room of Pain. Oh my, he’s smiling at me. I’m so happy. He flicks me with a whip. I come. Wait, why does he look so grim? I’m scared. Did I do something wrong? Will he spank me again? I don’t know what I want. Do I sign his S&M contract, or just beg him to love me and give me vanilla sex on his desk?

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As much as I was a virgin yesterday, I am still intrigued by the whips, chains, ben wa balls, shackles, leather gag balls, and carabineers. I’ve never seen a room like this. I bite my lip. It’s freaking hot. I convulse. Down there. What are all these contraptions for? My friend Kate, all gamine, freshly-fucked hair and loose morals, would never understand my fascination with this complicated man-freak.

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Wait, did he say something? “Stop biting your lip.” I wish I could understand him, he’s so mercurial. He must love me. I bite my lip. I roll my eyes. Aargh! Why else would he invite me within a week of meeting me to be his submissive sex slave? Gah! “Yes, Sir.” I bite my lip.

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My subconscious slaps me upside the head. My inner goddess is happy, all having her anus bleached and singing an aria. He’s everything I’ve ever known to avoid in a man. He’s a stalker and possessive and can only have sex if it’s extra nasty. It’s hot. Down there. But why can’t we just do it missionary again? I convulse.

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Despite my normal upbringing, all Beaver Cleaveresque…he’s exactly what I want and need. I bite my lip.

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When we break up I cry, all snotty and broken hearted, because he’s so ideal and I do so not deserve to be his submissive sex slave. Thinking about it makes me convulse. Why, oh my, why, oh why could our ideal romance not work out? I bite my lip.

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Sophomoric Drekitude. Horrible horrible…heinous terrible awful writing. I want my $9.99 and my Saturday back. I’ve been around the block, honey, and like a good hair-pulling spanking here and there, fine… But who wants to read hundreds of pages about a girl with zero personality, being stupid? This is like some self absorbed 17 year old C- student decided to write soft core porn, and get daddy to publish it for her despite thousands of far more talented writers not even being considered by agents.

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I want to be her subconscious…meet her in starbucks and slap her stupid lip-biting face and make her convulse. HOW this author managed to get this tripe published is so far beyond me..ugh. Terrible.

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It’s like listening to your least favorite girlfriend whine for 12 hours straight about her cheating boyfriend while you’re tied to a chair and forced to nod, smile and tell her she’s soooo pretty and he’s prolly just confused and scared and obviously his desire for a goat to join their love play means he really wants her.

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I hear it’s been optioned as a movie. I pity the actors.

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Because I care, I will share the only two good thing about this book that I’ve experienced so far. I hope it makes you convulse.  Frugalista & Selena…take it away.

Andre agrees “Drekitude”