On Friday I had a super fun show at Hot Art Wet City with a full room of lovely people who listened to me rant about how awful the Fifty Shades book series is. I called it a comedy protest over the filming of Fifty Shades of Grey: The mMovie right here in Vancouver.
I had SO MUCH material that I didn’t get to do the audience participation part. I was going to get people up to read random sentences out of the book. I thought I’d share that with with world. This series is full of stinkers.
I don’t think you need to have read the books or been to the show to appreciate the awfulness of this prose. Enjoy!
Fifty Shades of Grey
With the flick of a switch, Bruce Springsteen surrounds us. “Gotta love Bruce,” he grins at me and eases the car out of the parking space and up the steep ramp where we pause for the barrier.
“One of my mother’s friends seduced me when I was fifteen.” “Oh.” Holy shit that’s young! “She had very particular tastes. I was her submissive for six years.” He shrugs.
This baby is all ready to go, practically anywhere on the planet.” He looks longingly at it. “My account?” “Your new e-mail address.” I have an e-mail address?
Finally, my medulla oblongata recalls its purpose. I breathe.
“Why don’t you like to be touched?” I whisper, staring up into soft gray eyes. “Because I’m fifty shades of fucked up, Anastasia.”
I gaze at my mom. She is on her fourth marriage. Maybe she does know something about men after all.
I have brought Kate’s gray halter-neck dress that I wore for my graduation. It’s the only dressy item I have.
He was having dinner with her. My scalp prickles as adrenaline and fury lance through my body, all my worst fears realized. How could he? I am away for two days, and he runs off to that evil bitch.
Fifty Shades Darker
“Now, gentlemen, pray gather around, and take a good look at what could be yours for the first dance. Twelve comely and compliant wenches.”
I am reeling. Christian loves me? He hasn’t said it, and this woman has told him that’s how he feels? How bizarre. A hundred images dance through my head: the iPad, the gliding, flying to see me, all his actions, his possessiveness, $100,000 for a dance. Is this love?
“What did you mean about a big day tomorrow?” I ask to distract myself. “Dr. Greene is coming to sort you out. Plus, I have a surprise for you.” “Dr. Greene!” I halt. “Yes.” “Why?” “Because I hate condoms,” he says quietly. His eyes glint in the soft light from the paper lanterns, gauging my reaction. “It’s my body,” I mutter, annoyed that he hasn’t asked me. “It’s mine, too,” he whispers. I gaze up at him as various guests pass by, ignoring us. He looks so earnest. Yes, my body is his … he knows it better than I do.
I switch on my computer and fire up my e-mail program—and of course there’s an e-mail from Christian.
He does want me to move in. Oh, Christian—it’s too soon. I put my head in my hands to try and recover my wits. This is all I need after my extraordinary weekend. I haven’t had a moment to myself to think through and understand all that I have experienced and discovered these last two days.
“You feel so fine under this material, and I can see everything—even this.” He tugs gently on my pubic hair through the fabric, making me gasp, while his other hand fists in my hair at my nape.
My subconscious has crossed her arms and is wearing Burberry check
Fifty Shades Freed
“I love you,” I murmur, and he smiles his heart-achingly shy smile, and I melt. “I will always love you, Christian.” “And I you,” he says softly. “In spite of my disobedience?” I raise my eyebrow. “Because of your disobedience, Anastasia.” He grins. I crack my spoon through the burned sugar crust of my dessert and shake my head. Will I ever understand this man? Hmm—this crème brulée is delicious.
My subconscious glares up at me over her half-moon spectacles, distracted from volume two of the Complete Works of Charles Dickens, and mentally chastises me. Leave the poor man alone, Ana.
I, on the other hand, don’t seem to be able to shake my mood. I pick at my food. Christian said I was fat yesterday. He was joking! My subconscious glares at me again.
My husband—my hot, beautiful husband, shirtless and in cut-off jeans—is reading a book predicting the collapse of the Western banking system.
“It’s too early to see the heartbeat, but yes, you’re definitely pregnant. Four or five weeks, I would say.” She frowns. “Looks like the shot ran out early. Oh well, that happens sometimes.” I am too stunned to say anything. The little blip is a baby. A real honest to goodness baby. Christian’s baby. My baby. Holy cow. A baby!