...and read Fifty Shades of Grey after being pestered and bullied. What follows is a highly scathing review - so if you enjoyed that book (christ are you high) look away now.
I'm sick of this shit. No seriously, I am. You know I grew up genuinely believing I was stupid or of sub-par intellect - and heaven knows I still believe this - but now I have found a whole menagerie of morons that quite happily occupy a far lower intellectual niche than me. This isn't a fanfare as I climb upon my pedestal of intellectual gravitas, no. What follows is one of my upcoming myriad rants about the state of the world. I'm not going to claim specialist knowledge, I'll write what I know and research and - hell - if you find yourself agreeing, fucking cool.
I'm going to judge the bilge I read by my standards of reading material - because frankly I have read less repetitive London weather forecasts.
I'd like to start by saying that I, not unlike many, many people with functional sex hormones, read and have read erotica or at least a story line with some adult content. Sometimes you need a low-brow break from medical physiology, metabolism and molecular genetics.
I'm not going to mince words, I got insurmountably bored barely halfway through and skimmed through the rest. I'm glad I didn't pay for it.
It was so badly written my brain refused to follow it. There was NO PATTERN to anything that happened save for the inevitable sex that permeated the pages as though someone had decided to spray them with a potent distillate of Linden tree oil. Let that settle in your olfactory memory for a retch-inducing minute.
The exchanges between the characters was banal. They raped Thomas Hardy's Tess of the D'Urbervilles. Thank you, fucking Twilight-number-two and may I add screw you. Screw you for stealing my much-loved Greek mythology and forcing it to participate in the utter shite you pass off as a story line. It seems all these fire-fodder knew how to do was take previously respectable literature and mash it into their gratuitous pornography to give their plot some kind of sophisticated edge.
Is that what you were aiming for E.L. James? Because you missed like a heavily inebriated frat boy standing two meters from a urinal.
Now it has been made known that this crap was originally a Twilight fan fiction and much acclaimed (by morons lacking all or most of their cerebrum).
I'm going to set the record straight about fan fiction. Most of it is cesspool runoff and if its based on anything approaching Twilight and doesn't involve the horrific deaths of every character then it can only be likened to that stain left behind on the side of the porcelain bowl after you've had one too many curries.
There are gems out there but you have to wade through torrents of shit to find them. But they exist and I have found them.
Not in this case.
The Twilight-mirroring got to a point where I literally felt my eyes glazing over with boredom - something that hasn't happened since having Meyer's monstrosities foisted on me at the peak of their hype. You know I genuinely thought the world had moved past that foray into Derpville. I was going to trust humanity again to recommend books and I was going to give it the benefit of the doubt and read them. I'm sad to say the world disappointed me for the last time - I will forever look on all hyped-up, mainstream books with a jaundiced eye and a sneer of prophetic disdain. This isn't me turning into some literary hipster. This is me giving the fuck up after giving society one too many sodding chances to not disappoint me.
To this day I hang my head in shame for finishing the whole Meyer set - my saving grace may have been in skim-reading from the second book to the fourth and hurling at appropriate times. Apparently there was some retard 'war' and the werewolf guy with an aversion to shirts and frankly concerning febrility discovered his love for minors. Seriously minor minors.
You know what I would have done with Twilight? Made it into a fucking epic story about werewolves possessing thermally stable enzymes and the government's fixation with hunting them down for research purposes. And as for the vampires, hunting them down and hacking their heads off to stick their fangs into snake-poison collection jars to be used as biological weapons. Also using their flesh as a new fucking alloy since its fucking metal. Tell me which you would read.
Anyway, this boredom rapidly escalated to exasperated sighs as the two most irritating words - 'oh my' - were repeated so many times I had to imagine Austin Powers saying them in the style of 'oh behave' to refrain from destroying my laptop screen. As you can imagine this detracted indefinitely from the 'sexiness'.
Then I descended to incredulous laughter at some of the scenarios. Whatever sexual practices people favour, they're welcome to them - but I like things equal, me. Power plays are sexyawesome but when they take place between HEALTHY adults. Not sexually repressed (my foot, she never masturbated but she was born without a gag reflex) university graduates and CEO's with cigarette burns adorning their 'Adonis-like' chests. And that's another thing that bothered me. Every other sodding line read like Twishite, with its repulsively adoring and constantly awestruck heroine reminding us once again that she had gone to wikipedia and looked up what the medulla oblongata was and what it generally did and about how she'd defied billions of years of evolution of the autonomic nervous system and learned how to voluntarily send specific information to her reptilian brain to induce breathing. Wow.
And christ, the menstruation-bath-sex-scene? What the actual fuck (Japan)? Who in hell finds forcibly removing a tampon and flinging it into the nearby lavatory, ordering you to hold on to the sink and commencing penetrative sex a turn on and without issue? SERIOUSLY?! Menstrual intercourse? Women of the world, you enjoyed this?!
NO. It's NOT sexy. It's fucking vile. And I judge you. You're repulsive. That shudder you felt as you read that scene was not your sexual enlightenment and expansion of your mind - it was your cerebrum telling you you've gone too fucking far. Back the fuck up.
Now for some character analysis. You will notice there are only two characters in this book. No, no, the other random people that show up are not characters since they don't seem to do anything but exist to facilitate gratuitous porn between the two freaks. Frankly they don't even do that job very well.
Anastasia's best friend is probably the only one I didn't mind, probably because she wasn't a complete derpina with the constitution and personality of dishwater. Saying that, I would probably still experiment on her in real life.
Creepy desperate engineer guy, with the name with an accented e that I can't be bothered to type so he's going to be called creepy desperate engineer guy - was just that. And apparently he was Mexican. And apparently all Mexicans end all their sentences with 'Ah dios mio'. And apparently they all ride donkeys to work and swig Corona with their sombrero-wearing buddies in the heat of the Mexican sun.
Basically he was spurned love-interest #1. And I didn't care. I hoped he had his dreams driven over and tire-marked. Repeatedly. For his stupid fucking taste in women and his affront to Mexicans everywhere.
And the other Bella-posse-esque guys who served only to waft their inferior masculinity beneath the vengeful glare of Edw- Christian Gray, attempting to assert claim over the 'ordinary but not' Anastasia - ugh, guys...you've been male-harem-ed, pick up what's left of your testicles and leave.
Anastasia read like an infinitely much more annoying version of Bella but this is probably because I've not recently had to sit through the mind-numbing tripe that is Twilight.
She was boring, predictable and if I had to read about her inner fucking goddess and her fucking holy pompoms one more time I was going to scream. What the shit was that? Who the shit actually talks and/or even thinks like that?!
I dare you to read it without being so terminally gayed out you jumped out of the nearest window:
'My inner goddess is down on bended knee with her hands clasped in supplication begging me.'
'...my inner goddess is swaying and writhing to some primal carnal rhythm.'
'My inner goddess is doing the dance of the seven veils.'
'My inner goddess is clapping her hands with glee like a small child.'
'My inner goddess is jumping up and down, clapping her hands like a five year old.'
'My inner goddess fist-pumps the air above her chaise lounge.'
MY. INNER. GODDESS.
As I read on I questioned life. I questioned how and why something like this could ever be allowed to exist. I also went through several antacids.
Genuinely, by the end I had developed an astonishingly vehement disdain for every single tit in that book and their trite traits.
And my butt, she'd never touched herself. Please.
Christian serves one function and one function only. Aside from the fucking atrocious manner of speech and his wince-making written signature of 'laters, baby'. I'm sorry - what? What are you, a chav from Hackney? Laters? Tit.
He is Edward Cullen pervified to the power of 1000000. Cradle-snatchers everywhere felt it was morally ambiguous to have wet dreams about a guy technically the same age as their children - I don't care how old he really is, he acts like a 17-year-old twat. So came the invention of a 27-year-old manwhore who could facillitate their lonely, frustrated relationship with double D batteries.
Its not so much the perviness I disliked, its him. Personally I have limits (no pun intended) to what is acceptable kinkiness and this was sick enough without the frankly hilarious mention of coprophilia and urination that apparently were too far for the Marquis De Why.
I don't care how good looking the protagonist monotonously reminds us he is, his personality sucked ass. Neither do I care about the childhood abuse - seriously. I wish the crackwhore vagina he plopped out of had choked him on his way out.
The author developed no sympathy in me for him, by the end I hoped he conveniently got syphilis just so I could actually feel something for him.
And unfortunately he wasn't sexy and by the end the most three dimensional thing about him was his penis. Sorry dude, you might do it for dishwater but I like slightly less fucked to the nth degree fictional men.
Now, a public service announcement:
WOMEN OF THE WORLD. WHAT THE ACTUAL FUCK? THERE IS NOTHING SEXY ABOUT A GUY WHO ORDERS YOU AROUND, STALKS THE CRAP OUT OF YOU AND FORCES HIS TWO DIMENSIONAL PERSONALITY ON YOU WHENEVER HE FEELS LIKE IT. THIS IS NOT SEXY. ITS CREEPY. THE ONLY THING YOU SHOULD BE PUTTING ON HIM IS A RESTRAINING ORDER.
Frankly I don't know what part was more lunch-dislodging. I threw my hands up at the menstruation/bath thing and took to reading every 20th page or so from then on. It was pretty much more of the same.
May the next installment of tripe bequeath everyone in it with venereal disease.
I have no more words. I'm sorry, universe. On behalf of the whole female population and all guys who enjoyed this book, I'm so fucking sorry. All I can say is we'll keep trying to move on and hopefully natural selection will cholrinate the gene pool and prevent the breeding of the shameful excuses crawling around on this beautiful, intelligent planet.
Excerpts and piss-takes: http://50shadesofsuck.tumblr.com/
An apt review: http://hypervocal.com/culture/2012/10-reasons-fifty-shades-of-grey-made-my-vagina-shrivel-up-and-die/
The only way I will ever listen to this bilge: http://hypervocal.com/entertainment/2012/gilbert-gottfried-fifty-shades-of-grey/
P.S. Is anyone else not oblivious to the 'Ana' and 'Mia' references? Anorexia and bulimia? Really?