Monday, June 2, 2014

Fifty Shades of Satire (Chapter 10a)

"Christian, who's that queer little fellow?" I ask, curious.
     "That's Doobie, my man servant. And believe me, he's no queer. He keeps going on and on about some girl he left back home."
     "I can't believe you really do have a manservant. I thought it was just a dream."
     "Yes, I acquired him in England when I was going to college."
     "Hogwarts. I found him during Spring Break. He was buried by the sea in the gardens of Shell Cottage, a little place we rented on the outskirts of Tinworth, Cornwall. That's right next door to Plegm Falls. Some four-eyed hooligan had left him for dead, but I dug him up, gave him an aspirin, and he sobered right up. Aspirins are good for everything. Everything, except bringing a dead hooker back to life. Just ask my old college roommate, Dave Attell. Anyway, Doobie claims I saved his life and he was therefore indebted to me for life. Personally, I think he was just a doper who saw an opportunity for a free ride. Be that as it may, whatever you do, don't give him any socks."
     I wake up and realize that's the longest bit of exposition I've ever heard from Christian Grey. I wipe some drool from one corner of my mouth--the droopy one--and say, "He looks like Larry King with pointy ears."
     Indeed, he's even wearing suspenders to hold up a potato sack he was using for clothing. I find that... odd.
     "Don't be an idiot," Christian chastises me. "That potato sack is made from the finest imported burlap money can buy."
     We see Doobie escort Christian's mother off screen.
     "I guess we'd better get dressed, Ana," he tells me. "That is, if you want to meet my mother."
     Meet his mother? Meet His Mother? OMG! He wants me to MEET HIS MOTHER! The last time I was in this position... aw, who am I kidding? I've never been in this position. The closest I've come is when my best friend invited me over her house to meet her family. We played Hide & Seek. I hid for days before I finally realized they had moved.
     I look at my inner goddess. Hey! Put that cucumber down! That's disgusting!
     "Christian," I say, "it's so soon. Do you really want me to meet your mother?"
     "Of course I do, Ana." he tells me. "You see, my mother fears I'm gay. She mistakenly got that impression when I told her Crocket won't stay on his side of the tub when we bathe. So, you see, you'd actually be doing me a favor, allaying my mother's suspicions and what not."
    Is this the Pillow Talk I've always heard so much about? If so, what a disappointment. Yet, in the few hours I've known Christian, I've never seen him so... so... talkative. Revealing little bits and puzzle pieces of his life, leaving it for me to put the picture together. I wonder if it's a picture of something to eat?
     "Now, be a dear," he tells me, "and get dressed. Let's see, where did I put my Haz-Mat suit?"
     He's ready before I am. My hair's a mess. It has the matted texture of a dead cat. I do what I can with it, which isn't much. Larry, the third Stooge, had more manageable hair.
     I pick up the same jeans and top I've been wearing for, oh, five days now. My jeans look as if they can stand on their own. I give it a try. They can. I smell the pits of my blouse. Hmm... why am I suddenly in the mood for a pepperoni pizza with extra parmesan cheese?
     As usual, Christian comes to the rescue.
     "If you like, you can pick something out of that closet," he tells me, pointing to a closet.
     "You bought me clothes?" I say, offended. "How dare you be so presumptuous."
     "Nonsense, they're Doobie's. He bought them for the day his girlfriend might visit."
     Oh, that's different. Wearing another girl's clothes isn't beneath me. I can do stuff like that ever since I got rid of two little things called pride and self-esteem. Just ask Kate. I see a robe and a scarf. Some black round-framed glasses and a stick. Hmm, not my style. I pick out a colorful summer dress. The perfect thing for winter. I dig around.
     "Hmm, this is a nice bra," I say.
     "It's Doobie's," I'm told.
     "Any panties?"
     "I'm afraid you'll have to go commando, dear. Unless you want to wear some edible panties I bought for you as a joke."
     "I ate those last night."
     "You'll really like my mother," Christian tells me, putting on the matching helmet to his Haz-Mat suit. "She's a feminist in the classic sense of the word. Feminista, from the Latin, meaning: To Hate Men. She likes to spend her time finding out what people are saying about her on Facebook, and then crushing them."
     "What's Facebook?" I ask. "Is it that book with a face on it, like on The Evil Dead?"
     "What's Facebook? Ana, where have you been all your life? You don't own a car, a computer, or apparently a hairbrush. You don't have a job, the internet, or a clue. You barely know how to use your cell phone. And now you're telling me, you don't know what Facebook is?"
     "Oh... Facebook! I thought you said: Tastebook. A book you, um, taste. You know, like Scratch & Sniff." I was bluffing, but I think he bought it.
     "Anyway, she's a doctor. An OB-GYN."
     "An... Obi Juan Kenobi? That old guy from the Mexican version of Star Wars?"
     "Don't tell me you've never been to a gynecologist? That's a doctor for your hoo-hah."
     "Christian, I've never been to a doctor, period, much less one for my hoo-hah.. My hoo-hah's never been sick a day in its life."
     "Surely, you're joking."
     "I'm not joking, and don't call me Shirley."
     That Christian, sometimes he makes me so mad. He is such a Control Freak, and dang skippy I'm capitalizing those two words. First he wants me to get dressed. Then he wants me to meet his mother. And now he's telling me I need to see a doctor?
     I shouldn't be surprised, though. That's what a control freak is, a freak who controls. He's such a freakishly controlling control freak, and I won't ever stop calling him a control freak. Mainly because I've misplaced my thesaurus.
     I look at my inner goddess. She's serving my subconscious a cucumber salad with a nice vinaigrette. They think he's a control freak, too.
     "Ana," he coos apologetically. "My dear, sweet, dumb-as-a-stump Ana. At the very least you should give your hoo-hah an occasional self-examination."
     "How often should I do that?"
     "At least as often as I get a colonoscopy."
     "Once a year?"
     "Once a week. You'd be amazed by how many shiny new pennies my proctologist finds."
     He gives the top of his helmet a jaunty tap.
     "Do think about what I've told you," he tells me, and then leaves. "Ta-ta! Cheerio! And all that."
     When he's out of the room, I think about what he just said. It may seems odd at face value, but when you think about it, it makes perfect sense.
     Hmm... I have a little time.
     I look around. There's a circular mirror hanging by the door. It's about the size of a manhole cover. That would work.
     I carefully take the mirror down and lay it flat on the floor in the middle of the room. I squat over it, lift my skirt and, feeling awkward, check out the view.
     Just as I'm getting a good angle to the dangle, the door swings open.
     "Mother, let me introduce you to Ana," I hear Christian tell her.
     I don't want to, but I look up and give his mother a crooked smile. Christian stands there, shocked into silence.
     "Hello," I squeak from my squatting position.
     His mother eyes me coldly.
    "Hello, dear," she finally forces herself to say. "Do be careful not to fall into that hole in the floor."
Fifty Shades of Satire

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