That was the single most disgusting thing I've ever read, and I've read all three of the Twilight books. Twice. You think Christian would have included something a bit more classy in his menu, like butt plugs.
I read it again. Yeah, still disgusting. What would my parents think? Oh, that's right, they don't care.
My subconscious warns me to tread carefully. My inner goddess says to go for it. The third voice in my head keeps telling me to kill. Silly voice.
Whenever I think about Christian Grey my inner goddess' eyes pop out like Roger Rabbit's. Her mouth opens and her jaw hits the table. Her tongue rolls out of her mouth and flops to the floor with a wet thud. "Whatta man!" she'll say.
I think she's smitten with him.
Holy frijole, am I hungry. If the menu selections were food they would sound delicious, but they're not. They're just a list of different acts of hibbity-jibbity. I wanted to explore my sexuality, not be the main course in some psycho's decadent one-man dinner party. I look over the menu again. Should I start with a nice salad, or go straight to dessert? I wonder why there's not a Philadelphia Pizza on this thing.
My phone rings. It's my editor, Sid Rosen.
"An, Ana, ANA!" he greets me. "How ya doin', babe?"
"I'm fine, Ed," I tell him. "How are you?"
"Not good, babe," he answers. "Not good at all. You're killing me, Ana. Killing me."
"Why, Sid? What's wrong?"
"It's those pages you've been sending me."
"What about them?"
"They're so thin on content they'd have to run around the shower to get wet."
"Well, I'm doing my best, Sid. I don't..."
"Hey, I've got an idea. Why don't you write about you and Christian exchanging a bunch of emails with each other? That would really fatten things up."
"I don't know, Sid. Do you think that's realistic?"
"What do you mean?"
"I mean, a man--a billionaire--don't you think he'd be too smart to put something in writing that could be hacked or exploited by some exploiter? You ever hear of Monica Lewinski?"
"You ever hear of Anthony Weiner? I rest my case."
"I SAID I REST MY CASE! Trust me, babe, this idea's a winner."
"I don't know, Sid."
"Hey, I've gotta go, babe. What a surprise, Michael Jackson just walked through the door."
"Isn't Michael Jackson dead?"
"That's why it's such a surprise."
"Okay, Sid. Goo..."
Too late, he was done before I could finish. Just like Christian Grey.
Now, what am I to think of all this? The man--Christian Grey--drives me nuts. On the one hand, he has the dreamiest eyes a girl could get lost in. On the other hand, there's that limp. He told me he got it in Viet Nam.
"But you're too young to have served in Viet Nam," I told him.
"I was there for spring break," he answered, "and the hookers. I love their hairless little bodies."
"Vietnamese people are hairless?"
"They are when I get done with them."
Personally, I don't care for Vietnamese food. It makes me too gassy. There was a time when I was on a strict water-only detoxification diet. That's when I found out water made me gassy, too.
"Maybe you're lactose intolerant," my gay Mexican friend Jose once offered.
"How dare you call me intolerant," I chastised him. Why couldn't he have offered me a hot dog instead? "I'm as tolerant as the next guy, as long as the next guy is Mel Gibson."
As it turns out, lactose is some kind of thing in dairy products that some people's digestive systems can't break down and process. If you eat diary it can give you gas and explosive diarrhea. Explosive diarrhea is just like regular diarrhea, except more explosive.
I can live with that. And pizza.
But if there's one thing I love most of all, it's ice cream. I love ice cream, and if explosive diarrhea is the price I have to pay for eating a gallon or two in one sitting, then that's a price I'll gladly pay. I think this love affair with diary goes back to my childhood, when my father used to beat me with a cow.
Wasn't it the late, great humorist, Will Rogers, who said, "I've never met a mayonnaise I didn't like."? Well, when he said that he must have been thinking about me. That's been my problem my whole life, dead men thinking about me.
As opposed to Christian Grey, who's very much alive, except for his soul. And his cold, lifeless eyes. Eyes I could get lost in. But I've already said that. Thank goobers I get paid by the word.
I haven't been this confused since I had to figure out which bathroom to use at a LGBT convention, and I hate it, I Hate It, I HATE IT! I hate me, I hate my life, I hate Christian Grey, and I hate what he's doing to me. Why couldn't he have given me roses, preferably the edible kind, instead of some menu filled with some of the most vile, vulgar, and delicious-sounding selections this side of Madam Suki's Sushi Emporium & Nail Salon.
I close my eyes and drift off into a heavy sleep.
Fifty Shades of Satire