Sunday, April 19, 2015

Fifty Shades of Parody (Chapter 18a)

Talk about being sexist.
     I completely thought Dr. Bombay was a man, what with having read Fifty Shades of Grey Hair and all, but as it turns out she's a woman, and not in that Bruce Jenner kind of way.
     "Do you mind if my son joins us?" she asks before she starts her examination of me.
     "Uh... is he a doctor, too?" I try to clarify.
     "No, he just likes to watch."
     Looking at him, I see he's only ten years old. Waaay too young to be a doctor, unless he went to medical school in a foreign country, like Detroit.
     "When I grow up," the young boy pipes up, "I wanna be Mr. Grey's personal physician!"
     Aw, how sweet.
     "Because you like helping people?" I ask him.
     "Because I like money," he says.
     Well, what can I say about my examination?
     The worst part was when she had me bend over so she could check my prostate, and then leaned over to nibble on my earlobe.
     Why do all doctors do that?
     "Well, doc," I address her, respectfully, after she's removed her finger, "what's the verdict?"
     "You're perfectly fine, Miss Steeele," she tells me.
     "That's 'Steele.'"
     "That's 'Steele.' With three 'e's," I correct her.
     "I did use three 'e's," she retorts, rather retortedly.
     "That's two in the middle and one at the end."
     "You're rather fond of the word 'that,' aren't you? Well, like I said, you're perfectly fine. And I wouldn't worry about how my son threw up when you took off your clothes."
     "I thought he was just being friendly," I say.
     "One thing that Christian wanted me to do," she tells me, "is to make sure you're using proper birth control, but I see that won't be necessary."
     "It won't?"
     "Then what will I use for birth control?"
     "Your face."
     Like a fly on a toilet seat, I get pissed off.
     "Okay," I say.
     She takes out her stethoscope.
     "Big breaths," she tells me.
     "Yeth, doctor," I say. "I'm glad you notithed."
     She takes my wrist in her hand.
     "Excellent," she says, impressed. "Your pulse is as regular as clockwork."
     "That's because your fingers are on my watch," I point out. "The only thing I worry about, doctor, is my breathing. My breath comes out in short pants."
     ""Yes, that might be a problem," she tells me, with concern in her voice, "because they should be coming out of your lungs."
     I was beginning to feel a bit itchy to get back to Christian to begin our night of big sex.
     "Are we almost done, doctor?"
     "Almost. I'll just need a urine sample, a blood sample, and a stool sample from you," she says.
     "No, problem, doctor," I tell her. "I'll come by your office tomorrow and drop off a pair of my underwear."
     "One thing, when you do come in, be ready to stick your tongue out."
     "Because I'm mad at my receptionist."
     "So, I'm in good health?"
     "Unfortunately, yes. I say unfortunately, because of all the conditions that can kill you, good health is the slowest."
     "Oh, my, Is there anything I can do?"
     "Yes, Miss Steele, you can remember that while an apple a day may keep the doctor away... an onion will do the same job for a week. Now, if you'll excuse me, I just need to collect payment for my services from Mr. Grey, and I'll be on my way."
     With that, we exit the room and find Christian laying on a sofa, arm over his eyes, with Napoleon XIV singing "They're Coming To Take Me Away, Ha-Haaa!" on the music system. The song is swirling around him, cocooning him, and covering him from head to toe in its musical malador. Entering him and exiting, jumping up and down on him, and then jumping up and down on him some more. Swallowing him whole, spitting him out, and then sucking him back in, in a fetor of orchestral orchestrality. Burying him in its harmonies, carpeting him in its thick aural fibers, concealing him and revealing him at the same time in direct contradiction to the known laws of physics. Dressing him in women's undies, and enveloping him in a feminine femininity of femininal feminousity. Housing him like a family on welfare, enfolding him like a taco, and ensconcing him in a way that I could describe if only I knew what the word ensconce meant. It enshrouds him, shrouds him, and 'shrooms him under a rhythmic umbrella of euphonious fungus. A mushroom walks into a bar. "You can't come in here," the bartender tells it. "Why not?" the mushroom wants to know. "I'm a fungi." It veils him, disguises him, shields him, obscures him, masks him, and layers him in a smokescreen of operatic mephitis of noisomeness redolence, filling the room with an aural stench of symphonic proportions.
     Christian shows his appreciation by snoring in three-parts harmony.
     "Christian," I say, trying to wake him up. "We're done."
     "Christian, wake up. The doctor's ready to leave."
     "Wake up, darling, the doctor's waiting. She just needs to be paid so she can go."
     "Mumble, mumble, mumble... a monk fish stole my money," he says groggily, whatever he's dreaming just breaking the surface.
     I turn sheepishly to Dr. Bombay.
     "I'm sorry, doctor," I say, making my excuses, "but it's been a hard day for Christian."
     "It always is," she sighs, and casts a suspicious eye at Christian. "I'll send him a bill."
     With that, she leaves.
     When I look back to my very tired billionaire, I see he has one eye open, but just a slit. His eyeball is rolling around inside like it's looking for the last Twinkie. When he sees me seeing him, he waves me closer. I bend toward him.
     "Is she gone yet?" he asks.
Fifty Shades of Funny

Monday, April 6, 2015

Fifty Shades of Parody (Chapter 17c)

Wham! Wham! Wham! BANG!
     We've just finished moving into our new apartment and Crockett is helping us hang some pictures. Since we didn't have a hammer, Crockett decided to use his gun to hammer the nails into the wall.
     "That looks, um... painful," Kate tells him.
     "It's just a flesh-wound," Crockett answers.
     We stand there looking at him bleed.
     Oh, boy, I bet that stain is coming out of our deposit for sure.
     "I'd better go," Crockett tells Kate. "I'd like to get to the emergency room before I pass out."
     "Try not to bleed too much," my roommate says, waving so long at him as he walks out the front door. "You need that blood for another part of your body."
     We no sooner shut the door than there's a knock.
     "That better not be Crockett," Kate tells me. "I'm so tired of explaining to the police why there's dead men at my doorstep."
     But it's not Kate's lover. Heck, it's not even Willie Nelson. It's a delivery boy with a chilled bottle of champagne. Leave it to Christian to send me champagne that's as cold as his heart.
     "Sign here," the delivery boy tells me.
     "With what?"
     "Um... my pen is in my front pant pocket," he tells me. "Can you reach in and grab it?"
     I look at him skeptically.
     "No, really," he says. "My hands are busy holding this bottle."
     Reluctantly, I reach into the pocket in question. I don't feel anything initially, but then...
     "Aw, there it is," I say.
     "That's not it," he says.
     "What is it?" I ask.
     "What do you think?" he asks back.
     "It feels like a penis," I tell him. "Only smaller."
     Angrily, Kate grabs him by his collar.
     "Call me," she chastises as she throws him out of our apartment.
     I look at the bottle. Ooh, it's imported. All the way from California.
     "What does the note say?" Kate wants to know.
     "It says: Enjoy this fine bottle of bubbly. It's half-empty because I wanted to make sure it was up to my expensive standards. Also, I wanted to share in your celebration without actually being there. Yes, that sounds romantic. I'll go with that story instead. By the way, what happened to Crockett? He came home with a gunshot wound and bled all over my copy of S&M Monthly?"
     Kate takes the bottle from my hand, and reads the label herself.
     "Ooh," she says, "it's imported."
     I wake up Sunday morning feeling great. Thanks to Christian's housewarming gift, I slept like a baby. Wetting the bed only twice.
     Today's the big day. I jump out of bed, hop into the shower, and scrub everything twice. On  a hunch, I stick a forefinger into my bellybutton and give it a whiff.
     It smells like feet.
      Cleanliness is next to godliness, so I scrub everything a third time.
     When I exit the shower, I go over to my dresser, toweling off as I walk, and look at the picture of God my old priest, Father Pelado, gave me after one of his special confessions. There's Jesus on one side, and, yup, there's Cleanliness on the other.
     On my drive over to Christian's, I'm feeling rather daring. I have some time, so I stop and buy myself some edible panties.
     I thought this was the dollar store.
     They come in a pack of six. What the heck, I'm feeling frisky, so I buy them anyway. I want Christian to know I'm not some bimbo cheapskate.
     When I finally get to Chrisitan's apartment, I'm nervous, and when I get nervous I get hungry, so, before I get out of the car, I eat five of the underwear.
     Christian greets me at the door.
     "Why, Miss Steele," he purrs, "you look ravishing. I could eat you up."
     "Or at least my underwear."
     "Oh... nothing," I say. Oh, crap! It was supposed to be a surprise. "I'm just being silly."
     "Did you happen to see this morning's newspaper?" he asks me.
     "No, why?"
     "Well, look who's on the front page."
     I look at the paper he hands me, and on the front page I see a picture of me and Christian. Christian and I. The Have and the Have Not. In the picture, I'm holding the bird and birdcage Christian so thoughtfully gave me as a gift for my college graduation. The parrot is laying on the bottom of the cage, looking even deader than before. Above the picture is the headline:
Crazed Parrot Murderer On The Loose!
     There's a timid knock at the door. It's Doobie, Christian's manservant. As he walks into the room there's a small cloud of smoke following him. I can't quite place the smell, but it smells faintly like Kate's room.
     "Dispeliarmus!" Doobie says, and the smoke dissipates.
     "Yes, Doobie?" Christian asks him.
     "Sorry to bother you, Mr. Grey," Doobie says, shuffling from one oversized foot to the other--doesn't Doobie ever wear shoes?--"but Dr. Bombay has arrived."
     I look at Christian.
     "Dr. Bombay?" I say, raising my eyebrows quizzically.
     "Yes, Ana. I did tell you that you would have to see a doctor and pass a physical, didn't I?"
     "Of course I did. It was just after that thing we did with those people who met us at that place where something or other was happening." He paused. "It's right here in the small print of our contract."
     He hands me the contract that he apparently carries with him wherever he goes. I try to read the small print. The very small print. What is this, microfilm?
     "If you say so," I give in and hand him back the papers.
     "Now, if you'll excuse me, Miss Steele, I need to speak with Dr. Bombay. Can you believe she's charging me extra for a house call? As if I would allow myself to be seen visiting the free clinic."
     "Are you going to have a physical, too?"
     "I don't have to," he sniffs, condescendingly. "I'm rich."
     He leaves, and I stand there awkwardly with Doobie.
     "Hocus pocus iwannajointus!" he says, and a small, hand-rolled cigarette appears between his thumb and forefinger. At least I think that's a thumb.
     "Would you care to spark up, Miss Steele?" he says politely, offering me the cigarette.
     "No, thank you," I say, discreetly moving away from him. If there's one thing I learned from Nancy Reagan, it's to Just Say No.
     "You sure?"
     "Yes, quite sure."
     "It's primo."
     Christian walks back in.
     "Feetus dontfailmenowtus!" Doobie says, and--poof!--he's gone.
     "Did Doobie leave?" Christian asks me.
     "I... I guess," I say, looking around for those little pointy ears. "I don't really know."
     "You didn't give him any clothes, did you?"
     "Of course not."
     Christian opens the door to the next room, and chivalrously waves me in.
     "Don't let the door hit'cha where the good Lord split'cha," he says, gallantly.
     I walk in, not knowing what to expect.
Fifty Shades of Funny