Sunday, April 19, 2015

Fifty Shades of Parody (Chapter 18)

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 respectfully address her 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 Tootsie Roll. When he sees me seeing him, he waves me closer. I bend toward him.
     "Is she gone yet?" he asks.
     "Um... excuse me?"
     I had just played a trick on Christian by pretending the doctor advised me to abstain from all sexual activity for the rest of my life.
     "Gotcha!" I repeated. "You know, 'got,' as in 'to get,' and 'cha,' as in 'there is no such word.'"
     "Ah, yes. 'Gotcha.' How quaint."
     "I just played a trick on you, Christian."
     "You did?"
     "And was it funny?"
     "It was very funny."
     "I suppose it deserves some sort of a response. Will laughter suffice? Ah, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha!"
     Christian's laughter sounds like a robot's mechanical cackle being filtered through my voicemail. It stops as suddenly as it began.
     "Excellent joke, Miss Steele," Christian tells me, and pats me on the back like an old friend.
     "Well, what do we do now?" I ask Christian. "The doctor's given me three out of four stars, and I'm ready for anything."
     Christian comes close.
     "You know what I would really like to do?" he asks me, putting his nose on the nape of my neck and inhaling like he's snorting a line off a stripper's...
     I shake my head, hitting him on his nose with my chin.
     "No, what?"
     "Yes, eat."
     I squirm in antici...PAYshun in my seat.
     "Are you talking about..."
     "No, I mean..."
     Christian quickly draws back, looking offended.
     "Good heavens, no!" he says. "What do you think I am? A heathen?" He rubs his nose fiercely in disgust. "Consider this your first lesson in love my dear. I'm going to sit down and indulge myself in a sumptuous meal, and you're going to watch."
     Holy crap!
     My subconscious feigns fainting to the floor, weak with hunger.
     "Just watch?" I ask.
     "Yes," he answers.
     "Not eat?"
     I look at Christian hungrily. I mean, skeptically.
     "Don't worry," he tells me. "It'll be good for you. Have you ever made love on an empty stomach? Well, it's the cat's pajamas."
     "The what?"
     "The bee's knees?"
     "I don't understand."
     "You don't have to. Just shut up and let me eat."
     And that's exactly what I do. I sit there and watch him slowly ingest every delectable morsel of a meal that conveniently appears in my story without my ever having mentioned anything about it before. He holds up a bottle of wine.
     "Chablis?" he offers.
     "Well, you can't have any," he says, his voice amused. "Salad?"
     "Yes," I say.
     "Well, you can't have any of that, either."
     "Christian?" I ask.
     "Yes, my love?" he says between bites.
     "Why didn't you just pay the doctor and be done with it?" I ask him.
     "Do you honestly think I became rich by just giving money away to the people I owe it to, Miss Steele?" Christian replies, and then changes the subject. "So tell me, what method of birth control did you opt for?"
     "The morning-after pill. Only, I'll take it the day before just to be safe."
     He pushes himself away from the table and walks over to me, taking me in his arms.
     "So, um, are we going to do it?" my enquiring mind wants to know.
     "Do what?"
     "You know, 'it,' as in 'the stuff we are going to do.'"
     "First things first, my dear. Besides the contract, which you've yet to sign, I have to make sure you're physically up to having sex with me."
     Again, I shake my head in bewilderment.
     "Uh," I say.
     "Walk this way, Ana," he tells me, and pirouettes like a ballerina.
     I start to follow, and Christian stops me sternly.
     "No! I said, walk this way," he tells me, and repeats his graceful pirouette.
     So I do. I pirouette as gracefully as I can. Once I pick myself up off the floor, he leads me to another room. This room is huge, and, looking around, I see it's some kind of an obstacle course.
     "What is it?" I ask him.
     "An obstacle course," he tells me.
     "I don't understand."
     "Well," he says, and then pauses, trying to find just the right words, "it's a course... with obstacles."
     "It's really ingenious. I've designed it so that men and women can complete equally against each other."
     "Men and women can't compete equally. That's impossible."
     "The impossible is always probable, and the probable is always possible. So yes, dear Ana, it is possible."
     He walks me to the starting line, and pulls a spatula out of his back pocket.
     "Do you want to do this?" he breathes, looking down on me intently and waving his kitchen utensil back and forth in a swatting motion.
     "No," I say.
     "I mean, yes."
     "I mean, no."
     "I mean, yes."
     "I mean... I don't know."
     "You don't no? In that case, you do yes."
     "I do, yes, but I don't know, as in, how."
     "Here, let me show you," he says, and...
     ...he hits me on my rump with the spatula, and I immediately jump forward.
     "Run, Ana! Run! You can do it."
     Encouraged by his encouragement, I run to the first obstacle, a six-foot wall. Christian is right behind me.
     "Jump, Ana. Jump!" he says, and...
     ...he hits me with the spatula again.
     I jump over the wall, and make my way to the second obstacle. It's an 8' x 10' area rug. There's a vacuum, plugged in and ready to go. Wow, another Nimbus. Is there no end to the Thousand Series? I grab it, quickly turn it on, and have that rug vacuumed up in a jiffy.
     Another smack on my behind tells me I'm done and can proceed to the next obstacle, ten tires placed side-by-side. The idea is for me to negotiate them as fast as I can, first placing one foot in one, and then my other foot in the other, repeating the motion until I've made it all the way to the end.
     Christian encourages me some more. It's tough, it takes a lot of precision, but I make my way through the obstacle, tripping on the tires only seventeen times.
     At the next obstacle, I find a washing machine and a dryer. Apparently, I'm supposed to do some laundry.
     "Do you know what the nice thing is about a washing machine?" Christian yells in my direction. "It doesn't follow you around after you've dropped a load in it."
     I'm off to the next obstacle. A ten-foot long plastic tube, about three feet high. I'm supposed to quickly crawl through it. Heck, I don't even know if I can fit. My inner goddess makes the international sign for morbidly obese.
     Somehow, I make it through the tunnel. I feel victorious, like the whale at the end of Free Willie.
     Another whack on my behind let's me know to run to the next obstacle. It's an ironing board with a scalding hot iron on top, the load of laundry I've just done at the foot. I wonder how it got there, and then I see Doobie standing next to it smoking one of his herbal cigarettes.
     "I'm ironing! I'm ironing!"
     Why is the palm of my hand black?
     I guess I should have used the other end.
     The final obstacle has me running up a long ramp, and then rappelling down the other side into a giant plastic kiddie pool full of mud, where I was expected to wrestle a skinny Miley Cyrus in a bikini.
     Jeez, Miley, eat a cookie.
     I did it! I did it! I beat Miley Cyrus!
     It was easy, really. When she stuck her tongue out of the side of her mouth, I just grabbed it and pulled her under the mud.
     I jumped out of the kiddie pool and ran to go hug Christian.
     "I won, Christian! I really won!"
     He scoops me up and carries me curled against his chest to the room where Dr. Bombay examined me earlier. I'm exhausted. I've never done laundry before.
     "Are we going to bed now, Christian?"
     "Well, I am, Ana. While you, YOU need a bath."
     And before I can make a facetious comment, he drops me in the tub, getting my barney google all wet.
     You know, 'wet,' as in 'but not in the fun way.'"
Fifty Shades of Funny