Monday, August 31, 2015

Fifty Shades if Parody (Chapter 20d)

     When Christian says those words, I can hear a harp playing.
     Christian stops his car, turns off the engine, and angrily gets out to throw the street musician located on the sidewalk into the actual street.
     "Harpists," he tells me, and spits a huge goober onto the sidewalk in contempt. "They're worse than mimes."
     Ever the gentleman, he opens the door on my side for me to get out. I hesitate. If there's one thing I learned from Rodney King, it's to never get out of the car.
     "Stop eating that ham," he says.
     "Sorry," I tell him, "I just happened to have one in my purse."
     I reach up to grab the top of the door to daintily lug myself out, and notice him looking at my armpit.
     "Don't stare," I tell him. "I'm self-conscious because I didn't have a chance to shave."
     "I'm sorry," he says. "I was just wondering how you got your leg up that high."
     As he leads me inside his--our--home, he tells me, "This will have to be an early night, my dear, because every morning I wake up at 5am to read the Wall street Journal."
     "Why so early?" I ask him.
     "Because my neighbor doesn't wake up until 6. Would you care for something to drink?"
     "Sure," I say.
     He directs me to a soda machine, where a bottle of pop is $5."
     "It's 5 dollars."
     "Do you need change?"
     He leads me into the bedroom.
     "You know, Ana," he seductively whispers as he removes my clothes, "a man has only a single decade of normal sex before he becomes an animal, and an animal in the bedroom we all eventually do become."
     Naked, I slip under the sheets.
     He walks over to the other side of the bed and begins to take off his clothes.
     "After that, he'll spend the next decade monkeying around," he continues, explaining himself. "The third decade is spent lion about it. And the fourth and last decade he makes an ass of himself."
     He slips into bed with me and comes close, a predator moving in for the kill.
     "Get ready, baby," he tells me, baring his teeth. "I'm going to Rock... Your... World!"
     With that, Christian rolls on top of me, reaches over to turn off the light on the nightstand on my side of the bed, and then rolls back, winded.
     "Whew!" he says, breathing heavily. "That was great."
     "It was?"
     "Yeah, baby. You're the best."
     "I am?"
     "You bet."
     Having had his filthy way with me, Christian gets up and leaves to "make an important business call," he says, excusing himself.
     Hmm... apparently, his "important business call" has to be made from the privacy of his bathroom, it seems.
     With nothing to do, I look around. Nosy Nellie's at it again.
     Hmm... what's this.
     I pick up a little doohickey of some kind and hold it in my hand, lifting it to get a better look. It looks like the controls for one of those Magic Fingers bed massages, the kind you find in the finer, more upscale cheap motels.
     What's a bed massage? my Inner Goodness asks, and I can't help but notice my Subconscious give her a dirty look.
     A bed massage, at least the kind I'm talking about, is a vibrating mechanism in the bed of a motel room that activates once you put a quarter (or quarters) in the coin slot. I've never seen one myself, but that's what Kate tells me. Then again, Kate's the kind of girl who likes a car with a sunroof because it gives her more leg-room.
     I wonder where...
     I look for the little coin slot where I can insert my quarters to get this mechanism working. Let's see, is this it?
     No, that's my vagina.
     I'll remove those quarters later.
     Oh, I get it! This is a control box for the bed!
     I knew Christian was rich, but I never dreamt he had enough money to afford a folding bed.
     What's a folding bed? my Inner Goodness wants to know.
     My Subcompact slaps her on the back of the head for being so stupid.
     Now, girls, I tell them. There's no such thing as a stupid question, unless you're asking if Donald Trump really does have a chance of becoming president.
     A folding bed is one of those kind of beds, like the hospitals have, that fold in the middle like a taco.
     Mmm... tacos.
     Anyway, this remote I'm holding in my hand controls which end you wish to raise or lower. The top button controls the top and the bottom button controls the bottom.
     I wonder what this button does?
     Both ends of the bed slam together like they're giving each other a High Five. I'm forcibly folded between the mattress against my will, like the meat in an Ana Sandwich. I'm touching my toes in an unnatural way. I haven't been able to touch my toes since... since... Well, I've never been able to touch my toes, but that's beside the point.
     Come on, girls! I tell my imaginary friends. Help me get out of here!
     But they don't. Instead, my Inner Goodness is excitedly pointing at the remote, which has flown out of my hand and landed across the room. She's jumping up and down in a panic.
     My Subcontinent slaps her upside the head to calm her down.
     Thus angered, this causes my Inner Goodness to poke her viciously in the eyes.
     My Subcomponent retaliates by grabbing my Inner Goodness' nose with a pair of pliers and stretching her nostrils outward like a lying Pinocchio.
     My Inner Goodness takes the handsaw she just happens to have in her hand, and drags the sharp, jagged teeth along my Subcontract's head.
     Why, I oughta... my Subcommunist says, rubbing her head in pain. Her head is so hard, all the teeth on the handsaw have broken or bent.
     Seeing this, my Inner Goodness throws the now useless handsaw to the side. C'mere, you! she says, and grabs two handfuls of my Subcontrary's hair and rips them out in huge chunks.
     My Subcortex looks at the tuffs of her recently pulled-out hair in my Inner Goodness' clenched fists and angrily yells, I'm gonna murdalize ya! She punches her in the stomach and, when my Inner Goodness' hands lower to protect her gut, my Subculture punches her in the nose. When my Inner Goodness' hands go to protect her nose, my Subcenter punches her in the gut again. And then her nose.
     My Inner Goodness manages to get her hand on an exaggeratedly large and heavy-looking hammer, and gives my Subclimax a hard whack on the head, just above her forehead, causing her to see stars.
     My Subclavical, I mean.
     Seeing stars, that is.
     Hey, girls! What about me?
     They stop, but only because Christian has exited the bathroom with a folded up newspaper under his arm. He stops when he sees me trapped in his bed.
     "Hi," I say, and give a little wave.
     "You know, my mother was a crack whore," he tells me, and goes off to bed.
American Chimpanzee

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