Every time I hear any new buzz about 50 Shades Of Stoopid, I want to lock myself in my room, hug my copy of Wuthering Heights and wail WHYYYY? WHYYYYYY??!? And still, I keep talking about it, right? Well, if someone can totally capitalize on a book that's already been written by someone else, so can I.
And then I got to thinking: what if this book were more realistic? What if there were a real HEROINE, whom everyone could truly love? You know; a REAL WOMAN like MOI, with rolls and jowls when I retain water, and some good old fashioned PMS?!? Imagine ME in place of young, naive, totally un-sexy, slightly annoying, rampant lip biter Anastasia Steele.
Picture if you will...
50 Shades Of karen
Boy toy is smiling slightly at me. He's pleased that I've eaten breakfast, lunch, snacks, and have every intention of eating dinner. He traces his finger across my chin. I wish he wouldn't do that. Why does he have to do that all the time? It's completely annoying.
"karen, I've had my personal shopper go out to a very expensive store and buy a whole wardrobe of exquisite clothes for you. Also, I want to take you out for a romantic dinner tonight at a BLACK TIE affair. It's a masquerade ball. Is that not SEXY? Doesn't that make you EXCITED?" he murmurs.
New clothes?!? HELL to the YEAH. "OOOOOO! CLOTHES! I FREAKING LURV CLOTHES. WHERE ARE THEY? WHERE ARE THEY?!? YES! YES! I'M VERY EXCITED FOR NEW CLOTHES!"
Boy toy frowns slightly. "Er...I meant, aren't you EXCITED at the sexiness of a MASQUERADE BALL?"
I have PMS at the moment. Nothing is sexy. In fact, I don't actually find him appealing at all at this moment. I never realised that his head was so large, and that chest hair poking out over his overpriced t-shirt just looks grubby. Normally he's hot, but once I've dropped the egg, I would really like it if he'd just go away.
I can't hide my amusement. Masquerade Ball. Give me a break. "Oh my god. Snort. Like that stupid movie 'Eyes Wide Shut?' That scene where they're all in masks was so gay. Do I have to wear a mask? Seriously. That's retarded."
He's glaring. "YOU WILL DO AS I SAY, KAREN. YOU'RE PISSING ME OFF. I will spank you if you don't wear a mask" he mutters.
"Chillax. I'm not wearing a mask, and that's that. YOU wear a mask."
He frowns. "Sigh. Go check out your new clothes."
"Yay! (Moments later) None of these are the right size. Who is the idiot who bought such small clothes?"
Boyfriend's eyes widen; "erm..I told her what size to buy?"
"Why do men NEVER freaking know what size we wear? What--is that the FANTASY SIZE you wish I fit into? Do I look like some 20 year old little girl to you? Good job estimating my friend."
Grouchy is glaring at me. Tough tits.
Luckily, there's this one dress at the back of the closet that I can squeeze my bloated water sack of a body into. My boobies. They hurt. They hurt so much. My hoots hurt and I just want to be alone with a giant block of chocolate. But there's no time. I have just enough time to sausage my way into this a-line dress, instead of that grey satin thing he probably intended me to wear. As freaking if.
His eyes blaze when he sees me. "You look ravishing," he breathes.
What I want to say is "like hell," but that will just make him pout, so I force a smile and we're off!
At the swanky party there is BOOZE. Sweet mother of mercy, look at all the alcohol. By my second rye and ginger, boy toy is starting to look palatable again. I'm even starting to feel a little sexay. Ooo! Here's the menu for the night. Let's have a look...
ew @ roasted duck breast..
forget the foie gras..
they only have FIGS for dessert
I'm going 2 b starving
Funzo is getting annoyed. "What are you doing?" he mutters
"Texting my sister about the menu."
"I find that incredibly rude," he glares.
"Big surprise. Mr. ANGREE is angry again."
"You know how I am--"
"Yes, yes. You're '50 Shades of Waa, Waa, Waaa.'"
He closes his eyes, pinches the bridge of his nose, breathes deeply and exhales loudly. "Okay. Let's try something else."
"Good, because me no likey FOIE GRAS--"
"NO, damn it, not that! Something naughty."
I'm less leery because I'm a little bit drunk. "Like what?"
He pulls a little pouch out of his suit jacket pocket and produces three, small silver balls. "I want you to wear these, er, you know where. HEE HEE!"
"Yes! Tee hee hee! It'll be our filthy, inappropriate, kind of gross little secret! Oh! And don't wear any underwear either."
"Sigh. Okay pervo. Fine. Give me the vageegee balls." I toss back my excellent cocktail and head for the can.
When I return from the restroom, his eyes are blazing. "How do you like them?" he murmurs.
"They make me feel like I'm going to pee."
"They're pressing on my prolapsed bladder. It's a kind of gross sensation. What do you want--I've had two kids. My last kid probably grabbed onto my bladder as I was squeezing her out and yanked it down with her."
"Can't you make something up? Do you always have to be so honest?"
"I'm not the weirdo in this relationship."
"Maddening woman. Sigh. Okay. I like this song. Let's go dance."
We head out onto the floor. I'm a little wobbly due to all the drinky-winkies, and the lack of food. He takes me in his arms. We begin to sway to the music. He's not really keeping a good rhythm, so I decide to lead. I move my hips seductively, EXUBERANTLY! I sashay wildly, like a wanton sexual hussy! WE LOOK INTO EACH OTHERS EYES. OUR EYES START TO BLAZE, OR BURN, OR WHATEVER AND THEN SUDDENLY--"
Everyone has stopped dancing, and are now staring at the two of us, as three small balls roll across the floor.
I shrug; "like I said: I've had two kids."