The intellectual equivalent of a ham sandwich.

Posts tagged ‘50 Shades of Grey’

Murder is Cheap, and Other Ruminations

I just finished reading Murder is Cheap, which was originally called The Scarlet Button. It was published in 1945. I bought the book because it has a dramatic cover and it says in smaller letters above the title “Only suckers pay blackmail!”

Murder is Cheap

Who could resist such a charming read?

I was hoping for a great noir story full of phrases I wish I could use in every day conversation without sounding like a tool.

“Hey Brad, how’s your Thursday?”
“The day is all aces and eights. Not good enough to play. Not bad enough to fold.”
“Uh … Ok.”

Instead, as I was reading the book, which was written by Anthony Gilbert, I couldn’t help but notice blatant sexism everywhere. At first I took it in stride because the book was written in 1945 and life was different then … But the sexism came at parts where it didn’t even make sense.

Mr. Stout thought that if he used that expression again he’d go womanish on him and scream.

I decided to mark some of the sexist lines just to see what they add up to in the end. I sat down today having finished the book, all ready to write a post where I have looked up this Anthony GIlbert character and dive into what made him so sexist when … Oh, it turns out Anthony Gilbert was a pen name and the real author was Lucy Beatrice Malleson. In other words, a lady.

Malleson wrote 51 novels with Arthur Crook in them (a lawyer with dirty hands but a pristine record when it came to his clients).

My claims of sexism then were probably misplaced (gee, ya think). Malleson could have written the sexist lines with a smirk on her face, a Stephen Colbert approach of heavily agreeing with the opposition and seeing how far she could push it to show just how absurd they could be. Thinking about it, the insults to women were given by men while the two female characters were strong, independent, helpful (though one seemed like an overbearing mother figure) and the men in the books relied upon them all the while saying nasty things.

What’s my point? I suppose it’s that I’m too quick to judge, or that authors are crafty devils and (almost) every book deserves a re-read. Imagine now if I went back and read this book knowing this tiny bit about the author. Sometimes when I read what is considered a “great” book I can’t decide if I want to look up hidden meanings, symbolism, themes, etc before so that I can look for it and see it in action while I read … or wait until after I’ve read the book to see if I discovered for myself some hidden meaning(s).

The main thing to know is: No matter how you cut it, no matter how you read it or how much you know about the author, Fifty Shades of Grey was still awful. (Read my review full of amazingly bad quotes from that book! Or my mock version, part 1, part 2, part 3, part 4! Self-promotion, yay!)

Attn: Ellen (7/25/12)


Back (apologies for my handwriting!)

The text of the postcard is

Dear Ellen,

Two very popular search terms that lead people to my blog are polar bears and 50 Shades of Grey. This postcard will increase the number of people coming to my blog for information on those things – and leaving upset. Fun stuff.

When I wrote about 50 Shades I posted your “reading” of the book, so … what do you say? I mean, come on!, I probably got you 2 more video views! I think you’re due to invite me on!


Why am I doing this?

Two Shades of Vague, Part IV

Two Shades of Vague


We end up doing it a bunch, and every time it feels super duper. He does this weird controlling thing during sex where we’ll be doing something, and then he’ll say “red light,” and we stop, and then he’ll say “green light” and it kicks off again. I guess you could say he’s two shades of Vague. In fact, I might be tempted to make reference to that many, many times. On to a more pressing topic though, some weird descriptions of just how fantasmo the sexxins can be with him.

It’s like someone stuck a pleasure-grenade in my treasure chest, and exploded it using rainbows made out of love.

Imagine an earthquake, wrapped in a tornado, wrapped in a pancake, wrapped in an orgasm. And that’s what happened. You know. In my va-jay-jay.

Take three cups sugar, one teaspoon cinnamon, some boy body parts, and one hefty helping of oh baby oh baby, and mix. THAT’S WHAT’S UP.

While the sex is good, some things concern me. I am inexperienced with relationships, but certain behaviors of his I find off-putting. When a boy buys you a flower, it’s cute, I know that. So when the boy buys you a car that’s just like him buying you one million flowers. My inner goddess does the math and gives me a thumbs up. Although part of me thinks maybe that’s a bit much, my libido says “FEEEED ME.”

I ignore the warnings, and instead take a stroll to bone-town, and it’s awesometacular.

I want to call my best friend Susanna to talk about Shimper, but I’m afraid he’ll be angry at me – and he doesn’t want me talking about us to anyone. This worries me, but whoops, I just had an orgasm, and I’m suddenly less worried about this shockingly frightening red flag. I decide a relationship with cornerstones of fear and sex is ok, as long as I work on lessening the fear. In its place we can just have more sex. My inner goddess looks disapprovingly over her glasses, and I give in and decide to examine the pros and cons of Shimper and I:

He’s rich (I don’t care about that … but yeah I do)
He’s grade A meat
He’s good at taking me to my happy place

He’s quick to anger
Being in control, big time control, is how he gets his jollies
I still have no idea what exactly he does and how he’s so rich
We haven’t had an actual conversation yet
He likes to keep people out
He seems emotionally stunted
He likes the idea of punishing me, by causing me physical pain, and he’s going to get off on that

I am interrupted while making this list with, you guessed it, some bouncy bouncy.

Exhausted by the massive amounts of sex, I go to sleep. I sleep for four days. (How could I not after all that? I mean sheesh.) When I wake up Shimper is finishing a surgery where he’s putting a tracking device under my skin.

“Shimper …” I say, hesitant to criticize him. Ya know, because of the potential for beatings.
“Miss Gasm, you’re awake … and I’m awake …,” he gestures romantically to his family jewels.
“I … I don’t know if this can work.”

I say this and immediately begin moving. If I stay in motion I won’t be able to talk, and if I keep from taking I’ll keep from breaking my resolve. My mind is made up! I can’t have a traditional romance with this man, he’s incapable of it!

“Miss Gasm …” Shimper sounds so hurt. So broken. I am tempted to go to him, hold him, comfort him. No. I can’t do that. My mind is made up.

Yep. My mind is made up. Until about a week later. Then we get back together, honestly, what else would happen? And I bet you’ll never guess what happens when we get back together …

YEP! He takes me to the BONE-ZONE!!


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