despair

How to Potty Train a Toddler

It has come to this moment. Mini Speaker7 has hit the age where he needs to find a pot to piss in or be resigned to a life full of diapers, so sayeth some parenting blog that routinely makes me feel I fail as a parent. I probably am more of a C-minus kind of mother.

Mini Speaker7 is a few months past 3. He’s a boy, and apparently boys are harder to train than girls, dolphins and some species of monkey. It has been slow-going, which I partially attribute to my laziness, but, hey, those reality television shows aren’t going to watch themselves.

For the past few months, I’ve been regaled with success stories of child-size shitting and urinating on other “friends” Facebook pages. These children–much, much younger than my son–are pooping prodigies:

pottytrainingsuccess

This has been discouraging because while reading my Facebook newsfeed for two hours, my son shat through another pair of underwear.

I honestly have no idea what I’m doing, and was hoping that my skilled toilet use would be enough. In fact, I recently earned a doctorate in urination from the University of Phoenix.

Some potty training experts say you should just lay down some tarp and let your child act as if he was a drunken idiot at an all-day outdoor concert, glowsticks included. Others exalt the potty “sessions” where the child alternates between screaming “I’m not wearing underwear! I’m not!” and “I’m not wearing diaper! I’m not!” until you suffocate yourself with a diaper genie.

This headline is a bit of a misnomer. A better one would be “How the fuck do you potty train a toddler because, seriously, have you met a toddler? They are out of their fucking minds.”

This is what I’ve attempted:

  • A potty training incentive sticker chart thomaspeechart

My son screamed “Take it off! Take it off!” when I stuck on a sticker.

  • Bribes. At any given moment in my household, you can hear either me or my husband stating the following in a sing-song voice: “If you go pee-pee on the potty, you get a truck. If you go poopy, you get two trucks!” These are the moments you hate yourself.

My son has consistently been a late-bloomer. He arrived early, but has since taken his time in doing many tasks. He walked at 20 months. He crawled at two. He learned to jump about a month ago. He will get there. It is likely he will know how to spell “toilet” before he actually uses it. But he will get there.

As my father likes to say: “Small kids, small problems. Big kids, big problems.”

That is true, but small kids can really produce some massive turds.

Ready for Cancellation

It’s taken me awhile to put together a recrap of the third episode of the live-doll reality show Ready for Love. 

Rumors swirled that the show had been cancelled, but then executive producer Eva Longoria took to Twitter, saying it is moving to a new time, new night. Tim-something of The Plain White T’s joined the fray saying “Please download my song from iTunes.”

And then I had to deal with my own feelings of despair over the knowledge that I actually wasted moments of my life reading inane tweets and articles on E!

But here we are again, ready-for-lovers!

We begin our “journey” with Tim’s “journey.” Tim is referred to as “rock star” ad nauseum. That’s like calling Snooki, author of the turdpile Confessions of a Guidette, a literary giant.

Bret Michaels, another dude looking for televised love by examining multiple vaginas, is a rock star. Yes, he wears a bandana hairpiece and plays amusement park gigs, but he was a legitimate rock star 25 years ago in that shit band Poison. Tim’s band The Plain White T’s had one hit song. The Fruit of the Loom guys are more recognizable. I don’t know why I’m getting all worked up about this. The important thing is that I have wasted so much of my life and will die with regrets.

Tim plans an unannounced visit to his poon palace at 6 a.m. He jumps on the women’s beds and surprisingly is not kneed in the nuts. He wants them to leave the house sans make up (the horror!!!!). They do, and society comes crashing to a halt. They arrive at a spa, and it’s filled with all things the girlies love like make-up, shoes and transvaginal ultrasounds.

Taonayanayanaya is bummed because she has not engaged in any one-on-one time with Tim. When she gets her chance, she tells Tim he is like a book with all the pages stuck together, which sounds kinda gross. Tim’s expression indicates he feels the same. Awkward silence after his reply: “That’s interesting.” She clumsily moves onto “What’s your sign?” Tim dismisses with “I don’t believe in any of that.”

tonyana

Taonynayanaya breaks down sobbing in the bathroom, wailing “I’ve been through so much!” That’s an Aquarius for you.

She ends up getting the boot at the rose garden ceremony. Lots of nonsense about “journeys” and “connections” and “this is the hardest thing I’ve ever had to do™” blather.

sohardNext up is Ernesto’s journey. One of the women, Olivia, keeps crying and saying she wants to leave. Another gets brownie points from the producers by saying “She is not ready for love.”

Olivia meets with Tracy the matchmaker, and talks about her disdain of drama and negative energy even though she has been the main cause of drama and negative energy. Tracy mentions how this show is a process. I thought it was a journey. I’m so fucking confused.

Before she leaves, Olivia engages in crying fit in the living room.

meltdown

She goes, and it would mean so much more if there weren’t 5,000 other people on this show so I will just leave it at “smell you later.”

Ernesto is having the women get dolled up for a fashion show because this show is trying to get into the Guinness Book of World Records for having the most gender stereotypes in one television episode. The producers fly his sister in from Milan to go undercover as a style assistant to see what the women have to say about her brother. Erica treats Ernesto’s sister like something on the bottom of her shoe.

bitchyericaErica tries to say she did not know why she acted like that because she normally has sunshine streaming out of her ass. At the slave auction garden ceremony, Erica is saved and some woman whose name escapes me is tearfully sent home. Cheer up, nameless person, you’ve actually won.

Ben is third, but wins first place in douchery. The show continues its dress-up theme because that’s all the ladies want, right? We want to be pinched into 14-inch heels, stuffed into sausage casings, covered in greasepaint and judged by Us Weekly. Ben salsas and presses his groin and lips against the women. His ex-girlfriend Kari is getting pissed and asks him to refrain from being a “lip slut.”

kariMatt asks Beth, whom he refers to as “mature” (translation: old), why she is still single. She counters: “Why are you?”

Ben answers: “Because I was in the middle east for four years, duh.” (translation: “I ain’t marrying no middle-eastern person because my brain is full-on douche.”)

Ben lip-sluts it up all over town. The matchmakers send the other women to their pods–one actually refers to it as such–while they grill Kari about her intentions. This is as exciting as the time I did laundry.

confrontationBen decides to send home the single mother with this chestnut:

benchopsI don’t know about you, but I am ready for cancellation.

This is, like, stupid almost

Truer words have never been spoken.

Bland looks really red. He is getting ready or red-dy to meet his concubines’ families. Zing! I’m here all week.

AshLee, of the interestingly capitalized name, has been living for this moment or some such nonsense. Yes… “Hey mom and dad! Come meet this man who is also meeting three other sets of moms and dads and revel in the reality! The reality of it all!”

AsHleE thinks Bland is the man “to protect my heart.” I think I should be drunk. Why am I not drunk?

aShlEe’S been thinking about this day “since I was 3 years old.” What the fuck did she just say?

They eat a normal dinner with aShleE’s PaRenTs at a kitchen table stuck awkwardly on the back lawn.

“Bland is, like, making out with other girls and then he, like, makes out with me. And, like, mom, like, do you remember, when I was, like, 4, and you, like, read Peter Rabbit, and I was, like, do you think I’ll ever meet my Mr. MacGregor? And, like, I’m, like, here he is. Like?” ASHLee rambles on at the greatest luncheon she envisioned when she was 5.

AsHleE’s dad looks like a porcupined-version of Cliff Clavin.

We’re now in Seattle with Catherine and her “journey.” Bland catches a fish in the Seattle Fish Market and promptly makes out with it. It’s so spontaneous or incredibly staged.

Bland uses the word “always” a lot to describe how awesome his relationship is with Catherine. “We’re always really boring.” “We’re always suck.” “We’re always contributing to the decline of the universe.”

This is the greatest love story since that commercial I saw about Fiber One granola bars.

Catherine’s sisters exhibit brain function: “You seem like you’re trying to convince yourself that you like him.”

Some “tension.”

Next stop: Linddddsseeeyyy’s hometown in somewhere Missouri. Her dad’s a two-star general so this means something for The Bachelor that I find too boring to try to comprehend.

Bland puts on an army turtleneck while Lindddsseeyy vocal fries orders at him. It makes me wish that a meteor would crash into my face.

On Friday, I watched the movie The Sessions. I highly recommend it. It’s been so long since I’ve watched a movie that made me feel something and made me actually care for the people in the story.

This episode of The Bachelor is the opposite of that feeling.

Lindssseyy’s house has a gun/spice rack. Her mom also vocal fries.

America.

Bland asks for Lindsey’s father’s permission to penetrate his property and *yawn*…story about paratrooping and I’ve gone deaf and sure, here’s your blessing and my lack of caring is like that time I went paratrooping.

There’s an hour left.

Fuck.

I would like your blessing to not watch the second hour.

Thanks for nothing.

Now we’re in Desiree’s sweet hick hometown of LA.

They meet each other in spandex because. . . LA.

Time to meet the fam. An ex-boyfriend shows up instead. He declares his love. “I’ve texted you,” he facebooks. And it feels…LA. Not like this guy is trying to break into acting and shows up at an opportune moment to get his ass-face on TV or anything.

I think I’m going to bed.

But then I will miss why I titled this post the way I did.

Oh it’s a joke. And it’s funny?

No.

Her family shows up. Her mother seems high. Desiree’s brother Nate is the one who sayeth: “This is, like, stupid almost.”

Wrong, bro. It’s, like, all stupid.

Fifty Shades of Bastardarized Boredom

My prayers have been answered.

Remember when I finished Fifty Sharts of Grey Goop and I declared “Holy twat-twizzler! Will someone please–pretty please with a butt plug on top–write some more words about an abusive douche and an empty space who murmurly sticks things in each other’s holes?”

Well Chrisward and Bellana are back! This time in the incarnation of Bennett Ryan and Chloe Mills. He’s a vampire billionaire media executive with a marbled sparkling body and flashing topaz grey hazel eyes. She’s the pfftt sound that comes from a whoopie cushion expelling actual gas.

And they bang. Their genitals. Into each other.

The book is called Beautiful Bastard.

That is a good title. And by good, I mean beat me in the face with a wire brush.

Two women are to blame for this current celebration of an abusive dickface. Remember how in the Declaration of Sentiments, Lucretia Mott had wanted to write:

Resolved, That woman should become wet and horny from being infantilized and humilated by a gorgeous rumproast man.

And Elizabeth Cady Stanton was all like “Bitch, please. That goes against the very nature of women rights.”

And Lucretia Mott was all like “Just you wait Lizzie. Women are gonna be down with this shit because the world is fucking ending.”

Lucy was right.

So I slogged through the first chapter.

Here’s the thing: My gall bladder has stopped working.

I blame Fifty Fart Nuggets. It turned my entire body into one giant vat of bile, and my little ol’ gall bladder couldn’t take it and has decided to secede from the sinking ship (I know I’m mixing metaphors, but I just fucking read chapter one of Beautiful Bastard).

So Benchrisward is a beautiful man, but has the personality of Newt Gingrich on his period. Chloebellana is his toiling intern who is not physically described. There is a lot of clenching jaws and stomach muscles. There’s wetness monitoring. There are flashing eyes and murmuring bungholes.

Then they boink in the conference room because…spahettios have meatballs, I honestly have no idea.

You can torture yourself here.

I checked on Amazon and it looks like the sequel is coming out in a few months. I’m sure it will be wonderful.

Lucretia Mott would be so proud.

NaBloWriMo Coming to a Clo

Sweet Jesus on a Pringle! The end of November is near and soon endeth my indenture servitude to the 30-post-a-day blog challenge.

Three posts remain. What will they be about?

Seriously, I’m asking you, what will they be about?

That’s right, the last three posts will be chosen by you, the reader!

I was toying around with some ideas:

  • Pecan Sandies – Who the fuck eats these?
  • People Magazine wraps up the top stories of 2012 even though there’s still more than a month left to the year
  • My best spam emails
  • Gigantic greeting cards
  • What Hugo is looking for in a woman and/or puppet
  • The best Speaker7 post you never read from the time she had 9 followers
  • something about that thing

As you can see, I’m struggling. That’s where you come in.

You will vote for the post you would like to read.

Full disclosure: I do not want to write about pecan sandies. I really don’t know why anyone eats them. At my former workplace, we would take turns buying treats for the office, and my boss would buy these, and it was the equivalent of giving a kid Mary Janes for Halloween. And that’s pretty much all I have to say on the matter.

If you vote for other that means you want to read something other than the shit ideas I’ve been toying with. Leave your suggestions in the comments, please.

And so the endeth begineth.

Con-sul-ta-tion

con·sul·ta·tion/ˌkänsəlˈtāSHən/

noun:

1.) The action or process of formally consulting or discussing

2.) A meeting with an expert or professional, such as a medical doctor, in order to seek advice

Did you know that a tonsillectomy entails removing one’s tonsils?

Shocking, yes?

This is what I learned yesterday from my pre-operative consultation.

The question I had asked after the nurse practitioner tried to speedily push me out the door in order to get to happy hour at a reasonable time was: So what is going to happen in the surgery?

“You’ll get your tonsils taken out,” she replied.

Um…knew that. Let me rephrase: How the fucking hell is it going to be done? Pliers? Hedge clippers? The Expelliarmus charm from Harry Potter?

“Oh…I don’t know. I’ve never witnessed a tonsillectomy before, but he’s a really good surgeon.”

Well then, I am filled with relief. He will be using the good-surgeon method as opposed to the shit-surgeon one. Phew! Big weight off my even bigger tonsils. Wait, I’m sorry, aren’t you leading my consultation about my tonsillectomy? Shouldn’t you have a basic understanding how such a surgery is performed? Can you at least tell me how long it will take?

“Oh…well, they’ll call you into a room. There’s paperwork to fill out. You’ll have anesthesia. I’m guessing…hmm…90 minutes?”

So is this guess being pulled directly out of your ass or thin air? The distinction is important to me for some reason because otherwise my brain will blow apart into little pieces. Maybe you would like to see that so you can tell future patients what that looks like.

“If that’s all…”

Hold up, hold up…um how long will it take to recover?

“A week.”

Okay, well I read on some blogs written by people who had this saying the first couple of days aren’t so bad, it’s really fifth–

“Tenth,” she interrupts. “Tenth day’s usually hard. You’ll be fine.”

You just said I would recover in a week. Although I feel completely insane, I’m pretty sure there are still only seven days in a week.

“Oh, you are right! Anyway, I don’t want to keep you. You’ll do great.”

Wait..wait…wait. I’m getting anesthesia so is there any time I should stop eating?

“Oh yeah. Yeah, that’s right. Don’t eat after midnight.”

Because I’ll turn into a Gremlin? This might have been something to have told me during our consultation not in this five-second frenzy of quick questioning as you stick one leg out the door.

Here was the consultation:

“You’ll need pain medication, but don’t worry, it’s liquid.”

“You can have milkshakes after the surgery. Vanilla not chocolate.”

“He’s a good surgeon.”

She did listen to my heart.

“Wow. It’s pitter-pattering like a little humming bird.”

No shit.

Casting Ana Steele

Who will play Ana Steele in the upcoming Fifty Shades of Grey movie?

This is a very powerful role. Ana is the most beguiling, charming, strong, intelligent, and ambitious woman on the planet.

Wait…what the fuck did I just write? (Thanks Le Clown for freeing me)

Christian Grey says those adjectives a bajillion times in the trilogy, but in no instances do we ever see these qualities in Miss Steele. (To read my recraps, click here) Instead we know that Ana is always “wet and ready” and she can come on Christian’s command, and she reads, and she is a brunette, and, she thinks “Holy crap” ad infinitum, and she judges other women, and she thinks Christian only likes her because he’s “fifty shades fucked up” and she sometimes walks around with vaginal balls in her “down there.”

A couple of names have been tossed about. (For Christian casting, click here) I believe they are all Emma or Emily, and I believe they have last names that distinguish them. But frankly, they will never do the part justice.*

*Full disclosure: I searched for Ana Steele casting on the Internetz and I fell asleep so I’m making most of this up.

Ana responds to commands and Scooby snacks quite well. It makes one surmise that maybe this actress should take the part:

You are right, Lassie. You actually save people–and not with your magical dog vagina.

A dog is a good choice, but perhaps one that is more slobbery and dum. Like Odie from the comic Garfield. Odie continually gets kicked off the table by Garfield, but always comes back for more.

Sorry Odie, no offense.

Maybe the ideal candidate is one that is not actually life-like, but truly encompasses the essences of Anabella Steele.

Here are my top five picks

5. A wet piece of bread.

What can one do with a wet piece of bread? Nothing.

Totally nailed it.

4.  A pair of holey underwear.

Many times, Christian pokes his fingers through Ana’s underwear and they disintegrate (the underwear, not his fingers). This seems like ideal casting. The underwear is partially gone. It chaffs one’s ass. It’s annoying as lasagna-eating cat. It has no value.

Bingo.

3. A used tissue

Yup.

2. The watery stuff that shoots out of the ketchup bottle that makes one curse because it’s gross and who the fuck wants that slimy shit on one’s hamburger.

I call this Ketchup Spooge. The same thing I call Ana Steele.

1. E.L. James

Yes, Dr. Frankenstein, you have created a monster. A monster you should play. A monster, I think, you want to play. Have at it, you gajillionaire hack.

Next up: brain transplants.

A Pad of Sad

Holy chlamydia!

Tomorrow we will discover which couple wins Bachelor Pad 3, but can one ever really be a winner on Bachelor Pad? (Answer: no)

I’ve realized I’ve shirked my responsibility of offering up a timely recrap of the previous episode and you’ve likely thrown my immunity rose into a paper shredder, but I want you to know that the connections we made and this journey we’ve gone on has been the most amazing experience of my life™.

Four couples remain as we open on a shot of a groundskeeper spraying disinfectant on a puddle of spooge by the pool. I don’t know if this really happened–it’s been awhile since I watched this–but it feels right.

Chris B. has survived another round, and is giving an inspiring pep talk to the remaining contestants who all hate him.

Partners drunkenly ramble to each other about “stepping up our game” and “needing to be on the same page” and “is there any more vodka? I’d like to chug some through my anus?”

Host Chris Harrison shows up and platitudes nonsense about their amazing journey without realizing I trademarked that phrase. He will be hearing from my sock puppet lawyer Hank. In the next competition, the winning couple will not receive immunity roses, but will have “a lot of power in their hands,” Chris Harrison lames. I’m wondering if they will receive the key to the liquor cabinet.

The four couples head outside and see four seats suspended over the pool. One partner sits on the seat while the other partner answers questions about Bachelor Pad 3. Every time the partner answers a question wrong, a rope holding up the seat will be cut. At some point the partner will lose the seat entirely and will have to hang on an overhead bar until his/her arm strength gives.

It’s as boring as it sounds.

Chris B. and Sarah win. They get to choose which couple will leave Bachelor Pad 3 immediately. Couples are given a chance to state their case, and Tony actually says he’s on the show to make his son proud of him. Oh vey.

Chris B. clearly enjoys his moment in the sun, and decides to bitch at all the people who have been meanie mean-means to him.

He chooses Blakely, his former partner, and Tony to go home. They weep with the intensity of someone about to be sent off to battle and climb into the limo of despair.

The three remaining couples are not even given a second to do the 10th jager bomb before they are summoned to the next challenge that will decide which two couples will head to the finale.

The limo pulls up to a theater. They see their names on the marquee. The saddest crowd of “fans” has gathered to greet them. I swear I’ve seen more people at a city council meeting on sewage. But the padders take it in stride and pretend they are actually celebrities.

In the theater, a bunch of old guys in wigs are playing instruments. It turns out it’s Knight Ranger. They launch into their seminal song “Sister Christian” while the contestants look drunkenly bewildered. It just shows that fame is a fleeting bitch, man. You’re on the top of the world in the 1980s, doing coke off a number of willing backsides. And then 30 years pass, and you’re performing for barely functioning reality TV contestants.

Each couple will perform the song “Sister Christian.” Knight Ranger will be the judges, and choose one couple as the winner. Each couple is given a vocal coach somehow connected to the show Glee, and 24 hours to practice. The practice session takes up the majority of the two hours. They are all predictably terrible.

Performance time. Rachel and Nick are first, and they’re terrible. They receive a standing ovation from the judges for some reason. The next group is Ed and Jaclyn, and they forget the words and keep asking for “do-overs” in drunken slurs. They then start dry humping.

Sarah and Chris B. are last. They are terrible, but know the lyrics. Sarah runs around the stage and then starts thrusting against the floor as if she were trying to thrust the last remaining dignity out of her body. The judges seem to dig it.

The judges pick Nick and Rachel for sucking the least so they will be heading to the finals. Sarah wins honorable mention for providing new mastubatory material for the judges. Nick and Rachel get to decide which couple will join them at the finale. Jaclyn says Rachel is her best friend so she knows she’s golden. Oh Jaclyn. Haven’t you ever read Aesop?Never count your genital sores before they hatch.

Nick convinces Rachel to pick Sarah and Chris B. since all the other contestants will vote on which couple will receive the $250,000. Everyone hates them, Nick reasons, so that will guarantee he and Rachel win.

At the final rose ceremony, Rachel breaks the bad news to her bestie. Jaclyn is pissed.

In the limo of sad, Jaclyn declares Rachel dead to her.

And that’s it. Aren’t you excited about the finale? Yeah, I’m not either.

Fifty Shades Buzzed (Fifty Shades Freed: pgs. 401-450)

Okay, gentle reader. I begin this recrap with a couple caveats. (For more recraps, click here)

First, I don’t know what caveat means.

Second, I’ve drunk two glasses of wine and am seriously considering a third because I am reading pages 401-450 of Fifty Shades Freak after all so the likelihood that this will be coherent is as likely as E.L. James writing an interesting book with non-butt pluggish main characters.

We begin with Ana curled up in Christian’s lap while he sends emails.

Just go with it. I feel it looks “artsy.”

Detective Clark wants to interview Ana about that fucker Hyde, Christian mutters through his clenched peen.

Detective Clark shows up. Ana blushes when she sits down on the hotel couch covered in her vaginal fluid. Clark tells Ana that Hyde said she sexually harassed him, and she told lies to get his job. He also said you were a stinky face and had cooties, Clark continues. Ana continually gives Christian charley horses throughout the interview to prevent him from beating Clark about the face with his testicles. After, Ana says Christian is very “sweary” and I’m very tired. More wine, garson!

Contrivance Ray is moved to a rehabilitation center in Seattle. Ana shows up to be weird and call him “Daddy” which he says he likes and…yeesh. While she leaves, she hears her name being called. It’s Dr. Greene, the roaming gynecologist. Ana’s missed four appointments and like Dr. Greene does with all patients, she’s tracking Ana down to say “Whas up, yo?” Ana’s scalp prickles so we know nothing good is coming. Dr. Greene just miraculously can do a pregnancy test even though I have to call 4 months in advance to schedule my regular check up, but I don’t have a Cadillac vagina. Ana’s preggers.

What? No. No. No. Fuck.  I’m imagining these are the thoughts of the fetus upon realizing the identity of its parents. Or it could Ana. E.L. James has purposely left it vague. Or she sucks as a writer.

Dr. Greene, of course, has time for an ultrasound. Why not? Does Ana want a vaginal facelift too?

“‘If you’ll just slip off your skirt, underwear, and cover yourself with the blanket on the table, we’ll go from there,’ she says briskly.

Underwear? I know, weird right? I always wear 10 layers of underwear during my gynecological visits. Don’t trust her Ana!

Ana’s worried about Christian’s reaction. “I’m fat and awkward, heavy with child. He paces the the long hall of mirrors, away from me, the sound of his footsteps echoing off the silvered glass, walls, and floor. Christian. . . “

Ana goes back to work. There are emails.

Christian collects her like Star Wars action figure later that night. She is wary. Christian demands to know why she is not as wet as normal. She also hasn’t eaten. “‘Do you want me to add ‘feed my wife’ to the security details list of duties?'” Christian bores.

They visit Ray. Christian and Ray talk about baseball, fishing and ejaculation–men topics. Ana says she’ll see him tomorrow That’s provided Christian hasn’t locked you away . . . or worse. Wha? I mean, I’m drunk, but even in inebriation I can tell that’s fifty shades of fucked up. Oh my god, do you see what I did there? I don’t either.

Ana finally confesses to the pregnancy, and Christian acts like a Newt Gingrich would about his 10th mistress. He snarls, his brow furrows, he says “fuck”, he closes his eyes, he has an anger force field, his “eyes burn so many emotions.” Then he leaves.

He comes back drunk. He sniffs her hair. He calls the baby an invader. Ana’s scalp prickles and she uncovers that he’s been with Elena, Mrs. Robinson, when she sees a text from her.

Yup.

So he’s a dick and she’s a wet piece of toast for 12 or so pages. Then we get the 125th plot twist of stupid. Jack Frost has Mia. Ana’s scalp prickles with ridiculousness because even her scalp is like “The fuck?”

So the “prick-teasing” gold-digging whore” has to pay some ransom or Mia bites it. Let’s not remember that Hyde was remanded with no bail because boo.

Jack wants $5 million, vaginal ball. No one can know or he will kill Mia and yawn…no more wine. I can’t drink anymore. That is the serious tragedy here, people.

Ana has to evade her security team and I just don’t want to read anymore, but what a vag-tastic (™sweetmother) plot twist.

What do you think will happen next?

Fifty New Plot Twists (Fifty Shades Freed: pgs. 351-400)

I have dreams, gentle reader.

My dream was to finish the literary anal fissure that is Fifty Shades Freed before my return to work on Tuesday.

But alas, this dream is dead as so many have gone before it. Why did this happen?

Because this book is too long and my brain is too worn-out like an overused vaginal ball. (For previous recraps, click here)

But let’s carry on because I will have to watch my child at some point. I know Hugo and Goofy are anxious to continue, right guys?

That’s the spirit.

For three sentences, things seem sunshiny in Ana Steele Grey’s narrow world of stupid. But then holy crap plot twist, fifty shaders, Ana receives a call from José’s  father that her stepdad Ray was in a car accident and lying in a coma of contrivance.

Ana does a few things that are pretty amazing in the sense that they are impossible. First she can’t reach Christian so she groans silently with frustration. How does one groan silently exactly? Then she “keens quietly” in the backseat. What will she do next? Scream peacefully? Hiccup voluntarily?

Christian finally calls and says he will have to meet her at the hospital because he’s hammering out some made-up business deal with the Taiwanese. Why do I know nothing about this? Ana thinks trivially. Because the only hammering you care about, Ana, is the peen kind.

She arrives at the hospital, and mutterly screams in her head about the last time she was in the ER for twisting her ankle.  She shudders at that memory. Yes, that seems really awful. I’m sure the guy in the ER who’d been stabbed multiple times really felt for you.

She asks for Ray Steele, and the nurse says let me check Miss Steele. “I nod, not bothering to correct her.” Wow, what an asshole to even have this thought. Ray’s lucky you’re here, Ana.

She sees José and Mr. Rodriguez, also named José (very inventive, E.L.), in the waiting room. José Senior said the car they were driving in was hit by a drunk driver. Christian arrives, and his face darkens when he sees José holding Ana’s hand. Oh for fuck’s sake.

He’s all up in her bizness about eating. The doctor arrives. “All the blood disappears from my head as I stumble to my feet” Ana dumb thinks. This actually explains quite a bit about Ana. And then she thinks this gem: “Under any other circumstances, I would have found the doctor attractive.” The doctor addresses her as Miss Steele. Mrs. Grey, Christian corrects because his penis is enraged.

The Josés leave, and Ana sits on Christian’s lap in the waiting room. Hmmm…that seems normal.

Ray’s out of surgery so Ana and Christian go see him. The nurse predictably gets wet at the sight of Christian Grey’s stupid face, and Ana has the generous thought of “Incongrously I’m thinking blonde is not her true color.” Can the drunk driver just crash through the hospital room now?

They check in at the Heathman, the setting of their first twisted encounter. Christian’s shaken because he normally sees Ana as brave and strong. Really? When? I want some muther fucking page numbers, y’all.  Because I’ve never seen it, and I’ve read over 1,300 pages of this twat rot. Oh dear christ…I’m going to go jump off a building.

The next day is Ana’s birthday. She is 3 in dog years. Christian gives her a charm bracelet, and I shit you not, one of the charms is an ice cream cone, a shout-out to the ice-cream-in-the-vag bacterial nightmare. She later thinks “Ben & Jerry’s & Ana” and I gouge my eyes out with blowtorch. He also buys her a sports car, and I’m keeping my fingers crossed that the brake line will be severed.

They reenact some of their finest Heathman moments. She uses his toothbrush. Gack.  She reminisces how she was just a 21-year-old butt plug then and now she is a 22-year-old prostate massager. She toots “I’m getting old.” Fuck you.

In the infamous elevator of tongue-jamming, the duo get all hot and bothered and jam tongues again.

After visiting with Ray, Ana meets Christian in the waiting room. He looks angry and is speaking a completely implausible one-sided phone conversation.

They go to lunch. Ana suggests the restaurant where they got back together in Fifty Shades Darker. “Do you think that supercilious fucker is still waiting tables?” Christian asks. God I hope he spit in your food.

They get ready for dinner and get on the elevator with two other women. The sight of Christian Grey causes the women to lose all their vaginal fluids. They also hate Ana. Yes ladies, he’s mine. Fuck fuck. That’s all I have just fuck fuck.

Christian has arranged a surprise birthday party.

At the hospital again, the staff encourages Ana to talk to Ray about her life to get him to snap out of his coma.

With Ray awake, Ana finally feels like really doing it, and yuck connection. She’s so turned on she even thinks Why are his feet so hot? Christian ties her to the sofa, and orders her to feel herself up. He bellows “Come on Ana!” and she does on cue.

And that’s where I leave you, fifty shader. Incongruously, I’m thinking this book is shitballs.