twatsausage

Fifty Shades Freed: The Twatsausage edition (pgs. 151-200)

Ah twatsausage.

Does that sum up pages 151 to 200 of Fifty Shades Freed? Because it should. It’s a sheep-intestine casing stuffed entirely with pig anuses, chicken bladders and rat feces, and although it is served with fried peppers and onions, it still tastes like the worst book ever written.

(For previous segments of twatsausage, click here)

Let’s carry on.

Ana’s still pissy about the name change conversation. She pouts in the car on the way home. She notes Christian has “floppy sex hair.” Oh my god, I can’t even… She mutters he needs a haircut and stomps onto the elevator.

Why you mad baby? Christian mutter croons. Because I gave in to your demands like I do every time only this time I’m going to stay upset until you stick your fingers inside me and order me to come on command, Ana says. She downs a glass of wine.

“‘Don’t be mad. You’re so precious to me. Like a priceless asset, like a child,’ he whispers, a somber reverent expression on his face.”

Instead of saying WTF did you just call me? I’m either a thing or a baby? You are a sick motherfucker, Ana gets distracted by the words “precious” and “like a child” and thinks Christian is up for making a baby. I just split my head open with an ax.

They need to stop talking because Gia, the whore architect, is stopping by with her whorish designs for their new house. Christian says if she’s still mad, she can take it out on him in bed. What? Bed? How? Ana dumb-thinks. Here is my suggestion: smother him to death with a pillow made out of butt plugs.

She prepares for Gia’s visit. Her inner goddess gets out her harlot-red nail polish. I don’t believe Gia can see that, but okay. You go grrll and other meaningless platitudes. Ana plops her boobs out of her shirt, puts on lots of mascara and brushes her hair vigorously so it’s a “chestnut haze” around her head. It doesn’t say, but I’m guessing Ana also dropped some acid.

She meets Christian in the “great room” (great description E.L. James. Is the “little room” next door?). Gia shows up. She yowls and rubs her lady bits against the couch and pees outside the litter box. Ana sprays her with a squirt bottle, and loops her arm around Christian’s waist, giving his ass a squeeze.

There is some stupidness about Ana feeling she and Christian are on a team versus Gia and her exposed perineum. Ana’s inner goddess even gets in on the action, donning a gladiatrix outfit. If only Gia were an actual lion and ate them. While Ana’s getting Gia a glass of dry white wine–Shit! Sauvignon blanc–that’s dry white, isn’t it? Ana dumbs–Gia touches Christian’s arm. GASP! Christian flinches because childhood trauma, and Ana pretends she doesn’t like Gia because she makes Christian uncomfortable rather than because Ana hates the entirety of womenkind.

Christian’s henchman Taylor needs Christian for some urgent made-up business, leaving Ana alone to have some words with Gia over her “eye-fucking” Christian. She is so empowered. Keep your hands off my man, ho, Ana waves her finger in Gia’s face. She throws a chair and is restrained by Steve, the big burly security guard on The Jerry Springer Show. Gia begins stuttering and floundering and yeesh. Ana relaxes for the first time, and My inner goddess is celebrating her inner bitch.

Insert sound of record scratch.

I’m sorry. . . her what, now? Ana’s inner goddess has an inner thingy too? It’s like Ana’s a Russian nesting doll.

This…I… uh..I…yeah, okay I’m done.

Oh Jesus, you guys are broken. I’m so so sorry. We just have a few pages left. I’ll take it from here.

Christian leaves for New York. Ana plans to go out with Kate although she feels a piece of her is missing. Yes that would his dong constantly in your vag. He calls to say he got in okay, and wonders what she will be doing with Kate. He wants her to stay at the apartment chained to the radiator. Please let (!) me go out! Ana dumb-thinks. He says “No. Finish your homework and no watching TV after 7 p.m.” She acquiesces because she sucks.

Stay tuned for the next helping of twatsausage.