Rose's Cantina

In the end, I couldn't finish it. For the past two weeks, I've tried -- in the interest of blog journalism -- to slog through Filthy Shades of Grey. At one point, I thought there was something wrong with me. Perhaps it was time to get my hormones checked. Fact is, I didn't find anything remotely erotic about the damned book. It's like E.L. James went to the library and checked out Letters to Penthouse and cribbed the worst parts. There was nothing titillating about the descriptions. It was just stupid. And mildly alarming. This kind of sexual guidance is likely to get a girl raped. Or worse. What kind of young woman would ever fall for a guy like this, trust him before knowing him, allow him to do all manner of shit to her and beg for more? No woman I have ever met. Police arrest guys like this. The suits in Hollywood made a television show. It was called Law and Order: Special Victims Unit. It's puzzling to me why women read this drivel. I only rea...

"Anastasia," he drools. "Your helicopter is ready." Those words make me horny. I bite my bottom lip, an action I repeat for dramatic effect. I know it drives my host crazy and gives him a party in his pants. I climb into the seat beside his hirsute-chested loveliness and blush over and over again as he expertly fits my seatbelt and hear muffs. "We'll get to my lair soon, but first we have to make a short stop," he explains darkly, running his fingers through his tussled hair. I had to suppress a squeal. Within minutes we were setting down on a rural highway, the scene of a horrific accident. A paramedic opens the cabin door and nearly surprises me out of my jeans. Several others spring out the door. "What's going on?" I quiz the man who will soon be my first lover. "Oh, I own ORNGE helicopters -- that's how I made my billions cheating the government -- and we need to make this pitstop to pick up a couple of patients....