13 Feb Why We WON’T Like to See Mr. Grey now.



JUAN SAYS: We gasped like a hundred times. Oh-oh, oh-oh, oh no no. WTF!


The Disneyfication of Sex

a.k.a. the large, hard, rigid,

in your face evidence

that the world is going to hell


by Olan Dy

This week is a dark period in celluloid history. It will be a critical moment in time, one that will define whether or not humans are truly intelligent beings or not. Whether we know the consequences of our actions, can make rational decisions, are really in control of our senses. We, as a race, will be eternally judged from what will happen this week – this will forever be in the anals of history as a turning point in society.
Because this week, “Fifty Shades of Grey” is showing in the cinemas. And the world will be divided into Brainless Morons vs Intelligent Life Form just based on who watched the movie or not. (and please, don’t try to explain that you didn’t watch it “voluntarily” or watched it purely to accompany somebody who was “insistent”.)
I don’t proclaim to be the world’s best film critic, I just like what I like, even if the movie isn’t mainstream ‘liked,’ accepted, or known. I don’t pretend to be an art film aficionado that only likes fifty shades of black and white, depressing Ingmar Bergman films. I like to be entertained, just like anybody else. Two hours in the movie house is a good escape from the harsh realities of life like work, money woes, unresolved issues, relationship issues, no-relationship issues, let’s-just-go-off-the-cliff-Thelma-and-Louise-to-hell-with-it days.
In fact, I’m a big fan of brainless B-zombie movies. Bring on the gore, the sexy but dumb blonde, the token black guy, the predictable plot, the mechanical acting, the gallons of fake blood– watching B-movies make you feel like you’re the king of the world because the characters are normally dumber than a pile of bricks. Nothing beats the fine satisfaction you get from screaming “run you idiot!” to a passive screen. The zombies are walking at a pace of 0.05 kilometers per hour, it’s your own damn fault you got yourself chomped and eaten. Somehow, you get your laughs, chills, thrills and ego boost watching stupid movies because they’re just plain brainless entertainment.
It’s like watching Nancy Binay in the Senate. Your entertainment is watching the incompetent pretend they have a singular, relatively “smart” thought. (Sorry, it didn’t work. The aliens from outer space aren’t coming yet because you, Nancy Binay, are proof that humans aren’t yet fully evolved intelligent beings. Thank goodness Miriam Defensor Santiago is there to bring up the average IQ in the Senate otherwise the aliens would have thought us to still be cavemen.)
So while I do admit to loving movies that would pander to my baser emotions and need to feel superior, that doesn’t mean that all bad movies are okay to watch. Fifty Shades of Grey falls into the “so-bad-that-you-will-never-wash-the-stink-off-you-as-the-stigma-of-this-turd-fest-will-haunt-you-and-your-little-remaining-brain-cells-for-the-rest-of-your-life” category. It’s like taking ecstasy pills. Watching this movie may give you some momentary pleasure and escape but it’s like scooping out chunks of your brain in the process and you end up a drooling idiot at the end just because you watched it. You are what you eat. You are what you read. You are also what you watch. You voluntarily watched this piece of crap, you might as well flush your credibility in the toilet. From this moment of time, “Did you watch Fifty Shades of Grey?” will be part of my set interview questions to job candidates and it will be a valid test of their intelligence, judgment, taste, culture, and breeding in one succinct question.
And before you think I don’t like the movie just because I’m a closet prude with a nun outfit and massive broomstick up my ass, it’s not because of the supposedly copious and graphic sex in the movie. I’m hell bent on judging people who watch this movie because if you want to watch sex, make sure it’s bloody good sex. If you want to dabble in BDSM, make sure you do it correctly dammit (and my glorious outer goddess editor-in-chief rises from her non-frilly throne and gives me a standing ovation right about now) and not take your cues from this Disneyfied version of BDSM. There are countless sexy movies to take your BDSM whipping cues from. If you truly want to learn from a Master, go find the best one that has class and taste, you would want that boot pressing down on you to be a stylish one. I’m puritanical in my quest of kink authenticity in the bedroom – not this disgusting, vapid, bored housewife version of erotica. It doesn’t even deserve to call itself a literary body of work. It was copy paste, endless repetition, mindless slapped together unimaginative sex scenes that only titillate the bored or stupid (and my glorious outer goddess editor-in-chief is now slowly smoking a Cuban relishing the sultry, naked truth).
The BDSM community is appalled at the book and movie and it takes a lot to mortify these people. I cringe every time some schmuck comes up to me and asks to be my Master, thinking he’s being sexy. Get out of the adult BDSM playroom when you don’t know what the hell you’re doing – the nursery and babysitters that will slap your over rated, not at all sexy tushie are over there at the pedestrian sex romp room.
Speaking with great authority here as someone who worked for several years in the book business, there are thousands of great erotica and sexy novels in the world, so many anals to peruse, so much depth to plumb and delve into that you can sink endlessly into unfathomable pleasure beyond your wildest dreams just through caressing the pages of a truly well written erotic book. Your imagination will go wild, your privates will get wet, you’ll be incredibly stimulated and horny that relief cannot come quick enough. You’ll want to hump the nearest object just to find a sexual outlet because the writing was so good that you want to f**k the brains out of anything you can get a hold of – human, animal, vegetable. (except Nancy Binay, that’s like doing a bland, hard, brown rock.)
Fifty Shades of Grey is toilet paper and the worst piece of garbage to have ever been published. The writer and editor will go to a special place in hell for having unleashed this junk on the world, wasting perfectly good paper, and creating such a misconception of BDSM and what is good sex. Hopefully this would be a hell where they would have to read the book over and over again for eternity, or maybe one where they always have to bite their lower lips and have their inner goddess nag them forever.
As for the publishers and film producers, they have a different hell as they obviously corrupted their souls to get the filthy money this piece of shit writing will give them from the masses who don’t know better BDSM sex if it whipped them across their buttocks. Maybe they’ll get stuck in a bleak hell version of Fifty Shades of Grey movie, Ingmar Bergman Swedish film style where they’re naked and severely bound human chess pieces slowly going insane and Death was wearing a black leather bondage suit and brandishing the largest metal studded enema in the world.
Now THAT’S a Fifty Shades of Grey movie that I will watch.

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