I know I'm wading into the shit here. Every scuzzwad "blogger" with two fingers and a ride to Kinko's is scraping together the 80-120 words they know to slap out a post about this limp li'l trailer for a book that stopped being any fun to make jokes about in 2004, seven years before it even came out (disinterest keeps me from Googling when Fifty Shades actually came out). You know those timelapse videos of the rabbit corpse that bloats, collapses, and swarms with maggots? Trailer bloggers are those maggots, but with SEO.
Me, though, I've got the soul of an entrepreneur. While the puppies yap around your ankles desperate for traffic and a headscratch, I'm running with the big dogs with elk blood on my muzzle, because this carnivorous motherfucker is the only one with the billiards-worth of balls to bring you a write-up of the Fifty Shades trailer with real goddamn shades.
AW, YEAH
AW, FUCK YEAH.
IT'S TOO! TOO! TOO COOL FOR SCHOOL!
WOWIE-ZOWIE.
Look, okay, there's scraping the bottom of the barrel, and there's licking the residue the barrel scrapings left behind, and there's me, trying to slurp flavor off the tongue of the beautiful psychopath who's going around licking barrelbottoms. It's appropriate this trailer's based on a book, because it's got the dynamism and visual chops of a book trailer. You could slam back your cousin's entire Adderall prescription and still lose interest in this trailer before the pre-video ad's over. It's got the sizzle of a Dixie cup of stale coffee spilled on the linoleum floor of an optometrist's waiting room. The only jazz anywhere to be found here is a poster in the background of Johnny Hardbody's Fuck Elevator.
These two getting hot and heavy are just the blandest little blanket buddies, and their names are Anastasia Steele and Christian Grey, the sorts of name ordinarily reserved for secondary X-Men characters or amateur pornsters. She works for The Newspaper; he jogs while brooding hard enough to overcome the endorphins as he contemplates on his Glowerman's Deluxe Pleasure Chamber™, chock full of Castro leather and repurposed REI equipment. The joke, though, is that they're anything other than totally adorable and hairless and pale and slippery. Sure, they're goofing each other with riding crops and, I don't know, yardsticks, but Christ, look at them. These two fucking seems about as dangerous as a wine glass on a Tempurpedic.
We never see them fuck here, but you can so readily imagine what these two fucking is like. These two fucking sounds like popping a Snapple cap. These two fucking sounds like an underfilled water balloon bouncing off a windshield. These two fucking sounds like playing "Blurred Lines" through iPhone speakers under a duvet. These two fucking looks like the instructions for an IKEA TV stand. These two fucking looks like ravioli at a rolling boil. These two fucking looks like a golf clap. These two fucking sounds like someone licking batter off the beater. These two fucking smells like expired Febreze in a hot Honda. These two fucking looks like a girlfriend named Peg side-by-side comparing drapes. These two fucking looks like cream Converse in a dryer. These two fucking looks like footage from a GoPro in a butter churn. These two fucking looks like someone dropping a pouch of gel pens. These two fucking looks like folding an air mattress. These two fucking smells like a turkey burger in the microwave. These two fucking sounds like, "Is Pepsi okay?"
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Every time these two fuck, a Carleigh gets her learner's permit. Every time these two fuck, a participation ribbon is clipped to a minifridge. Every time these two fuck, a BlackBerry Torch falls into a glass of Fresca. Every time these two fuck, someone says "spritzer." That's probably their safe word, "spritzer." Every time these two fuck, Dave Grohl hiccups. Every time these two fuck, someone pockets a bottle of hotel conditioner. Every time these two fuck, someone forgets to add the cheese packet to Kraft macaroni. Every time these two fuck, a bead store opens across the street from another bead store. Every time these two fuck, a Connect Four game ends in a tie. Every time these two fuck, a wolf is systematically inbred over thousands of years to produce a dachshund whose belly scrapes the sidewalk because its legs are just too short. Every time these two fuck, you wake up in your childhood bed.
Anyway, there's a Beyoncé song in there too. You like her.
TWO STARS DUE TO FUCK YOU "I'M INCAPABLE OF LEAVING YOU ALONE" HIRE A GODDAMN THERAPIST YOU LOADED MARGARINE BOY, YOU STRETCH ARMSTRONG LOOKING MOTHERFUCKER. LORD.
(by Dan Abromowitz, images by Cole Mitchell)