Mommy-porn aficionados the world over have been desperately trying to convince the rest of us that Fifty Shades of Grey and its sequels are great literature.

Oh really? Try telling me that after listening to Gilbert Gottfried narrate a passage from the first book:

Ye cats.

I ran across this while I was drinking my morning coffee at work; next thing I knew, I had to wipe coffee stains off my monitor and was getting some very odd looks from my colleagues, who probably wondered whether I was having some sort of seizure.

On a related note- I met an old friend for a few drinks in London last year and, during the course of imbibing said drinks, the subject of this appalling turd of a “trilogy” came up. She confessed that she had indeed read the books- couldn’t stop turning the pages under the covers, apparently, and I think we’re all adult enough to know what that means- and even she admitted, openly, that the book was awful.

These books, and the legions of imitators that they have inspired, are a stain upon the literary output of Mankind. The kind of stain that you need industrial-grade disinfectants and solvents to get out. They’re not even half as creative and interesting as old-school smut like Fanny Hill, which at least was both funny and linguistically interesting. This is just… smut for the sake of smut.

Oh well. At least now we can all stop pretending that women are more pure and chaste and virginal in their thoughts than men. In fact, women are even more dirty-minded than we blokes are- they just hide it better.