I Have a New Target Audience, and It Is Sad and Celibate People Who Miss Sex Things

I haven't read any of the 50 Shades of Grey books. Or seen the movie. I'm not a prude. I'm just offended by bad writing.

Snoopy gets a pass. E.L. James, not so much.

But I did just read this BuzzFeed post by a guy who live-tweeted the newest book, which apparently is exactly the same freaking story from the guy's point of view. Which is a thing the world needed? Anyway, his post is as hilarious as the excerpts he put up are cringeworthy.

And this E.L. James person is now a millionaire for writing this crap?

And people wonder why writers kill themselves.

I can totally write my own version of 50 Shades of Grey and its various sequels.

Are you ready to make me a freaking millionaire?

Let's do this. (NSFW coming up)

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Huh-huh-huh, let's fuck, baby.

Tee-hee, I'm not ready.

I stuck my cock in her mystical womanly canyon of pleasure, aka her vagina.

Then I, like, moved it in and out because sex.

I came. She came. We came.

Metaphor about oil or earthquakes or freight trains or some shit.

She's like all sweaty but I tell her she's hot. She thinks I'm a bastard but fucks me some more.

She meets my parents and we fuck.

I have angst and we fuck.

We fuck.

For 200-some pages, we think about fucking, talk about fucking, fuck, then talk about the fucking we did and possibly the fucking we will do again.

We are sweaty and we have sex organs.

We rub them together because apparently we have no friends or hobbies.

Weird metaphor about sex here.

Brief thought about whether this is rape. Nah. More fucking, possibly in the presence of kitchen appliances.

The end, featuring no personal growth or resolution of conflict.

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I hope you are aroused and inspired to spend money on my line of sexy sex products as sold at major chain retailers near you.

Meanwhile, don't discuss current events or politics, because they are not poorly-written fiction about fucking.

Baaaaaaa.