E. Chas McSween's Blog, page 2

#253 – Fifty Shades of Grey

 ‘I had no idea giving pleasure could be such a turn-on, watching him writhe subtly with carnal longing. My inner goddess is doing the merengue with some salsa moves.’

Bylynda, curled up on the chaise lounge that she and Ben had just picked up from Gainsville for $5,000 interest free for 18 months*, quivered gently as E.L. James’ lucid, evocative prose coursed through her inner goddess.

While Ben sat in the study quietly fapped away on RedTube in the next room, Bylynda had her own moment of personal erotica.

‘His lips are parted – he’s waiting, coiled to strike. Desire – acute, liquid and smoldering (sic), combusts deep in my belly.’

This is fucked. Things Bogans Like is in no way a bastion of literary merit, and pretty much every human is guilty of slinging Dan Brown his 78c royalty at least once, but honestly DESIRE CANNOT BE LIQUID, SMOULDERING AND THEN COMBUSTIBLE. It simply can’t. Not even metaphorically.

Yet bogans the world over – millions of them – have somehow been convinced that some low rent, fairly inoffensive,  S&M fiction bearing the sentence construction of a 15 year-old LOTE student is worthy of two sequels and a reinvention of the femme-bogues’ concept of feminism.

‘”You’ve really got a taste for this, haven’t you, Miss Steele? You’re becoming insatiable,” he murmurs. “I’ve only got a taste for you,” I whisper.’

Did we mention that the protagonist’s name is Anastasia Steele? Because it is. It’s the Max Power of femme-bogue porn books.

Ms Steele is a barely-post-teen naïf who has never been with a man in any capacity (yet is somehow fully aware of how enormous her new beau’s cock is without need for comparison). Naturally, she is ‘caught in the web’ (without proof, it is certain this phrase exists either in the book or blurb) of Christian Grey, a ludicrously handsome 27 year-old millionaire who proceeds to tie her to various things and have tame, vaginal intercourse with her, during which she successfully climaxes every time, with stunning realism and exquisite prose.

‘I close my eyes, feeling the build up…pushing me higher, higher to the castle in the air.’

“CASTLE IN THE AIR”

‘Oh my…I didn’t know it would feel like this…didn’t know it could feel as good as this. My thoughts are scattering…there’s only sensation…only him…only me…on please…I stiffen.’

The she-bogan…is suddenly aware of…the existence of porn that can be…accessed in public…with…ellipses. Read on a train…at work…anywhere, really….all the while successfully raising the femme-bogue’s expectation…that her home-bogue will be…able to sustain his…mountainous erection for…long enough to bring her to climax…using…only his…knob…end and…terrible text.

‘Christian follows with two sharp thrusts, and he freezes, pouring himself into me as he finds his release.’

Christian can freeze and pour at the same time. This is impenetrable, hence deeply appealing to the bogan’s inner goddess.

‘My inner goddess is beside herself, hopping from foot to foot. Anticipation hangs heavy over my head like a dark tropical storm cloud. Butterflies flood my belly – as well as a darker, carnal, captivating ache as I try to imagine what he will do to me.’

…

‘That’s the bottom line. I want to be with him. My inner goddess sighs with relief. I reach the conclusion that she rarely uses her brain to think but another vital part of her anatomy, and at the moment, it’s a rather exposed part.’

…yes, that inner goddess.

‘We pick up the rhythm…up, down, up, down…over and over…and it feels so…good. Between my panting breaths, the deep down, brimming fullness…the vehement sensation pulsing through me that’s building quickly, I watch him, our eyes locked…and I see wonder there, wonder at me. My insides practically contort with potent, needy, liquid desire.’

The presence of so much liquid in this book is something of a reassurance to the bogan. Once it has accepted that it has a tenuous grasp on the concept of metaphor (need we remind you of the merengue at the top?), any metaphor becomes instantly salacious and literary.

 ‘”Look at me,” he breathes, and I stare up into his smoldering gray gaze. It is his Dom gaze – cold, hard, and sexy as hell, seven shades of sin in one enticing look.’

After serenading the bogan with E.L. James’ wondrous elicitation of forbidden poon tang, let us serenade you with the bogan literary review, overheard in a Melbourne workplace:

“I’ve been reading heaps lately, just finished 50 Shades of Grey”  

 “Yeah, that’s on my bookshelf”  

“Can’t wait for the next one, I’ve got it on order, 50 shades of Darker I think it is”  

 “I’ve heard it’s just as good”

 

Eat your heart out, E.L., if that is your real name (protip: it isn’t).

#252 – Tom Waterhouse

The bogan’s life path is, like the rest of us, indeterminate. As a young boaglet, the child-spawn is faced with a plethora of careers, romances, possible criminal records and fast-food/energy drink-induced cardiac arrests.

The bogan is, however, rebellious. It don’t take no guff from no one. It does what it wants when it wants. If the bogan’s parents were lawyers and judges, then HELL NO the bogan won’t work to achieve those things. The bogan will sink bulk piss, glass some cunt at Lucky Coq, then slip into a life of blissful mediocrity, in a location where it is suitably less mediocre than those around it.

This would not have been the bogan’s life direction if it was Tom Waterhouse. Had it been, the general approach to adulthood and career would have involved sinking bulk piss then glassing some cunt at Lucky Coq, before arriving at the door of Freehills and insisting that because its relatives going back into the distant past could cobble together a half decent ambit claim that it should undoubtedly become a Freehills gun-for-hire post-haste.

Waterhouse, scion of Gai and Robbie (son of Bill), is attempting to parley his family heritage at setting profit-making odds for mug punters or training large mammals to run fast while bearing a diminutive, whip-toting pilot into a suave, 21st century gambling empire. The bulk of this is done through plastering every sporting event in the world with his plastic, smirking mug via any medium possible.

Watching ads for tomwaterhouse.com.au is the worst thing in the world.

The detestable little pustule even roped his poor mum into the ad to try to give him some kind of credibility, even though she is not actually a bookmaker but a horse trainer. This is pretty much like applying for a job as a RBA economist, then offering your qualifications as ‘my mum taught a TAFE course in household budgeting’.

He also decides to trot around the betting ring toting a big white bag with his name on it, clearly forgetting the number one lesson of stranger danger – children (and adults with the stature and appearance of pre-pubescent polo players) should NOT go out in public with clothing and accessories which have your name on it. Should Tom be abducted by a lolly-bearing murderess, this fundamental error will surely be to blame.

In essence, the Tom Waterhouse pitch is thus:

Some people to whom I am related have a history of taking money off people under the mistaken impression that they have knowledge about something that is effectively a crapshoot. In particular, the womb that I squelched out of 30 years ago has some tangential relationship to gambling. Therefore if you give me money to bet, you will lose less of it.

Never mind the fact that if reprehensible arsehat actually does have any greater understanding of how gambling works, it would be in his interests to offer the bogan odds that are MORE likely to lead to his garnering bulk bogan bucks.

The ads he puts together give the bogan the distinct indication that his services will provide it with some kind of insight – assistance in making the bogan the Mahogany Room hero it was always meant to be. Looking at the site indicates that he is a bookie. A bookie with a solipsistic fetish for slathering all of his communications with that eminently, eminently punchable face.

Waterhouse tells the bogan that he has ‘betting in his blood’. The bogan, overlooking the fact that it would be much better off betting against someone who wouldn’t know Black Caviar from Furious D, goes to the aforementioned website, and puts all of its money, again, on Cunning Stunt.

Tom Waterhouse, sitting in his hypobaric chamber to keep his rubbery maw rubbery, clasps his hands together and smiles.