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THE BIG SCOTTISH ROAD TRIP, PART ONE

For those who don't know, I just visited Scotland. I will recounting my travels through that wondrous nation in the days to come. Here is the first part of the series. Enjoy.

The first leg of the Big Scottish Roadtrip began with an invigorating three hour drive from upstate New York to Liberty Airport, which is located just outside the charming city of Newark. Why were we catching a flight out of the Unwiped Asshole of America, New Jersey, instead of the much closer Albany International? The answer is it saved us roughly $800 each, not to mention it was also a direct flight straight into Glasgow, meaning we could avoid hours of additional travel time in the form of connecting flights and layovers.

The only hiccup before boarding our flight came at the TSA checkpoint. You see, being surrounded by that number of shoe-less individuals holding belts in hand generally means things are about to get sticky for me, if you know what I mean (I mean vigorous hole-pounding in a group setting, as several of my female Facebook friends can personally attest). I suppose my pork sword has been conditioned to recognize such harbingers of humping and was simply experiencing a Pavlovian response.

I might have been able to conceal my inflacitude if not for the fact I had to raise my arms when inside the body scanner. That movement pulled up my shirt and revealed my shame for all to see. There were gasps and some amount of giggling. An older woman in a wheelchair actually began to weep (another of my fetishes).

Fortunately, the agent monitoring the scanner merely rolled her eyes at the sight of my pants tent and waved me along. The knowledge that I would not be receiving "extra screening" on that day was met not with relief, but with melancholy. After making a mental note to discuss this with my therapist, Dr. Suzie, I retrieved my belongings and made my way towards the appropriate terminal.

Besides being far cheaper and quicker, our flight had another virtue: it was a red-eye. Some would look at this as a negative. I, on the other hand, saw it as a way to pass the time of a trans-Atlantic flight and also as an easy way to overcome jet lag. Simply sit back, relax, maybe have a drink or six, and wake up in Scotland. Then, stay awake maybe a few hours later than usual, and we'd be on UK time. Couldn't be simpler, right?

Wrong.

Sure, we left on time and arrived early. Yes, the service aboard the plane was impeccable. It was United Airlines, after all, and they know how to treat their customers. Even the food was pretty good. I might even go so far as to say that one of the male stewardesses was flirting with me while serving me cans of RockStar . I was most likely misreading his intent, though. I mean, a homosexual male stewardess? Highly unlikely.

The flight itself ended up being the single shittiest experience I've had since the time I ate leftover Thai food right before going to Six Flags. Near-unrelenting misery. The economy seat (which actually had a decent amount of room) was hard and unsupportive, the college girls behind me wouldn't shut the fuck up, the French couple in front of me smelled like body odor and asshole, and the fat bastard beside me had to loudly clear his throat every thirty seconds. And even though I had been awake since five in the morning, and had been combatively consuming energy drinks , I slept not one wink the entire journey.

After landing, there remained but one obstacle between us and Scotland herself: Prestwick Airport. Despite our narcoleptic-bordering-on-delirious state, me and my buddy breezed through customs and baggage claim rather easily. The only notable occurrence in the airport was with Georgie, our car rental agent. We had reserved a Mercedes-Benz C200 online ahead of time. That was the easy part. Actually getting the keys for the thing was another story.

You see, young Georgie, owner of no fewer than two black eyes that morning, tried to upsell us on everything from GPS navigation to insurance against attacks by deep water creatures that may or may not live in Scotland's many lochs. Of course I get that it's his job to do so. As someone who has known and hated customer service positions, I would never begrudge him for it. It's just that me and my buddy were running on no sleep that morning and were anxious to be on our way.

But on and on Georgie went. Each time we told him no, he paused for a few seconds and gave us a doe-eyed look. It was as if he just walked in on me and my friend butt-fucking his mum, simultaneously. Actually, if that had been the case, Georgie probably would have tried to upgrade us to spit-roasting his sister, most likely at a very reasonable rate.

After (finally) firing up the Mercedes, we were faced with the challenge of navigating from the airport to our first hotel, located in Glasgow's "Old Town." You're probably thinking that I, as an American, was worried about driving on the left side of the road. That was not the case. I do it all the time here in the States. To be in a country where it was not only allowed but encouraged is something I had been looking forward to for quite some time. What actually caused me stress was moving a car I was in for the first time through Scotland's narrow streets and numerous roundabouts with their (to me) ill-defined lanes. I remember thinking if the side mirrors survived the week intact, it would be a fucking miracle.

Fortunately, we made the harrowing journey to our hotel unscathed. We stayed at the Jurys Inn that first night. Nothing really remarkable about it; it was reasonably priced and clean. There was also a Costa coffee shop located directly next door, for which I was grateful.

Being that it wasn't even ten in the morning (UK time), we were then faced with the arduous task of staying awake for at least twelve more hours so that our sleep schedule wouldn't be completely fucked for the remainder of our stay. We decided that a long walk around the city would be just the ticket to accomplish this. The sunshine and warmth helped immensely. So much for miserable Scottish weather.

Even with no plan in mind and little knowledge of Glasgow in general, we found our way to Clyde Valley after only ten minutes of walking. Though brimming with tourists like ourselves, we both greatly enjoyed the sights and atmosphere. Mindful of our budget, we opted to view the Peoples Palace from the outside only.

For our first meal in Scotland, we went to a place called Ubiquitous Chip. The Scottish Pie I had there was vile. Luckily, it seemed like every American east of France had made their way there, which was fun. We even got into lively discussion with a couple of our older countrymen about why keeping killer whales in captivity is a good thing.

In the early afternoon after lunch, we made our way over to the Winter Garden. It was a bit more of a hike up than I initially expected, but the view from the overlook was well worth the slog up. There was a much higher vantage point for those inclined, but I choose to forego the trek for fear of regurgitating the lovely Scottish Pie I consumed not an hour earlier. Also, my balls were starting to chafe from all the walking, so it was back to the hotel for a quick shower and judicious application of Gold Bond for me. It's worth noting that, at this point, I had been awake for approximately twenty-seven consecutive hours.

Being as it was still too early to go to bed after that shower, me and my buddy went back out. This time, we headed to Edinburgh, towards some Greek-looking structures we'd seen in a brochure earlier. What we had seen turned out to be Calton Hill, home of the Scottish government. The thing that looked like Greek ruins was actually something called the National Monument. It had a nice view of the rest of the city, but was overrun with tourists (yes, like myself) and locals alike, most likely owing to the gorgeous weather.

As afternoon gave way to evening, me and my buddy decided powering through the last few hours between us and sleep with the assistance of a shit-ton of caffeine was the most appropriate course of action. We found a cool, somewhat off-the-beaten-path spot called the Guildford Arms. There, I had four cans of a wonderful beverage, the name of which escapes me just now. While enjoying our brews, me and my buddy got to talking about Scottish cuisine. Following much discussion and googling, we decided that seeking out Scotch eggs was an endeavor worth of our time. Though the Guildford Arms didn't serve them, a nearby spot did. Maybe it was all the stimulants, but they were the best thing I ate in Scotland the entire week of my visit.

Back at the Jurys Inn, we settled into our beds with a couple more energy drinks (purchased along the way) and searched our television for some porn, as is tradition. We made the unfortunate decision to go with the first thing we found. Though the station was called "BBC," it didn't actually have any. In fact, it featured heavily a bunch of well-dressed white dudes talking about politics. Neither of us had ever heard of beating off to such a thing. But as they say, "when in Rome..."

[robinfuckery-blog]

My New Car

So last month, after my Ford Probe (with the "Wild Orchid" package) was viciously and unironically rear-ended and subsequently totaled, I found myself in the market for a new automobile. After doing absolutely no research whatsoever, I headed down to the nearest Mitsubishi dealership in my Chrysler 200 rental (200 being the approximate number of times the 9-speed transmission chooses the wrong gear per quarter mile). I hadn't even dialed the Chrysler into "park" (there's a sentence I never thought I'd type) before a rather debonaire-looking salesman named Justin descended on me. He wasted no time launching into his potential customer getting-to-know-you/interrogation spiel. Within seconds, he knew where I lived, why I was at the dealership, my first pet's maiden name, how many days until my next birthday, and my approximate budget. I remember thinking to myself that if this dude ever did speed dating, he would absolutely clean up. All relevant information now in hand, Justin led me past rows of glittering Mirages and bulbous Landers over to a line of cars that seemed a bit out of place. In front of me stood what appeared to be dozens of luxury SUVS, many of which looked like they cost at minimum $80,000. This made me somewhat cross. I had told Justin my maximum budget up front, just like you're supposed to, yet here he was about to sell me on a Range Rover or Escalade or whatever it was.

It was at this point that Justin told me to take a closer look, taking special care to point out the various diamond emblems on the exterior as well as the yards of hard, Tonka-quality plastics which lined the interior. That's when it donged on me - this was no German luxury vehicle, but rather the all-new 2017 Mitsubishi Outlander! The next hour consisted of me and Justin walking around the collection of Outlanders, just trying to figure out which one would take up the most of my budget without going over by too much. Justin was trying to steer me towards a pearl-white LT2. I did like the color. Reminded me of the good times I had with my Malibu rental during my last business trip (to Iowa City), which not coincidentally was the last business trip where I didn't come home with chlamydia. I'm sure the Malibu played some part in that. I was nearly sold on the LT2 when Justin mentioned it had the more powerful 250hp 2.0 liter turbo instead of the entry-level 160hp 1.5. I told him that engine would simply not do. It was far too aggressive. Toeing into the throttle with that much horsepower on tap would likely get the blood rushing to my loins in such a way that I'd be coming home with chlamydia all the time. Not a good thing when you just ditched healthcare coverage so as to free up additional funds to spend on a new car. So I really needed something sedate and boring. I needed the Lifetime Movie Network of SUVS. After another hour of poring over window stickers, we settled on a light blue metallic model with the LT1 trim. Its only option was an advanced technology package, which added a wireless charger, auto-dimming rearview mirror (greatest invention since antibiotics if you ask me), and made the infotainment screen bigger by one inch. The car was powered of course by the dinky 1.5 liter engine.

Mere minutes into the test drive, I already had a feeling that this was the car for me. I mean, it was as dull as the gift my nephew Stewart made for me last Christmas (it was a mediocre attempt at a self portrait rendered in crayon and uncooked elbow pasta). The car's demeanor was so mundane, it actually made me drowsy to the point where I had to pull off to the side of the road to slap myself around a bit so I could remain alert. And since I was parked, I figured it would be as good a time as any to see how my body would respond to the Outlander's cabin. So I dropped my pants, felt around for my boxers, remembered I haven't worn underwear since 1998, turned the satellite radio to the Dolly Parton station, wrapped the seat belt around my neck, and got down to business. Ten minutes in, Dolly's swelling vocals on "Islands In The Stream" were filling the car and my soul, yet I remained as limp as my Nana's old, dusty, beat-up, flavorless carrot cake. That was all the convincing I needed. I tucked everthing back in place, then turned to Justin -- he had been pretending to play around on his phone while this was going on, which I found quite rude -- and told him I'd take the car. I tried to shake his hand to seal the deal, but for some reason, Justin didn't take my mine when I offered it. Again, rude. He did, however, agree to a hug. As we embraced, I giggled in his ear and asked him if he'd ever had chlamydia before, and if not, would he like to. One year and 9,000 miles later, I remain confident that I made the right decision. The car is smooth and comfortable. It reads your text messages to you, too. The engine can be best described as a four-and-a-half-inch penis; it might not seem like much but it's better than nothing and chances are it doesn't have chlamydia. It's also super quiet (the interior of the car, not the penis), which is great if you have a small children or have to babysit your nephew, Stewart. Just roll up the windows, lock the doors, then take in the summer blockbuster of your choice in peace and quiet, all while junior dozes away, no doubt dreaming of playing with kittens on the surface of the sun or in a preheated oven as he does.

One fun feature the 2017 Lexus... shit, I mean Outlander... has is a teen driver mode that helps you monitor your kid's driving habits (viewable as report card upon their return) to make sure he's not racing the Asian kids down the street for pink slips. Some people have voiced their concerns about this particular feature. They say it's no substitute for actual parenting and also that it fosters a lack of trust between child and adult. Personally, I don't mind it. The fact that my kid was putting a Mitsubishi Outlander up against some slammed-out rice rocket is something I would want to be made aware of, because then I would know that my kid is a fucking imbecile and shouldn't be trusted with a soft boiled egg, much less 3150 pounds of metal, glass, and Walmart-grade plastic. But I don't have a child (that I know of). What I do have is a grandmother who enjoys the sauce. I give her the "teen driver" key fob and let her run errands with the Outlander. To hold her accountable for driving my car in a reasonable fashion and not as if she's auditioning as a stunt driver for the next Mad Max film, I lock up all her booze until I get a chance to see her "report card" when she gets back. Only a good report card will allow her to get her load on. It's been fairly effective so far. One problem with teen driver mode is it doesn't monitor what goes on in the back seat. You see, my Nana is a social butterfly and has quite the talent for finding lonely widowers at the grocery store. Sometimes, if she hits it off with one, she will then utilize the Outlander's spacious backseat to "entertain" them, if you catch my meaning (I mean she has sex with them). I swear, you'll find more random dentures in my car than the lost and found at a Howard Johnsons. Also, the new car smell is almost completely gone. It's been replaced with the odor of mothballs and Ben-gay and actual balls. I just hope it doesn't affect the resale value. Anyway, yes, I recommend the Outlander. It's a great boring car, if you're into that kind of thing.

[robinfuckery-blog]

The 1994 Ford Probe GT Plus

This 1994 Ford Probe GT Plus was the very first car I owned. To those not familiar, this was a special edition version sold for only one year. The only thing that set it apart from the lesser Probe GT was the fact it loudly identified itself as a Probe in numerous places throughout the inside and outside of the car. And of course it had a bright purple paint job. The "Wild Orchid Edition" is what they called it in the Probe community, where it is regarded as a rare and special flower. As is often the case, the car came to me through a family member: my Uncle Douglas. He bought it new all the way back in 1994, about five years after leaving behind his blue collar job and life in the city. He put down roots in Cape Cod. There, he opened a bed and breakfast with his best friend, Felipe. They actually lived together for over two decades. Neither of them ever did get married. Enjoyed the bachelor life too much, I guess. Probably why they got along so well all those years. Uncle Douglas and Felipe actually shared the car. If I knew them like I think I knew them, they probably took turns cruising the streets of Provincetown with it, just trawling for pussy. That ended up being a very good thing (sharing the car, not trawling for pussy). Felipe was extremely meticulous when it came to car maintenance. So much so, Uncle Douglas even came to refer to their car as the "Anal Probe." It was sort an inside joke between them. Every time he called it that, they'd look at each other and laugh and maybe slap each other's butts, like in the gym locker room, except with way more eye contact and lip-biting. The Probe was fifteen years old when I took possession of it. After all those years, the paint was remained a brilliant violet and the engine idled as smoothly as something that is smooth. So how exactly did it come to be mine?

Well, my Uncle Douglas unfortunately suffered an accident, one which would render him incapable of operating a vehicle. He, Felipe, and myself were picnicking at an abandoned quarry in the Berkshires for my birthday, as is tradition, when it happened. Poor Uncle Douglas stepped wrong and ended up falling off a cliff. He sustained a moderately sprained ankle, some cracked ribs, and massive, irreversible cranial trauma. We'll probably never know which of these it was that actually did in the old boy. Felipe might have held on to the Probe even without Uncle Douglas to share it with, but the death of his best friend hit him hard. In the end, he chose to move back to the Philippines, leaving their purple poon-mobile behind in the process. Not that he didn't love the car. It's just that bringing the Probe along was not even an option in the first place. He told me it had something to do with Filipinos believing the color purple brought bad luck. At least that's what I think he said. All the sniffling and crying he was doing while identifying Uncle Douglas' body made him exceedingly difficult to understand.

Anyway, onto the car itself. The 1994 Ford Probe GT Plus was one of many front drive sport coupes that were sold throughout America and the United States in the late eighties and nineties. It shared its underpinnings and mechanicals with the Mazda MX-6. Along with more modern styling and a more sporting chassis, this second generation Probe was blessed with another huge upgrade over the first generation: a naturally aspirated 2.5 liter DOHC V6. Finally, as mentioned before, my Uncle Douglas specified the special package which would come to be known later as the "Wild Orchid Edition."

   So how is the car itself?     First off, it is a small car. The low roofline means that entry is awkward and a bit unnatural. Once in, however, it just feels right. You really get used to, and even come to prefer it, after a spell. Don't get me wrong, it's snug and feels a bit peculiar at first, yet at the same time, it's surprisingly accommodating.     In typical early nineties fashion, the cockpit is full of buttons whose functions are not always immediately evident. It takes some experimenting before one grows familiar with them. Basically, just keep pushing and twisting things until something happens.     One thing in the Probe that is immediately intuitive is the shifter knob of the five-speed manual transmission. Talk about perfection. Not too big, not too small. The perfect shape, too. It felt right at home in my hand, almost like I'd been using it all my life. While requiring little effort to move it back and forth, it could at the same time withstand a surprising amount of abuse when I got rough with it. Early on, there were a couple occasions when I got carried away and inadvertently slammed the shifter into the wrong gear. The Probe took it like a champ, though, and let me slide it into the correct spot right after with nary a complaint.     One negative issue I experienced had to do with the interior. Specifically, how cramped the back seat was. I get that it was a sports coupe first. Still, the Probe was a bit ridiculous. The legroom was actually halfway acceptable, but the way the glass hatch sloped down cut off headroom to an extraordinary degree. Uncle Douglas would always say as long as there was room for him and Felipe's two corgis as well as their friend, Dorothy, he didn't care about backseat accommodations that much. Judging by the butt slap and subsequent eye contact with Felipe, I'm guessing this was another of their inside jokes. He also said that "headroom" - Uncle Douglas literally put up some finger quotes when he said it - only matters up front. More butt slaps, more eye contact with Felipe.     Another issue I had was with fuel consumption. Even though it was a V6, the 164-horsepower was somewhat light in the loafers when compared to V8-powered Mustangs of the day. Still, I barely managed twenty miles per gallon in mixed but highway-biased driving. The way it sucked down gas, it was like the Probe couldn't wait to get to the pump and swallow another load of gasoline.

Performance was where the Probe shone brightest. Simply put, the V6 engine was a real peach. It revved smooth and fast to its 7000 RPM redline. It provided a fair amount of thrust when called upon, evident by the way the seats firmly clasped my buttocks. Not as virile as a Mustang GT perhaps, but comparable to other front drive sports coupes of the day.       Handling was a strong suit of the Probe, as well. The chassis and suspension tuning gave it the feeling of always being up on its toes and ready to make a getaway. Whether that getaway was from a mall parking lot during the holidays or a roadside public restroom during a Thursday, it didn't matter. You just couldn't catch it "with its pants down," if you catch my drift.     All in all, it was simply a fun car to drive, even when taking into account it was fifteen years old and had over 80,000 miles when I got it. Felipe had kept everything shiny and well-lubed over the years, so a lot of it is thanks to him.     Alas, the Probe left the earth just last year. I was stopped at a crosswalk in front of a Whole Foods. There, a pickup truck with testicles rear-ended my baby. Everyone was okay - me, the other driver, his "old lady," their four kids in the bed of the truck and their six coon hounds in the back seat - but the Probe itself was a total loss. That sucked, but at least insurance took care of it. Ended up going in a different direction for my next vehicle.     The real tragedy of this story is that there is one less Wild Orchid out there now. So if you love the color purple a lot and you're also in the market for a mid-nineties sports coupe that's fun to drive, and you happened to encounter an inexpensive one of these unicorns for sale, do not hesitate.

[robinfuckery-blog]

MY REVIEW OF "50 SHADES DARKER"

Things were just fine until my girlfriend took me to see Fifty Shades Darker. Full disclosure: I am a dude in my twenties who never read the Fifty Shades books. I did, however, watch the first film adaptation when it came out on Cinemax last year. Actually, I watched maybe half of it. I thought it might make for good spank material. It did not. Nevertheless, I am confident I got the jist of it.

First off, there were nearly six men in the packed theater I attended last Saturday night. Like most of them (except for maybe the lone wolf in the sweatpants sitting third row center), I was not there of my own accord. Rather, I accompanied a significant other of the female persuasion, whom I gather are the intended audience.

I admit when she first suggested the film for a date night, I was somewhat apprehensive. To put it plainly, it wasn't the type of movie that I would typically pay money to see.

In the end, though, I offered little resistance. After all, she didn't complain when I took her to laser tag on our first date and also our fourth, fifth, sixth, eighth, and eleventh dates. The least I could do was go along with something that she enjoyed. Cause that's just the kind of guy I am. Also, I wanted to get laid. I'm that kind of guy, too. Anyway, here are my thoughts on the movie.

What is Fifty Shades Darker? I guess it's basically an erotic love story. Kind of like 9 1/2 Weeks, except without a coked-up Mickey Rourke to class it up. It follows the continuing adventures in assplay of conservative English Lit major and shrinking violet Anastasia Steele and her relationship with tortured billionaire, playboy, helicopter pilot, hair salon part-owner, buttplug aficionado, and all-around douchebag Christian "Dorian" Grey.

As the opening scenes unfold, we learn Ana and Christian are not actually together. Something happened at the end of the first movie apparently. Like, she didn't want to be his "submissive" anymore. I was only half watching at that point. More of my attention was devoted to finding a lesbian video featuring at least one actress who looked like my ex than it was to following the plot.

As it turns out, my failure to pay attention didn't really matter. Minutes into Fifty Shades Darker, Christian was already "renegotiating terms" for another go round at the whole boyfriend/girlfriend thing. All I can say is he must have read our nation’s savior and 44th President Donald Trump's "The Art of the Deal" at some point, because the two of them are back together before most of the audience has had a chance to go for a second handful of popcorn, which I made my date pay for.

The bulk of what makes up the rest of the the movie are scenes depicting Ana and Christian learning the in's and out's of having a "vanilla" relationship. For those who don't know, vanilla is a popular flavoring derived from orchids. In the instance of Fifty Shades Darker, however, vanilla refers to a relationship that is less about nipple clamps and expanding the diameter of one’s asshole and more about missionary sex and accepting asshole diameter as is.

Throughout, Christian comes off as a massively possessive dickhole blessed with the charisma of a wet phone book. He creeps and broods and makes his maid uncomfortable. He's even rude and dismissive to a waiter. That - along with being rich and capable of doing a pull up without shitting himself - are just a couple clues that he isn't a Democrat, yet he is perfectly cast. Why? Because of all the oohing and ahhing my fellow theater patrons did whenever he took off his shirt (edit - no, he does not hang dong). Also, by the time the movie was over, the floors in the theater were far more damp than I remember them being upon arriving.

At least "possessive dickhole" qualifies as a character trait, though. Anastasia is left pretty much empty-handed in that department. I'll give Dakota Johnson the benefit of the doubt, here. After all, she's not given much to work with. The fact that she can keep a straight face while reciting a line like "I was being romantic and then you just go and distract me with your kinky fuckery" is a credit to her. Luckily, there are a couple moments when she does shine. More on that later.

While Christian and Ana's romance takes center stage, a handful of subplots fill out the rest of the running time. One involves sexual harassment in the workplace. Another is about a corporate buyout. Yet another involves one of Christian's previous submissives stalking Anastasia. In fact, the movie at times threatens to become some sort of suspense thriller. Luckily, the narrative re-routes back to more interesting territory, like crowded elevator finger-banging and how to incorporate a modified chin-up bar into lovemaking.

Oh, and speaking of 9 1/2 Weeks, it seems someone thawed out Kim Basinger so she could make an appearance. She plays Mrs. Elena Bitch Troll Robinson aka the older woman who taught young Christian to channel his anger away from violence and alcohol and towards more healthier outlets, like spanking and her vagina and spanking her vagina.

There is a non-sexual climax in Fifty Shades Darker, though it is fairly anticlimactic. Basically, a situation arises and the future becomes uncertain. Some of the characters are put in a room and given a couple minutes to contemplate the nature of life and death. Then, poof, the situation resolves itself. Whole thing takes about six minutes.

So what do I think about the movie? Do I believe there is a hidden masterpiece lurking just below the veneer of hot sex and lukewarm dialogue? Do I think we will be praising it as an ahead-of-its-time satire about eroticism in the post-911 world? Will this become the Showgirls of the twenty-first century?

No. In my opinion, it is mediocre. But did I enjoy the experience of seeing Fifty Shades Darker? Hell. Yes.

I think it happened somewhere around twenty minutes in. Ana and Christian are getting ready to go out. As she fixes her hair, he whips out a pair of stainless steel Ben Wa balls and waves them in her face.

"You're not going to put those in my butt..." Ana says while most likely recalling events from the first movie.

Turns out, they weren't for her butt. Christian had other plans for the orbs. Specifically, he makes her slobber on them, then bends her over and slides the moistened balls in her vag. I myself let out an audible gasp at this development, as did the numerous middle-aged women to my right. I think one of them might have tinkled a bit.

Christian doesn't stop there, though. He then proceeds to take Ana, balls in (camel) tow, to a charity gala hosted by his parents. Throughout the event, Ana squirms in ecstacy with each sudden movement. Christian cracks a joke and her laughter is cut short because she has to hold back an orgasm. This part of the movie, to me, ends up being rather thought provoking. As in, it made me wonder how many women go around with Ben Wa balls inside them all day and could that possibly explain why my Nana has been so jumpy lately?

While the Ben Wa balls bit was the most enjoyable set piece, it was far from the only enjoyable one. I won't detail the rest here, but there were plenty of moments when me, my date, and the rest of the audience were laughing and engaged in a way that I rarely see in movie theaters, even during the most comedic of comedies.

In the end, I left Fifty Shades Darker pleasantly surprised, yet ready to move one with my life. But this movie wasn't done with me just yet.

While walking through the mall with my lady friend, I could tell there was something different about her. Normally she's run down after our date nights. Laser tag will do that to a person. At least, if you're doing it right it will.

But she didn't appear run down. Quite the opposite, in fact. There was twinkle in her eye, a skip in her step, and a song in her heart. I asked if maybe she had forgotten to take her antipsychotics again. She said, no, that wasn't it. Told me point blank she wanted to "hop on my pogo stick" and "ride it all the way to Albuquerque."

For those who don't know, a pogo stick is a spring-loaded device used by children and certain extreme sports athletes as a way of traveling in as inefficient a manner as possible. In this case, however, it referred to my cock. That having been made clear, we rushed back home as quickly as my 2017 Mitsubishi Outlander could manage.

Once we got back to my place, it was game on. No small talk, no foreplay, no frantic search for a condom. It brought back memories of attending Great Mills High School. In fact, I didn't even have a chance to walk around the block to get the farts out, as is tradition. She literally said "let's do some kinky fuckery," then slapped me in the face with a rolled up newspaper. The New York Post, I believe, which made it all the more demeaning.

My Crocs and argyle socks were barely off before she had my hands bound with duct tape and my eyes blindfolded with the tie I used to wear when I worked at Olive Garden (which still smelled like alfredo sauce). Up until that point, she had done nothing to me that I hadn't done to myself at some point in time already. But then she made me jelly a pair of spit-lubed Titleists up her asshole, even though I'm certain I told her at some point I don't care for golf. From that point on, I was in undiscovered country.

Eventually it came time to "bang it out" if you know what I mean (I mean sex). She decided to opt out of the "oral package" that I offer all my dates. It consists of seventeen minutes of thorough and vigorous cunilingus followed up by cocktails and a reading from the Book of Ezekiel. Frankly, she didn't need it. Her panties were already as wet as a Mumbai street urchin's feet during monsoon season.

Since I'm a gentleman, I shall spare you the rest of the gory details. I won't tell you about how she put a bar of soap in a sock and wailed on my scrotum with it. I will forgo the parts involving her vagina sneezing on my neck. And I certainly will not recount events that led to her pulling hardened candle wax out of my urethra.

All I will say is this: the lovemaking was of a variety I never knew existed. It was as if dolphins were singing next to my futon that night. I felt like I was being ass-fucked, but in the heart.

It comes as little surprise that I forgot myself during the course of things. So loud and violent was my pasion (it means "passion" in Spanish), the downstairs neighbors actually stopped me during my morning beer run the following day and asked if I happened to have held a slam poetry event in my apartment the night before. I said no, but there would be one next Thursday and they weren't invited. They might have bought my story, too, if not for the smell of sex emanating from my face. That's a story for another day.

Being that we are at the end of my review, I leave you with this: while hilariously bad at times, Fifty Shades Darker, when viewed under the right circumstances, is a worthy piece of entertainment and can be enjoyed even by those who exist outside the presumed target audience of older women. It also makes for a profoundly effective date movie.

[robinfuckery-blog]

A girl once said I was "sent from above", but I wasn't sure if she meant "angelic", or "shit out of a bird".

[robinfuckery-blog]

Me: I wanta quit. Boss: I need a formal resignation. Me: fine. I beseech thee, kindly give me leave of this hellhole.

[robinfuckery-blog]

Put pictures of random children in your house. When your kid misbehaves, gently remind him of the brothers and  sisters that came before him that are no longer part of the family.

[robinfuckery-blog]

When a cashier asks me for my email address, I keep naming random letters as they type it to see how long I can go before they give up.

[robinfuckery-blog]

Why do preachers call them sermons and not Godcasts?

[robinfuckery-blog]

Pierced nipples on a girl with A-cup tits looks like pieces of paper with staples in them.

[robinfuckery-blog]

I just learned today that Cardi B's real name is Belcalis Almanzar. I said that shit out loud and my furniture started floating.

[robinfuckery-blog]

While eating as a guest at other people’s homes, I’m thinking their dogs are genetically obligated to convince you they’ve never, ever been fed.

[robinfuckery-blog]

PHARAOH: we shall build religious monuments. they will baffle future science. SUBJECT: should we leave them a note to explain how we did it? PHARAOH: yes, take this down. SUBJECT: okay. PHARAOH: cat, dog, snake, bird, cat, man with the head of a cat, dog, cat, bird.

[robinfuckery-blog]

Priest: "We are gathered here today to mourn the passing of... *looks at the casket suspiciously* ...Erwin Schrödinger."

[robinfuckery-blog]

I hate it when I'm in a rage and suddenly remember I'm not wealthy so I can't hurl expensive bone china into the fireplace.

[robinfuckery-blog]

My brother just found out he's having another kid. He's playing it pretty cool, but let's see how his wife reacts when she finds out.

[robinfuckery-blog]

“WHAT THE HELL IS HAPPENING TO ME RIGHT NOW?” -the first person to drink coffee