Last week’s news headlines read like Debbie Downer’s Diary: PMS Edition. Israeli attacks on Gaza continue to result in high civilian casualties. Doctor who bravely dedicated himself to fighting the Ebola outbreak in Liberia contracts the lethal virus. Death row execution lasts an excruciating two hours when drugs malfunction. Planes continue to plummet from the sky, resulting in the death of hundreds of people. But there was one bright sliver of joy – the official global trailer of the Fifty Shades of Grey movie was released. To celebrate this pivotal moment in American pop culture with a hard-hitting review, I’ve turned to the most critical woman I know – my Nana.

 Okay, kids, as your Pop Pop would stay, let’s skip the salad and get right to the meat and potatoes. No time for introductions, let’s go right to the play-by-play for the trailer for this nice soft-core porno that my darling granddaughter showed me.

So we open with some frumpster, terrible bangs clogging up her pretty face, writing some newspaper article in the world’s least flattering cardigan. I am not impressed. Who goes to an interview in a skirt that the thrift store should have paid you to wear? It’s just unprofessional.

This Mr. Grey settles in for his interview with the frumpster, but he’s not about to just be professional and answer the questions. Good thing this is a sex film and not a how to behave in the workplace guide or we’d be in trouble! So this Mr. Grey asks the frumpster about her herself and she just answers coyly, “There’s nothing to know about me. Look at me.” And then he falls in love.

Now listen, girls, because this is important: Mr. Grey is a wuss. That’s right, I said it. A real man likes his woman loud and confident and outspoken. None of this falling in love with that whole “oh little old me, I’m nothing special” bullshit. You think your Pop would have asked me to marry him if I hadn’t always behaved like the fabulous woman I am? I never pretended not to be interesting and he’s been trying to catch up with me for 50 years.

But it all comes together when we find out that this Mr. Grey is all about controlling things. So this frumpsters just another little insecure doll in his toy chest. Which, after an intense run and a weird trip in a funny looking plane, we find out is a toy chest filled with whips and blindfolds and things. Cue the moaning nudity. The frumpster finally looks like a fully satisfied sex goddess. End trailer.

Here’s the thing, girls-don’t let this convince you to buy into any of this funny business with whips and chains and blindfolds. You know, your Pop Pop and I went through an experimental phase in the 70s and I can say that being whipped hurts as much as you’d expect, even when you have a ballgag in your mouth to chew on. And being handcuffed to the bed just means that you’re stuck there for hours when your husband decides to answer the phone real quick before you get started and it turns out to be his chatty mother. Don’t even get me started on hot wax. But you’ve seen how often your Pop knocks over his iced tea. At least that doesn’t result in second degree burns. Trust me, girls, I know.

So don’t let the fact that the frumspter has a Devil Wears Prada-esque transformation through sex sway you. Save the whips and ballgags and maybe just use that sex toy money on a nice steak dinner and learn about his hopes and dreams?

In conclusion, I give this trailer one thumb down for the whole whip thing, but one thumb up for the shirtless scene of Mr. Grey. You know, your Pop Pop had a body like that when he was young. If I drink too much wine and squint really hard, he almost still does.

The Gabbler: It’s so great to meet you Fifty Shades of Grey! (Tries to shake hands.)

Fifty Shades of Grey: I don’t think you really want to touch that…I’m a library copy, after all.

TG: What do you mean?

FSOG: I just mean, that well, a lot of lonely women have checked me out the library, and well, sometimes when they read me, they um, well, they touch…

TG: Oh God! Gross! Yeah, let’s just settle for a nice wave, shall we?

FSOG: That’s probably for the best.

TG: Let’s just dive right into things, then. This book that you have the privilege of being, this remarkable work of literature, it’s just so…deep. Do you think that Anastasia’s struggle to love Christian is a metaphor for the struggle of a young person to succeed in the pleasurably painful modern world or more of an allegory for Eve’s struggle to get down with the serpent?

FSOG: Ummm, I don’t think Eve “got down” with the serpent. I think he just gave her an apple. Also, I’m not sure I’m what you would call a “work of literature,” exactly.

TG: So you’re more of a poetic treatise? An artistic abstract expression of what it means to be a lonely being in the chaotic universe of your mind, looking for your kindred spirit to fill up your soul with purpose and spankings?

FSOG: I think I’m mostly just poorly written erotica that is somehow acceptable for middle-aged women to read. But kudos on fitting being, mind, spirit, and soul all into one weird metaphor that barely made any sense.

TG: Thanks, I think? Wow, this interview is going as poorly as that time that Anastasia Steele interviewed Christian Grey. But then, wait, then does that mean we’re going to, you know (winks) afterwards?

FSOG: Absolutely not. And not just because I’m due back at the library today.

TG: Ouch. You know, I may not be some innocent little college senior, but I’ll let you know many an inebriated man has only half regretted the decisions he made with me the night before, so…

FSOG: Congratulations? Especially on the correct use of the word “inebriated.” Seems like a word that’s a bit out of your vocabulary range, really.

TG: (Shrugs.) One of the inebriated men was an SAT prep tutor. I checked out the flash cards on his desk after he fell asleep. But thanks.

FSOG: Well, that’s one way to grow a young mind, I suppose.

TG: So, you really don’t want to get into the nitty gritty of the story? Like, the deeper meaning of the shade concept? Or how about the foil of the subconscious to Ana’s inner goddess?

FSOG: No. There is no deeper. There are no foils. There is only the incredible overuse of the phrases “holy crap,” “holy shit,” and “holy cow.” And the rather unfortunate turn of phrase “he’s my very own Christian Grey flavored Popsicle.”

TG: Ooo, let’s talk about that. What do you think she means by “my very own Christian Grey flavored Popsicle.”

FSOG: Perhaps it’s best if you ask the SAT prep tutor, dear. I’m sure he could help you out with that one.

TG: (Taking notes and whispering.) Ask SAT prep tutor about Popsicle flavors. Okay, well, let’s maybe talk about your origins, about your hopes and dreams.

FSOG: Well, I come from Maine, as do the majority of Fifty Shades books. Over 3,000 tons of paper were processed in the small town of East Millinocket just to make Fifty Shades available to Americans in print form.

TG: You must have been so happy to become such a great book!

FSOG: Well, not exactly. Since I was just a little sapling, I’ve wanted to become a book. You know, some trees grow their whole lives just to become the cardboard that encloses a box of Imodium. I never thought I would be jealous of those trees, but this book is so…

TG: Fantastic? Inspiring? Life-affirming? Sexy?

FSOG: Awful. I had dreams of one day becoming a hardcover, signature edition of Leaves of Grass, by Walt Whitman. You know, “I sing the body electric” and all.

TG: Isn’t that a Lana del Rey song? Yeah, I think it is! I love that song!

FSOG: Seriously? I’m now beginning to see why you’re a Fifty Shades fan…

TG: Thanks! It’s a pretty fantastic read. And thanks for meeting with me today. I’m looking forward to coincidently running into you in the giant Portland area hardware store where I work. (Winks.)

FSOG: For God’s sake, child, this is NOT Fifty Shades of Grey in real life! And I am NOT Christian Grey.

TG: Whatever you say, Fifty Shades. I’m just saying, my inner goddess knows how to salsa dance, too.

FSOG: I’m going to go, now. You know how the library can be such a stickler about due dates and fines and all.

TG: Laters, baby.

FSOG: No…just, no.