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.

After New York Times food critic Peter Wells published a scathing yet pretty hilarious review of Guy Fieri’s new Times Square restaurant, Guy’s American Bar and Grill, this week, we at the The Gabbler thought that it was only fair to allow Mr. Fieri to respond in an open letter to Mr. Wells that is published below. Mr. Fieri also asked The Gabbler to promote his new book, “Diners, Drive-ins, and Dives: TWO,”  TV series, “Tailgate Warriors,” and “kewl new Knuckle Sandwich Wristbands.” We politely declined.

‘Sup people, Guy here. I’ve heard that there’s been some hatin’ on my new Times Square digs, Guy’s American Bar and Grill.  I just wanted to swing in and put in my two cents, because frankly, my place is off da hook.

So it looks like this New York Times dude, Peter Wells, didn’t enjoy his experience at my very own Guy’s American Bar and Grill. That’s too bad. It really is. I want everyone who comes in to Guy’s American Bar and Grill to have an awesomely killer time. That’s all I’m sayin.’ Am I right?

I debated about whether or not to call this dude out for harshin’ everyone’s mellow, but I quickly remembered that I’m a pretty lucky brotha, because I’m not what you’d call a classy dude. So I’d like to take this opportunity to answer a few of Pete’s questions – in the words of stuffy New Yorker literati types: the rhetorical be damned.

I’m sorry I’m a killer reality TV star, man. I’m sorry I talk loud, and usually chew with my mouth open. I’m sorry I use paper napkins – if I haven’t already wiped the back of my shorts. I’m sorry I pronounce the x in prix fixe – both of ‘em. I’m sorry that I’m still not 100 percent sure what organic means – but I’m learnin’. I’m sorry that I’ve had the same kick ass bleached spiked hairstyle since I was 10. And I still rock it. Killer.

I’m sorry that I was never a “professionally trained” chef. I’m sorry that I started my kick ass career at Stouffer’s, most famous for their day glow-yellow mac and cheese. I’m sorry that they stuff their killer products with more preservatives than I wrap a chili dog with bacon. I’m sorry that not all Americans can afford to dine on $29 lobster mac and cheese with bechamel and truffle oil, you pretentious fuck.
I’m sorry that my menu isn’t in French, and that I don’t have “Small Plates” “Craft Beers,” or “Classic Cocktails.” Sorry, brosef. My bad. I’m sorry if you feel like you already don’t have enough “Contemporary American” bistros in New York City. I’m sorry if I’m really missing out on a killer niche market, dude.

No, I didn’t incorporate a raw quail egg into my menu to be “edgy.”I think it sounds terrible, and I’m afraid of salmonella. What does a quail even look like, anyway?  And no, I didn’t hire some stuck up sommalier to pick our wines, because I’m a man, and I drink beer. I think white wine is for pussies, and red wine just dries out my mouth. I don’t know what frisson is, and I doubt my guests are missing it. And I’d just like to say: I don’t care how “trendy” they are, brussel sprouts are still gross.