![]() With their drooling enthusiasm for Fifty Shades, millions of dreamy-hearted women have chaperoned a cultural phenomenon-one that amply shows how far taste can be removed from hunger-just as millions of frail-headed men have made Tom Clancy a household name, Clancy's bestsellers being a breed of poli-sci porn for gruff guys. But then along came these blasted books and wrecked his American right to glut and sloth. He was a cardiac catastrophe in waiting, someone who’d been perfectly content to pass his evenings with TV and pizza. It was unclear whether or not the wife had acquired the battery-operated sex utensils employed in the trilogy, but it couldn’t have been clearer that her porcine husband was being put through a nightly, ghastly regimen of sexual aerobics, a regimen for which he was neither physically nor emotionally suited. As the wife read aloud her favorite lines from one of the books-sentences, as you know, of such galactic ineptitude it was hard to believe a primate could have written them-the husband sat beside her on the sofa, blinking at the camera with a look of the most shell-shocked capitulation. According to the missus, their sagging sex life had just been buttressed by her embrace of the Fifty Shades trilogy, and the prevailing mood of this piece, I recall, was one of willing but abject exploitation. At the height of the moronic craze over Fifty Shades of Grey, I happened upon a newscast showing a “lifestyle” story in which a camera crew had marauded into the home of a painfully white-bread couple from some nook of New England.
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