Fifty Shames of Earl Grey: A Parody Fanny Merkin (the giving tree read aloud TXT) 📖

“I’m kind of clumsy,” I say. “I can barely keep up when we’re just slow dancing.”

“Don’t worry so much,” he says. “You need to forget your inhibitions and just let yourself go.”

“Well, if you insist . . .”

He smiles. “Yes, Anna, I insist.”

A handful of dancers hit the hardwood floor. Women are throwing their hands up in the air. Earl Grey, meanwhile, begins twirling me around in circles. I try not to throw up as the world spins around me. Add this to the steady rotation of the entire restaurant inside the Space Needle, and I feel even sicker—

The band’s lead singer screams passionately into the microphone as Earl tosses me into the air and catches me. It’s not raining men—it’s raining Anna Steal!

I find my footing back on the ground, but Earl slides me under his legs and pulls me back up. Suddenly, my feet are off the ground! As if the room wasn’t spinning enough as it was, now Earl Grey is swinging me through the air by my arms. If something doesn’t stop spinning soon it’s going to be raining chunks.

“Hallelujah!” the singer shouts. “It’s raining m—”

There’s a loud thunk. Earl brings me to an abrupt stop and catches me in his arms. I didn’t throw up. Thank my inner guidette! I notice that the musicians have stopped playing, though, and Earl Grey is staring wide-eyed at the Icy Dragons’ lead singer, who is lying on his back, knocked out cold. With horror, I spot a sixty-nine-sided die on the floor next to his unconscious body.

Gulp.

Chapter Twenty

I BOARD EARL GREY’S BOAT. It’s one of those ridiculously large yachts, like in a rap video. We’re about to cross the Pacific Ocean, which has since been filled back up with rainwater since Earl drained it to save me. It’s amazing how Mother Nature can repair herself after we damage her. We’ll soon be en route to our fantasy Hawaiian suite, only a day after the horrible incident at the Space Needle. Earl thought I might need the vacation now, as I’ve been a little shaken up after almost killing the lead singer of the Icy Dragons.

After boarding the boat, the first thing I do is throw my arms in the air and yell, “I’m on a boat, motherfu—”

Earl cuts me off by raising a finger to his mouth and shushing me. He points to a sign that reads: PLEASE, FOR THE SAKE OF OTHER PASSENGERS’ SANITY, NO “I’M ON A BOAT” REFERENCES. THANK YOU FOR YOUR COOPERATION.

Oh. Drats.

There’s another sign just below that one that answers my next question: YOU ARE NOT THE KING OF THE WORLD, JACK.

“So I can’t say ‛I’m on a boat’ or do any Titanic impressions? What are we supposed to do on a five-hour boat ride?”

“I think that’s obvious,” Earl says wickedly.

I smile. Oh yeah. Here we go.

“Fish,” he says.

I frown. Fish? Really? “What kind of fishing?”

“Tuna,” he says, smiling again. He winks at me.

“Ew,” I say. “Was that supposed to be sexy?”

“It was supposed to be. My dirty talk doesn’t turn you on?”

I shake my head. “Sometimes. But comparing a woman’s vagina to a fish is unacceptable.”

“What if I said ‛goldfish’? Goldfish are colorful and uniquely beautiful. Like you, my dearest Anna.”

I shake my head again. “Just stop. No fish.”

“Okay, then what did you have in mind?”

“Drop the double entendres and let’s move on to another F-word.”

“Oh, Anna,” he says. “I thought you’d never ask. Food it is, then! Let’s go eat in the dining hall.”

It wasn’t the F-word I had in mind, of course (it was actually two F-words: friending and Facebook), but it works. I’m hungry. Plus I don’t even have a Facebook account.

The boat is now sailing on the open water. We sit down at a table in the boat’s dining room, which turns out to be an Olive Garden. “I hope you like Italian food, Anna. Olive Garden is my favorite,” Earl says as a waiter drops off two menus for us.

What do I say? I mean, yes, I love Italian food . . . but I don’t know anyone who would mistake Olive Garden for real Italian food. “I like the breadsticks,” I say cheerfully.

He laughs. “You can be honest, Anna.”

Okay, if he wants to hear it . . . “I think Olive Garden noodles taste like microwaved plastic spoons,” I say. “And don’t get me started on their clumpy sauce. They should change their name to ‛Shitaly.’”

Earl gazes at me. I’m sure he’s going to toss me off the boat like chum for a shark. Instead, he just smiles. “I couldn’t agree more. And that’s why I love it. It’s another of my fifty shames, Anna.”

Wow. He’s bearing his soul to me. This is deep.

“You’re a strange man, Mr. Grey.”

“Just wait until we get to Hawaii,” he says. “You have no idea how strange I am.”

The waiter returns, and Earl orders two of everything on the menu. I’m beginning to think his relationship with food is a little screwed up. It’s a miracle that he’s in shape and has washboard abs. If I ate like he did, I would need liposuction once a week. He laughs when I tell him this.

“Oh, Anna,” he says. “If I waited a full week to have liposuction, there’s no way my abs would look like this. I have a doctor come in and suck out my fat every Monday and Thursday.”

“Do you think that’s healthy?”

“It can’t hurt,” he says.

I’m still unsure. “I’ve heard stories of people dying or being seriously injured due to cosmetic surgery.”

“Oh Anna, it’s not surgery; it’s a new procedure called ‛manual suction.’ A doctor comes over and literally sucks the fat off me twice a week using a Dirt Devil.”

It’s useless to argue with the great and mighty Earl Grey—if he can buy it, then it has to be good, right?

I am glad that he’s revealing more of himself to me. No matter how shameful his activities are (eating at Olive