Whatever the safe word is, make it all stop.
It's bad enough these books reside on the toilet tank of every grandma in the continental U.S., resulting in millions of awkward conversations on Thanksgiving afternoon about how Scoutmasters in the 1970s knew all the best knots, but every few minutes, there's a new lifestyle blog post directly applying a 50 Shades purple-nurple to the sensitive part of our brains, and we, the reading public, can't take it anymore.
We're talking to you, regional falconry magazine and 50 Shades of Prey. And you, culinary blogger with 50 Blades of Bobby Flay. To the farm-themed Tumblrs touting 50 Sheds of Hay, the gossip rags with 50 Shades of Queen Bey and the bodybuilding articles offering 50 Shades of Whey, have mercy on us. Music blogs and 50 Fades of Dr. Dre? We can't even.
Hey, P.T.O. newsletter featuring 50 Grades of Mrs. Barclay, those third graders know what you're talking about, that's why Jordan keeps tying his classmates to the merry-go-round during recess. And 50 Tirades about Santa's Sleigh? Someone received coal instead of a ball gag at Christmas.
Hey, grandma, we love you, but please stop posting your latest adventures on Facebook. One click on 50 Shades of Grand Mistress May can undo a lifetime of cookies, especially if we see the leather outfit you wore while baking them.
To all the puntastic editors, bored headline scribes and overenthusiastic web article writers who secretly read a disturbing amount of vampire-based bondage fanfiction: this isn't clever wordplay and social media relevance silk tied up in a bow, it's Geneva Convention-level, mind-fracking. You're all up in our headspace, and we are sincerely missing the days when the only numeric sexual reference was 69, because at least that didn't show up on morning talk shows with giggles and rope.
So, please, pretty please with nipple clamps on top, cut out all the twisty Sebastian Grey references. Otherwise, we're going all 50 Shades of Amal Clooney on your ass.