Fifty Shandas of Grey Book Review Titillates Audience*


The trashy yet delicious best-selling tome, Fifty Shandas of Grey, was published by JPS and has been causing waves of indignation.

Titillation and indignation greeted the announcement that the Hadassah Group of Sodom and Gomorrah West would be offering a review of the trashy yet delicious best-selling tome, Fifty Shandas of Grey.

Since the book came out on recycled paper from the National Enquirer, inquiring minds have wanted to know, “Why this? Why now?”

Why not? asked the rabbis signing up for the book luncheon.

This sordid tale of the ironically named Christian Grey — a nom de plume for Chaim Ahfour — focuses on his many travesties committed as a lunch meat dealer and lothario over a 50-year career, one in which Grey received a golden anniversary award from the Golden Slipper Club.

“This is not a nice book, but, then, this is why you’re all here,” said Simcha Freilach, reviewer extraordinaire at the packed meeting at Green Hill Apartments. (She had made an earlier impression with her critique of Colonel Knowledge, about a disgraced, lonely Israeli officer in the Six-Day War.)

“The first of the shandas is the book itself,” she said. “Why the Jewish Publication Society would publish such dreck when they could probably sell more copies of Translations of the Nigunim Through 15 Centuries of Jews Arguing Over Texts, is inconceivable.”

There were 75 “tsks-tsks” and 129 “oy-veys” as Freilach went through — very slowly — every lunch meat transgression.

By meeting’s end, the totally depleted audience had endured the 75-minute very detailed book review — save 10 minutes for Mrs. Goldfarb’s fainting and being swamped by a crowd of helpers responding to the shout-out, “Is there a doctor in the house?” — and vowed never to look at lunch meat and hanky-panky in the same drawer-dropping way again.

“Who knew,” quizzed Mrs. Geshrei, “that lean corned beef could inspire such passion?”

“Even without cole slaw and Russian dressing,” added a revived Mrs. Goldfarb, spitting out the treif combination, but happy, nevertheless, of getting a doctor’s number for her son.

As fans rushed the table at the program’s conclusion to purchase copies of the book “for their friends,” Freilach announced that proceeds would benefit a charity dear to the sordid heart of the author.

“Bonds,” she said.

“Israel Bonds.”

*This article is part of the Exponent's Purim shpiel edition.


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