Smart Bitches Trashy Books | All of the romance, none of the bullshit.

Making fun of Fabio covers is like taking candy from a baby. A tall, blond, muscular, grotesquely be-titted baby. So today, we decided to switch to another punching bag entirely. Behold, the gallery of horrors towards which John D’Salvo has lent his visage. If ye be wise, avert your eyes.

Ah, who am I kidding? Chances are, you’re masochistic bitches, just like us.

Sarah: OW. Not only did Candy throw down the gauntlet with this series, but she starts off with a Cassie Edwards romantic book of Savage Lurrrrrve™. Damn. That gauntlet is heavy when it hits your toe.

Steering his canoe through the River-of-Fire, known to the white man as Buttsecks Creek, Casts-Long-Shadow-With-Brave-Man-Titty wondered, would he ever find a woman who would appreciate the subtle implications of the long, thin staff held between his legs? And would he ever find a conditioner that would keep his hair soft and supple in the hot Buttsecks wind?

Candy: “Hot Buttsecks wind.” Haaahahahahahah ohdeargod.

Ahem. Indeed, I hear the Hot Buttsecks can sometimes result in a lot of windiness. *koff*

My question is, what is he so savagely hoping for as he peers into the wacky-ass aqua mist surrounding his canoe? Is he spearing for extra saline implants that he can use to augment his assets? Or is he looking for some indication--ANY indication--of his alleged Native American ancestry?

Sarah: I don’t know where to put my eyes first, or where to avert them from. Her neck is broken. Her head’s too big for her body. Her sleeve appears to be as wide as my ass.

And he has a bleeding rose in his crotch. I know if it burns when you pee, it’s time to see a doctor, but if your schmeckie turns into a thorned blossom and weeps blood? I don’t know what kind of doctor to call for that mess.

Candy: I’m sorry, chiquita--you can try to look as fetching as you like, but that dude? He doesn’t play for your team. He dances to his own tune, and that tune is ”Michael." He’s much more like to trill with glee over your flounces and comment on the stitchwork than tear them off your slim, nubile body. Next time, look for a dude who DOESN’T wear his denim shirts completely unbuttoned while sniffing a bloody (literally bloody!) pink rose.

Sarah: Oooh, and she ends the first d’Salvo trifecta with a Zebra historical. Woo damn she’s good.

Follow which moon? The moon of her cleavage, the moon of his plumber’s crack? Come on, he must have one with pants that tight. Maybe it’s the cleft moon of his impossibly ripped arms. I think his musculature is about to rip his skin in half. Ouch.

Candy: “What d’you mean, you don’t trust me? I swear, moving the hot French governess into the adjoining bedroom means nothing, nothing at all, my sweet. Look, that grip on my arm is really starting to cut off the circulation in my biceps. Just. Let. Go. DARLING.”

Ah, it’s like fish in a barrel: the Native American romance novel cover. The fringe! The headbands! The majestic beadwork. The big bulge in the front of the buckskin trousers!

But what about the poor horsies, forced against their will to participate in this tawdry drivel?

Sarah: The magic in question is how the shirtless comanche is holding onto the stupid woman while she grabs his knee. Poor horse is going to fall the hell over with all that side weight, because the poor thing already has to lug those man titties around on his back.

Candy: Wow, this looks like a figure skating routine, only with a horse. Strapping ice skates onto a horse: talk about cruel and unusual.

Not that it’s any crueller or more unusual than having to bear these two preening asshats on its back.

And is this just a problem with my monitor, but does the man have no discernible nipples?

Sarah: “Stupid woman,” thought Has-Big-Mullet-But-No-Shirt. “Not only is she running around in her nightgown during a brushfire, but she doesn’t realize that horse is going to stomp her head like a melon. Oh well. Maybe me and my man-titties will fit in her shirt.”

Candy: Does it seem to you that BOTH of them are gazing at the horse with unbecoming longing? The girl seems to be gazing wistfully at the horse’s hocks, while the dude seems to be ignoring the girl’s fairly impressive rack in favor of her equine companion. The secret of the book is out: Wind is the name of the horse, and the book is centered around the unholy love triangle between the blonde chippy, an Apache stallion and the horse they both love just a leeeeetle too much for anyone’s comfort.

Sarah: I bet it burns, honey, that “midnight fire.” No one told these two about the romance taboo about buttsecks on horseback.

Candy: That is the BEST expression on her face. Anticipatory, yet blank. Kind of like cousin Bleh in Drawn Together. She knows that he’s promised to remember the KY next time, but she also knows he’ll keep “forgetting.” I mean, c’mon, look at the smug expression on his face. You just KNOW he’s the kind of asshole who’ll slip it up the backdoor and claim it was an “accident.”

The weird disembodied hand clutching at her boob also threw me off for a bit until I realized it was supposed to be hers.

Sarah: And when there’s no horse? Because he done ran off in fear of further trick riding injuries from dangling women off his bridle? Your handsome Apache can yank your arms off and ride you like a stick horse across the prairie.

Candy: All RIGHT! Talk about backdoor love on the range! (Where the deer and the antelope play...proctologist.)

Looking at the supremely awkward angle of her legs, I’m not sure HOW she’s staying upright. Unless she’s being propped up by SOMETHING.

I think there’s definitely a stick horse here, Sarah. Only it’s not the one you think. I think the stick horse is already being ridden, cunningly hidden ‘twixt the folds of the skirt.

This week, we’re taking a look at some reader-submitted stepback covers. So nice when the cover is rather bland and then you open the flap and HOLY CANOLI are those REAL?!

Our first stepback: Patricia Pellicane’s Sweet Revenge

Sarah: “The sea is rising up behind me, and here, I have this dead girl with giant silicone boobies. Aren’t Coast-Guard-approved floatation devices made of silicone? I sure hope so!”

Also, can we talk about how disturbingly long her first two fingers are? What does she DO with those fingers?! Prostate exams… on giraffes?

Candy: “Non non non, ma cherie...You keep your knees bent, lift your breasts UP and suck that stomach IN. Like so, comprends?”

Or maybe he’s demonstrating the newest Aikido throw to the little chickadee?

Under the Wild Moon by Diana Carey

Sarah:”Darling, I don’t think it’s going to work between us. First, I have to go fight those monks over there. But more importantly, you have jaundice, you aren’t able to stand up, and one of your breasts appears to be coming out of your shoulder. And, now you’re melting into a puddle. Don’t you see? It’s not you. It’s me. I can’t handle your specialness.”

Candy: YAY medieval mullets! Very authentic.

Side note: All these bitches need to look into knee surgery or something. The premature kneecap failure rate among these models must be appalling.

The Dark Horseman Marianne Harvey

Sarah: You know the horse is thinking, “Ok, I’m about to go over the cliff because Lord Bozo doesn’t look where he’s going, AND I have to pull the weight of this doofy dead woman ol’ Bozo insists on dragging everywhere, even though she’s beyond rigor mortis and her dress is clearly from three seasons ago. And NOW there’s some big fire burning over there and what is he doing? He’s looking down her cleavage again. Maybe I can throw them both over the cliff.”

Candy: Riding a rearing stallion with a shirt mostly unbuttoned is eminently practical and a sign of excellent horsemanship. Also, allowing your stallion to rear so wildly about 2 millimeters away from the edge of a cliff. Between that and the chick with the mean crick in her neck, I say this tableau looks like a Darwin Award waiting to happen.

Sarah: Y’all. Y’ALL. Now we know what happened to Ian Ziering from 90210. But where’s the cover with Dylan and Brandon? Mrowr!

Candy: It’s a miracle more of these cover models don’t come down with some sort of catarrh from standing around with their shirts unbuttoned in the cold, damp air.

I also wonder: Do these guys use aftershave on their chests, and is that why their shirts are unbuttoned? To allow the aftershave to evaporate freely?

Sarah: Oh, the heartbreak of finding your dream man, replete with breathtaking mantitty, only to find he has a monster case of jaundice. And turning yellow does not a good indicator of health make. Wonder what else might be turning yellow, hmm? Run, dearie, RUN!

Candy: Jebus, can two people look any more gross? There’s just this sheen of, I don’t know, grease and, yes, jaundice about them. I can just about picture the stink-lines emanating from these two clowns. Maybe that’s why their mouths are slightly agape--they’re breathing through their mouths.

Sarah:
Hero: Dude. Where’s my shirt?
Heroine: I care not, milord! I must reform you! Apparently you are a rake!
Hero: I’m a what?
Heroine: A rake! Or, that’s what you used to comb that hair, anyway.
Hero: Huh?
Heroine: And while we’re talking reform, high-waisted pants are not a good look for you. Who is your tailor? And your barber?
Hero: Oh, boy.

Candy: Another grubby-looking guy. I think the cover artists were trying to go for “manfully dishevelled” but managed to hit “meth bender in the middle of a windstorm” instead. And why is she staring at his collarbone with that intent almost-sneer on her face? It’s almost like he has some schmutz in the shape of the Holy Mary on his clavicle and she’s debating whether to wipe it off or not.

More secret baby/baby-daddy books from our fabulous readers, and more horrified responses from Sarah & Candy. What a lovely way to start the week!

Sarah: Forgive me, but your daddy the Duke might want to (a) consider another source other than Burger King for his crowns, and (b) start looking into charm school, because you, little girl, look like you have some serious attitude problems.

Candy: I initially mis-read the title as My Daddy the Puke. Tee hee!

Speaking of puke: this cover has just caused my admittedly low gag threshold to redline. Come to think of it: Many romance novel covers should come with built-in barfbags. Holy shit, I’m a GENIUS.

Sarah: TRIPLET secret babies? What in the name of all that is good and noble in the world, is THAT about? I’m guessing it’s a hard secret to keep, considering that most triplet deliveries involve a few months of bed rest to allow for as long a gestation as possible. How do you explain that one? “Well, darling, I’m sorry I didn’t return your calls for four months, I was kidnapped by aliens! And excuse that giant stretch mark. It’s nothing. Just, um, slipped while I was writing with a Sharpie!”

Candy: Wow. Just...wow. I mean, Jesus fuck, the secret baby fetish is pretty retarded to begin with. To multiply this by a factor of three boggles the mind. Frankly, it sounds like kind of a freak show. Next up: “Secret Astonishingly Hirsute Conjoined Twin Babies!”

Sarah: Ok, is it me or do the three dudes look a little like the men from Full House?

And how is that romantic, not knowing who the baby daddy is, and then standing around in your nightgown with all three of them? Yeesh.

Candy: The implication seems to be that this woman had frenzied group sex with these three men without the benefit of STD or birth control. HOT! I didn’t know Harlequin published love stories about crazy swingers. Bonus points if the events leading to the pregnancy involved snorting cocaine off her breasts.

Sarah: It’s not so much the doctor’s dilemma as the mother’s - how the hell did she pick a zombie ob/gyn who DOESN’T KNOW HOW TO HOLD NEWBORNS? And on top of that, the artist seems to have Photoshopped the same face on each baby? Yeesh. That’s just freaking creepy right there. I’m going to stop looking at it now - I’ve got the jibblies.

Candy: Michael Jackson must be getting desperate--here, he seems to be kidnapping not one, but TWO babies who wouldn’t have looked too out of place in Eraserhead.