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

Candy: Dad: Naw, Bobby. That ain’t no way to touch your baby sister. C’mere, lemme show ya some REAL fun tricks. And remember, be gentle ‘cause you don’t leave any marks.

Oh yeah. Don’t tell Mom.

Sarah: This cover is just… ugh. And the series, “Three Cowboys and a Baby?” I bet you any amount of money, one of those babies is a secret baby.

Candy: Hot damn. The only thing I want forgotten is the sheer mess that’s this cover. What in the fuck kind of effect were they trying to achieve? A combination of Monet on crack and an episode of Days of Our Lives--also on crack? Throw in a horror movie for good measure, because that woman doesn’t have any pupils. Note to cover artists: Regan from The Exorcist should not be your inspiration for romance novel cover art. And near as I can tell the dude doesn’t have any eyes, period, but he has this odd smirk on his face, almost as if he’s happy about it. He probably gave Satan his eyeballs in exchange for the ability to leer menacingly over poorly-painted landscapes.

Sarah: When paintball meets romance, the results are messy, explosive, and gross, and let’s not forget ugly. I think Candy’s on to something, because the cinematographer for Days clearly brought the fuzzy lens and the backlight over for this cover. Makes me wonder if I forgot to put my glasses on this morning.

I know we argue here that romance is often so well written it is akin to an art form, but that is NOT what we mean.

Candy: Alternate title: “When Zombies Want To Fuck.” If there are cover models more bloodless or lifeless in Romancelandia, I have yet to see them. And that’s including all the vampire romance covers I’ve seen.

Sarah: The episode of ‘Highlander’ that was never aired. Christopher Lambert plays Connor McLeod, a man with a horrible secret. He lusts, he pines, he cannot resist… women who have the flu.

Candy: Ummmm, I guess the “expecting” in the title of this book refers to the woman’s pregnancy (of which I can see very little sign), but really, that concerned look on their faces just makes ‘em look kind of constipated. They’re expecting an imminent bowel movement because they haven’t had one in three weeks. Or maybe they’re expecting that shipment of Metamucil to arrive any day now.

Also: if you’re in danger, RUN LIKE HELL YOU STUPID MOTHERFUCKERS. Don’t stop in the middle of the street and pose all pretty with a faintly pained look on your faces. Frankly, the biggest danger you’re in is being mowed over by a car.

Sarah: That chick is expecting to have her midwife scream at her that she’s not gaining appropriately. Expecting means bigger boobs and a much rounder belly than that. She looks positively… normal. And if she’s that early in her pregnancy that she hasn’t begun to “show” yet, well, listen to Candy and get the hell out of the street. Don’t stand there in the breeze and pose like goofballs.

What makes a man?
Is it the woman in his arms?
Just ‘cause she has big titties
Or is the way
He fights everyday?
No, it’s probably the titties

- DVDA, “Now You’re a Man”

Ahhh, immortal words from Trey Parker and Co. Apparently, based on some e-books, big man-titties are indicative of manliness, too. Take a look, for example, at these:

Candy: Sha-zam! Behold, I unleash before you… MASSIVE TITTY! This is thanks to my totem animal, the lactating gorilla, to which I bear a disturbing resemblance. That is, if lactating gorillas had breast implants that drove their gazongas towards their collarbone.

Sarah: Berdache, my ass. Backache is more like it, from hauling those mountainous man-breasts around. And sure, they’re firm and perky while he’s young and nubile, but just wait until he’s nursed for a year and middle-aged sag hits him. Then he’ll be kicking around his own man-titties to get them out of his way. Talk to me then, Backache.

Candy: OK, this cover confuses me. Chest: Disturbingly feminine--check out how his left hooter looks disturbingly girly and perky. Abs: Appropriately ripped. Sword: Massive, phallic, yet ouchy and thorny. I can feel my impressionable mind warping already. Unfortunately, overdeveloped man-titty is not on the RWA list of Things That Are Narsty And That We Don’t Want To Associate With. The No More Terrifying Man-Titty Campaign: talk about a cause I’d be more sympathetic to.

Sarah: Word, Candy, it is a total shame that the RWA isn’t more willing to consider the true travesties of the cover-art world: man breasts that aren’t appropriately used to help shade the earth. I mean, if this dude were launched into space, his man-tits could cover up many of the depleted areas lacking ozone and save me from sunburn.

Candy: Poor Axl Rose. It’s not enough that his former bandmates are now making loads of dosh and quite a name for themselves with a new, skank-ass frontman. It’s not enough that he’s warped his face beyond recognition with bad plastic surgery. He’s now gotten pec implants and is posing for e-book covers with an inexplicable garter on his arm. His humiliation is complete.

Sarah: What the hell is THAT? I am totally missing my garter from my wedding - is this where it got to? And how did he end up with it? I bet some art director stole it as an example of an “arm band of manful manliness” for some struggling artist who’d never heard of such a thing, and instead of thinking that lace was too frilly for such a smooth-skinned man-tit-sporting mega-stud, he just put the garter on his arm like he’s a reject from a curious bachelorette party.

Either that, or he’s leaving the bachelorette party because all the bachelorettes kicked him out for having nicer titties than they do. 

Back when I was a sharply-nippled pre-teen (what was up with training bras making your budding bazooms look like torpedo tips, anyway?) I had many a beefy poster on my wall from teeny bop magazines that were nothing but pull out posters. But instead of Kirk Cameron, Sean Astin, the Coreys, and more Kirk, I had non-beefcake dorks. I had Michael J. Fox and Chad Allen - yes, I know he’s gay. I had no idea, even though I had a poster of him in a pink polo shirt and a green neck scarf. I had smart-looking teen studs on my walls.

But had I been in possession of some of these here romance covers, oh, my bedroom would have been a much swankier place. I won’t question the decision to just put the hero on the cover, though it seems about as silly as having a letter from the hero on the back cover, but hey, a poster-sized version of these might be good for creating the right atmosphere… in hell.

Sarah: You know, I like this book so much it’s really hard to snark on the cover, especially when it’s one of the few halfway-decent-looking Fabio covers out there. But my gosh. This is the romance between a Quaker and a post-stroke rehabbing lord, and gosh if he doesn’t look a little dazed there. And also, there’s a looootta space between his navel and his, um, inseam. What’s he keeping in there?

Candy: Ahhh, I love these covers. They try to seem as if they’re beckoning the reader into the magical world of perpetually unfastened shirts and massive man-titties, but to me, it just seems like they’re saying “Pull my finger! It’ll smell like Uranus! Uh huhuhuhuhuhuh.” But maybe Maddy wasn’t around to button Jervaulx’s shirt, and he has just suffered from aphasic brain trauma, so I guess I shouldn’t make fun of the handicapped.

Sarah: Ok, so, you’re going out to stand on the windswept cliffs on a rather stormy afternoon, and you’re not going to comb or tie back your hair or anything like that. But you see, sir, here is where I must confess to confusion: why no shirt? You have pants, you have a cape, a cape for God’s sake, but no...shirt? Why? For sheer maximum beefcake factor?

Candy: Poor Ted Danson. Not only has he gotten hair extensions in yet another effort to compensate for his bald spot, he’s clearly lost his freakin’ gourd. Romping around on wind-blown moors without a shirt is just asking for a case of catarrh that won’t quit.

Sarah: The horses are running away, and it’s not because of that compensatingly-placed riding crop in your hand. It’s because you just released the creatures that live in the cliffs under your pectorals, and they are all very, very scared of what might come flying out of there next.

And don’t smack your horses, dude. Makes me mad.

Candy: Ummm. Who is he trying to seduce here with his shirtlessness and his crop and his Regency Stealth Mullet? Ain’t nothing here except some horses, man. The logical conclusion makes me afraid. I guess I should be happy they’re not sheep.

His face is just kind of fucked-up in general. He looks kinda like James Franco:

So he’s, like, James Franco’s uglier older brother who enjoys re-enacting That Certain Scene with the horse from Caligula just a leeeetle too much and is constantly calling the women he courts “My little filly.”

Sarah: Sean is wishing he’d hidden some TP under the cliffs of his pectoral muscles, because he’s forced to dig a hole and use sand to wipe his bum when he’s done. Even that strumpet he’s assaulting in the corner there doesn’t have enough fabric on to use as bum wipe. Poor man. You’d think those crevices could hold a mega roll of Charmin.

Candy: Disturbing as this picture is in general, two things really, really squick me:

1. His titties. From that angle, they almost seem like they’re sagging a little. EW.

2. He looks almost ape-like. So right after he takes the TP-less dump, he’s going to fling some o’ that poo our way. That’s so HOT.

Sarah: Screw TP, Fabio needs a towel, and while he has impressive chestal cliffs, dang. There’s not enough room for a Mr. Thirsty towel let alone a square of tp. However, this dude is clearly related to Mr. Capes-on-the-Cliffs, because why go swimming in some tight leather pants? Why?

Candy: Instead of Aphrodite emerging from the waves, we have Fabio rising from the briny deep. I wonder whose testicles had to be cut off to result in Fabio, though? I mean, I don’t think Uranus was a particularly attractive God, and his balls resulted in a pretty bitchin’ babe. Hate to think what fugliness resulted in the cojones that produced Fabio’s mug.

OK, seriously now. This book features a ninja, and I think the cover is trying to advertise a little-known fact: swimming around in the middle of the fucking night clad in leather pants is an ancient and much-revered ninja attack method. The weight of the pants starts dragging you down and makes you flounder around like a drowning person, alerting villains for miles around. After they drag your waterlogged ass out of the water to see what the hell is going on, you bust out your shuriken and fucking puncture their asses. That is, if you haven’t lost them while paddling around in the ocean.

Sarah: This is the standard by which all bad beefcake covers are judged. I mean, it’s just so freaking horrible. What’s he saying, “C’mere and pull my vikingly finger? And then… pull my other finger?”

I will confess to being jealous of his hair, though.

Candy: Ahhh, the guy who modeled Sean is back with more bad beefcake, and like Fabio, is asking us to pull his finger. He’d do it with his other arm, but that circlet has cut off all circulation and paralyzed it.

Candy: Wow. Is there a name for people who like having group sex with mannequins? Les freaques aux plastiques? Jesus. And I thought Furries were bad.

The hand placement for the guy on the right is also muy, muy creepy. Makes me think he’s about to pop her head clean off, then run around the house swinging her head manically before hanging it from the ceiling fan.

Sarah: I have often asked myself, “Self, what ever happened to Clay Aiken?” Self, now you know.

Nothin’ sexier than a skinny man with no shirt. And a shoulder-sunburn. From being buried up to his clavicle.

Victorious Star Cover - NOTE: NOT WORK SAFE

Candy: Aaaaahahahahahahahahahahahahaha.

*stops for breath*

HAAAAAAAAhahahahahahahahahahaaaaa.

Oh God. That woman sure has some bitchin’ bangs and maroon eyeshadow, though I guess I should be grateful it’s not aquamarine. And the way the man’s hand is curved around her right hooter makes it seem as if it has no give at all. You’d think in the far future that plastic breastables would be more realistic, but apparently not even science that allows us to conquer faster-than-light travel can make breast impants lose that jello mold look. WORST. COVER. EVER.

Also: it hurts me to see how low Jason Mewes has sunk in his efforts to bolster his heroin habit.

Snoochie boochies! (But maybe “Snoochie coochies” would be more appropriate in this instance.)

Sarah: Candy totally has me beat on the “Dude, who does that dude look like?” contest. That dude totally looks like Jason Mewes. That’s so sad. Jason Mewes with a Legolas hairdo.

I have to ask Hubby who the other dude looks like. Damn, Hubby can’t figure it out, either. Ok, someone has to help me figure out who that dude looks like.

And that is the most horrid cover I have ever seen. Dear God. I need to lie down.

Candy: Guy: Unhhhh! Unnnh! Oh baby!
Girl: YES! OH YESSS! Ram that fleshy sword of love into my love chunnel, you stud!
Leopard: RAARR! Take it up the ass, bitch!

Sarah: Leopard 1: “I say, Jerome, there appear to be some rather beefy people engaging in some, shall we say, activities out in yonder swamp. “
Leopard 2: “Never!”
Leopard 1: “True, I am afraid. At this moment, in fact. Hear them?”
Leopard 2: “I do, indeed. Hm. Well, I am feeling a bit peckish.”
Leopard 1: “Oh, it has been a long time since you’ve eaten. Go on.”
Leopard 2: “Are you sure?”
Leopard 1: “Oh, yes. Go on. Enjoy. Bon appetit.”

Candy: Guy: I’m either constipated, or like Keanu Reeves, this is my Look of Passionate Intensity.
Girl: Is it in yet? I’m kind of bored.
Leopard: WOO, TITTY! Even ghostly leopards need titty. Oh yeah. OH YEAH. Much better than that chick’s from Victorious Star.

And once this guy leans over he’s going to get it up the ass, too.

Sarah: “Even ghostly leopards need titty.” A truer saying was never, er, said. *sniff* Just the price of a cup of coffee each day could give ghostly leopards their own titty. Imagine the difference you could make.

I won’t even go near my normal “What was the art department thinking?” ruminations. I can’t even imagine, unless their goal is to Not Sell Books. 

The Magic of You

Sarah: The magic here is: how did the same cover models for Gentle Rogue get hired for another seafaring cover and STILL manage to look equally ridiculous?

What’s with the eyeshadow? Doesn’t that belt pinch? Where’s his shirt? What’s with the garter-showing pose, sans garter? And why is she in her undergarments while standing on what looks like a floating plank in a large storm at sea, with a ship coming apart behind her? And is he holding her up, or casting her overboard?

But by far the most pressing (har) question: DOES HE HAVE...CAMEL TOE?!

Ya’ll. Fabio is a GIRL.

Candy: Sarah, can I just say how very, very much it frightens me that you actually looked closely enough at the cover to discern the camel toe? I admire your bravery, while simultaneously hoping that Baby Bitchlette has not suffered any damage in utero.

Anyway: PEOPLE. Just because you’re stuck in the middle of a ship with God knows WHAT kind of rampaging, raping barbarian, does not mean you have leave to violate all rules of decent society and resort to that shade eyeshadow. There’s never any excuse for that color eyeshadow. Or those camel toe-inducing pants. *shudder*

I’m also amazed at the power of Fabio’s breath. Judging by the way her hair is flying around willy nilly, that’s some exhaling power he’s got there.

This cover also receives my nomination for the Darwin Awards, because y’all, that HUGE MOTHERFUCKING WAVE that’s partially obscuring the helm looks like it’s going to sweep Our Not Particularly Intrepid Lovers into Davy Jones’s Locker any second now. Maybe that’s why she’s raising her skirt? She’s trying to pacify Neptune’s wrath or something? Because it sure as shit can’t be for Fabio’s benefit. He seems particularly fascinated with her hairline. Probably trying to discern what kind of product she uses by smell.

When Love Awaits

Sarah: This cover wishes so hard that it was Klimt’s The Kiss, only done in that weird 70’s style romance cover.

Summon the royal chiropractor! His neck! Her neck! My neck, from looking too closely at them! Hie thee, chiropractor!

And summon the surgeon, for he appears to have stabbed her in the crotch with his massive sword. No, not that sword, the other one.

Candy: This cover wins the prize for “Best Placement of Strategically Fluttery Pieces of Cloth.” I’m also trying way, way too hard to figure out why Stud McMuffin is naked in the garden with none of his armor anywhere in sight except for his helm (those empty, creepy eyes, boring in my brain, eeeeegah) while still holding on to his sword. I mean, he loves his sword so much, he can’t bear to let go of it to ravish his lady fair. That’s some serious sword-love goin’ on.

You Belong to Me

Sarah: This is among the more bizarre Lindsey Fabio covers. I wonder if Fabio is famous because of all these Lindsey covers? I mean, someone’s buying her books - probably the same people who are buying Cassie Edwards’ books. Maybe their collective readership is keeping Fabio in business.

This cover has such a hodgepodge of bizarre elements. What’s with her pose - what are they kneeling on? Are they inside, with a wind machine, or outside a wall? Does he ever have a shirt? Why isn’t she wearing a bra? Or a chemise? Or even a corset? Is this a contemporary?

And finally, what’s with that horse?

I know! I know! A nuclear detonation has been sighted on the horizon, and the air displacement has begun to ruffle their hair - and knock that horse straight up in the air. He’s been caught before his hooves leave the ground. In the last frantic moments, it’s nookie-on-the-fur-coat time.

Candy: Hahahahahaha.

Sorry. I can’t get over the horse. He looks so STARTLED. I mean, he’s so startled that his forelock is standing on end. Like “Holy shit, I’m on a Fabio cover! My reputation will never recover! I hope to God mother never sees what I’ve had to resort to to keep myself in timothy and alfalfa hay!”

Hahahahahahaha.

Anyway, that chick? She does NOT look happy. Can’t blame her; looks like Fabio’s about to give her a circumorbital hematoma with his chin. Or maybe Fabio has released some truly vicious Savage Thunder. That would explain why their hair is flying around in an apparently enclosed space.