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

If you are Leigh Greenwood, you are one lucky man/woman. Because oh, holy night, you got yourself some fine DeSalvo covers for your “The Cowboys” series. From Greenwood’s website:

The freedom of the range, the bawling of the longhorns, the lonesome night watch beneath a vast, starry sky - they got into a man’s blood until he knew there was nothing better than the life of a cowboy...except the love of a good woman.

This series tells the stories of nearly a dozen orphans who’re adopted by Jake and Isabelle Maxwell and grow up on their cattle ranch in the Texas Hill Country.

So as the longhorns bawl (perhaps due to the purple prose?) you find a bunch of orphans, who, judging from the covers, miraculously all look alike (except for Sean, who wants you to pull his finger). That is some serious scientific mystery right there, folks. I’m amazed that A&E hasn’t done a heavily-promoted special on the identical orphans. They’re all desalvolicious in their own special way.

Sarah: The mullet. The manly firearm held erect from his manly crotch. And of course, the mantitty. Buck is a master of manly manliness. And he only likes women with mullets and salmon colored dresses. Sorry, ladies.

Candy: He only likes women with mullets? The hell you say. I swear to God that’s an Adam’s apple I see peeking ‘midst yon flame-colored mullet tresses.

Sorry, ladies, indeed.

Sarah: Identical faces… all sporting mullets. Chet, of course, is blonde.

Now, here’s my problem with this cover. There is only one Chet. This is Chet.

And also, this is Chet. That dude with the hat? Not Chet.

Candy: Man, that little inset looks like the lead-up to the following joke:

What do you tell a woman with two black eyes?

Nothing, you already told the bitch twice.

I’m just saying he looks like he’s about ready to tell the little lady the first time.

Sarah: Nice waxed chest, there, Luke. It’s good that you keep up with your brother’s love of the mullet, but I think you’re really interested in brotherly love of a different sort, hmmm? Those daisies, they mean something, don’t they.

Candy: Much as it pains me to say it, if Viggo Mortensen decided to undergo laser hair removal and pectoral implant surgery while dressed in Hidalgo drag, he might look like this incarnation of DeSalvo.

Sarah: Matt, not only do you have Luke’s shaved chest and Chet’s mullet, but you have a decided love of hair product, too. Your horse, his hair is everywhere. But yours? Moves not an inch. So manly.

Now turn the horse around so Candy and I can check for a glittery rainbow sticker on your horse’s rump.

Candy: “Hold on, I don’t want this pomade. I want Dapper Dan.”

“I don’t carry Dapper Dan, I carry Fop.”

“Well, I don’t want Fop, goddamn it! I’m a Dapper Dan man!”

Sarah: Poor guy. No mullet, his shirt appears to be buttoned, and he’s somewhat normal looking. And his gun, it is not held in an erect posture. For all these sins and more, he gets a backseat to some chick with a bad wig and a skirt that is so short, she wil have breathtaking thigh chafing within the hour. He is way in the distance, and his hopes of gettin’ some from Drew? Distant as well.

Candy: I agree that his chances of scoring with Drew are slim to none, but I’m not sure the fella minds. Something tells me he has a gallon tub of Dapper Dan in his saddlebags and he’s off to meet a man with a strong hankering for it--and not just for his hair, if you know what I mean and I think you do.

Sarah: He looks like he feels a little guilty. Here he is, trying to impress you, sharpening his wee little blade, wearing his finest feather headdress, and ...whoops!  A little poot slips from beneath his buckskins. And he hopes you won’t notice but it’s visible, a green, sulfur cloud that wafts behind him. Ooops. No wonder he feels guilty. He killed the Laird of the Wind with his green Savage Thunder.

Candy: His buddies HATE going hunting with him, not only because of the thunderous savagery emanating from his behiney, but because the stench scares away the animals for miles around. Also, he doesn’t look savage so much as he does kind of tweaked-out and worried. He looks like he’s just snorted a huge line of coke and trying really, really hard to stifle a real ripper, but not quite succeeding.

Also: Egad. What are the odds that there’d be not one, but two books entitled Savage Thunder? Gotta love the romance novel industry.

Sarah: Oh, Holy God, SHE’S A MAN, BABY. A MAAAAAN.

Candy: Wow. Props to the art department for finding a person who has bigger titties than DeSalvo. But Sarah has a point. I’m now wondering: Where else is she more generously endowed than our erstwhile hero? Is that the shadow of...other things...I see? Does her cinnabar cave hide a lusty dragon?

Sarah: Sometimes happiness means a musclebound man with a mullet whose hair, although egregious, is still better than his partner’s, as she sports one of the seven lesbian haircuts.

And sometimes happiness means faking, *le sigh*, yet another orgasm for the cover of a romance novel.

And sometimes, happiness means getting to look at a cover like this to say mean things about it, and having so many horrible thoughts pop into my mind that I just giggle like a mental patient who got her hands on the contents of one too many helium balloons.

Candy: Do you ever have moments when so many quips flood forth that they basically jam your brain, kind of like all the Three Stooges trying to ram their way through a doorway at once?

Yeah. Am having one of those moments now. The word “beard” seems to be one of the few coherent words that has escaped the logjam. (Huh huh, “logjam.") All I can say is, bitch doesn’t need to wait for the rainbow. The rainbow’s motherfucking THERE already--see? All sparkly-like, right on the bumper of his car.

Ann Lawrence is one lucky lady. Not only is she quite funny (I’ve met her) but her covers? All feature the Majestic DeSalvo.

Oddly, he’s always holding something long, hard and equally majestic when he’s depicted on her books. Makes me wonder if the art department is trying to..convey something. I mean, you don’t have to hit me over the head with it; I’ll figure it out eventually. Hmm. Maybe he’s going fishing?

Sarah: Lord of the Mist meets Lord of the Wind. It’s like the best grudge match ever! The Lord of the Mist, nebulous like the vapor, cunning as the fog, but damn, he carries a big ass stick. Is he any match for the Lord of the Wind’s, ur, wind?

Candy: Every Saturday, yon Lord of the Mist wreaks devastation in his wake, turning formerly thriving cities into desolate desolate swamps with his dank, noxious fogs--because that’s always the day cook makes her special Lentil Soup and Devilled Eggs lunch.

Sarah: I tell you what, the Lord of the Keep also carries a big ol’ stick, too. What a curious angle he’s holding it at, almost as if he’s… implying something. And if the big stick didn’t get my attention, that come hither “Hey, Baby, wanna play with my fishing tackle?” look is certainly a winner.

Candy: Looking at this cover, I get the feeling this dude enjoys duelling with other swords a lot more than sheathing it in a scabbard--if you know what I mean, and I think you do.

Sarah: There is nothing virtual about it: This cover has actual mantitty, actual improbable washboard belly, and absolutely breathtaking phallic symbolism. I don’t think he wants to monkey with the Lord of the Mist, though. That would not end well.

Candy: You know a model’s in trouble when he’s trying to out-emote the wooden staff in his hands--and losing.

When I see all three covers, I picture the characters talking like Azul Falcone. “Pretty silken underthings for everybody! And now, we make PARRRTY!” (Ha ha… sissy European lisp thingy.)

It’s not just the Hairclub for Men anymore. It’s the Hair Club for Men with Man-titty.

Sarah: Future Mega Mullet Man gazed at the air to the left of her ear, hoping she would admire his fine pooftah necklace and big green plastic armband.

“Wow,” she thought. “Could he BE any more gay?”

Candy: That is truly a magnificent mullet--it’s so big that the dude has to wear his crown on his arm, because there’s no way it could’ve fit over that mane of glory. But I have to say, it’s all eclipsed by the woman’s futuristic RennFaire-Orgasmed-All-Over-40-Yards-of-Hot-Pink-Satin monstrosity. And what better to go with a Medieval Bitches In Space dress than midnight blue tights?

Sarah: The hair, it is half ducks-ass and half overgrown mullet. I think it’s an exaggerated version of the typical description of a hero who “wears his hair longer than fashionable” with a forelock he can toss back in an arrogant manner.

But in this depiction? He looks scruffy and over-moussed.

And also, is it me or is her torso disturbingly short, like her leg is emerging from just under her ribcage?

Candy: Man, he’s such a workout addict that he seizes any and all opportunities to exercise. That’s why when faced with a supine woman, his first instinct is to do one-armed push-ups. He only regrets he forgot his headband and legwarmers to go with his 80s mullet.

Sarah: Yes. Please. Back away from the pussy. Now.

Candy: The furry implications of this cover are more than a little disturbing.

Sarah: From Claiming the Highlander, by Kinley MacGregor:

Him: “Your neck. It is disturbingly long.”
Her: “So is your hair.”
Him: “Are you a giraffe?”
Her: “No more than you are a highlander in those Gap jeans you have on.”
Him: “Seriously, do you say ‘Go Go Gadget Neck?’ when you can’t see over something?”
Her: “No. Do you ask deliberately for those layers to be cut in your hair, or does the hairdresser knock you unconscious first?”

Candy: On him: Mullet. Inexplicable shirtlessness. Bountiful man-titty. On her: Bad perm. Teal gown. Teal, for motherfucksakes, people. Inexplicably long neck.

These two people on the cover had sex once, and the cataclysm resulting from that joining was known as the 80s.

Sarah: Perhaps if she gazes at the secret message he scrawled under his man-titty cleft, she won’t notice that he poured the rest of her vintage 1982 Indian Earth Bronzer Powder on his hair.

Candy: Never were the words “ginger minger” more apt, methinks. Nor the words “rampant sunless tanning lotion abuse.”

Sarah: Perm + Man-titty + WAY TOO MUCH BRONZER = hilarity. Do you think if you moisten your finger and wipe it down his chest, you can reveal the pasty white skin beneath? What a handy place to write down notes and phone numbers. “Hang on, I have his number, it’s right here on the Highlander’s left man-tit.”

Candy: Indeed, when I’m feeling pasty after a grey, brutal Portland winter and I’m longing for some time in the sun so that I, y’know, no longer glow in the fucking dark, I immediately think of decamping to the Scottish Highlands.

Sarah: I think his man-titty is holding up his plaid sash. And have you ever noticed that on all the deSalvo covers, his arms are bent because he’s so built he can’t straighten his arms, and, more importantly, his legs are spread, like his man junk is SO big he can’t close his legs? What’s he hiding under that kilt? Priapism?

Candy: Egad! The pirates, English rakes and randy horsemen have all infected the Highlanders with the inability to lace up their shirts before tucking them into their waistbands! When will the madness stop? Won’t somebody think of the children?

Sarah: I giggled for a good half-hour at this cover. Even Hubby walked around the house: “Laird of the Wind! TOOT!” Seriously, sir, you do not want to be Laird of the Wind in a kilt. There’s nothing there to stop your wind from, um, escaping the confines. You might want to refrain from eating so many beans if you’re still having that problem - unless it’s not beans. Maybe you and last week’s Hot Buttsecks Wind Indian are Lairds of Brokeback Mountain?

Candy: See that eagle soaring off in yonder distance? It was totally blown off its feet in an unanticipated lift-off, courtesy of this particular laird’s wind. Gives “wind beneath my wings” a new meaning entirely. People oft wondered what sorcery the Laird wrought when on Tuesday mornings, all the eagles within the immediate vicinity would take flight whenever he stepped out, but really, that’s just because Monday night is always 5-Alarm Chili night.