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

As you’re hopped up on egg nog, enjoy the holiday madness here at Smart Bitches!

Sarah: Nothing says “Christmas” like Ryan Seacrest on a meth bender. Holly jolly, indeed!

Candy: Why is David Boreanaz on a Harlequin cover, and why is he channeling Arnold Schwarzenegger circa 1986?

Sarah: Not that she doesn’t look lovely in that dress, and not that I’m being a wicked catty bitch, but that might be the first depiction of arm flab on a cover model. Now we need heroes with some muffin top! Real People in Romance Now! (And I hope she sets him on fire with that bigass candle because he looks creepy. I’d rather kiss Milton.)

Candy: Oh, man. A cover featuring That Douche From the Office. You know, the one who gives you unasked-for shoulder rubs because you look “tense.” The one who leers at you when you wear a pretty new sweater to work. The one who talks about how much his former girlfriends enjoyed sex with him. You know, That Douche. Yech.

Sarah: Check out this cover, and the one directly above it. I swear, that’s the same dude. And he is making the rounds of the holiday party in a manner which I am sure will be written up in next year’s employee conduct manual.

Candy: “A ring that’s capable of trapping a million tortured souls per carat? Just what I always wanted! Look at how the bright flames of their agony make the cover artist apply the lens flare effect like they’re paid a thousand dollars every time they hit the Ctrl-F button!”

“Nothing’s too good for my schnookums!”

It’s that holiday season of beautifully-wrapped gifts, alcohol-drenched company parties, buffets of snacks on everyone’s cubicle - and a crop of Christmas-themed romances to bring sugar to your plums and mistle to your toes.

Sarah: Based on where he’s got his left hand, that Santa better hide where no one can seek him, is all I’m sayin’. “Kids ‘n kisses” is kraptastically kreepy.

Candy: Nothing says “Have a Sexy Christmas” like a puffy shirt tucked into Mom jeans and a Santa suit.

Sarah: I know that many women are not gifted in the mammary department, but I’m not sure that this woman is, well, a woman. Looks like her falsie slipped a bit southward. It might be Christmas at Blue Ball Ranch, if you know what I mean.

Candy: “All I want for Christmas is...an insufferably smug expression. And the grace to not be caught in the middle of a freakin’ hurricane while attempting to make out with this drunk sorority girl I picked up from Texas A&M.”

Sarah: Given the coked out expression on that man’s face, the paltry chip pile and the limp billfold - let alone that shirt - if I were that woman, I’d be betting on Santa, too. 

Candy: Santa needs a royal flush, a cowboy shirt that’s not made from polyester and a shower--not necessarily in that order.

Remember, kids: gambling during the holidays is sexy!

Ok, ok, I lied. All that advertising we sell? Goes to pay the bill for the private investigator (a hardened crusty man - read into that whatever you like - with a heart of gold) who has been tailing Candy through her first semester of law school. And look what we found upon review of his dossier:

Sarah: Oh dear! Someone dressed Candy in charmeuse, (a most sweaty fabric, poor dear) permed her hair within an inch of her life, AND sent a neckless woolly mammoth lumberjack after her. Unless that’s her con law professor and the beard is symbolic of the precarious state of gay rights in the US as threatened by constitutional amendments against gay marriage. In which case… nah, still awful.

Jane: The final score is that she can’t get away from him fast enough, but his arms and his wild woolly facial hair are holding Candy so tight that you cannot tell where her permed ringlets ends and his bushy beard begins.

Sarah: More charmeuse? Dude. WTF is going on in that law school? Now Candy is posing as a Lana Turner wannabe with a man-jaw, trying to probe the briefs of a man whose head is much, much too small for his body. Perhaps she’s writing his will, which allows me to snicker like a 5th grader while I type the word “testator.”

Jane: I’m fairly certain that charmeuse during test taking is only allowed for those individuals whose names end with a three or a four and whose first names are some derivation of a rabbit, i.e., Muffy Turner III so if this is indeed Candy, she must have changed her name.  It’s the rules.  In this test however, it is important to note that the size of the guy’s nipple and areole is about the size of her palm so either she has the tiny hands of those Chinese children who stitched together her charmeuese nightgown or he’s had some botched plastic surgery.  Also, what is with the tea towels over her hip?  Is it to hide some ugly stain caused by the mishandling of roses during foreplay?

Sarah: Awww, yeah, NOW we’re talkin! It’s finals week, and Candy has flung off her clothing in favor of… long strips of corrugated cardboard. And invited a substantially malnourished judge to bring his gavel into her steamy chambers.

Jane: You can tell he’s a judge because they are so uptight that they even wear jeans into the sauna.  I smell a lawsuit for not clearly warning what a person should wear in a sauna.  Two waffle weave towels are okay but denim is not. 

Thanks to Lady Rhian, and Evil Auntie Peril, we have some jaw-dropping covers to share.

Sarah: Forget the lady and her awkward thumbs. That man needs that mirror when he next applies self-tanner and forgets his entire backside.

Candy: The dude looks hungry for more than love. No, I mean it. Take a look at that face, and then look at the way his hand is just about ready to claw off the poor woman’s shoulder.

Sarah: That majestically erect and pressed tie pointing downward, and the jauntily-posed champagne bottle cause me to ask one very obvious question:

Why is the executive wearing a prep school jacket?

Candy: Sweet sassy Moses in a sidecar, they’re not even trying for subtext any more, are they? I suppose I should be thankful there’s no rocket taking off in the background.

And what an odd duo of books to group together. I can’t help but think: is the executive’s secret the fact that he’s carrying the cowboy’s baby? Dude, I’d totally read a hermaphrodite secret baby cowboy romance. F’real.

Sarah: That right there? That’s a Rhinestone Cowboy. Just check his jeans ‘cause he’s wearing a glittery thong-tha-thong-thong-thong.

Candy: The guy doesn’t strike me as a cross-dresser so much as he tweaks my serial-killer-with-a-serious-foot-fetish alarm. 

The first two covers are courtesy of Louise, who hoped that we would “enjoy them.” Oh we did, Louise. The only way we could’ve enjoyed them more would’ve been if Fabio had showed up at our houses and given us Brazilian waxes.

Candy: First of all, the texture on the guy’s hair is kind of eerie. I keep thinking that if I stare at it long enough, I’ll see tortured, weeping faces in the swirling patterns, or something.

Second of all: Dude! No, I mean it--the woman’s a dude. Why do artists insist on using Willem Dafoe in drag as a model? Pondering this enigma is seriously sapping me of the will to live.

Sarah: This may be the first ever cover art where the chick’s boobs are appropriately sagging. NOTHING sags in RomanceLandia, didn’t you get the memo? Hell, historical heroines have smooth hairless legs.

And speaking of, her boobs may sag, but Fabio clearly just left her house after giving her an underarm wax.

Candy: The alien incubating in the guy’s right shoulderblade is getting ripe, and will pop out any day now. That’ll teach him to eat after midnight.

Sarah: Do you see the iddy biddy boner? It’s kind of like the camel on the cigarette pack only not nearly as subtle.

Candy: Holy crapmonkeys! I didn’t know Nightcrawler had a younger, gayer, creepier, more transparent younger brother.

Sarah: Did Rebecca Brandewyne dress up as that guy on the back of the cover? And if she did, was she in severe hypoxia at the time?

Because, man, there is nothing sexier than hypothermic love.

Candy: Behold the power of this woman’s exposed knees! Her legs are so amazing, the mere sight of them are capable of making falcons shit out fully-formed (if rather creepy-looking) men.

Sarah: Clearly this needs to be an entry in the Art of War: to flush out (har) your enemy, drop a magenta clad Ondine in to the bushes. Her ruffled allure will force your prey to get buck naked, and you’ll be able to spot him easily in the foliage by the glimmer of his white, white ass.