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!
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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.
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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.
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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.
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The saddest three words known to us: “Lady Rhiann’s scanner.”
Sarah: That look of dawning horror on his face is due to the fact that he just realized the paddle is in his right hand. Which means it is not pressed against his hip as he originally thought. Tonight, it will be “her” flute of love that will be playing passion’s melody.
Candy: He’s holding the handle of that paddle awful tight and with intent. I can’t help but think that he has plans for that knobby end that involve him testing the depths of her, uh, love.
Sarah: A public service announcement from the lead singer of Nickelback: Your heart damn well better be made of iron if you don’t bother covering it with any protection during a joust. The more you know!
Candy: Psh! Who needs armor when you’re protected in a hard shell consisting of Aquanet, sunless tanning lotion and body spray? He might have something to worry about if somebody threw a lighted match at him, but pointy objects should bounce right off his shellacked exterior.
Sarah: Dawn of the Body Wax. Morning of the Emollient Cream. Noontime of the Overlarge Loincloth. Afternoon of the Headband. Evening of the Headbanger Hair.
Candy: Behold the dawn of a new species of man! A man of exceptional endurance and flexibility! A man who will be around for more generations than you can imagine! A man who comes fully endorsed by the Plastics Division of the American Chemistry Council! A man who meets both ANSI and ISO 9000 standards! We call him...Polyvinyl Chloride Man!
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A website that reviews romance novels from a couple of smart bitches who will always give it to you straight. No bullshit. No gushing--unless the author really deserves it.
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Um, yeah, I’d like one please. I should give fair warning that my review might not be all that witty/interesting. I’ve got the bitch part down. Maybe not so much with the smarts.
see what i mean. i started that post at 12 and really posted it at 3!!!
*shaking head*
From Cassie Edwards Investigatory Extravaganza: The First Post
im not here to cast blame, or say who is right or wrong. but topics like this always kinda trip me out. esp since the same kind of outrage is never directed towards other issues in writing. llike race and…
From Cassie Edwards Investigatory Extravaganza: The First Post
I’m in! =D
There are an amazing number of entries. All I can say is Must. Have. This. Book.
Michelle
