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

While it would be awesome to leave Candy’s hi-larious review up, I didn’t want to miss an opportunity to wish our visitors and Bitchery members a happy, healthy, wonderous New Year. Enjoy! 

I’ve reviewed this book before--most recently for All About Romance--and God knows I keep bringing this book up in conversation. Why? Because it’s the Worst Book Ever. I’m not joking. You think you’ve read awful books before, books that made you wonder how they got published? Read this one. This bad book will cock-slap your bad book AND RAPE IT IN THE ASS, guaranteed.

Sarah asked me today whether I remembered the plot. The answer is: yes. Yes I do. Oh god. I wish I didn’t, but it has been seared into my brain, alas. I wish I could forget it so I could make space for useful things, cool things--things such as pi to 1000 places, or where I left my keys, or Sumerian mythology. But this was not meant to be, because remembering the travails of Lee-Lee and her erstwhile and eternally erect lover, Timothy, clearly hold precedence in my brain.

The story’s set in the mid-19th century. When she’s ten years old or so, Letitia Whatserface is shipwrecked off the coast of China; she’s the only survivor on her entire ship. She’s rescued by the son of some Chinese Big-Wig Dude, who brings her to Big Daddy-O, and Big Daddy-O, instead of turning her over to the authorities, is all “Hey! I have a GREAT idea! Let’s totally adopt her, only not really, and not only that, let’s totally treat her like shit AND make her appear Chinese.”

Which involves renaming her to Lee-Lee, dyeing her hair black, powdering her face (because Chinese people are PALER than you round-eyed types, yeah?) and--I shit you not--binding her breasts once she hits puberty so she looks more flat-chested. Because her bodacious bazooms are not nearly Chinee enough.

Anyway, when Lee-Lee is eighteen or so, some Hot American Dude shows up at Chinese Big-Wig Dude’s place, looking to make a deal. And Lee-Lee wants to meet him, because Oh How She Longs For Familiar Round-Eyed Face and to Feel the Air Of Freedom On Her Creamy Skin, Freedom, I Tells Ye, and she comes up with a brilliant fucking plan: Dress like a male coolie and leap in front of the American Dude’s carriage in the middle of the night to stop it.

Timothy, being every bit as quick of brain as Lee-Lee, tries to whip her out of the way, because that’s what you do when you try to avoid trampling on somebody with your horse carriage, you BEAT THE EVERLOVING SNOT OUT OF THEM WITH YOUR WHIP, and manages to give her a nasty cut on her hand.

And forsooth, he discovers she has bazooms. And forsooth, he takes her back to his ship to bandage her up. And forsooth, he is overcome by lust and fucks her senseless, because fucking like a crazed weasel is totally what you want to do with strange people in drag who leap out at you in the dark in a strange city in a foreign country.

Thus begins a cycle of fucking and estrangement. All sorts of other things happen in the book--shipwrecks, and the Gold Rush, and a search for missing relatives in America, and your standard issue Vile Fiancée Who Tries to Fuck Shit Up, etc. But all you need to know is this:

Timothy and Lee-Lee fight a lot.

Timothy and Lee-Lee fuck a lot. Usually after fighting.

With those two, it’s a wonder they didn’t have perpetually sore throats and sore genitalia.

Anyway. Worst. Book. EVER. You need to read it, if only because it’s so bad on every imaginable level. The characters are annoying, the grammar and punctuation are, uh, creative, and the Chinese words are gibberish.

This was my introduction to romance novels. Is it a wonder I mostly stayed away from them for six years?

Congratulations to Helen for correctly guessing the answer to the year’s final Guess That Lonely Heart challenge. Kneel and accept your prize!

OK, chiclets: last chance of the year to be inducted in the Smart Bitch Aristocracy. From here on out, it’ll be Class of ‘07, and you know Class of ‘06 is soooo much cooler, ohmigawd, like, we were old-school and pissing on Jan Butler and Laurell K. Hamilton like way back when. It was so much better on vinyl.

How do you get to be the bestest brightest shiningest star of 2006? Easy. Be the first to guess the title, author and heroine’s name correctly, and a Smart Bitch aristocratic title will be yours.

As a bonus, once the correct answer is posted, I’ll post a short review of the book in question. If that doesn’t make your shorts burn with excitement, well, I don’t know what will.

Turning Japanese Chinese I Think I’m turning Chinese I Really Think So

Shipwrecked American beauty, adopted by a Chinese big-wig and forced into becoming a delicate Chinese blossom, seeks hot hot American smuggler to stow away with. We will screw and fight our way across the ocean, all the way from China to America, and then we’ll screw and fight while panning for gold during the California Gold Rush. Oh, and watch out for my adopted Chinese brother. He has the hots for me.

I meant to link to this several days ago but I done plumb forgot; better late than never, right? At any rate, please enjoy Livejournal user mightygodking’s reinterpretation of a comic that I’ve dubbed in my head as ”Putting the XXX in X-Men,” except it’s not just the X-Men, because it’s Marvel’s Ultimate Power, which is CROSSOVER ON CRACK.

Go look. It’s veddy, veddy funny.

It seems the way to the Bitchery’s heart is through geek-referenced footwear, and why not? Duncan gets his happily ever after with a fine Lady named Dell, and we geek-girls slather after him for ever after because well, a dual-boot Duncan is a fine, fine thing. Who could resist the powerful allure of user-friendly Mac-ManTitty?

And so the winner of the Smart Bitch Big Misunderstanding Contest is: Castiron for Entry #6: Duncan, Dell, and a love that we hope will never see the blue screen of death.

Honorable Mention goes to Entry #4, by S. Chestnut, which featured a very popular and very, very dim Duncan mistaking his own reflection for his brother. #4 and #6 were neck-in-neck until Duncan and Dell accessed the joy of victory.

So kneel, Castiron, and receive your title, and our congratulations!

After a few inquiries as to the possibility of a static ad - one that would appear at every pageload instead of rotating with other advertisers - Candy and I have decided to give it a go, and see how it works.

So starting in 2007, we’re offering an adspace for sale in two-week increments that would load on every visit - and that’s about 2000 page views a day. The ad space will be 200 x 300 pixels, and will be reserved in a first-come first-served basis for the 2007 calendar, starting 1 January 2007.

The cost? What, you want numbers? But of course! Two weeks of static ad space: $75.00 US. One month: $125.00 US.

What’s this? You’ve already reserved a space in our 2007 rotation and would like to switch to the static spot? That’s not a problem. We can apply any deposit you’ve made and take your reservation for the static space just as soon as you contact us.

There has been a LOT of email back and forth between Candy and myself as to whether we should offer a non-rotating space for additional advertising on SBTB. We’re happy that the present advertising hasn’t been distracting or unpleasant for anyone (at least, we’ve heard no complaints) and we’re glad to know that folks do click and read more about our advertisers. As ever, we value your opinion - which is why we ask for it all the freaking time - and this is no different. If you think this idea is Teh Sucque, please let us know. If this site was solely about us, you’d have a lot more pictures of our cats to sift through as you looked for the man titty and the love grotto. So please let us know what you think, or email us at to make a reservation. 

It’s the last cover snark of 2006, and we Smart Bitches have braved the seared retina of cover horrors to bring you one last dose of art department madness. Have a happy and a healthy mantitty new year!

BevL forwarded us this piece of majesty with the following commentary: It’s just not right. And since I can’t put my finger on what exactly it is about this cover that makes me curl my lip up and cringe, I figured I’d bring it to your attention and maybe you and Sarah can put it into words.

We’ll sure as heck try.

Sarah: Bugman’s got a brand new ass - on TOP of his old ass, and he didn’t get a new pair of spidey pants to go with it. What a sad Hanukkah for Bugman.

Candy: Justin Timberlake, high off his ”Dick in a Box” success, is tapped to play Fairy in a Closet--except he misunderstands and dresses as the wrong kind of fairy.

Kathryn went above and beyond the call of duty to bring us a scan of both the front AND the back of this fine cover art she found in the book drop of her library.

Sarah: Apparently the grinch made good by setting off a paintbomb in the fireplace. By the vacant look of those two? I’m hoping the paint is highly radioactive.

Candy: Nothing says Christmastime like toasting marshmallows in the glow of a thermonuclear blast in the fireplace.

Kathryn also asked us to pay particular attention to this oddity, which I isolated in Photoshop so we can all share in the holiday horror:

Sarah: There are. No words. Except these seven: PUT THAT DICK BACK IN THE BOX!

Candy: Dude, his cock is so huge, it has to be strapped down near his shoulder. Size queens, take note of this man.

Sarah: We don’t as a rule snark cover copy, but wow. The art department clearly hit the same spiked nog as the copy department when this egg was hatched. “Duncan enjoyed her joy??!”

Candy: And nine months later, little elves emerged, a by-product of Duncan enjoying the joy just a leeeetle too intensely to remember to put a stocking on Santa, if you know what I mean.

Sarah: Over Christmas weekend, my dog Logan was constipated to the point that on 12/24 a trip to the emergency vet was required. He received two mammoth enemas and, according to reports from those present, he made that same face. The one on the right, I mean.

Candy: Dude’s Solstice Craving is some Metamucil, or maybe some bran. He has an inner beast, and his inner beast is severely obstipated.

Sarah: All together now! Tie me kangaroo down, sport! Tie me kangaroo down! It’s too small to give me some head, Fred, so tie me kangroo down!”

Candy: You have to admit, it’s really cutting-edge and brave of Harlequin to publish a romance about a pre-op tranny getting her greatest Christmas wish. Though I wish she’d hooked up with somebody who looked a great deal less smirky and greasy.

We did it last year, and we’re doing it again: it’s time to look back fondly and with misty eyes and husky voices at the reading that was in 2006.

We’ll use some of the same questions, but we’re adding new ones, too.

Best author you discovered this year (Up to 3)

Best new book you read this year (again, top 3)

Book you wish you’d skipped over and spent that $9 on a pair of Payless shoes instead.

Book with the cover that made you want to punch the cover artist--in the crotch.

Most overrated book.

Most underrated book.

Favorite romance-related trainwreck, on-line or otherwise.

What book coming out in 2007 are you most looking forward to? (Feel free to -gasp!- pimp your own, but please don’t link as the HTML often wonks the comments)

I’ll admit: I’m a sucker for royalty stories, on-the-road romance, secret identities, and secret babies. No, wait, not that last one. But definitely the first three.

The Prince Kidnaps a Bride is the third book in a trilogy centered on Prince Rainger’s search for the three lost princesses of Beaumontagne, a kingdom in the Pyrenees. Jumping into a trilogy with the third book is never easy or advisable, but while I do appreciate a larger, multi-book story arc, a good book that’s part of a trilogy should stand on its own. This one does, in that I didn’t miss the first two or rush out immediately to buy them, but it also means the flaws of this book are contained within itself. I don’t think the things that bothered me can be blamed on the absence of the first two.

Crown Princess Sorcha, the third lost princess and heir to the throne of Beaumontagne, has been living in a convent in Scotland as a novice nun protected by cliff walls, a bossy sea, and a mother superior. While Sorcha is moderately happy there, the arrival of a drippy simpleton named Arnou, who washes up on the shore of the island, signals the time has come for Sorcha to leave and return to Beaumontagne.

Ok, so I’m about 25 days late on the announcement here, but can I tell you how happy I am that Gail Dayton’s Compass Rose trilogy’s third installment will be published by Juno books? And oh, joy, from the description, Kallista has to go to Obed’s homeland to kick some demon petard.

Hooray! That about makes my holiday season. Yay!

Happy holidays, bitches. Bitches like you need something real, so please enjoy this video and know that if we had junk to put in a box, we’d TOTALLY DO IT FOR YOU. Because that’s how much we love you.

(My estimation of Justin Timberlake has rocketed sky-high due to this one video. For realz.)

This book made me quiver with anticipation. Quiver like a giant quiche before it collapses in a soggy, underbaked mess on the night of the King of Brunei’s birthday. I love to cook, I love to read about cooking, and I love me some trainwrecks. So the very idea of a collection of kitchen disaster stories as told by world-class chefs made me incredibly happy IN MY PANTS. Not to mention it features a short story by Anthony Bourdain, and I am totally Anthony Bourdain’s bitch. Kitchen Confidential and A Cook’s Tour, for all their swaggering flaws, are two of my all-time favorite books simply because they’re so much goddamn fun to read.

And Bourdain’s contribution about a disastrous New Year’s Eve catering job is fantastic. It’s as trainwrecky as my schadenfreudinous heart could’ve desired. The cooks are coked up and tweaking, the head chef is an asshole who doesn’t plan the menu correctly, nothing is going right in the kitchen, and the bouncers end up assaulting the customers.  I know it’s a good disaster story when it makes me go “HOLY SHIT” out loud, and this story made me do that multiple times. 

There were some other gems, too, such as Mario Batali’s clash with a famously volatile British chef; Batali’s final fuck-you after the chef tosses a pan at his head is pure, delicious evil. And then there’s another chef’s story about hundreds of live eels being spilled on the floor of a tiny Italian restaurant’s kitchen. As a friend of mine observed, the only way that story could’ve been any better was if they’d been electric eels.

But most of the stories fall along the lines of “Oh, this one time, a whole lot of people cancelled on us and we had a buncha lobster we had to use up before they went bad, so we made postickers, and it turned out AWESOME.” Or “This waiter was mean and rude one night and it sort of pissed us off so we fired him.” Or “I was in France on my stage, and this owl totally landed on my bed and freaked my shit out.”

Dudes. This is not what I want to read in a compendium of kitchen disaster stories. It felt like these chefs were holding back on the juicy stuff. Either they wanted to look good, or they didn’t want to piss off famous guilty parties. Whatever the reason, this holding back made for a largely inoffensive and singularly flaccid series of stories.

Halfway through the book, I realized I’d been working on it for almost a month and was less than halfway through it, and that I’d almost definitely found all the high points of the book. So back to the library it went.

My recommendation? Pick this up at the bookstore or the library, look up Bourdain’s and Batali’s stories, browse through some of the tales with interesting titles, and skip the rest. They’re incredibly boring.

Bitchery reader Suzanne sent me a link to this snort-worthy comic that adds a modern twist to the end of a romance novel. Personally, I hope happily-ever-after does involve a recliner because woodamn those things are comfy.

But I do have to point out one fallacy: HEROES have jet black hair. Heroines can have black hair, but it’s usually described in terms of “fathomless depths of midnight” or whatall. Jet, while describing a bead, also calls to mind aviation travel, and there are few things more overtly phallic than a jet plane. Jeez people. If you’re going to mock my art, get it right. As Candy says, “God is in the details.”

Ok, not really. I just upgraded our behind-the-scenes handy-dandy nifty-keen CMS, and there’s one bug with the comments links in the footers. If you notice, they are all showing up. Not that it’s a horrible problem, but we’re working on it.

Otherwise, if you notice any bugs, they’re features! No, really, please email us to let us know. It’s all about a stronger, faster, more stable mantitty.