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

I used to go to school with this one girl who was so nice. You know someone like this. When you bring her name up, she is so nice. Her name cannot be mentioned without someone saying, “Oh, she is so nice.”

I never mastered that art. I am a little too opinionated, a little too stubborn, and a little too predisposed to telling fools to go jump in the nearest body of water to ever be referred to as so nice. I’m not a mean person, but I’m not so malleable and able to bend to the whims of those around me to ever be called so nice.

As a matter of fact, I tend to seethe in a low-grade snarl at those who are so nice. They don’t have actual personalities, many of them. They mold themselves into the group of people in which they find themselves. They charm everyone within three feet of them, so everyone sings their praises, when really, deep down, you suspect that the so nice person is up to no damn good and secretly looks down on everyone around them. They’re nefarious suckups, those so nice people.

So why are so many heroines in romance novels so nice?

...’cause we like to say shit like tits and cock and cocksucker and all. Never used “cunt” on the website yet, but hey, there ya go, now we have alllllll the bases covered (if not exactly the nipples). And have you LOOKED at our Covers Gone Wild section? Willy-nilly violations of their new graphical standards abound, most of them involving Fabio. (They won’t be able to link to Fabio’s International Fan Club, either. Yikes!) Anyhoo, I will try to restrain my tears of sorrow. Bitter, bitter tears of sorrow.

That said, consider this a “Best Of” collection of snark about the truly fucktarded (hey, I used this word YEARS before I discovered Tod Goldberg’s blog, mmkay?) RWA guidelines.

Lee Goldberg reveals his dirty secret: Many of his books feature a great big Dick on the covers.

Tod Goldberg exposes the sordid world of eyepatch fetishes.

Booksquare provides her usual dry, witty, measured way of looking at things.

PBW provides some nice snarkage with a super-steamy story of forbidden love with hints of incest and voyeurism. Then she provides us with the real scoop on why Ann Jacobs couldn’t sign books at the RWA booth during the Book Expo America. This one’s not funny, unless “You’re motherfucking KIDDING me?” incredulousness can be counted as “funny.”

Jordan Summers was one of the people to get this firestorm started, and ‘tis true, she hath not the Permalinks. Alison Kent, however, does.

If you want to take action, the Powers That Be at Romancing the Blog have posted a letter they’d like to send to the RWA.

And this has been bothering me for a while, so I guess I might as well snark about it here and now: Whoever wrote that RWA bit, it’s bestiality, not beastiality. If you want to refer to a morally offensive sex act, at least fucking spell the word right. (I almost said “have the decency,” but the irony just about slayed me, and then I decided this article needed a few more gratuitous “fucks” thrown in.) Also: please learn the difference between “it’s” and “its.” It’s OK if you find it hard. So do many 13-year-olds on the Internet.

Candy and I spent a good bit of time this weekend talking online - though I had to go to bed way sooner than she would like, what with my east-coast stylin’s and all - and one of the items we discussed included: the soundtrack of your nookie. Specifically, what songs immediately get you in the mood, and we’re not talking for romance novels, either. Consider this the mix CD of SBTB - what’s on it?

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.

See that bright shiny new “FAQ U” button up on the navigation bar? Yeah, the brand spankin’ new FAQ section is up, bitches. Go check it out. Sarah and I are still working on our “About Us” pages, wherein we provide you with glorious amounts of TMI and cute cat pictures. (Or at least, I plan to, mwahahaha.)