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

Sarah: OK, first, no one rides horses in diaphanous gowns unless you are dying for chapped, chafed skin.

Second, open shirt? What is WITH the OPEN SHIRT on all these MEN? Do we need empirical proof that they have nipples?!

And finally: that horse has the thickest, shortest neck I’ve ever seen. Now that is cruelty.

Candy: Maybe they need empirical proof that the dude doesn’t have a third nipple or a partially-resorpted conjoined twin below his xyphoid process or something? I do think that according to the medical wisdom of the time, riding around open-shirted into a raging river on a rearing stallion with your main squeeze perched precariously on your lap is a sure recipe for the ague. Or drowning.

Either way, what bliss.

Sarah: I always look at these making-out-naked-under-the-waterfall things and think two things:

1. Ew. Leeches!
2. Ew! LEECHES!

I mean, seriously, who is going to hop naked into a waterfall pool and not find something squicky on the bottom under their toes?

Furthermore, she is so skinny, she might be dead. She’s certainly not healthy. Does she even have enough muscle mass to hold her own head up? Or does her noggin flop over like a newborn’s if he’s not there to hold her up?

Candy: Aieeeee! The lollipop head, it hurts me to contemplate it! But I guess the dude compensates for her complete lack of muscle mass by having enough for a small island nation.

Sarah: I know this is a feature of Photoshop - but which one? Is it the pastels filter? And does anyone know WHY the artist decided to use it? Do they need to look like they have a fungus?

And this one has some excellent font action going on, too. Lady of FIRE! Just say with with a Beavis voice and it gets even better. Fire. FIRE! Lady of FIRE!

Also, is he, um, screwing her in mid-air? Is this a circus routine?

Candy: Wow. I didn’t know the Ice-Capades were popular in the Old West. Just you wait, he’s about to toss her so she can spin into a double axel. It also explains her gawdawful outfit.

I also love how the woman looks as if she’s orgasmically happy with her hair, too, like one of those Clairol Herbal Essences ads. Dude thought it was his wiener, but really, she’s moaning in ecstasy from her totally organic experience.

Sarah: I once had a photo like this taken of me. Not with my shirt open and a pelt on my back. But I went to Glamour Shots and they airbrushed the shit out of my face and that’s kind of what it looked like: all matte and perfect. I don’t know what he’s so blue about - there are millions of men in NYC who would kill for that level of smooth manscaping.

Nice Harry Potter scar, too.

Candy:

High above the mucky-muck, castle made of clouds,
There sits Wonderboy, sitting oh so proudly.
Not much to say when you’re high above the mucky-muck.
Yeah, yeah.
Wonderboy, what is the secret of your power?
Wonderboy, won’t you take me far away from the mucky-muck man?

Now it’s time for me to tell you about Young Nastyman,
Archrival and nemesis of Wonderboy, with powers comparable to Wonderboy.
What powers, you ask? I dunno, how ‘bout the power of flight?
That do anything for ya? That’s levitation, holmes.
How ‘bout the power to kill a yak from 200 yards away…
with mind bullets! That’s telekinesis, Kyle.
How ‘bout the power… to move you?

Hmmm. Apparently, some romance novel covers make me think of Tenacious D songs. Time to up the dose of my medication. Can’t wait to see which cover inspires me to think of “Fuck Her Gently.”

Oh. Wait.

Sarah: This guy is creepy. And it looks like there’s another dude in the bed next to him, over to his right.

Sweeter Savage Love? Legendary Lovers?! Come on - this guy has absolutely nothing beneath that sheet that is legendary or sweet or savage. Anyone who has to over compensate with that much manscaping and personal grooming is definitely sporting a wee willie winkie.

Candy: Dude. What a skanky-ass pose, and what a skanky-ass model. I have the oddest feeling that he has the sheet over such a strategic area because he’s covering the oozing sores. Is it just me? Anyone? Anyone? Bueller?

In between napping, reading, attending barbecues, cat-wrangling and car-shopping (the turn signals on my New Beetle stopped working last week and it was the LAST FUCKING STRAW this car is almost new and it’s had a fuckton of stupid problems why oh why did I not get a Honda instead of that blasted yuppie whoremobile gaaaaaah so ANYWAY getting a Scion xA which is also yuppie-whorish but far more reliable so yayyyyy) ummmm, whoops, sentence got away from me. Urk. So, at any rate, watched The Boondock Saints for the first time last night and am in the midst of a massive obsession. First of all: the MacManus twins? HOTTTT. Jesus God. One of the deleted scenes on the DVD had the two of them strolling ‘round their apartment nekkid, and I just about fell of the couch. The Very Tall Husband had to put with me babbling about how hot their tattoos were and how I wanted to lick Murph’s neck and back. Yea, he is indeed a patient man, especially since he never gets crushes on fictional characters and therefore cannot remotely comprehend my little obsessions with people who don’t exist in real life (some of them animated, even).

Anyway. Second of all: those two are just CRYING for a good love story.

For the first time ever, I’m actually contemplating hunting out fanfic, but I’ve heard that most of the stories are twincest tales. *weeps, gouges eyes out* Guess I’ll have to make do with what I can come with on my own. I can’t be bothered to actually write down any of it (not necessarily due to any scruples--I can’t be bothered to write down most of the fiction I come up with), but in my head, the two boys are having fun, and woo hoo, so am I. Wait, hang on, just to clarify: I’m having fun coming up with the stories, I mean. I’m not actually in the stories. The thought of inserting myself in any way, shape or form into any fiction I come up with repulses me, and I’m not quite sure why.

Yup, the warm weather and the rigors of car-shopping have basically sapped all the energy from me, and all I can come with for a blog entry is OMG BOONDOCK SAINTS SQUUUUUUEEEEEEEEEEE. Hopefully I’ll get my shit together and post something more interesting tomorrow.

p.s. Happy 4th of July! May all your limbs (and the limbs of your loved ones) remain intact through this exploderrific time of year.

Hey, kids, here's a fun game for everyone: Love scene mad libs! First up is a scorching-hot Regency love story I've entitled "A Dark and Stormy Tryst." Fill in the blanks, hit that button and have fun. Results will pop up in a new window; feel free to copy and paste your results in the comments.

Breed of horse:
Weather adjective:
Brand of firearm:
Verb, past tense:
Verb, past tense:
Somebody just stuck a stick up a bear's ass. What sound does the bear make? (Verb, past tense.)
Nickname for a female family pet:
Your cat has just pounced on a rat. What sound does the rat make? (Verb, past tense.)
Find the most annoying, fruity-ass interior decorator term for "blue":
Invertebrate sea creature:
Organ (non-naughty bit, please):
Disease:
Derogatory term for women (plural):
Adjective:
Body part, plural:
You sneak up to your significant other and tickle his balls with a feather duster. What kind of sound does he make? (Verb, past tense.)
Verb, past tense:
Vegetable, singular:
Processed meat product, singular:
Famous Latin phrase or quote (don't include the quotation marks, and if you need inspiration, check this website out):

Oh my. I’m not normally into Cafepress loot, but this T-shirt is well-nigh impossible to resist:

If you can’t read the text, it says: “just because I like to be spanked & called bitch, doesn’t mean I’m a bad feminist.”

Smooches to Katie for finding this and IM-ing me about it.

Good grief. I literally fell asleep within moments of coming home last night. One moment, I was laying in bed and engaging in a really silly and funny and profanity-filled debate with my husband about who does more around the house (he thinks my cooking shouldn’t count since I have so much fun doing it, I think his washing the sheets almost every week shouldn’t count because he’s the sweathog who makes weekly sheet-washing sessions necessary), and the next moment, bam, 6:30 a.m., my glasses are all askew on my face and my bladder is killing me. The saddest part is, that is the second night in a row I fell asleep before 7 and without eating dinner. So, yeah. I’m officially a Pathetic Sack of Shit. Many apologies to fiveandfour for the delay.

So without any further ado, behold, fiveandfour, your glorious new title! Go forth and and henceforward be known as: