From my homegirl Spikedru:

I am so glad I wasn’t a woman in the 70s: you clearly had to be on constant guard against brown and orange interior design and rufies slipped in your drink. Look at his grin, man, as he pours her another from that ole whiskey jar. There’s a certain kitsch element to these 70s M&B which means I really like them, whilst being appalled by the number of limp woman being towered over by gross men.

Huh. And yet another paralyzed woman splayed on the couch waiting for certain rape at the hands of Mike Brady’s ugly brother from another mother. The brother who’s been dead for two weeks. Look how pallid and… mummified he looks! Oh, this poor girl… the corpse went hunting for female flesh and she just happened to be in the cemetary. I bet she fell for the line, “Would you like to see my new couch from Sears?” Man, she should have listened to her brother when he said, “They’re coming to get you, Barbara!”

Grade: B+

What would you do if you’re hanging out at a mall one day and a tall, dark, handsome (aren’t they all?) stranger comes up to you and offers to fulfill your wildest dreams, but in exchange, you have to surrender your complete will to him for one afternoon? This means that you’ll have to follow each and everyone of his orders without a word of protest. He will make your decisions for you. He will speak your mind for you. In return, he will worship your body, treat you like an empress, listen and heed all your desires, and pretty much rock your world. He’ll buy you beautiful dresses, sexy shoes, feed you ice cream… he’ll pretty much give you anything you want, as long as you do as he says. He gives you a necklace. He tells you that once you put on the necklace, you will belong to him and must obey him in all things, but you can take off the necklace at any time, leave him, and never have to see him again. Would you do it? Would you trust this stranger with your life, body, and a piece of your soul for one delectable afternoon?
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I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again. Me and Tarantino, we both like feet. This particular foot, however, is ugly. I think it might be an old lady’s foot, maybe Bea Arthur’s. I mean, it’s wrinkly and kind of manly and I think… I’m not sure… but I think that between the big toe and the tall toe (what the heck do you call that toe, anyway?) is another toe. Bitch has six toes! And she’s kind of cankle-y, no?

Also, what’s with the quarter laying on the floor? Did her lover toss her a quarter, wiggle his hips at her, and said, “Come here and give daddy a ride, sweet thing”? That’s dirty, dude. Does “game for anything” mean “game for a quarter”? Jeez, lady, at least hold out for an IN N OUT double-double and shit! Don’t you have no pride? You do not drop your drawers for less than a hundred bucks, do you hear me? And you never kiss on the mouth!

Never let it be said that just because the cover sucks, the book would suck as well. This is not true because this book is actually pretty good. But that totally doesn’t negate the fact this cover sucks or I wouldn’t be making fun of it now. I mean, I don’t even know what the fuck is going on here. This girl-flower creature is wearing a poofy purple dress that would embarrass Bjork and that crazy ass (but brilliant) bitch wore a dead swan to the Oscar’s! And is this girl-flower hybrid even wearing underwear? ‘Cause that’s some serious Marilyn Monroe fanny-flashing deal and gilfriend looks butt naked. Pun intended. Either she’s got nothing on to cover her girl bits or she’s wearing a tiny ass thong and experiencing a serious, possibly painful wedgy. It also freaks me out that she doesn’t have a head, because that just totally reinforces my girl-flower hybrid mutant theory. Ugh… this cover just gives me the creeps, man. It reminds me of a chicken with its head cut off, flapping around and shit.

Titles like these amuse me: “That’s My Baby!” “John O’Reilley’s Baby” “Baby Makes Three!” And then they slap some asshole with a shit-eating grin on the cover uncomfortably holding a baby while he nuzzled some blond tramp, presumably the mother of the child. I guess we should at least be thankful that he has a shirt on. I’m way too tired of Harlequin covers featuring a shirtless dude laying on a bed with an infant laying on his stomach, trying to feed from the nipple on his steroid-enhanced chest. It’s a futile effort, little man!

I guess it’s nice that this guy is “claiming” his baby. Too many men turn their backs on their own children nowadays and that shit ain’t right. What’s funny about these stories, though, is that the men always want the baby. It’s the women who get stupid and run away, thinking, “Oh, no, I got pregnant after my One Special Night with the Only Man I’ve Ever Loved! He must never know about this because he will make me marry him out of a noble, honorable sense of obligation. And heaven knows I will never marry without love. And he doesn’t love me! He can’t! ‘Cause I’m ugly and fat and I’ve got lanky blond hair and I don’t deserve him at all!” Fools.