SAY YOU LOVE ME
First, let me state for the record something that I haven’t been able to talk about freely on this site. I’ve come clean with my love of dumb tv shows like Beauty and the Beast, and I’ve dissed with the harshest of harsh the bad writing of some much-loved authors. And even those experiences on the cusp of bravery are not enough to prepare me for what I must say to you all right now.
I bare my soul to reveal that I think leprosy is SO HOT.
I have a poster sized blow-up of this cover in my bedroom, hidden behind some Bosch images of people humping in hell, and when I need my leper-fix, I peel back the Bosch to reveal this masterful work of coloring inside the lines. The dark, almost Hollywood-tan-beige chest, with the peculiarly odd outie belly button. The leather pants – I swear I saw some just like those in the Village the other day. They are especially humpa-worthy when one tucks what looks to be a scrap of cancas with a lace sleeve into the side, like a useless sling.
But oh, oh, oh, his face. The patches of hot, hummuna hummuna leprosy? Gosh I can barely keep myself upright. The discoloration, the infected spots. Gosh he’s only a few weeks away from losing his nose, and imagine how hot he’ll look then?
Apparently the heroine has figured out the hotty mchotness of a leperous hero, as opposed to a merely lecherous one, and she’s already baring as much skin as she can in hopes of catching his red hot contagion. Damn her. I hate that wench.
Little-known fact: using too much of that sunless tanning crap causes leprosy. It’s yet another one of those abomination things. And since not even homosexuality causes leprosy, you know this seriously pisses off God.
In all seriousness, though: why God why oh the bad bleached blond hair and the fake tan and the man-titty extravaganza and *starts stabbing eyeballs with pen*
His shirt—or lack thereof—also makes my brain go all ouchy if I try to think about it too much. Most kids learn this by the time they’re 5 or 6 years old or so: untuck your shirt first before unbuttoning it and trying to take it off. Otherwise you walk around all day with your arms trapped behind you like a complete ‘tard. This goes double when you’re wearing leather pants so tight, I’m cringing in sympathy for your nuts.
This is one of the most bizarre yet, for me, addictive Lindsey covers. From the scalp down, she’s young, nubile, lithe even. Abnormally small, considering his hand pretty much covers her entire midsection as if she were only half-grown, but still, a young woman in a gravity-defying harem costume.
But above the scalp? It is all long luxurious premature grey. Maybe she’s a witch. Maybe she’s Skinner’s much-better-looking succubus. Or maybe she’s an albino with dark lashes, dark eyebrows, and purple eyelids. But either way, when I’m old and my hair has gone grey, I’m totally sporting the harem outfit with the 6 feet of grey hair hanging behind me.
Buh, you are so right about the unnatural smallness of this woman. Actually, the more I look at it (see my devotion to the readers of this site? I AM PERUSING THIS COVER CLOSELY. THIS IS NOT CONDUCIVE TO HAPPINESS OR A HEALTHY MENTAL STATE) the more squicked I get. She kinda looks like one of those creepy whored-out pre-pubescent beauty queens, only with a good set of implants.
And of course, the hair. That hair is out of control. She doesn’t know it yet, but it’s now sentient and is even now in deep talks with Dick Cheney, the CIA, the House of Saud and the Russian Mafia on oil pipeline construction, currency fixing and cocaine smuggling.
Ok, first of all, I keep misreading the title as “Fender Rebel.” Is he a guitar player? Is that how he scores chicks? Or is he more of a hit-and-run artist who busts up the bumper of her car then ravishes her in the countryside?
I know sex is a long dance of “Ouch, you’re on my hair” but this brings the hair-pulling to new heights. Or, ur, lengths. What is it with long haired heroines, anyway? And where are they exactly? Are they floating in midair above a walled garden? Are they on a hill above the backyard? The pack of depth and proportion is bizarre – but then, so is that hair so who I am I to diss the backdrop?
Holy flowing fiery locks, Batman! If Silver Angel’s hair is out of control, this chick’s hair is even more so; in fact, it has already contacted Lrrr, Overlord of Omicron Persei 8 and sold all our children and our children’s children into intergalactic slavery.
This is also another one of those titles that seems as if it should make sense, but really, it doesn’t. Tender Rebel? I have two, no, three pieces of advice for yon sensitive revolutionary:
1. Aloe vera gel is your friend. Use it.
2. Stop picking at it. What are you, like, 8 years old?
3. And for God’s sake, let the piercings heal before demonstrating to your beloved your reknown ability to impersonate a jackhammer.