Sarah: Is she even conscious? It looks like she might be, since she’s holding herself up with her right arm, but… dang. Could she look less interested in that there Comanche cowboy who already has one finger extended as he lifts up her skirt – EW.
And y’all. Horse. Coming right at you. Might want to take the necrophilia party to another location.
Candy: OK, what’s with him trying to sniff her earwax? Is this a new fetish I’m not aware of? And here I thought there was no way the Internet could surprise me again.
Sarah: “Apache Tears?” I know him! This is his formal title. His friends call him, “Apache-who-lactates.” Those “tears?” Breast milk, baby, breast milk. He’s a wonder to all who know him, really. Any random chick who gets stranded in the desert can count on him for sustenence. He’s like a one-man rescue operation of food and antibodies, with a boner to match. Here he is rescuing a lost maiden, tired, dirty and dehydrated, and for a quick roll in the clover, she’ll get all the manmilk she can drink. What a hero.
Candy: The Apache’s tears are from when the paleface chick clamps down a leeetle bit too enthusiastically on his man-titties. And all the time, he’s probably thinking “Lower, you stupid whore! Go lower! I’ll weep you some tears then—TEARS OF DESIRE.”
Sarah: Again, is she dead? Conscious? A willing participant? Maybe the back cover reads, “As her soul journeys Beyond the Horizon, He-who-humps-dead-chickens tries to get one last full-moon lovin’ in before the body gets cold.”
Candy: Yup, another necrophile-who-sniffs-dead-chick’s-earwax-before-boning-the-lifeless-body cover. HEY! That would make a totally awesome Indian name.
I wonder how the woman died. She looks especially pained, as if she was right in the middle of a really big menstrual cramp before she bit the big one. Ah, to live and die in the days before Midol. Savage eras, indeed.
Sarah: He-Who-Craves-Gingham-Not-That-There’s-Anything-Wrong-With-That saw her standing in the frosty mountain light. He wanted her dress. It was cold. The night was…frosty. And her dress was gingham. It had been so long since he’s seen a yellow pattern with white eyelet trim. It would make such a fetching hat for the next pow-wow. He had to have it, um, her. She looked malleable and acquiescent; perhaps he could remove her dress and run off before she noticed he was gone.
“Undress me,” she begged.
He thanked the Great Spirit for her generosity and reached for her.
Candy: First of all, I just love how in all these covers, man with black hair = Indian savage. These dudes look about as Indian as my labia.
Second of all, it’s nice to see that besides hideous shades of eyeshadow, breast implants, bad dye jobs and collagen injections were all amenities people in the nineteenth century enjoyed.
Third of all, dude better get the gingham dress off her soon if he wants it in one piece—looks like the seams are gonna blow any freakin’ second.