Sarah: “Look, you’ve stolen time, the sun, possibly the space-time continuum AND the flux capacitor. But you may NOT HAVE MY SHIRT, BUB!”
Candy: Dude, he’s totally going to reach into her chest and rip out her implants and run away screeching with delight because NOW HE WILL HAVE THE BIGGEST MAN-TITTIES OF ALL, YES HE WILL PRECIOUSSSSSSS. And she knows it, too, but she’s a romance novel heroine, so all she can do is sit there and gaze, limpid-eyed into the distance, and quiver gently.
Sarah: That dude above needs to give THIS chick the shirt. I think it’s a chick anyway. It might be a man with cantaloupes glued to his chest. I’m not entirely sure.
Candy: Whoa. I think I might’ve seen this chick on the cover of the “Midgets Who Love Getting Fucked in the Ass By Chicks” porn DVD.
In any case, that is one of the scariest beckoning fingers I have ever seen. RUN, MOTHERFUCKER, RUN.
Sarah: Can someone tell me why he has skunk hair? And why long flowing hair that looks like one mess of tangles is supposed to be the essential image of romance?
I mean, Candy and I just experienced Caribbean Splendor, and if our hair looked like that, I’d be alarmed.
Not to mention her fingers are broken or twisted. Ouch. She must have been trying to comb that hair.
Candy: The amount of L’Oreal FÃ©ria required to dye that chippy’s hair boggles the mind. She must buy them in gallon tubs at Costco or summat.
And good call on the finger thing, Sarah. Dude has a total fetish for the knobbly feel of broken fingers scraping across his chest.
(Tangent: MAN, I need to try and get a screencap off that one episode of Sealab 2021 in which Captain Murphy goes all nuts and institutes Martian Law and dubs Marco “Sir Phobos, Beater of Ass” and then proceeds to beat the shit out of Sparks’ fingers, because Sparks’ fingers? Look about as fucked-up as that chick’s does.)
Sarah: Here is my unanswered prayer: NO MORE CROTCH SHOTS. A crotch on the cover does not say romance any more than long hair. The crotch? It says, “Hello. I am a groin.”
Candy: Nothing says true love like heads superimposed on crotches, unless it’s heads superimposed on crotches in an effort to hide the massive wet spot.