In this week’s cover snark: oceans of fabric, and we do mean oceans. And then a peekaboo leg. What the hell is up with that? And also mullets, but then we’ve given up on speculating why those are still around.
Candy (in an appalling David Attenborough impression): “And here we see the rare Bedsheet Hellbeast consuming its prey. By cleverly simulating high-threadcount linens, this nocturnal beast often sets out lures for the unsuspecting human, often in the form of a member of the opposite sex with over-developed mammaries. The victims’ attempts to escape are futile once they fall into its grasp. Witness the writhings of this particular victim. Her attempts to claw her way out will only entangle her further.”
Sarah: Some heroes shapeshift and turn into wolves. Seals. Lions. Tigers. Lygers. Oh my. But this guy, he shapeshifts into the finest Egyptian cotton bedsheets. Pretty handy when company invades at the last minute. But then, you know the wet spot? He IS the wet spot.
And what is up with her toes? Check out the udder-ly bizarre toes under the “SS” in “Passion.” Perhaps she’s shifting, only instead of bedsheets, she’s a mop.
Candy: “And here we see a close cousin of the Bedsheet Hellbeast, the Wedding Dress Snorcher. Notice how the lure in this instance is coated with a sheen of digestive enzymes. This makes the breaking down of the copious amounts of keratin on this particular prey an easier enterprise.”
Sarah: There’s simply not enough double-leg amputee romance out there. And there’s really not enough double-leg amputee who was the victim of a rogue wedding gown that twisted itself around his thighs, cutting off circulation in a fit of jealous rage.
Candy: “And here we see a juvenile Snorcher in the preliminary stages of acquiring its prey. Notice how it attaches a feeding veil to the head of its victim. This allows it to render its victim unconscious, thereby eliminating the dangers associated with vigorous struggling.”
Sarah: Yet another secret kept by heroines all over RomanceLandia: how to hide the hideously calloused feet. Climbing all those mountains barefoot wearing wedding dresses and ballgowns, it leaves one with soles of leather, rough enough to sand chopped wood into floorboards and thick enough to walk over hot coals, hot water, and the hot oil treatment preferred by this and every hero. It’s a trick, keeping those yellow soles hidden from view. How do they do it? We may never know.