The presses, they may be small, but the WTFery perpetrated by the following covers is as mighty as it is wide. Fear them.
From Jane and Robin we have:
Sarah: I’d like to thank this cover for highlighted the importance of a breast self-exam, particularly at the opportune moment when one is stark naked and betwixt two stay-puft marshmallow men.
Candy: I have never seen a woman look so superfluous in a menage cover, ever. Look at them! The guys are all “Ew! Boobs! Man-nape on, the other hand…NOM NOM NOM.” And the chick’s all “But…but? Boobs? I has them. OK, how ‘bout I make an O-face? will that make it better? Guys? …guys?”
From Karen S we have:
Sarah:: Say it with me now: “When the burning, itching, and soreness of hemorrhoids flare up….” Fiachra’s Kiss will turn your ass into a flaming, burning world of hurt.
Candy: Man, how much does it suck to have your book confused for a Terrance and Phillip movie?
And from Erastes, we have:
Sarah: I opened this file and literally said out loud, “Oh, God. No.” The poor butterfly. A perfectly acceptable image tossed into slimy pit of bad Photoshop hair, bad Photoshop skin, bad Photoshop horns, a miserable excuse for a Photoshop tail, and on top of all that, Bacchus’s badly Photoshopped son is humping a tree. That poor butterfly. Every one of its 12,000 ommatidia must be screaming.
Candy: You know what I think when I see that sassy little tail? I think of a poor, misguided chipmunk spelunkin’ for nuts. Except they’re not quite the nuts he wants or needs.