I hereby declare St. John, USVI, to be the tropical home of the Smart Bitches. St. Croix, I am sure, is nice. St. Thomas, though crowded (and listen to me, who works alongside 9 million people, calling St. Thomas, population 48,000 “crowded”) is quite spiffy as well.
But St. John?
There are the following Smart Bitch locations, and I am not making any of these up:
Chocolate Hole
Booby Rock
Johnson Bay
Ram Hill
Ram Head
So how could I not declare this island to be the tropical home of the Smart Bitchery? Now to find a property big enough to hold all our books and our collective brilliance.
It’s nice to have a place to get away to, even if it’s only a virtual tropical island.
Wouldn’t it be fun down the road to have a SB conference in St. Croix?
All they need is a pair of mountains named “Man Peaks”.
And a dessert bar called The Chocolate Starfish…
If names are the key, I propose Newfoundland as the second island in the Smart Bitches’ empire. With placenames like Come-by-chance, Blow-me-down and Dildo it should be in the running.
(Colder than the USVI, of course, but it’s got whale-watching and men with cute accents to make up for that.)
And isn’t there a town called Fucking somewhere in Germany? You know, if SBTB conventions ever come to pass, they should all be held in filthy named locations…
I’ve just checked on http://www.mapquest.com and the small town of ‘Fucking’ is in Austria, relatively close to Salzburg. You can read about it in Wikipedia: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Fucking,_Austria
Hmmmm…Florida has Two Egg in the Panhandle, which could be a tribute to some of those male cover model packages. Then there’s Kissimmee, but that’s more for foreplay.
And we have Yeehaw Junction for when you climax.
Kentucky has Big Bone Lick. 🙂
Don’t forget Pennsylvania, home to Intercourse and Slippery Rock.
My sister goes there every Christmas with her kids and husband and MIL—her mother-in-law foots the bill . . My sister married well.
Every. Christmas.
St John, not Fucking.
There’s also French Lick, Indiana.
Good that Fucking is in Europe and not the U.S. Can you imagine being the pastor of the Fucking Baptist Church?
:wow:
As soon as I saw the topic I was all Oooh I’ll have something to add and then I arrive in the comments section to find all the good Newfoundland names “Dildo, Come by Chance, and Blow me Down” already mentioned by Danielle.
Heart’s Content, Paradise and Heart’s Delight just don’t sound the same…ha ha.
Well, there’s always Fertile and Climax in Minnesota, too.
I lived in Fred’s Knobs, Indiana as a child. Talk about scarring for life.
I still love Detroit’s naughty highway exit: I-75, Exit 69, Big Beaver Road.
Angela mentioned Intercourse and Slippery Rock in PA. But she forgot to mention Bird-In-Hand and Blue Ball.
The joke in high school was that if you did something wrong in Slippery Rock, you’d never get to go to Intercourse, so you might as well go to Bird-In-Hand because there’s nothing worse than ending up in Blue Ball.
All this time and I now to de-lurk. 😆
I’ve always had a soft spot for Nellie’s Nipple, California—and get no end of giggles from the Grande Tetons, French for “Big breasts.” D’you think those explorers were lonely when they got out here to the west?
Dime Box, Texas.
Only a dime, suckas.
My boyfriend and I got a giggle out of Cobbly Nob, Tennessee when we went to the Smokies.
How about Lickme, Saskatchewan? It’s a rarely visited place.
Try this: is Bluff City, Indiana really called Bluff City or is that just a Bluff?
Maybe the real name of Bluff City is Point Licking.
In PA, we also have Lackawanna. But of course, romance heroines never suffer from Lackawanna, at least not with their hero. (g) Maybe in Inspirational Romance? (g)
Extract from Polkenhorne’s Passionate Passage by E.A. Perile, currently residing near Mudchute, London.
(very long, but too tired to edit!)
Alerted by the thunderous clatter of an approaching carriage, Obedience Ginger Polkenhorne peered through the cracked and dusty panes of the only window in her tiny room. Her dreadful suspicion was immediately confirmed by the sight of the figure hunched over the horses’ reins. Baron Bodinnar Rouffinac and his henchmen had tracked her down yet again!
Obedience had started her exhausting and lengthy tour of the British Isles only last autumn, but already she felt as if she had aged not six months but six years. Before then, she had never travelled from the little village of Cocks in Cornwall where she had lived happily with her adopted father.
Her limpid violet eyes teared up at the memory of the kindly old man who had raised her from a babe. It was at Papa’s wake that Rouffinac had first drunkenly accosted her, and she had fled his foul embraces that very night. Thinking to elude the drunkard with ease, she sought refuge in Dorset in the hamlets of Happy Bottom, Scratchy Bottom and Shitterton. But her tormentor had quickly found her hiding place each time and only the mindless devotion and humorous antics of the local peasants had saved her.
Ever resourceful, Obedience had by then learned the skills of disguise from a band of gypsies. She found work as a stablehand in Nether Wallop and Sandy Balls in Hampshire. But her uncanny skill with horses soon attracted too much attention and she felt the cold breath of pursuit anew. In the guise of a seamstress, she fled to Kent to work for a corset-maker in Thong, but her talent with lace betrayed her.
By then, she had concluded that her charms, although most pleasingly bounteous, could not explain such an obsessive pursuit.
She fled in a nun’s habit to the far reaches of the British Isles, to Orkney. But the village of Twatt was uncomfortably small and she sailed to the larger Muff in Ireland. There she resolved to find her aunt’s missing will and put an end to this brutal pursuit once and for all.
And so Obedience returned to England again, this time dressed as an aristocratic youth, one oddly attractive to the male sex. Thankfully, while living in this small inn on Minge Lane, she had already completed her search of her aunt’s estates near Lickey End and North Piddle in Worcestershire. By now, it was clear that her enemy had grown desperate. He must suspect that she had at last uncovered his foul secret.
Obedience firmed her delicate jaw with resolve as she lowered herself from the now open window onto her waiting horse. She knew that the only way to eliminate this mortal threat was to go to her aunt’s home near Lickfold in Sussex. Only there could she discover the secret of the mysterious talent that had been with her since birth. She would have to follow the sacred ritual she had discovered in her aunt’s papers in Six Mile Bottom.
She swallowed with dread as she contemplated the part of the rite she had only just deciphered: at the next full moon, clad in a diaphanous robe, she would have to walk across the Downs and ascend the lofty peak known as Titty Hill.
Ha. I went to an all-girls school in MAIDENHEAD, England (and yes, we had uniforms and hockey and the compulsory lesbian gym teacher to keep an eye on us in the showers). So there.
Lac La Biche in Alberta.
The Fucking, Austria site is HILARIOUS! Reminds me of a town near my critique partner called Ugley, home of the Ugley Women’s Institute. No, really. Look. http://www.foxearth.org.uk/blog/2005/10/toponymy-ugley-nasty-foulness-with.html
Not sure where to stay? Check out an Ugley Hotel: http://www.city-visitor.com/ugley/hotels.html
Now I’m going to amuse myself looking for listing for Nasty hotels, Mucking hotels, Fobbing hotels… it’s a wealth of procrastination, right here at my fingertips. (Although, since I write erotic romance, perhaps I should spend my time looking for Fucking hotels and Intercourse vacations, eh?)
Oohh.. Thank you, Janet, for mentioning Maidenhead. It reminded me of the scene Jo Beverley wrote in Tempting Fortune where h/h discuss calling Bryght Malloren’s (ahem) manly part the Thames because it goes through Maidenhead.
I also neglected Brown Willy Tor in Cornwall, and there’s an Ugley in Essex too. Will nobly rise above temptation to make comments about Essex girls.
There must be something in the Danube water ‘cos the Bavarian cousins of those F*cking Austrians have named one of their towns Wank and another Titting. Presumably, in a case of historical one-upmanship, there’s a Condom in France, Rectum in the Netherlands and Clit in Romania. The Turks slightly missed the point and instead named an entire administrative district and its principal town Batman.
And all I have to offer is Boring, Oregon.
Well, there’s also Hung Far Low, but it’s not a town, it’s a Chinese restaurant in old town Portland. Right underneath the sign is the word “Cocktails,” but some wag blacked out “tails.” The owners haven’t bothered restoring it, so for as long as I’ve known it, it’s Hung Far Low Cock.
If we ever have a Smart Bitch conference in Portland, we NEED to go there for after-dinner drinks.
EAP: your prose is, as always, deathless.
So the name in and of itself isn’t *that* funny, but my friend, in an attempt to get me to stop romanticizing Navy SEAls by pointing out their non-brilliance (regardless of what Suzanne Brockmann has to say)told me about a SEAl she met once, from Butte, Montana. And he didn’t understand why everyone started laughing when he told them that the Butte, Montana high school mascot was the Pirate.
Related to mountain states, there’s also a Hoback Junction, Wyoming. Maybe that’s where the tetons come from.
Candy, we do have Wankers Corner – a place where I treat all parked cars with suspicion. (And there are usually quite a lot. Hmmm…)
And I have to ask EvilAuntiePeril whether she’s trying to get us all fired by making us laugh so hard while secretly surfing at work, or whether that’d just be an unintended consequence of her EvilAuntiePosts?
Where is my Monday cover bitching? I miss it. 8-/
I know, Gabriele :red: . Things are just so busy and chaotic. Sarah JUST got back from vacation, I’m still frantically catching up on EVERYTHING, and… yeah. We’ll get back on schedule soon, though. I hope to at least have a review or two done soon.