Sarah: Perm + Man-titty + WAY TOO MUCH BRONZER = hilarity. Do you think if you moisten your finger and wipe it down his chest, you can reveal the pasty white skin beneath? What a handy place to write down notes and phone numbers. “Hang on, I have his number, it’s right here on the Highlander’s left man-tit.”
Candy: Indeed, when I’m feeling pasty after a grey, brutal Portland winter and I’m longing for some time in the sun so that I, y’know, no longer glow in the fucking dark, I immediately think of decamping to the Scottish Highlands.
Sarah: I think his man-titty is holding up his plaid sash. And have you ever noticed that on all the deSalvo covers, his arms are bent because he’s so built he can’t straighten his arms, and, more importantly, his legs are spread, like his man junk is SO big he can’t close his legs? What’s he hiding under that kilt? Priapism?
Candy: Egad! The pirates, English rakes and randy horsemen have all infected the Highlanders with the inability to lace up their shirts before tucking them into their waistbands! When will the madness stop? Won’t somebody think of the children?
Sarah: I giggled for a good half-hour at this cover. Even Hubby walked around the house: “Laird of the Wind! TOOT!” Seriously, sir, you do not want to be Laird of the Wind in a kilt. There’s nothing there to stop your wind from, um, escaping the confines. You might want to refrain from eating so many beans if you’re still having that problem – unless it’s not beans. Maybe you and last week’s Hot Buttsecks Wind Indian are Lairds of Brokeback Mountain?
Candy: See that eagle soaring off in yonder distance? It was totally blown off its feet in an unanticipated lift-off, courtesy of this particular laird’s wind. Gives “wind beneath my wings” a new meaning entirely. People oft wondered what sorcery the Laird wrought when on Tuesday mornings, all the eagles within the immediate vicinity would take flight whenever he stepped out, but really, that’s just because Monday night is always 5-Alarm Chili night.