Dear Gd, please tell me that this cover did not just refer to being pregnant as being "in bloom". Ack! My eyes! They're bleeding!
Okay, sheer abhorrence against title aside, who the fuck designed this cover? Why is there a margin of white around three sides? What is going on in the inset (is that a statue of a small purple man with a large purple phallus)? Why are there no ACTUAL WILLOW TREES (in bloom or otherwise) ON THE COVER?!
I leave it to my faithful readers to make the obvious pussy willow joke.
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"Just think of the money we're gonna get for this kid in Bangkok! We'll live like kings for a year! It'll be December before we'll even have to think about work again. Hold on, I think it's kicking..."
Isn't that a weeping willow that they're standing under?
No. No it's not. I refuse to acknowledge a willow anywhere in the vicinity. In fact, I refuse to acknowledge that willows exist at all outside of your sick, twisted imagination (Damn your keen eyes, fata morgana!).
Hmm, what is that 'white stuff' edging around the corners? I'm surprised you didn't pick up on that, considering you just made a post about it below.
It is my belief that all romance, especially those as, err..., execrable as this must resort to a sexual innuendo to attract any sort of audience outside of 80-year-old women who get literature from those free give-away bargain bins at closing book stores.
That would, of course, explain the perverted little oompa-loompa, too.
Two pussy willows walk into a bar...
Oh, good. Now I've got the title for my next Buffy fanfic.
Someone got into Willow's bloomers and now she's ready to flower.
I'm sorry.
I must, with utter shame and revulsion, admit that I read some very bad romantic fiction on occasion. See, when I worked at a bookstore a while back, they would give us two free paperbacks a week, we just had to tear off the covers and give them to the book manager with our names and employee IDs. And after a while, I felt like I was 'wasting' my free book by not getting something each week. So one week when I had nothing else in mind to pick up, I took a positively loathsome little tart sandwich called "How to Marry a Marquis." I've been reading a few of the horrid things here and there ever since. It's rather like having a random yen for Chef Boyardee Spaghettios. You know that the it's just awful for you, that it has a not altogether pleasant flavor and you don't really feel particularly good after eating it, but you still sometimes you crave that crap anyway.
However, one thing about the ones that I pick is that they usually either just have the title emblazoned in gold, or they have some kind of watercolor painting of a landscape on the cover. So no, they don't need the lurid sexual imagery to get someone under 80. Sometimes they just need to look as much like other books as possible, so that a person, who's trying to hide what they're buying as if it were porn, can bring it up to the register without embarassment.
She ate a watermelon seed.
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