Tag: literature

One of the worst English papers I’ve ever graded stated that “technoligy makes people smarter.” I shit you not: That same paper went on to become a letter to President Obama, asking him to invent a device that would revolutionize the recycling process of cardboard and plastic. I know that Obama can MacGyverize anything, but this retardedness alone is a great argument to smash your laptop and become Robinson Caruso. However, even if Bill Gates himself had the self-analysis to blow up his HAL computer and churn Amish butter for the rest of his life, not even that would be enough to stop the inevitable tide of collective stupidity brought about by convenience-based technology. Sure, people don’t need technology to be stupid, but when shit like Kindle comes on the scene, I’d be naïve to think that people would use it to become less stupid and less pinky-raising pseudo-European. I don’t look at the Kindle phenomenon and think that it’ll cause a revival in reading. That would be like looking at a giant cucumber with cooking oil on the float of a gay pride parade, but saying “huh, I wonder what vegetarian recipe they’re advertising?” But what does this mean for shitty werewolf book covers? It means that Kindle is a technological Pandora’s Box that has ushered in a new era of shittiness for literary lycanthropy. That is because Kindle, not being dependent on traditional manufacturing demands, allows more stuff to be published, thus allowing more idiots to shit all over the English language. Lycanthropic literature has therefore become more Michael Bay than ever before.

The following are the most prominent pinnacles of lycanthropic literary retardedness that Kindle has unleashed on the world. And while Obama’s Macgyverness can’t alchemize these turds into gold, mine can.

Mated to a Wolf by Marisa Chernery

If by mated to a “wolf” you mean mated to a Facebook asshole, then yeah, Chernery, you nailed it. Let’s say that I was a conflicted and misunderstood Rastafarian with a propeller growing out of my head, and that I was in competition with a regular Rastafarian to win the heart of a beautiful woman. How the hell would I be more complex, mysterious and sexy than this other guy? If I was an emo asshole who could turn into a wolf, how would that sexify me more than being a regular old amaretto-sipping blogger who plays bass guitar and gets perfect grades while being 2 cool 4 school?

I’m not sure how to solve such mysteries, but I do know that contemporary readers of romances that involve supernatural creatures don’t even ask them. I’m also not sure why contemporary monster-makers have to make their monsters conform to everything that makes contemporary humanity worth yawning at. After all, I thought one of the reasons you’d have your heroine bang a monster to begin with would be to escape the suck-ass reality that readers ironically revel in. Hell, we’ve already seen this happen in Twilight (at least those of us who actually read some of the book or sat through the movie). I was able to make it through the book’s first fifty or so pages, and I regard that as more of an accomplishment than beating The Legend of Zelda without whoring myself out to the Nintendo Power strategy guide.

Janna’s Werewolf by Fawn Lowery

I think that one of my deepest character flaws is my inability to resist arousal when the thing that’s trying to turn me on is hot yet unintentionally retarded. I mean, the hot foreground characters here are basically lifted from a Victoria’s Secret catalog, but what’s up with the mummy with Warcraft-nerd hair? I can’t help but giggle while feeling a bit uncomfortable in my pants, especially after my third glass of sake. However, I doubt that was what Lowery intended my reaction to be as a reader.

And then there’s another problem. The book’s synopsis from amazon.com runs thus: “Janna Marlow doesn’t know anything about tennis-but she knows about men. And werewolves. She’s one. And tennis great Rick Sawyer has scented her. He’s a werewolf too. She wants an interview. He wants sex. They trade.”

I’ve never met an actual werewolf, but I think that if a werewolf ever became a tennis pro, then he would be a cross between Hannibal Lechter and John MacInroe. Not a computer-generated image of a dehydrated Rob Zombie lost in Ethiopia. Not a jacked Calvin Klein model that’s a cross between Timothy Dalton and Vanilla Ice. To prove this, I’ll re-write some of the book myself.

Janna’s Werewolf by Mike Roukas

“Through the mesh of the court’s net, Rick Sawyer eyed his opponent with feral concentration. The dark hair on his calf bristled as he tensed, and time slowed as his opponent (prey?) launched the shimmering green orb skyward and blasted it with a powerful serve. Fight or flight? No, Rick had never run from anything in his life, and damned if he would now.

“Like the tide dancing its war dance against its ancient Lunar master, Sawyer growled. He and his opponent smashed the ball back and forth across the net, Sawyer eyeing the verdant sphere like he eyed a far more important ball: the moon, every month when it waxed full . . . when he became his true self, when the beast within became the beast without, and then . . . . Rick could not contain himself any longer. With a feral cry he backhanded the green orb, smashing it over the net.

“The human on the other side, the pitiful human had lost touch with its primal roots; its reflexes could not catch the ball in time, and Sawyer joined the crowd’s roar with his own howl of victory that drowned out the announcer’s ‘15-0!’ that resounded throughout the stadium like the cry of an eagle.”

There. If you were able to actually read through that without cringing, then you have my congratulations, Jerry Bruckheimer.

Moonburn by Alisa Sheckley

“Hey Irwin, do you have any sunblock?”

“Why’s that, Simon?”

“I have to go outside for a while. My interwebs are running low, and I need to run to RadioShack to recharge them so I can get back on Warcraft.”

“Ok, but it’s nighttime out. Sunblock?”

“Yeah, I don’t want to get moonburn!”

Moon Illusion by Amy O’Connor

Taking a break from his busy schedule of building killer bike ramps in the woods and playing apple-baseball (basically, where you play baseball using apples instead of a baseball), 16 year-old Trevor Greco of Highland Lakes, New Jersey has agreed to write this book-cover review.

Lol you see how the guy’s pec looks like a mini-boob? LOL!!! Lol nice I realy want to be a werewolf more then a vampire now because werewolves look like plastic dolls and the guy has a boob. People say I look like Edward a bit at least in some light, like an Italian Edward maybe (my familys Italian). At least Twilight vampire didn’t have that (the Boob Illusion I mean, lol), and its like you couldn’t hire actors to do this and had to use your computer? Lol yeah Ive seen turds with more life, like im so turned on. I mean I jacked it to Mistique in XMen and she’s animated by computer but that dosent count. Take THAT if you thought I was gay from the pic’s pink background. So if you thought I was gay cuz the pink background than FUCK YOU, I had that pic taken for my gf. She wanted it taken so she could see me when I rang on her iPhone so I had it done for her. Anyway these people on the cover SUCK, and like oh the author just slapped a wolf in the corner, it’s like when everything fails just google images search for national geographic wolfs and oh I’ll swoon like that girl YEAH RIGHT. And theres a lot more celtic-gay wrong with this pic, but the microwave went off and my Salisbury steak is rdy so i’ll write more about it in a bit.

Black Werewolf by Doctor T

Well my name be Dr. T, I’m not a licensed practitioner
But I’ll write lycanthropic hotness like shampoo vs. conditioner;
One cleans the hair, one makes it silky and smooth,
And like Young MC and Billy Madison I’m gonna bust a move so CHECK IT:

Werewolves always getting’ bit, howlin’ and talkin’ shit,
But this brotha’s silver lyrics always get my shorty WORKIN’ IT WORKIN’ IT,
Oh snap son, looks like it’s ova fo da full moon,
And yo shaggy-ass hair need some Vidal Sassoon,

So come get served on tha mic, you ain’t no Peter Stumpp,
You just an east-side relic and a flea-bitten chump,
No more European east son, yo’ ass be in Detroit,
And when I cap yo furry ass, like Steve Irwin I say “roit!”

I said a Hotel, Motel, Holiday Inn,
If yo’ werewolf’s actin’, up, then you bring his friends!