At least you girls have Fabio

I’m feeling a bit wiped out from my editing work, so I decided to hand today’s blog off to Bare Rump. In case you don’t know her, Bare Rump is a ten-foot-long, eight-legged research scientist from the Tromatopelman planet M833-G1a. Like the rest of her kind, she has a rather odd take on romance which I’m sure you will appreciate. Actually, Bare Rump is an atypical Tromatopelman female; she’s had her share of lovers, but presently enjoys a long term relationship with a Grith Lyssome intelligence officer whom she calls Lord Valor.

As for why Bare Rump is here on Earth, you can read more about that here.

Oof. That’s it for me. Be nice to my favorite girl.

Bare Rump here, y’all. (Ooh, my Texas time is showing!) Doug wanted to take a bit of time off from the blog, and since I have been ever so negligent updating mine, I volunteered. Lord Valor offered, but what could he write about? Poop and software, that’s all my lover knows. Well, he also understands how to show a girl a good time. Dear me yes. If only you could see the way he rolls me onto my dorsum and sets me a-quiver with that magical proboscis of his — but, heck! This isn’t the Epigynum Monologues, for gosh sakes.

Doug has left it up to me to introduce you to my planet’s top-selling Romance novelist, Bronwyn Webweaver. A bit of background: Bronwyn was born the only daughter in an egg sac of eight. She excelled at her schoolwork and rapidly grew big and strong. As an only daughter, she had to skip college and take work as a legal secretary. “I could type fast but couldn’t spell. I was the worst legal secretary ever,” she says now.

She took a mate who survived their first encounter only to get too zealous on the second. Now fat and pregnant, Bronwyn took a job as a botanist’s assistant at the University of South Underland. Her work forced her aboveground on a daily basis, collecting moss and lichen samples for her bosses. The now famous mugwasp storm of 4079 forced her to stick to her tunnels, and out of boredom, she took up a pencil and notepad and wrote out the rough draft for her first novel, Silk Bondage (4080).

Silk Bondage suffers from first novel syndrome, sadly. Way too much angst and not enough sex. For my money, Web of Desire (4081) was her first true hit.

I love this book, but Miss Webweaver, puh-lease, what is up with your cover artist? Start with those silk sheets. Girl, it looks like your red-kneed hobag of a heroine has just worked her way through the entire South Underland Males’ Varsity Yabbaball Team on those very sheets. My advice? Find a good dry cleaner.

And those little black balls. Are those . . . no, please don’t tell me those are thought bubbles. Your heroine apparently fantasizes about beady-eyed males with Fu Manchu pedipalps. And where are the rest of his legs? Good God, girl, have you been snacking?

I have only one word to say about the male on the cover of Bronwyn’s next book:

HAWT.

Take me, take me now, you great savage wonderful hairy bastard you. Burn me with those Palps of Fire. I promise I won’t even snark on that weird-ass floral arrangement you have on the left margin — what is that, Baby’s Breath? — okay, I said I wouldn’t snark. But gaaawd look at those stout glorious pedipalps. You know they don’t make pedipalps that big in nature, so what is this, some sort of cruel photoshopping stunt? Cover artists are mean bitches, I tell ya.

Only one problem. He’s a little too perfect. He’s like, “Look at me, God’s gift to females. You’d be lucky to come within a mile of my sperm web,” and I’d be like, “Dude, if you don’t get over yourself, I’m going to fix those two buttonholes on your thorax,” and he’ll be all, “I don’t have two buttonholes,” and then WHAM! I’d be all, “You do now, dude.”

Um, Doug? Don’t let Lord Valor read those last two paragraphs. He can be awfully possessive.

And now, on to my favorite Bronwyn Webweaver novel:

“I salivated for days!” says Emma Longfang of the Silken Times. Yeah, you would, Emma. You haven’t tasted male-meat in decades, you desiccated skank hobag. (That’ll teach you to snark on my abdominal hair condition on network TV, bitch.)

Damn, she pisses me off. Such a perfect cover, and Emma “Drool Problem” Longass has to ruin it with her stupid witticisms — not. Grrrr.

Okay. Take a deep breath, clear head, concentrate on Sex at Seven, Dinner at Eight. Aaah.

Everything about this book is perfect. Start with the title: why not treat copulatory arachnicide with honesty and a sense of fun? Girls, be honest: who among you hasn’t sucked dry your share of males? The one who says no, she’s an anorexic. You humans aren’t so different than us.

Then there’s that dude on the table. Man, they don’t get more dashing than that. Yeah, he looks like he’s about ready to dash clean off the table before I get my chance to pounce. And the way he’s holding his forelegs, he almost looks intelligent, don’t ya think? Sure, it’s not realistic, since most of our males can’t be trusted to dig a tunnel without burying themselves alive. But a girl can dream.

He sure is one handsome bad-ass brute. Only thing I don’t like about it is the wine glass. If I have to listen to one more “I don’t drink . . . wine” joke, I’m going to barf. And you wouldn’t like me when I barf.

As for the story, here’s the deal. Bawb is a handsome young home-spinner who gets drunk one night with his buddies. One of them, Dood, bets Bawb that he can’t survive six matings in a row with the ladies from the Girls Who Don’t Suck dating service. Bawb takes the bet, figuring he won’t mind too much if he loses since he’ll be dead. Little does he know that Dood has lined up his sister Scythee as Bawb’s last date. Scythee is legendary in their community; no male has ever survived her embrace. Will she be his last date, literally?

WARNING! SPOILERS!

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Bawb’s sister warns Bawb of Dood’s trickery and tells him to tell Scythee that he (Bawb) has a rare blood disease, making him unpalatable. The first five girls learn about Bawb’s supposed blood disease and they are righteously pissed that he didn’t warn them. Comical hijinks follow. Meanwhile, Scythee has little else to do but admire Bawb’s good looks, and, lo and behold, she falls in love with him. She saves Bawb from the other girls’ attacks.

Bawb desperately wants to inseminate Scythee, but Scythee is leery of the blood disease. Bawb gets his sister to explain everything. Scythee falls in love with Bawb’s sister. Together, they eat Bawb and then take a long vacation in the Crystal Caverns.