Happy 60th Anniversary, Harlequin!"Oh, I just love romance novels! Don't you, Rita." (This from the Hobbit-esque sales woman in the building. Sales is not her strong suit. Wearing stank-ass, dime-store perfume is. )
"Fuck no. Hate them. The titles are lame. The "men" are obviously broke, because they never have a shirt. And the hair. Long and flowy like they walked out of some bizarro Michael Bolton House of Style. I have one romance novel, and I use it to prop my office door open."
"Oh. I think they're wonderful. So dreamy and romantic. These are great works of literature and it's a shame there isn't some kind of honor for these brilliant authors."
No wonder this broad can't sell a damn thing. Earth to Mrs. T-Rex.
The only good thing about a romance novel are the few pages devoted to the sex. My aunt used to read them all the time. As a little girl I would flip through her books, find the juicy parts, dog-ear the pages and tell her to save time by reading the 'good stuff.' She was mortified.
Okay, there are two things good about romance novels. The plethora of words and phrases referring to the male anatomy. And of course, it has to be a "throbbing" or "pulsing" or "swelling" "member" or "manhood" or "rocket." I guess dick, cock, wiener, wang, schlong and meat don't have enough sizzle.
Maybe Lack-of-Sales-Skills could integrate her love of romance novels into her sales pitches. She could ride into her next client meeting "on a horse wearing a corset accentuating her heaving bossoms. Her face wrought with determination, a burning desire in her loins to close the deal...."
Nauseating.
xoxo,
RiRi
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