Yes, I read trashy romance novels. So sue me.

It's true. I read smut. I purchase it at Super Walmart for $3.20 in the magazine section. Normally, I go for whatever doesn't have the Fabio-like guy on the front because those are way too embarassing to purchase when I get to the checkout line. Sometimes, well most of the times, I choose a Harlequin novel. One might ask, "What is so special about a Harlequin novel?" I would then tell One that Harlequin novels are the true dregs of authorship. Although the women who write these novels are definitely masters of the metaphor, each novel has one of five plots:

1) Ugly duckling meets handsome guy. Ugly duckling, after loads of makeup and hair gel, gets handsome guy.
2) Ugly duckling meets handsome girl. You know the rest.
3) Sheikh "insert-Arab-name here" kidnaps beautiful American woman whose father/uncle/grandfather is trying to steel his wealth.
4) Girl meets small town guy, gets pregnant, decides to take care of the girl out of supreme manliness (is that a real word?).
5) Girl meets really rich Arab/Italian/Spanish/Greek guy, becomes his mistress. She has to go back to the States. He follows her because he "loves" here.

What ties all these books together are the "sex scenes:" violent, rapturous, often destructive. That's all I'm going to say about that.

So why do I read them? I've thought about that long and hard (no pun intended). I think the reason is because in the boring, underappreciated, serious world I live in, I think I deserve 165 pages of laughter. Whether it be at the awful innuendo or predictability of the plot, I have a right to laugh at a character's "carnal nub" or "sausage of love." Now you'll have to excuse me, I'm at work and I need to get back to page 56 of "Sex and Sensibility" by Karen Hollis.