Top Ten Horrible Book Covers
They say that you should never judge a book by its cover but Reader, ‘they’ are wrong. ‘They’ also recommend you to floss and we all know how fucking horrible that is.
We judge book covers just like we judge everything and everyone you care about. Mostly that involves asking yourself ‘Is this person/place/thing going to benefit me in any way?’ and then ‘Do I enjoy looking at this person/place/thing?’.
ANYWAY. Books. Books are brilliant, there is no doubt about this, but when it comes to book covers, publishers can get it hilariously wrong. Here are Ramp.ie’s thirty-four Top Ten Horrible Book Covers.
Shouldn’t this be ‘How to Keep Your Family Happy and Your Tractor Running’?
So best just resign yourself to a future where almost every day is spent sitting at a desk, in a badly air conditioned office, wondering if they’d let you go home early if you stuck your hand in the shredder.
No one, from what we can tell from this title. What a great lesson for kids eh? ‘Old people smell like hopelessness, kids. Try to hope you get hit by a bus before you become one of them’.
Mother Teresa ‘In Theory’?
No book should ever incorporate the words ‘The Missionary Position’, ‘In… Practice’ and ‘Mother Teresa’. No book.
G’wan Eleanor. You’re like a fine wine getting better with age, you are. Eleanor can make you a quilt and make you feel like a little boy all at the same time. You have to hand it to her – the woman has skills.
What better way to pass the time during the unrelenting march towards the grave than to lovingly construct your own coffin? Upon completion, just crawl inside your masterpiece and quietly wait in the darkness for the sweet release of death. ‘Tis fun for all the family.
If you look to the Ramp.ie bio of this particular contributor, you’ll see a reference to pyromania recovery. You would be incorrect to assume this is just a joke, Reader, because right now, there is nothing this contributor wants to do more than to ‘Build Fire Tornadoes’, construct ‘One-Candlepower Engines’ and make ‘Great Balls of Fire and More Incendiary Devices’. All at once.
We want to throw our heads back cackling and light up the sky like a muthafuckin’ firework.
Part of us thinks this has to be a joke. Cats can’t play chess for a start.
No. No they can’t Reader and you can’t deny that, no matter how smart you think Mr Tickles is. No, he does not ‘know’ when you are sad. Cats don’t have the necessary opposable thumbs to play chess, for God’s sake.
There is an undeniable presence of ennui in the eyes of this cartoon cat. Poor little fictional bastard. This is actually a genuine guide to further the amusement of cat owners who (probably) eat their feelings, which means that this was probably just a foolish and naïve mistake after all.
We’ll take 20 copies, please.
You know, the more we hear about this Hitler chap, the more we don’t like him. Still, it’s good to know this kind of information. It would be horrible to associate Hitler with rotten concepts such as kindness to animals and vegetarianism, after all.
‘Ecstasy is only a hoofbeat away!’
That line, aside from raising some interesting questions about what the hell a hoofbeat is, makes us think the horse is involved somehow. This may not, in fact, be a cover depicting a blonde and a brunette about to roll around in the haystack. Look at the expression on the face of the horse there. The sadness. She has clearly been having a fling with the mare across the field and the brunette with the frightening nipples isn’t happy about it.
Hold the phone. This isn’t ‘The Big Book of Lesbian Horse Stories’. This is ‘The Big Book of Lesbian Horse Stories’.
EAT IT I SAY.
Would you look at the insufferable Mary Sue there? She’s strutting about like she shits diamonds, she is. She’s just deliberately attempting to upset our happiness now.
We may not be equestrian experts, but we’re fairly sure there are only a certain amount of places someone could strap a bomb to a horse. Either this is a particularly short instruction manual or there is an alarming amount of detailed chapters dedicated to internal examinations. Presumably, this title comes with a complementary set of rubber gloves. Jaysus, even the thought of it makes the arse make buttons.
Everyone we know is getting a copy of this book for Christmas. We cannot, and must not, let The Blahs win. At this moment granted, we don’t know who or what The Blahs are, but as soon as we do, we’re going to shoot them mercilessly on sight because that’s just how we roll when it comes to warfare.
We … this … we just don’t know.
It has nothing to do with your god, Lorraine. You are just an idiot.
No need to frown, Superman. Absolutely no one will buy that song.
They have ‘style’ alright, but not the kind of style anyone but a severely colour-blind hipster would want to try out.
… and they killed everyone they fell on.
The song ‘It’s Raining Men’ by The Weather Girls never sat well with us. Sure, it sounds pleasant – the idea that several thousand, presumably half-naked men would fall from the sky into our laps – but in reality, this song is about the tragedy of several thousand men falling to their deaths from a great height. The Weather Girls couldn’t exactly catch them all so we don’t know why the fuck they are singing about it so happily.
We see aul Rick has been whoring himself around, breaking hearts as usual.
We don’t know about you, but The President’s Plane Is Missing sounds like the best book ever written.
For the women who have successfully substituted actual human contact with several dozen cats named for their dead relatives.
If you have ever started the sentence with ‘Let me tell you about this funny thing my cat did today…’ then this book is for you. Also, knock it off.
Do not, under any circumstances, eat this food.
Chapter One: Avoid open water. Stay on land.
Chapter Two: Read Chapter One again because you clearly didn’t understand it the first time.
You can play anything when you are nestled comfortably in the lap of a sex offender.
Excuse us. We need to go and vomit into the nearest bin.
Why is Tarzan so clean-cut? Where did he get the utensils to shave or the gel to sweep his hair back in such a dashing way? This man does not even have a toilet. Are we supposed to believe he lounges about, chatting up apes, looking like he just waltzed out of an expensive day spa? What kind of fools do they take us for?
Such a shame that the greatest novel of our generation had to be subjected to a cover that was clearly the product of a 14-year-old boy’s introduction to Photoshop.
We love this cover. We love this cover so effin hard it’s a genuine struggle to take the piss out of it.
This should be made into a film as soon as possible.
Really, London Catholic Truth Society? You couldn’t have called him Buttercup?
You heard the book. Chop them. Dip them. Caramelise them. Shove them up yer hoop. Be bold.