Oh, and her highness=Dakota Cassidy. The author of the dumbest books evah, FYI.
And yeah, my fingers were sneering when I typed her name. Know why? Let me count the effin’ ways.
Poise yourself, people—incoming rant.
First, some background on Dakota. She’s quote-unquote labeled funny by some (not everyone. Some say she’s a total hack. “Some,” okay, most, are right). Sometimes people even say she’s the R-O-F-L-M-A-O kind of funny. You know, the kind where you spew milk from your nose? According to her, if she let herself think about trying to be funny, she’d never write another word. I’d just call that a blessing in disguise. But hey, that’s just me.
She’s also a sissy-whiner. Trust me, I know because I spend every frickin’ night with her. Anyway, the point. According to Senior Barbie, she doesn’t set out to be funny when she plunks her ten-by-ten wide down in her office chair every night. In fact, her beta readers have informed me that she has to ask them if they laughed during a read through. Which is pathetic, if you ask me. She’s paid to bring the giggle.
She calls this gig of hers pressure. You know, because she doesn’t know if she’s keeping book after endless stupid book fresh with new smart-ass lines and better plots. She’s forever stressing over whether she upped the ante enough, gave the story enough twists and turns, blah, blah, blah. But excuse the eff outta me, who’s really under pressure here, people?
That’s right. I said it. Me. I don’t care what any of the other heroine’s in the series say, and I don’t care if they are my BFF’s, I’m the snarkiest broad in all the books she’s written. I’m way funnier than Marty, Wanda, and Casey combined, and that’s on a slow day.
Isn’t it me who swears creatively book after book? Do you have any idea how hard it is to keep coming up with a new catch phrase her fans will use, but she’ll pretend is hers? Isn’t it my butt that’s always threatening bodily harm with wisecracks and fists?
Was it me who started the “What’s In Your Color Wheel?” slogan? You know, the most popular question fans ask her? Yes. You bet your flamin’ bippy, it was. Last I checked, it was me who was responsible for all of her fans harshin’ the color yellow’s vibe, too.
Yet, she gets all the credit. Oh, Dakota’s so funny. Oh, Dakota’s a riot. Dakota, Dakota, Dakota. I can’t tell you how sick to death I am of hearing her name. I’m also sick to death of taking the fall. I lost count of all the dangerous situations she puts me in where I not only have to save myself, but whatever loser heroine Dakota’s thunk up in the latest Accidental adventure. Why is it always me that has to save the day?
Not only do I have to be funny, but I have to be some sort of ninja vampire, too? Who dubbed Dakota Cassidy the “word” on whether I should have the burden of saving the world on my shoulders?
So the next time you’re brave enough to pick up a Dakota Cassidy book, do yourself a favor—first, be strong fine warriors. You’ll need some strength going into one of her rambling, woeful tales. Second, remember WHO does all the work here.
That’s right. Me. Nina Blackman-Statleon aka Dakota Cassidy’s fall guy.
End rant :)
Excerpt from Accidentally Catty
In this scene, my heroine Katie Woods DVM, forty-two is struggling with her attraction to a man she believes is much younger than she is. He’s also the man who showed up on her clinic doorstep in cougar form, accidentally scratched her while he was unconscious and can’t remember a single thing about being a cougar…
“You wanna balance my checkbook, don’t you?” She clamped her mouth shut, mortified she’d been so forward and flirtatious.
“Metaphorically speaking, I’d really just like to see your check- book again.” The smile that followed was lascivious.
Instantly, Katie was nervous. She’d had a semi-active sex life in college and before marrying George, but it’d been a long time since she’d engaged in something this spontaneous, and she’d never engaged in anything so forbidden. No matter how long his mother’d been around, Katie couldn’t get past the part that quite possibly, when she’d been graduating college and drinking beer from a bong, he’d been riding BigWheels and snarfing a Capri Sun.
She began to push Shaw away, even if doing so left her still wanting him. “We shouldn’t do this.”
He hauled her over his length, leaving them pressed together, their noses touching. “I can’t think of one good reason not to. I like you, you like me. It’s like that show Barney, but with some hanky-panky.”
“Because we hardly know each other.”