Rating: 0.0

The premise: what would happen if the the gods and goddesses of Mount Olympus started up a dating service in Las Vegas? Psyche, Eros, and Aphrodite do just that with Cupid, Inc. Their mission is to match up mortal soulmates via prepaid sexual fantasies -- a Greek whorehouse, so to speak. Screw like rabbits on meth, and worry about getting to know each other later.

I would usually pass on this kind of swill, but Wendy dared me to finish it. Never one to back down from a dare, I decided to run with it. I would even have a little fun with my new highlighter along the way.

It became clear I would end up with carpal tunnel syndrome if I didn't put down my pen. Character voices switch between elitist snobbery and cheezy, outdated slang. Lovers change from prim to fuck-me-you-stud with the wave of a magic vibrator. Nipples are agitated. Body parts are "slurped." And I should file assault charges on the author for repeatedly using chocolate, the color pink, Versace, and Jimmy Choo in every other chapter.

Given time and bandwidth constraints, I cannot possibly list every textual nightmare to be found between the oh-so-glossy covers of CUPID, INC. But I have a sadistic streak, so I'll share one of my favorites for your reading pleasure:

"His mouth filled with her nirvana." Umhm. I couldn't read that line without hearing the first strains of Come as You Are in my head. Conjuring up visions of stinking, sweaty flannel and mosh pits in the middle of a sex scene tends to ruin a mood.

Note to author: invest in a thesaurus.

It's your friend.

Use it.