In October 2008, Jake Kilroy discovered that he had Photoshop on his computer at work. He started messing around, as he always does any time he gets his hands on Photoshop. He thought it'd be funny to make a fake book cover. He called it "Tell Me About It, Canada."
Then he couldn't stop.
By the time work was over, he had made 10. The next day, he made 9. His co-worker and current publicist noticed Jake having difficulty quitting.
Jake, realizing he had an addiction, knew he had to do something and was considering art rehab. Instead, he won Cheryl over by making a book for her. His friends at work wanted their own. Eyvette was there too.
Soon, his co-worker and current agent/guide, Kim Orr, suggested that there may be a larger market of interest.
So, taking Kim Orr's advice, Jake Kilroy started up Fake Book Covers as a blog to keep his hobby like a company so he wouldn't ever have to treat it or deal with it as a problem.
Kim then suggested that Jake give the books depth and provide passages. Jake agreed, since he wasn't really good at Photoshop but could write decently.
So Jake started writing excerpts, book sleeves, back covers, prefaces and taglines for his books, guessing what would be in certain books.
Jake did and then turned Fake Book Covers into a legit website. So...enjoy.
"How To Make Men Love You (Take The Money And Run)" by Cheryl Asico
PREFACE: Men are like butter. If you want them to pan out, you better melt 'em or smash 'em. And you know they taste delicious with wine!
Really though, when you get a hankering for a man, how many body parts are you thinking of? What do you have to do to get what you want? How much effort? How much time? How many lipsticks do you go through before you realize all you wanted was a decent man who didn’t care?
Oh darling, you worry too much.
But who knows how far the modern man is willing to go for the goods? Or the bads? I suppose the socialite in you thinks it all really just depends on how thick your high heels are or how short your skirt is. And maybe that quiet housewife in you constantly wonders if it's just seeing how much you can take. And that teenager in you thinks that love is a feast where the leftovers never go bad and the only important word in your vocabulary is "want."
Or maybe it just takes some good sassy nerve. And, let me tell you, girl, I’ve got plenty.
I suppose you have to wonder how that nervous system works anyway. You wonder if the men in your life have a spine sometimes, because they don’t move when you want them to. They don't take you dancing and they only get off the couch for beer, booty or the bathroom. But you know they've got themselves a vocal chord because you can see that bulge in their neck and they never stop talking when they should and can burp and grunt like their mama ain't home.
I wear hoop earrings and I hear football. I wear a pretty blouse and I hear cars. I could wear a dress until it disintegrated off my body and I’d still only hear about Burger King.
That was the old days for me though.
Maybe you're still living with medieval era, waiting for your white knight. I did too once. But all this that I'm talking about is from my dark ages. Did I mention that I’ve got boys taking me to movies, men taking me to mansion parties and sugar daddies taking me out on their yachts these days?
Oh, I didn’t?
Well, it’s a good thing you bought this book, honey.
Because I'm gonna get you some.
I'm gonna make it so all you have to do is blink and you're getting foot rubs from three college boys. You're gonna sigh and your high school sweetheart is gonna beg for you back, with a new letterman jacket that he stole of his athletic son (who also wants you). You're gonna snap your fingers and a millionaire is gonna steal you away to a country that you can't even pronounce.
"What is it? Pastila? Partstrili? Where the hell are we? Oh, it don't matter. There's a 20-year-old boy with abs flatter than that kooky ethnic food they served me for breakfast. Oh, and palm trees and a sunset that looks like a margarita? Daaaaaaaaamn," you'll say as you admire your own bikini.
You'll have legs like Tina Turner and arms like Ike. Nobody's gonna ever see another woman love/beat men harder.
"You ever seen smoother legs?" you'll ask yourself when no one's around, groping yourself with lotion, listening to a techno song nobody else can hear.
You ever eaten off of strong man's stomach, a cut man's chest or a buff man's butt? Listen, sweetheart, you're gonna. Throw away those good plates. I found you something better. I mean, why have good China when you can have a good man from China?
All it takes is a few easy shakes to get a few easy steaks.
Maybe with some butter.
And some garlic mashed potatoes. And a dinner salad with blue cheese. And a basket full of some goddamn dinner rolls.
"How To Ruin Your Own Birthday Without Even Really Trying"
by Jake Kilroy
AN EXCERPT: My birthday was an unfired gun ready for some sure-fire, ready-aim-fire, friendly-fire against a fiery wall (that I can only imagine God built during a time-out from a game of freeze tag with the Devil). All I remember in my lazy and sick daydream the following week was the scars on my wrists. No, not from any kind of weak suicide attempt. I'm too good for a cheap death.
Instead, I slept a week straight with balloons tied to me. I didn't want the party to leave my body. My lungs were filled with helium and my throat was laced with licorice wine. My chest was rocking like a tugboat in a storm. It was pounding pride and fear for a girl I met in a lazy attempt to revive my own mental cave-in. Call it what you want. I call it integrity with a side car.
Was this what my birthday was to be? Was I to indulge myself until my nerves were rattling inside the caverns of my own stifling heart?
Isn't your birthday just one disgusting benefit where you starve the charities and feed your own ego anyway?
"How To Meet Chicks: a sexy audiobook" narrated by James Park a spoken word introduction by Jake Kilroy
BOOK SLEEVE: Exhausted from being rejected? Rejecting the exahustion? Exhausted from rejecting the exhaustion from being rejected? If only there was some kind of wizard of women, a guru of girls, a lord of the ladies!
Well, there is. He's just been in laying low for a while, because once you love half of the chicks in the world, they're bound to fight the other half.
And you can't have that. No, sir. No freakin' way.
But who is this masked man of manliness?
And he said everything in this audiobook. You're damn right it's not a real book. Why not, you may ask yourself so stupidly? Because James Park doesn't have time to sit down and type his glory, like some monkey that learned how to poorly dress himself. Nope. Not James Park. He narrated this entire book in the car on his way to parties and dates. All of Chapter 11 was recorded while he was WITH a woman.
Oh, you doubt his ways? Well, he just dated your ex-girlfriend. Just now. What do you think of that?
Oh, still doubt him? Well, he just hooked up with your mom. Deal with it, homeboy. Becuase that's where you're going to be for a while if you don't listen to this sleeve. You're going to be home every night. You won't be at the roller-skating rinks, the drive-ins or the cornfields, or wherever you meet chicks (I wouldn't know, I'm an audiobook sleeve, so I'm asexual).
But if you ever want to be with another chick again, you better listen to James Park.
So, get dressed (pansy), listen to this audiobook (dork) and go attila the honeys.
"Strangers: the last known whereabouts of four men in a foreign land" by Jake Kilroy
BACK COVER: The forests had never been so quiet, the beaches had never been paler tombstones and only an island in the distance seemed further. It was the end of the world. They had reached it. They finished the rum and slept on the shore. All that was found a week later were two guitars, an empty pack of cigarettes and a note in the sand that read, "Bob Seger sucks."
They were missing, and it got weirder in the wilderness....or did it get wilder in the weirdness?
"The Spanish Diary: A Transatlantic Account of Settling an Old Score with an Older Empire" by Jake Kilroy
AN EXCERPT: Let's keep going with the present. It's the only time I'm good at. The only thing I can do with the past is write hectic folk songs with the same chord progression about some damage I did when I was a teenage heart(throb/attack) and the future is basically one careless trigger pull away from a massacre. Do you see what this life of movement does to a soul that sleeps in the same time zone on a regular basis?
Time does the writer a tremendous justice when he finally admits that he has nothing else to say at home. When he finally admits that the books on his shelf are worth more as kindling than archaic tributes to humanity, the writer should skip town. Keruoac did it when he breezed the back roads looking for "it" and let's just say Shakespeare swallowed a clock.