Dear Ladies of “Carried Away,”

As a woman, I just want to send out a big, warm “I feel you, sister.” I know, I know there is a lot of pressure out there in showbiz for you to be alluring and sexy and saleable, and some days it’s just hard, ’cause all you want to do is sing sweet melodies and love Jesus, and then there are those studio executives telling you to learn to dance and to stop picking your teeth in public. Shouldn’t it really be “about the music,” after all? Shouldn’t you be able to be yourselves, only photoshopped slightly as to appear more attractive?

Let the record show: I agree with you entirely, and I am absolutely POSITIVE this is not your fault:

Now, I’m sure this has to be trick of ill-advised photo editing, but even so, girls, you’re scaring me. You all seem a little more Beowulf than beguiling, and frankly, I feel like you’re closer to eating my soul than saving it. You look very young and quite pretty under those boughs of poorly designed Photoshop brushes, and were it not for your sinister, shocked and dead, dead eyes (from left to right), I’m sure I wouldn’t have acquired goose bumps of the non-Holy Ghost variety. You’re from Canada, and that just automatically renders you both non-threatening, and, um, aboot as audibly entertaining as you can get, eh?

That’s why I’m disappointed you had to be gypped by the big cogs in the moronic marketing machine. Correct me if I’m wrong, but what this photo tells me is that those soulless studio execs chained you to a porch swing, refused to feed you all for several days (skinny is the new talent!), then woke you up in the middle of the night with high-wattage flashlights and the promise of cheeseburgers, record deals, and individual duets with Billy “The Hair” Ray Cyrus.

Obviously, that situation would be overwhelming for anyone. It wasn’t fair for them to grab a picture when you were all sorts of confused and hungry and angry and excited, and then… and then… they go and load your album full of nice, sweet, music with that awful, awful title.

I mean, “I want You?” Okay, yes, we all know that the capital-Y-You means capital-G-God, but that was absolutely uncalled for. They knew full well that your eyes did not signify that you wanted God, but maybe my soul, a nice bunch of carrots, or, well you know… or at least you do now, after the sleep deprivation has run its course. The whole thing just reeks of sacrilege, and it didn’t have to be this way.

In sum, girls, I’d advise you to run, do not walk, far, far away from the idiots who trapped you in this little-G-godawful packaging, and try to think very carefully about the possible meanings of any titles you’re presented from this point on. This doesn’t mean I like you any less, but what I want, more than anything, is to forget this ever happened.

Lots of love,


*Jennifer Carden* writes the *Fug the Cover* column for The CCM Patrol.

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Previously in *Fug the Cover*: We explained why toothpaste, mollusks, and Bibles, among other things, were used to create the cover of Mac Powell’s new worship album. And brought down Lifehouse for their staged angst and pseudo-grungy graphics.
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*Standing Disclaimer:* We give grateful credit to the girls at Go Fug Yourself for the title of this section, a phrase that they coined.

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