This made me laugh like a loon. And roll my eyes a bit. And laugh again. And cringe. And feel uneasy. And then laugh for five solid minutes and pound on the arm of the chair.
(Sort’ve not safe for work–found over at the vintage erotic community)
Basically they’re covers from pulp soft-core porn mags during the 60’s, catering to that whole He-Man, Hemingway-esque mentality–a sort’ve Pulp-meets-Maxim–lots of languid damsels chained up in temples being threatened by the Other (hippies, Nazis, foreigners, wild animals, whatever) followed by quizzes that make sure you’re rugged and manly enough. And I know, as a feminist of some stripe, that this should be terribly apalling and I should be up in arms about the linking of sex and violence and the helplessness of women and all that crap. And I suppose to a certain extent I can see that–I’d have to get up pretty early in the morning to objectify a woman any more objectly, and it’d take me a couple of pots of coffee and some serious brain power.
But c’mon, I dare anyone to look at a hysterically fonted “I WAS THE SLAVE OF THE TEENAGE NAZI COBRA GODDESS IN THE TEMPLE OF LUST!–a true story!” and not laugh. I howled. The cover where they’re attacked by killer sea monkeys made me shoot coffee out of my nose. It’s all SO bad it’s like a carictature of itself–you literally couldn’t make it any more pulpy and idiotic and tasteless unless you could show nudity on the cover or got out the hentai. It’s like a horror movie that’s so over the top gory it just becomes funny.
It also makes me want to paint a pulp cover just for the hell of it. “I WAS THE SLAVE OF A LOVE WOMBAT!”
Okay, definitely not. Some things are just wrong…