5 Things Old Magazines Apparently Believed About Women

We could learn a lot by simply listening to the Greatest Generation. We could hear tales of bravery, and honor, and sacrifice. But they're old, and that's boring. If we listen to their badass old-timey magazines instead, we could learn a hell of a lot more interesting shit. Like how to properly wield a weasel as a makeshift flail, how best to stab a gorilla in order to maintain an erection and now, thanks to the manliest magazines this side of Whiskey Fights Weekly, we can learn the answer to that age-old question: Where do women come from?

(Spoiler alert: It's hell.)

If you're just going by their depiction in men's magazines of the '40s and '50s, then women were, at best, a dangerous obstacle, and at worst, some sort of savage cannibalistic race of Breast Nazis.

#5. Women Were Cluttering Up Wartime

At first glance, this seems like another typical male-power fantasy: An elite group of warriors cracks open a Nazi cargo train and, instead of finding something boring, like Nazi gold or starving Jewish people, a stream of impeccably made-up, scantily dressed tramps comes flooding out. Just a whole carful o' lusty bitches, eager to show their gratitude. It's like a mashup of Letters to Penthouse and Classic Toy Trains magazine.

But look at the men's faces: They're not elated that they just hacked open the Nazi poon-train like a pornographic Cadbury Egg. If anything, they seem kind of pissed off about it. The guy in the beret won't throw so much as a sympathetic glance at the open-legged, mini-skirted blonde; he's just dragging her away impatiently, like you'd drag a disobedient dog away from table scraps. The only one who looks the slightest bit excited in this picture is the Nazi being choked to death in the foreground, and that's only because he gets off on autoerotic asphyxiation and always wanted to die doing what he loved.

"Zis is ... everything ... Autoerotic Asphyxiation Adolph ... dreamed ... und more!"

You know why they're so jaded with the Skank Express? Because according to old-timey men's magazines, World War II was lousy with dames. Useless, dumb, practically inanimate dames just cluttering up the place. Crack a Nazi cargo train? No ammo reserves for you, Frenchy; you're honor-bound to rescue that lusty blonde temptress, but nobody says you have to like it. Bust open that much-needed crate of stolen rations? Not a Twinkie in sight; just a cascade of dames spillin' out like packing peanuts.

Trying to simultaneously fly a plane while shooting disproportionately large Chinese boat-giants? Good luck swiveling that machine gun around -- somebody left a window open and some friggin' dames built a nest in the cockpit.

"Would you j-goddamn it, Madge! You know gunning down Asian maritime ogres is the only thing that relaxes me after a long day at the mill!"

#4. The Breast Nazis

According to old-timey men's magazines, not only were the Nazis substantially sexier than all but the most Harrison-Ford-laden of period films would have you believe, but times were so tough during WWII -- what with the rationing of metals and all -- that even the most elite Gestapo officers were only permitted a single button.

"Damn it, Madge, when I said you were only good for two things -- baking and frigid handjobs -- I was asking for one of your icy-fisted jerk sessions, not to be made into a blasted man-cake!"

Sure, World War II was a terrible time in humanity's history -- a lot of senseless death, genocide, hatred and fear -- but good golly goddamn if those Nazis didn't know how to design a uniform. We all know Hugo Boss did the men, but apparently Victoria S. Secrette did the women.

You get the feeling that these strangely high-waisted, shirtless, be-khakied fellows were getting caught on purpose. But then, that's just your skewed, sex-starved modern sensibilities talking. Badass old-timey men weren't desperate for female attention at all, because women were everywhere back in the day. Why, at times, it was practically ...

#3. Raining Women

Despite how it appears, this isn't just another routine game of coed parastabbing, and our yellow-clad Aryan protagonist doesn't look to be rescuing anyone. In fact, he seems somewhat put out: Here he was, just enjoying a leisurely Tuesday aerial knife fight, when some half-naked broad came flipping out of a plane and landed in his arms. He sure doesn't look happy to have caught her, either. I mean, sure, he'll ravage her if he absolutely has to -- they don't call him Barry "The Begrudging Boner" Bohner because his last name sounds like "Boner" -- but it looks like Ted is catching a lucky breeze and has started swooping in for one of his trademark lunging headwind stabs. So good ol' Barry has a decision to make: Rescue the girl, or feel another man's life spurt hot and steamy onto his own chest.

Ha! Like that's a decision ...

"Love failure can be cured! Just toss that fickle bitch into the sky!"

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Robert Brockway

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