Sure, by the time the '60s rolled around, we had mostly domesticated the Wild Woman and trained her for basic kitchen work and man maintenance, but it wasn't always that way: Once the woman was a proud and savage creature -- a noble race of warriors whose only trades were butchery and artisanal bikini-weaving.
"Goddamn it, Madge, we've discussed this! That's a pistol! The spatula is flat, with a wooden handle!"
If women weren't flapping out of planes, jamming up your Willys because they liked to build their dame-nests in warm places like engine bays, or gleefully tormenting Joe America with their unchained, fascist boob parades, they were storming out of the brush on some primal island, tits a-floppin' (damn that button shortage) and tearing apart knife-jawed men with their bare hands.
Sure, mankind tamed them eventually -- but it's not like that was a painless process.
"Hey -- HEY. NO. BAD MADGE. Biters don't get biscuits!"
It was only through careful, selective breeding that badass old-timey men's magazine men were able to tame the wild beast that was the feral woman and turn her into the perfectly safe, harmless animal we know tod-
"Now you just waAAHH! Damn it, Madge! You're back in the kitchen-cage for a week!"
But it's not like our slab-chested forefathers were able to subdue the terrible woman-beasts unassisted: They had help from man's best friend. Yes, they relied on the assistance of that most majestic and shaftlike of creatures -- the serpent. According to badass old-timey men's magazines, 'twas not music that soothed the savage beast; 'twas the prehensile fanged penis of the animal kingdom. It was as true yesterday as it is today: Bitches be loving them some snakes. The Christians had Eve in the garden, the Greeks had Lamia and Medusa in their mythology, modern man had Salma Hayek in From Dusk Till Dawn ...
Something about it just feels right, doesn't it? Ah, but who could possibly say what that "something" is? What mysterious force could possibly surround an open-shirted, open-mouthed woman double-fisting a wriggling meat shaft and oh -- oh God, no, dude in the background!
No. Gross. Listen: What you do in private is your business, but this here is God's decade, Gary. You put that snake down and go fight a giant clam or something.
"Hey Ming, I captured one of those wild bikini models. Little thing wriggled up into the crawlspace somehow -- had to lure her out with some gossip and a scone."
"Oh yeah, what are ya gonna do with her?"
"I don't know, man, I want to take care of her and all, but it seems cruel to keep a wild animal caged ..."
"Hey, you know I have a snake box out back, right?"
"Oh, word? When'd you get that put in?"
"I was doing the horseshoe pit anyway, so I figured, hey, what the hell: snake box. Anyway, let's toss her in there for now, let her wrestle around with those things until they give up and spit venom all over her heaving bosoms -- you know, like snakes do -- and we'll get started with housebreaking in the morning."
"Sounds like a plan, home fries. So what do you wanna do in the meantime? Measure our dicks?"
"Fuck no! I'm overcompensating like crazy over here!"
"Yeah ... yeah, me too. It's just, well, I saw Gary fighting that boa earlier and I got some ideas ..."
Get the first episode of Robert's sci-fi serial novel, Rx: A Tale of Electronegativity, right here, or buy Robert's other book, Everything Is Going to Kill Everybody: The Terrifyingly Real Ways the World Wants You Dead. Follow him on Tumblr, Twitter and Facebook.
For more from Brockway, check out If Old School Comics Were Written for (and by) Drunk People and Revisiting Old-School Text Adventures as a Jaded Modern Gamer.