#3. Woman: The Beast Inside Our Walls
Wait, which headline could this cover illustration possibly be related to? "The Torpedoed Sailor Who Took Over Japan's Camp-Girl Compound"?
"The Love Nest That Shocked Memphis"?
I'm not entirely sure if the correct plural for a group of women is a "nest," and anyway, it looks like they're marching through an African village. "Hatchet Man from Moscow"? I don't see a single ax-wielding Russian anywhere -- and trust me, I looked! I'm always down for a hatchet-murdering Soviet. I was so crestfallen when I didn't find one, in fact, that I thought it might be a Where's Waldo? kind of deal -- I spotted two naked couples, a yeti, and that asshole Odlaw -- but no Russian.
Which means that this illustration must be entirely unrelated to any of the teaser text; it is its own story. Japanese soldiers are parading their captives -- a gaggle of presumably American soldiers and a single woman in a tiger cage -- through an African village. Look where their attention is focused: They're all terrified of the girl in the purple dress. Even the Americans.
But why? It's just one woman, what could she have done? What possible explanation could there be for the crazy level of fear on display here?
Look at that guy! He has seen some shit. His facial expression is how mimes portray PTSD.
The answers are as simple as they are self-evident: All women are monsters to be feared.
Seriously, there's at least one story in every stag magazine heavily implying that women are indomitable devil-beasts who are one fallen souffle away from burning down an orphanage.
#2. The Tragicomic Antics of Wartime
How helpful: This time the headline has a little arrow pointing to the exposed breasts to let you know that, yes, these are the particular breasts we're going to be talking about. They say a picture says a thousand words, but this one only seems to be saying four: "Santa Claus themed gangbang."
Incidentally: I defy you to organize four words in a worse way than that. It cannot be done.
But I'm not concerned with festive holiday snow-orgies. What I really wish there were more context for is that headline in the bottom left.
What happened to the publishing industry immediately after World War II? Did we loot all the Engrish from Japan when we pulled our forces out? What could those words possibly mean? I'm picturing some kind of rough and tumble elite military squadron of clowns, and that's the stupi- no, wait, that is actually really sound psychological warfare:
"The day is ours, Mein Fuhrer! The enemy retreats!"
"Nein! Listen! The slapping of big shoes; the honking of bicycle horns. The Combat Zanies -- they approach!"
"We must flee!"
"I am sorry, my boy. You have not seen this before. But I have. I know what this is: This is the end. One can outrun comedy; one can hide from wacky; one can even bargain with shenanigans. But nobody escapes from the red-gloved hand of zaniness."
#1. Into the Mouth of Madness
What does ...
I don't even know where to start. Are they on a Go-Go Barge? That was a thing, back in the day? Go-go parties delivered by water freight? And are those Go-Go Barge pirate ... beatniks? Soulful, poetry-slamming scalawags who lived to pilfer hot Go-Go from the lucrative party barges foolhardy enough to sail their turtleneck-clad waters? And their conveyance of choice was ... jet-sleds?
Did we all used to have jet-sleds? Is this like a reverse hoverboard situation?!
Which of these headlines could possibly apply here? Every other sentence on this cover is something a homeless man would scream at a scantily dressed woman who accidentally stepped on his invisible dog.
"I'LL SAIL MY SHIP TO HELL!"
"NIGHT SCHOOL TEASE!"
"7,000-MAN WALL-OF-FLESH COLD-STEEL DEATH CHARGE!"
And then he'd spread his arms wide and chase down the alley after her.
No, this clinches it: There is no sense to be made here. No context could be applied that would headlock the headlines on this magazine and drag them screaming into the realm of reason and sanity. They went too far with this issue and gave away the game: I know what the stories in stag mags were now. They weren't the cultural smegma of a society freshly reamed by both the Depression and war; they were just a list of adjectives pulled at random from the backs of bottles of miracle tonics, then slapped willy-nilly inside a porno comic under the assumption that everybody would be too busy ogling tits and punches and the occasional tit-punch to ever question it.
And I, for one, vote that we bring them back. I've always felt that modern pornography was missing something, and now I know what that something is: Great Cats and ridiculous violence.
And now that we've found it, I know where I'll be: right directly in my bunk.
Buy Robert's stunning, transcendental, orgasmic science fiction novel, Rx: A Tale of Electronegativity, right here. Or buy Robert's other (pretty OK) book, Everything Is Going to Kill Everybody: The Terrifyingly Real Ways the World Wants You Dead. Follow him on Tumblr, Twitter, and Facebook.