4 Ways to Enjoy Nature According to Insane Old Magazines

Isn't the majesty of nature's bounty inspiring? It is. It suuure is. Almost a little too much so, wouldn't you say? It's like she's trying to show us up. "Nice car," she tells the collective works of man, "have you seen these waves of grain? They're amber as shit." Or "what a cute bridge," she'll coo, patting humanity's head and ruffling its hair, "I brought some purple mountains. Topped 'em with majesty. Just had some laying around; it's not a thing." Mother Nature is out there right now -- maybe in your own backyard -- just itching to shove her pretentious landscapes, condescending flora and liberal elite fauna in our industrious faces.

And while a real man should only have two hobbies -- making children and taking them away from his enemies -- we'll make an exception if you want to take some time out of a weekend to put the environment in its god damn place. If you need some pointers, look no further than these badass, old-timey men's magazine covers for some handy tips on the right way to enjoy nature: on its knees.


Finding the Right Activities for You

I know, I know: Fishing is boring. But look closely. There are only two headlines on this cover, and since his raven locks clearly (perhaps unjustly) disqualify this man from being the "world's sexiest blonde," we're forced to conclude that this image somehow applies to the first headline -- the one regarding corpses and bloody, bloody mistakes. It's not too big of a stretch. I mean, look at the way that slab of man is standing: He's parked at the bottom of a series of raging rapids, knee-deep in a whirlpool, his whole body taut with the effort of just ripping the shit out of some poor unsuspecting trout. It's little wonder that this fishing trip ended with 880 dead and a Navy coverup. Any less and you might as well stay home to knit vaginal cozies for your chilly woman parts.

But what if aquatic genocide isn't your speed? What if you want something a little more active? Why, you can always take to the slopes!

When you see an image like this, it's tempting to wonder if the badass on display is wholly genuine: Couldn't they be embellishing the tale, just a little bit? Nobody outruns an avalanche

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literally -- all pulling 180 turns and desperate, last-minute jumps in an effort to somehow "shake" 10,000 tons of snow. But maybe you didn't look close enough: See the headline?

"Avalanche Busters. See Page 14."

He's not fleeing anything, much less a pile of water's softer, fluffier cousin. Check out his expression:

There's no fear there. There's no panic, or even grim determination. There's just contempt. Simple, base contempt for the deadly fury of Mother Earth. That man went up on that mountain for one reason and one reason only: To mock a natural disaster.

And if dick-whipping avalanches into submission isn't enough to slake your thirst for danger, there's always swimming! That's right: It's not just for consumptive women and limp-wristed Floridians anymore!

What's that, they put too much chlorine in the pool? It made your wittle eyes sting? Cry me a river, Sparky, then

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fill it with snakes and drown in their poison . Because that's the only way a '50s man is going to take time out from his busy schedule of slapping America into the faces of minorities for something as frivolous as a "swim." There's no way a million bright red snakes "sneak up" on an unsuspecting swimmer. That pompadoured human jawline up there knew exactly what he was getting into; he doesn't even bother bringing his trunks to the Lake O' Snakes unless it's High Serpent Tide and the red devils are biting. He probably finds the soothing burn of their venom invigorating, like a warm nip of brandy on a cold Christmas morning.

But, although there is much to enjoy in Nature (such as conquest and subjugation), and she's a downright saucy little minx for teasing, never, ever underestimate her. Because for all her Nancy colors and fey little leaves, the broad is surprisingly wily. You might wind up ...

Dealing With an Ambush

If you want to survive your weekend of Torch Tag, Endangered-Species Bingo and other such general eco-blasphemy, you need to follow a few basic rules. First, never bring Captain Kirk to the woods with you.

He's like grizzly-nip. I don't know if it's his natural musk or some sort of grotesque Canadian hair tonic, but the guy attracts bears like a woman's menses attracts ... well ... also bears. So there's your second rule: Don't bring women, either. It's not just red-blooded '50s men after a six-whiskey power lunch; literally

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everything in nature is enraged by a woman's presence. Don't take our word for it. Listen to Chet Chesthair, Wildlife Taunter and Professional Womanizer:

"Augh, snakes! Who could have known I'd be swarmed by killer beasts in this swamp while feeling up my busty, open-red-shirted galpal! Nobody could have foresee-"

"Jesus Christ! Lynx attack! I can't belie- all right. So I guess I saw this one coming. Burn me once, and all that jazz. But these crimson-clad dames hate buttons as much as they love swamps! What's a man supposed to do?"

"Yeah, haha, OK. You got me: I started to get off on it. It's strange, you know? I don't really understand the psychology at play here -- whether it's the titties flopping or the animals screeching or the splashing of the water or the combination of all three -- but bringing a gal whose favorite color is red and doesn't understand shirts into a bog to be attacked by swarms of stuff is the only way I can finish these days."

"Yeah. Yes. That's a good girl. Now just ... just grab the bat by the neck and thrash around with it. No, thrash, honey. That's squirming. Really put your hips into it and twist. That bright red half-shirt isn't going to unknot itself. No. No, dammit, Irene! That's writhing. You can't tell me -- with a midriff like that -- you can't tell me this is your first swamp-bat attack. You know what? I don't know if this is doing it for me anymore. I'm just not getting the same fix. I think I might have to escalate the scenario ..."

"Yes. Fuck yes. It's the trunk. The trunk is definitely working here. What's that? Shoot him? Why would I -- oh, right. The attacking. Sure, I'll just go ahead and pull this trigger riiiight ... uhnnn ... abooouuuut ... uhnnnnn ... holy shit! Are those

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aborigines?! Susan, I'm sorry, baby, but I just have to see how this plays out."

"I *stab* AM *stab* COMING *stab* SO *stab* HARD! *stab*"

The Main Attraction

But even if the worst should befall your party and you find yourself at the mercy of some savage predator's dripping fangs, don't worry! Because that was the entire point of this trip. Now that a threat has been made upon your life, you're not only allowed, but (thanks to the Verdant Vengeance Act of 1947) legally

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required to stab one member of every native species found in your immediate vicinity.

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The desert sun beats down mercilessly, sucking every last drop of fluid from your body like Steve's wife while he's away at church every Sunday. You lie motionless, feeling each drop of sweat squeeze out from between your pores and chase its way across your desiccated body. Then you see the shadow -- the fluttering silhouette of wings. The scavenger lands hesitantly behind you. It approaches, but quickly backs away. It's taking its time, making sure you're not a threat. It hops forward again, and when it hops back, the wicked beak takes a hunk of your leg flesh with it. Yet still you do not move. Its fears suppressed, it bends its neck to dine from you once again, and only then -- too late -- does it spot the cold glint of steel.

When it clutches at your wrist, the realization still bouncing around its feeble bird head, you cannot help but laugh. You're not doing this for food, or trophies, or even sport; no, you do it because you like the feeling of something hard and pointy sinking to its hilt inside soft, supplicant flesh.

"Just like your wife, Steve!" You shout to your raptor-stabbing partner.

"Nobody's impressed!" Steve shouts back indignantly, "You know how I like a challenge: If banging my wife was so all-fired hard, I'd be doing it right now instead of crushing this scavenger's brainpan with a hammer!"

There's no mistaking this scenario for self-defense. Those speed lines are clear as day. That man up there is charging a shark with a pocket knife. Hey, it's like they say: "The best defense is HAHAHA YOU THINK TO CHALLENGE ME? MY BLADE IS THIRSTY. COME, SHARK. REFRESH IT!"

And although proper '50s dress code dictates that no man is presentable without his combat knife, we all understand that sometimes things come up: The blade became stuck in the bones of your last opponent, has been knocked away by a particularly wily marmoset, or you've simply grown bored with civilized combat and long for the fulfilling barbarism of hand-to-hand. If you find yourself disarmed, remember: One can always, always, always wield an animal as a crude bludgeoning device against its own friends and family. No matter the scenario, a real man chooses his own priorities. Ultimately, it's up to you to make time to ...

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But when the blood-rage subsides, your furious howls slowly start to resemble human language again, and the last monkey truly understands the concept of mortality just before the light goes out in his eyes, remember the most important rule of all: Be respectful to nature. Never let it suffer needlessly. Always ...

Put Two in the Dome, Just to Make Sure

A real man is a brutal man, to be sure. But he is not needlessly cruel. While he does all his proper fighting with fists, blades or the frightened and confused bodies of his foes themselves, a man should always keep a pistol handy to finish the kill cleanly. But remember: Guns are not to be used at range. If God wanted you to use firearms to defeat your opponents, he wouldn't have given you all this boundless rage. Firearms are just and only for execution. If in doubt, just remember what Two-Tap Tony says:

"When it forgets all it knew but fear and pain, only then is it time for one in the brain!"

You can buy Robert's book, Everything Is Going to Kill Everybody: The Terrifyingly Real Ways the World Wants You Dead, and follow him on Twitter, Facebook and Google+. Or you could just buy a kayak, a knife and some stabbing clothes and go get in touch with your natural roots.

For more from Brockway, check out If Old School Comics Were Written For (And By) Drunk People and The 7 Most Hilariously Badass Magazine Covers Ever.

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