club made out of the very same animals that are attacking him. The berserker rage has overtaken him so completely that he is actually beating them with their own kind.

Now, look at the direction of the water -- there, in the lower right hand corner.

See it? The water looks like it's flowing over something doesn't it? What's going on there? A reasonable man might assume the obvious: It's a waterfall, probably located just out of frame, thus adding even more tension to the already dramatic tableau.

But this is not artwork for the reasonable man.

This is the artwork of the mad and the damned, and it takes a sinful maniac to understand it. So allow me to explain: This man is not the victim of a sudden and unexpected attack. This man has never been a victim in his entire life. This man has simply constructed a sluice system that funnels angry weasels into the shirtless dam of howling fury that he has formed at its terminus.

But ... why?

Curiosity, of course. Some men climb mountains simply "because they are there." Some men fight a hundred weasels in an aqueduct simply "because I'm pretty sure I could take them."

inside of its goddamn mouth."

...

Editor's note: I have no idea what Sex Storms are, or what exact meteorological perversions they entail, but I've just burnt my entire paycheck on sandbags and condoms, and I would describe my current attitude as "dreadfully optimistic."

beat them with their own kind.

And God, this man was just built to wreck a bunch of animals in the most profane way possible. Look at his form! He's delivering a devastating hook to one bat in mid-air, while simultaneously plucking another from the sky and preparing to whip that b***h like a fastball into its own brethren. Look, just look:

That bat is f*****g terrified. It's not even flying at him anymore -- it's running away. And why? Because it doesn't want to know what it feels like to have your own daughter pitched into you at 89mph.

It's important to remember that the process most of these stories went through was the painting first, and then the text. So at some point, a roomful of writers were faced with an editor standing in front of this very picture, likely having the following exchange:

Editor: All right, ladies, who's got a headline for this mean son of a whore right here?

Writer 1: Jesus, what even is this?

Writer 2: I've got nothing for this. This is ridiculous. Nobody is going to believe this ever happened.

Editor: Fifty bucks in it for the best story.

Writer 1: Killer bats plague countryside!

Writer 2: Plague bats kill countryside!

Writer 1: You motherf- "I was a teenage bat-king."

Writer 2: "Bats stole my shirt!"

Writer 1: "I. FIGHT. BATS."

Writer 2: "VAMPIRES RIPPED MY FLESH!"

Writer 1: I ... s**t, that's really good. You have bested me, sir. I look forward to perusing your work. I will retreat to the area beneath the bleachers of the local baseball stadium, where I shall search for fallen hot dog bits.

And that is how we get art.

'cause that's how bitches be swimming.

What's the backstory that we're supposed to be buying into here? Did we enact a bombing campaign against nudity back in the '40s, or am I misreading the whole scenario, and this is actually a stream of explosive whores about to torpedo that poor man's ship?

Ah, but I'm assuming they even tried to explain this cover believably, when the sad reality is that ofttimes these magazines were just precursors to the "Penthouse Forums," where sad men bragged of fake conquests in a misguided attempt to arouse the other, equally sad men who read it. I mean, it's all right there in the title:

"Coxswain Hardy and His 20 Marooned Geishas."

Come on, that's the porniest porn title since

Dick Dicklonger the Vicedick of Dickington Invades Pussytown (With His Dick).

sure that I'm drunk as f**k. So I'm just gonna throw some words at you, and I want you to paint me a picture that incorporates all of them. Ready? Here we go: Topless sluts. Tribesmen. Jawlines. Jungle. America. Rickshaws. Dueling pistols. An amputated left foot. Got it? Good. Now, I'm a reasonable man, so I'm going to allow you one blackball, for the sake of coherence. What's it gonna be?

Jimmy: I abstain.

Editor: Jimmy, I've never told my wife that I loved her. I've never told my son, or even my own father. But I ... I just wanted you to know that, Jimmy.

throwing women out of seafood restaurants. Come on, Jim, you know they don't have the heart to pick out a live meal. They'd probably try to dress the crabs up in little suits or something.

Jim: True, true. They just don't seem to understand how taking a life enhances flavor, do they?

Don: It's like I keep telling Donna: "Lay off the MSG, and just let me fight the chicken to the death first. Mortal combat is the best seasoning."

Jim: Say, Don, do you know what time it is?

Don: I sure do, Jim. It's time to beat them with their own kind.

Jim: What? No, I have a doctor's appointment after this and I- oh, OK; you've already started. All right. Let me get my Crab Stick ...

You can buy Robert's book, Everything is Going to Kill Everybody: The Terrifyingly Real Ways the World Wants You Dead, or follow him on Twitter, Facebook and Google+. Or you could just beat everything with its own kind. That's really the central message here.

For more from Robert, check out The 8 G.I. Joes Most Frequently Left In the Box and If The Characters from 'Street Fighter 2' Got Hammered.