Pulp Covers, Part 2

     I can't help but think that there's a remarkable absence of panic here. Captain Future doesn't even look surprised; all he's managed is an indifferent expression of mild curiosity as he fires Fruit Loops breakfast cereal out of his Deliciousness Ray directly into the gaping eye-hole of an underwater alien. And as for his ladyfriend, she appears more irate than honestly afraid. Like we caught them in the middle of some marital spat.
     "And when was the last time you took out the trash, Captain Future? Oh, don't give me that 'temporal-reality-matrix-in-peril' nonsense. If you can make time to save Theodore Roosevelt from aliens made of electricity that eat music and shit noise, you can make time to change the goddamn cat litter. And--are you even listening to me? For fuck's sake, you're fighting aliens *again*, aren't you?!"
     Even the alien is just phoning it in. 'Right, Fruit Loops ray. Directly into my eye. Yeah, sure, whatever, you're not even trying anymore, are you, Captain Future? I wonder if Doc Savage's archvillains have to put up with this shit."

     Doc Emmett Brown and Lip Manlis have discovered the secret to pickling women?
     Okay, seriously though, I want to know why the men in this picture are wearing bathrobes. And why they look like they just landed on the wrong end of a double-decker jalapeño-infused ultra-burrito-fueled fart.

     "Yes, mother, the red scarf does bring out the color in your eyes."

     I imagine this as a sequel of the earlier cover; the marital strife we briefly glimpsed before has extended into an outright campaign of delusional complacency:
     "No, dear, it's alright. Sure, Monstroso, the Robot Who Eats Time, is busily stapling me to a rocket slated to launch me directly into the moon, but I'm sure it will all work out. No need to stop doing whatever bullshit you're up to with your Fruit Loop ray for the five seconds it would take to punch this robot in the face and save me. No, seriously, don't worry about it. Everything will be fine. They have crossword puzzles up on the moon, right? No?"
    "Well, that's okay. Maybe they have husbands who don't need to wear fishbowls on their head in order to get it up."

Pulp Magazine Covers

     If there is to be an epitaph on my gravestone, let it read: "Planets & Women Were His Pawns".

     I can't stop staring at her hat.  Did she strap it down over her chin out of fear that it might try to fly away?

     I've never seen someone look so disappointed with the results of a disintegration ray. "Oh, fuck, it just disintegrates pants. I--look, yeah, um, I was actually trying to reduce you to a pile of demolecularized ash. Not flirt with you. Uh, yeah, I'm seeing someone right now. Look--could you maybe find another pair of pants? Please?"

     Immediately, you realize that we've interrupted something. Something wonderful. Something terrible. Something sacred. A powerful bond that can only exist between three men... and their turkey. 

     Whatever's going on here, I'm pretty sure these three want to make sure it doesn't see the light of day. 

     After several experiments, extensive research, and two peer reviewed studies, I have determined that there is no feasible way to make a picture containing three men and a turkey look *any* creepier.