BigBoy Monthly Manifest 25.04.11 – Overdrive to Oblivion!

Overdrive to Oblivion!

NO EXIT. NO MERCY. NO LOOKING BACK.

Welcome back, my Fabulous Full-Throttle Funky Monkeys—the ones who don’t flinch when the tach needle snaps off and the pavement starts to blur. Where WE are travelling with this month’s BigBoy Monthly Manifest there is no seatbelt, no safety net, nor do you get a second chance! This month, we rip the throttle wide open and fang this BigBoy straight into the void.

The bridges – they are burnt, the tires – squealing, and the only way forward is through the wreckage we call humanity.

WHEN THE BRAKES FAIL, THE GREAT APE KEEPS GOING

In this issue no one’s gunna hold your hand—The Great Ape is here to take your lunch money, light it on fire, and race you for pinks. From muscle cars to Muppets, spies to speed demons, atomic fallout to alien fever dreams, this is a white-knuckle, high-octane blast straight into the heart of madness.

Forget coasting. Forget comfort. This ride is built for overdrive and oblivion.

What’s Inside?

What’s inside? The meanest, dirtiest, most asphalt-melting collection of madness yet.

• The Spy’s Survival Manual – How to vanish, mislead, and outwit like the greatest agents in history.
• The Bikini Atoll Time Bomb – Nuclear tests, irradiated islands, and the scars that do not have a half life!.
• Giants in the Mist – The Kashmir Giants, mythic relics or buried history?
• Rita Moreno vs. Animal – The Muppet Mayhem Showdown – Rita brings the fire, Animal brings the fury, and one of them gets clobbered mid-song with a well-placed pair of cymbals.
• Hot Rod Outlaws & Gasser Gods – The machines, the men, and the moment the world caught fire.
• The Sci-Fi Hall of Fame – Pulp covers, lost space operas, and visions of the future that never arrived.
• Golden Age Pinups & Femme Fatales – The women who burned brighter than the neon lights.
• The Day the Earth Stood Still – Klaatu Barada Nikto. Three words that shook sci-fi and a warning that still echoes through time.
• The Wildest Ads Ever Printed – Suntanning pills, lip straighteners, and the kind of late-night sales pitches that belonged in a padded cell.
• Shirley Muldowney Ruled Top Fuel at 250MPH – The Queen of Speed and the Crash That Couldn’t Stop Her
• A Genius Recognized by Legends with a Song That Touched the Sky – Pop music took a giant leap into the unknown. Brian Wilson aimed for heaven—and got there.
• The 7th Voyage of Sinbad’s Cyclops – Harryhausen’s monster that refused to be forgotten.
• Jean Harlow & Max Baer – A Scandal That Never Was – A blonde bombshell, a heavyweight champ, and the gossip that Hollywood refused to bury.
• Éowyn’s Final Triumph – The shieldmaiden who broke prophecies and forged a new future.
• Ed Emshwiller: The Man Who Painted the Future – The visionary who turned pages into portals.
• The Monster Who Made Us Laugh – Strange how he was funny!
• Paul Reubens Before Pee-wee – The oddball genius lurking in a bachelor pad full of skeleton charts.
• The Birth of Aussie Punk – [I’m] Stranded hit like a Molotov, and The Saints never looked back.
• When Hot Rodding Meets Mayberry – A legendary night where the cops wrote real tickets for a staged crime.

And that’s just the beginning. The rabbit hole goes deeper.

No brakes. No safety nets. No surrender.

WHEN THE ROAD ENDS, THE MANIFEST KEEPS GOING

Manifesto Maravillado is more that this Big Boy Blog. It’s a transmission from the wasteland, a flaming wreckage on the edge of sanity, and a warning sign to the weak. If your heart isn’t pounding, if your grip isn’t tightening on the wheel, if you don’t feel the static charge of chaos crackling through the air—this ride was never meant for you.

ONE STEP CLOSER TO THE LOBOTOMY LOUNGE

The countdown is gone. The gas is burning and the sky has split open.
There’s “only one way out” and that’s straight through. So we gotta punch it!

May’s BigBoy Monthly Manifest is rolling in fast. Don’t just stand there with that dumb look on your grill!

Get in. Hold tight. And whatever you do, don’t touch the damn brakes.

Chrome Demons and Asphalt Saints

Where Rubber Burns and Legends Rise

They weren’t built for stoplights or speed limits—only open roads and wide-open throttles. Whether outlaw racers or street prophets, they left skid marks across history and gasoline in their wake.

Steel, Chains, and Eight-Legged Terror

Bob Larkin’s ferocious cover for Conan and the Spider God throws savagery and sorcery into the firelit abyss. A chained woman—ornamental but defiant—reaches for salvation as Conan the Barbarian squares off against an unholy, many-eyed nightmare.

The beast looms, legs poised for the kill, mandibles twitching, a creature of ancient, skittering horror. But Conan? Steel in hand, muscles coiled, ready to carve his way through one more god that bleeds.

This is no mere battle—this is a reckoning.

This bat-winged beauty is no mere car—it’s a legend on wheels. Stamped with October 1964 origins, this official Batmobile plate certifies the beast under the hood—a 390 cubic inch V8, paired with a B&M Hydro 3-speed automatic ready to deliver high-speed justice.

At 225 inches long, 84-inch fins slicing the night, and a curb weight of 5,500 lbs, this machine isn’t built for subtlety—it’s built for style, speed, and sheer intimidation.

Because crime never sleeps, but the Batmobile never stalls.

Behold the Venusian Guards—proof that intergalactic fashion peaked in 1953. Decked out in celestial tiaras, space-age sequins, and enough futuristic glam to make Flash Gordon jealous, these extraterrestrial beauties were actually played by contestants from the 1952 Miss Universe Contest. And if that wasn’t enough cosmic star power, the one and only Miss Sweden, Anita Ekberg, graces the scene in the top right.

While Abbott and Costello Go to Mars might be a little short on actual Martian travel (spoiler: they end up in New Orleans and then Venus), it’s a pure sci-fi spectacle filled with slapstick, ray guns, and the golden-age camp we crave.

The Great Ape salutes this dazzling display—because space travel should always come with a little pageantry.

Bagged

If you didn’t want one of these chopper-styled beasts, were you even a kid? A banana seat higher than your dreams, ape hanger bars reaching for the sky, and enough swagger to make Evel Knievel jealous.

This was more than a bike—it was a rite of passage, a status symbol, and a guaranteed way to wipe out spectacularly in front of the entire neighborhood.

Rust adds character. Scrapes add history. Legends never fade.

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The Great Ape’s Guide to Hair Mastery—Because Bad Hair Days Are for Amateurs

Hair is a battle standard, a crown, a signature. But like any great power, it demands discipline. The Great Ape lays down the law.

Start with clean, towel-dried hair. Damp, not dripping. You’re styling, not re-enacting a monsoon. Pick your weapon: creams for a smooth operator, pomades for a classic hold, pastes for that rugged, “I don’t care, but I care” matte finish.

Use the right amount—dime-sized for short, nickel for medium, quarter for long. Too much, and you’ll look like you dunked your head in a grease trap. Rub it between your hands like you’re warming up to unleash destruction, then work it through from back to front. That’s right, start at the back—unless you want to look like your forehead is hosting a gel tsunami.

Now, style. Fingers for the reckless rogue, a comb for the gentleman menace. Get it right, walk out like a legend.

The Great Ape salutes your follicular dominance. Hair tamed, confidence maxed, world unprepared. Now go forth and turn heads—because the only thing standing between you and greatness is a rogue gust of wind.

Behold the ultimate retro-futuristic dream—a television that looks like it fell through a wormhole from 2065 straight into the Atomic Age. Sleek, curvy, and built like a jet-age throne for your viewing pleasure, this beauty is exactly what a high-tech visionary would use to beam in Manifesto Maravillado in all its revolutionary glory.

You know she’s not flipping through reruns—she’s locked in, entranced, absorbing the knowledge, style, and subversion that only the finest transmission can deliver.

The Great Ape salutes this visionary viewing experience—because real rebels don’t standby… they tune in to something greater.

This moment from The Empire Strikes Back holds a weight few ever realized. When Vader ordered the destruction of the dismantled C-3PO, something inside him hesitated. That droid wasn’t just scrap—it was a ghost from his past.

Vader’s stormtroopers, ever-obedient, gathered the golden protocol droid’s shattered remains after Chewbacca recovered them. The Sith Lord initially decreed the pieces should be scrapped—a logical, cold decision in line with the ruthless commander he had become. But then something changed. That ember of Anakin Skywalker, long buried beneath armor and anger, flickered.

This wasn’t just any protocol droid. This was the droid he built as a boy. The same hands that once welded C-3PO’s frame together now clenched into a black-gloved fist. Destroying a Rebel? Routine. Destroying something he created? That was different.

Even the stormtroopers noticed the moment of hesitation—Darth Vader, the Emperor’s enforcer, suddenly making an emotional decision. They would never understand why.

The Great Ape sees it for what it is: one of the first cracks in the armor. Before Luke. Before Endor. Before redemption. A golden droid, forgotten by time, still managed to stir something in the heart of a fallen Jedi

Ah, the Trados Nose-Shaper—because nothing screams “modern science” like strapping a medieval torture device to your face while you sleep. In a world where “looking your best” apparently determines your ultimate destiny, this contraption promised to correct ill-shaped noses without surgery. No scalpels, no pain—just the slow, relentless pressure of headgear designed by an absolute maniac.

And let’s not overlook the fear tactics at play here:

Permit no one to see you looking otherwise—it will injure your welfare!
Because heaven forbid someone sees you before the nose-crusher works its magic.

Guaranteed results? Maybe. Comfort? Absolutely not. But if you dream of waking up with a chiseled aristocratic profile and a deep-seated mistrust of 19th-century medicine, this was your golden ticket.

The Great Ape salutes this fearless pursuit of beauty—because real style doesn’t come easy… sometimes, it comes with a strap and a whole lot of regret.

This isn’t sweet talk, it’s straight business, and our boy here just walked into the negotiation of his life. Careful what you offer, pal… Connie’s already naming her price.

The dragstrip queen stands at the edge of horsepower and chaos, the scent of fuel thick in the air, the roar of funny cars shaking the pavement. She’s got the sash, the stance, and the kind of effortless cool that makes the whole scene look even faster.

No one remembers who won the race. But everyone remembers Miss P.R.A.

The punk explosion was three chords and a safety pin, but it was also something bigger—breaking the rules and rewriting the future. And when the future arrived, it sounded like Gary Numan’s ‘Cars’.

Numan didn’t ride the last wave of punk. He short-circuited it, rewired it, and built something entirely new from its wreckage. A Jam fanboy who once dreamed of playing guitar alongside Paul Weller, he found himself leading Tubeway Army instead. But it wasn’t until he stepped out alone—just a man, a machine, and a synthesizer—that he changed music forever.

‘Cars’ wasn’t punk in the traditional sense. It didn’t need to be. It had the attitude, the singular vision, and the unapologetic self-expression that punk had made possible. No sneering, no spitting, no thrashing guitars—just a wall of cold, alien synths, one man against the world, and the first post-punk hit to conquer the Billboard Hot 100.

Punk had to die so that something new could rise. Gary Numan saw the future. And for a brief moment in 1979, the whole world was inside his machine.

And The Great Ape? He tips his mirrored shades, adjusts his synthetic trench coat, and lets the neon hum of ‘Cars’ drown out the sound of the past.

She lit up the screen, stole scenes, and made leopard print a golden age necessity. Nancy Saunders was one of those starlets who had it all—charm, wit, and the kind of smile that made the camera fall in love instantly.

The B-movie bombshell may not have landed at the top of the marquee, but she owned every frame she stepped into. Some stars burn fast, some burn bright—Nancy did both.

Mona Lisa had more than one masterpiece in mind—and her smile was only the beginning. Leonardo painted a mystery, but Mona? She staged a revolution.

The first gig, the first band tee, the moment history and prog rock collided in a Renaissance rift. Somewhere, Da Vinci is nodding in approval—or tuning his lute to ‘Echoes.’

Bob Larkin’s 1982 cover for Lensman from Rigel unveils a cosmic enigma, a being with too many arms and even more mysteries.

With two sideways mouths whispering secrets to the void and a belt that suggests either warrior status or an intergalactic parking attendant, this creature commands the surface of a distant world.

One question remains: Is it staring at you, or has it already seen too much?

Before she was Marilyn Monroe, she was Norma Jeane Baker—a 12-year-old girl with a curious gaze and a life already marked by hardship. This 1938 photograph captures a moment frozen in time, long before the glamour, the fame, and the legend took shape.

At this point, Norma Jeane had already been bounced between foster homes and instability, yet there’s something undeniable in her expression—a quiet resilience, a spark of something destined to outshine the darkness. She had no way of knowing that she would one day be Hollywood’s ultimate symbol of beauty and allure, but the foundation of the woman she would become was already there.

The contrast between this young girl and the global icon Monroe became is staggering. Behind the platinum hair, the red lips, and the camera-ready smile was always Norma Jeane—the girl who dreamed, struggled, and ultimately shaped herself into a legend.

The Great Ape salutes the girl who became the goddess, proving that icons aren’t born—they’re made.

Raw. Unfinished. Meaner than a Gotham alley on a bad night.

This is the Batmobile in its embryonic form, still wearing its primer coat and a clean-cut white pinstripe before it evolved into its iconic black-and-cerise menace. The lines are still there—the unmistakable George Barris silhouette slicing through the pavement like a batarang. Notice the white pinstripes are on the front fenders and on the 3 trunk chevrons.

By the time it rolled onto TV screens in 1966, it was sleek, glossy, and neon-lined, ready to burn rubber and send villains packing. But right here? Right now?

It’s bare-bones Bat-justice. A Gotham street missile waiting for its final coat of vengeance.

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Femme Fatales and Fuel-Injected Fury

They Drove Harder, Fought Dirtier, and Looked Better Doing It

They weren’t just along for the ride—they were in the driver’s seat, hairpin turning through a world that underestimated them. When the dust settled, only their tire tracks remained.

Driven by Mike Snively during the 1967 season with Keith Black 392 Chrysler Marine Hemi power . . .

The battle for lost gym gear reaches DEFCON 1 as frustration mounts.

Mom’s got her hands on her hips. Dad’s barely in the door. The dog’s already solving the case. Meanwhile, Junior’s deployed a full-scale tactical sweep under the bed, only to realize the real culprit’s been chewing the evidence all along.

A classic tale of mystery, family, and one very guilty-looking dog.

Ray Harryhausen breathed life into myth. His stop-motion mastery gave the world one of fantasy cinema’s most unforgettable creatures: the Cyclops of Colossa. Towering, ferocious, and brimming with menace and personality, these one-eyed giants became more than obstacles for Sinbad—they became legends on the screen.

The Great Ape salutes the Cyclops—because when Harryhausen made a monster, it stayed made.

Fantasy cinema changed forever when Ray Harryhausen unleashed his stop-motion magic in The 7th Voyage of Sinbad. Sword fights with skeletons, fire-breathing dragons, and the legendary Cyclops of Colossa—all brought to life with the revolutionary Dynamation process. It was movie-making sorcery.

Sinbad’s world became larger than life, filled with creatures that felt real, their movements painstakingly animated frame by frame. No CGI, no shortcuts—pure artistry, one stop-motion miracle at a time.

The Great Ape bows to Dynamation—the moment fantasy became real.

Ed Valigursky’s cover for Beyond the Vanishing Point is more than pulp sci-fi—it’s a pocket-sized nightmare.

A cosmic hand, vast as the void, holds a golden prison no bigger than a locket. Inside, a woman clings to the bars, caught between science and sorcery, experiment and entrapment. Is she the victim of a madman’s shrinking ray, or has the universe itself played a cruel trick?

The stars stretch endlessly behind her, yet her world is measured in inches. Infinity beyond, confinement within. The real question—is she getting smaller, or is everything else getting bigger?

This is the real deal. A heat-packed pulp special straight from the grimy, smoke-filled back alleys of truth and treachery, where cheated wives don’t just cry… they recalibrate the balance of power.

Noir-drenched vengeance, sharp stilettos, and a cold, hard stare that could stop a man mid-lie. She’s got the receipts, the bullets, and the last word.

The Great Ape salutes a bulletproof pulp masterpiece—because justice isn’t served… it’s dished out with style and a steady hand.

When your engine’s got a problem, sometimes all it takes is a little lube. Or in this case, a can of SAVMOTOR Upper Lube, promising to blast away sticking valves with the force of a mushroom cloud.

Cars, trucks, tractors, diesels—if it moves, it needs lubrication. And if the branding is anything to go by, this goes beyond a fix—it’s pure combustion.

Because you can never have too much lube—unless, of course, you do.

A burlesque dancer who performed in American in the 1950s, teaches a poodle a new trick. Must not be an old dog!

It started with a pizza and a wild idea. Brian Kohlmann and his crew were at George Ray’s, soaking in the atmosphere of one of the most iconic drag strips in the country. But as the night rolled in and the town around them looked straight out of Mayberry, a thought struck—what if they recreated one of those classic Hot Rodding magazine covers? You know, the kind where a street-ripping gasser gets pulled over by a cop, headlights blazing, with that unmistakable “busted” moment frozen in time.

That’s when fate stepped in.

Right as they were brainstorming, an actual vintage police car rolled past. It was almost too perfect. Brian ran outside, flagging down the driver, but there was just one problem—the guy behind the wheel wasn’t in uniform. No worries. One of their crew knew some real officers in town. A few calls later, and they had the missing piece: an actual cop to write an actual ticket.

And just like that, the scene was set.

Under the glow of red and blue lights, a fire-breathing Dodge gasser sat idling, blower sticking out like a chrome war machine, while a uniformed officer stood at the driver’s window, pen in hand. The tickets were real, the moment was surreal, and history was made.

The Great Ape salutes this masterstroke of automotive mischief—because real hot rodders race… and create legends, one ticket at a time.

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Ed Emshwiller’s 1959 Super Science Fiction cover traps us in the moment where curiosity explodes into terror. A stranded spacefarer. A nightmare with too many eyes. A planet that doesn’t welcome visitors—it devours them.

The alien waits, its tentacles coiling with unsettling precision. She runs, knowing what happens if she stops.

Survival hangs by a thread. The stars may call, but they never promised mercy.

A true warrior doesn’t fumble with a fork. Chopsticks aren’t just eating utensils—they’re precision weapons, discipline trainers, and the ultimate test of patience.

Mr. Miyagi knew the truth. If you can snatch a fly mid-air, you can take on the world. But first, you need the fundamentals.

Balance the first chopstick in the crook of your thumb and index finger. This one stays steady—it’s the foundation. Support it by tucking your ring and pinky finger underneath.

Grip the second chopstick like a pen between your thumb, index, and middle finger. This one does the heavy lifting. Slide your middle finger down so it presses against the bottom of the upper chopstick, keeping it in check.

Use your index finger to pivot the top chopstick up and down. That’s where the magic happens. The tips meet, the grip tightens, and soon enough, you’re lifting food like a pro.

Mastery takes patience. Start with something easy—grapes, marshmallows, anything that won’t fight back. Then move up to the hard stuff.

The Great Ape salutes your discipline. Drop your food? Shame. Snatch a fly mid-air? Now, that’s skill.

The future is cold—200 degrees below zero, to be exact. But don’t worry, this cosmic crusader has it covered with U.S. Rubber’s state-of-the-art extraterrestrial underwear! Because when facing the frozen abyss of deep space, apparently the same folks who make your tires have a solution.

Functionality? Questionable.
Marketing? Flawless.

You’ve got to love a sci-fi universe where product placement reaches the final frontier. What’s next? Martian moon boots by Goodyear? Anti-gravity hair gel from Brylcreem?

One thing’s for sure—the space race had some serious branding opportunities.

Can you dig it!

Edward Vebell captured the world with ink and motion. Born in 1921 to Lithuanian immigrants in Chicago, he built a career where speed met precision, and storytelling lived in every stroke. His work appeared everywhere—newspapers, pulp fiction covers, cereal boxes—familiar to millions, even if his name wasn’t.

His art spanned military, journalism, and advertising, but his real craft was bringing other people’s stories to life. Whether sketching for the Sunday Mirror or chronicling history with his illustrations, Vebell’s talent was unmistakable. Red was his signature color, but his work painted the full spectrum of mid-century America.

The Great Ape salutes Edward Vebell—the man who made history visible, one stroke at a time.

The Great Ape tips his hat—top hat, naturally—to Alice Cooper, the godfather of shock rock and the ultimate showman of the macabre. This piece oozes pure horror rock energy, with Frankenstein’s monster stomping forward like a rock ‘n’ roll juggernaut, inked in tributes to Cooper’s iconic catalog—Black Widow, Devil’s Food, and the timeless Alice Cooper for President campaign.

From the blood-splattered theatrics to the venomous riffs that shook the ‘70s, Alice did more than bring a sound—he built a nightmare kingdom, one where guillotines drop, snakes slither, and the stage transforms into a haunted house of rock ‘n’ roll mayhem. A visionary, a rebel, and a permanent fixture in rock’s darker corners, Alice remains as untouchable as ever.

The Great Ape salutes this beast of a tribute—because Alice Cooper more than rocks… he reigns over the shadows.

Alice Cooper is the master magician of horror rock, and he built it—stitched together from the screams of a thousand haunted dreams. And if you thought the guillotines, snakes, and electric shocks were just for show, think again.

Now, straight from the dark corridors of rock’s most twisted theater, “Welcome to My Nightmare” pulls you headfirst into Alice’s shadow-drenched domain. A fever dream of slithering dancers, eerie theatrics, and the inescapable pull of rock ‘n’ roll gone mad.

Turn off the lights. Crank up the volume. And whatever you do, don’t fall asleep.

The sleek, wedge-shaped Bond car that stole the show in The Spy Who Loved Me (1977). Not just a head-turner, but a fully functional submarine car, thanks to Q Branch’s finest engineering (and a little movie magic).

Nicknamed “Wet Nellie,” this white Lotus Esprit took on Karl Stromberg’s goons, evaded a helicopter chase, and—most memorably—dove straight into the ocean, transforming into a submersible, complete with torpedoes and surface-to-air missiles. It was peak spy-fi cool, blending 1970s cutting-edge design with that signature Bond absurdity we all love.

Lotus didn’t even ask for the car to be in the movie—legend has it, a rep simply parked one outside the Bond studio gates, hoping it would catch the right eyes. It did. And just like that, an icon was born.

While the real submarine version was a separate prop with no wheels, the road-going Esprit was a proper supercar in its own right. Powered by a 2.0L 4-cylinder and boasting a fiberglass body over a steel backbone chassis, it was a dream car for gearheads and Bond fans alike.

And yes, Elon Musk owns the original submarine prop today. No word yet on whether it actually works.

The Great Ape salutes the Esprit—because Bond does more than drive… he dives!

Step aside, Frankenstein—science just got a whole lot pulpier.

This Marvel Tales cover delivers everything a golden-age sci-fi horror fan could want: a test tube beauty in peril, a deranged scientist on a power trip, and an eerie lab filled with preserved faces in glass jars. It’s mad science at its finest, with just enough menace, chains, and bubbling experiments to make Mary Shelley herself raise an eyebrow.

Penned by George E. Clark, Test Tube Monster promises a gripping tale of unnatural creation, while Princess of Power by F.A. Kummer, Jr. adds even more high-voltage thrills. The kind of gonzo, two-fisted storytelling that defined the pulp era—where every page dripped with danger, drama, and just a hint of pre-code scandal.

The Great Ape loves pulp sci-fi—because nothing beats mad science, test tube terrors, and a good old-fashioned lab experiment gone completely off the rails!

This stately jalopy is practically begging for a roof chop—because nothing screams class and menace like a proper low-slung stance. Take a few inches off the top, slam it down, and suddenly you’ve got a sinister boulevard prowler that wouldn’t look out of place in a noir heist flick or tearing through the fog on some midnight getaway.

The Great Ape salutes the true architect of anarchy—because Einstein was neither pretty nor vacant… but he sure knew a thing or two about shaking up the system.

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Where the Rules End, the Real Race Begins

Beyond the last mile marker, where the asphalt gives way to sand and smoke, the truly unhinged push their machines to the brink. If the road doesn’t kill you, the speed might.

The Great Ape salutes Eugene Cernan and his space graffiti!

Real explorers leave more than footprints… they carve their mark into the void. His daughter’s initials, etched into the lunar dust, stand defiant against time itself. No air, no wind, no rain—just the silent proof that humanity once touched the stars and left something behind worth remembering.

I tip my banana in your direction, Sir!

Landau!

One of the most frightening and fascinating photos ever seen. Bikini Atoll Nuclear Test, 1946.

The Baker Test: When the Ocean Became a Battlefield

On July 25, 1946, the United States conducted one of the most unsettling experiments in human history—a 23-kiloton nuclear detonation beneath the waters of Bikini Atoll. Known as Test Baker, it was part of Operation Crossroads, a series of atomic bomb tests designed to measure the effects of nuclear explosions on warships. This was not just another test in the desert or high above the Pacific—this was a bomb set loose in the deep, where the destruction would ripple outward in ways barely understood.

A fleet of 95 target ships, including obsolete U.S. battleships, aircraft carriers, destroyers, submarines, and surrendered German and Japanese vessels, was assembled in Bikini Lagoon. The goal was simple yet ominous: to see how well a naval fleet could survive the next great weapon of war.

At the heart of the blast radius, the landing craft LSM-60 served as the bomb’s unwitting carrier. It was never seen again. The explosion consumed it entirely, leaving nothing but vaporized steel.

Then came the underwater fireball. Nuclear detonations in the air create a blinding flash and a shockwave that tears through the sky. But Baker’s detonation was different. The bomb, suspended 90 feet below the surface, ignited a force that pushed outward in every direction, sending an unstoppable hydraulic shockwave through the water. Nearby ships—some weighing thousands of tons—were crushed, overturned, or lifted out of the ocean.

When the growing gas bubble reached the seafloor and the surface simultaneously, it triggered an underwater tsunami, gouging a 2,000-foot-wide crater into the ocean floor. Above, the water erupted in a towering spray dome, an atomic geyser spewing millions of tons of irradiated water into the sky.

The Wilson cloud followed—a brief but eerie white fog that formed in the aftermath, a vaporous ghost that swallowed the destruction for just a moment before disappearing. Then came the fallout. Unlike airbursts, which allow radiation to dissipate more freely, Baker’s underwater detonation saturated everything in radioactive mist, turning the entire target fleet into toxic waste. Many of the surviving ships were deemed too dangerous to salvage, and efforts to clean them failed. The very waters of Bikini Atoll remained poisoned, and decades later, the island still bore the scars.

Baker was supposed to be a test. Instead, it was a warning. It revealed that nuclear weapons were more than battlefield tools—they were forces capable of reshaping entire environments, of making places uninhabitable for generations. The radioactive contamination was so severe that the U.S. Navy had to rethink everything, leading to the development of new countermeasures for ships in the nuclear age.

“Some things were never meant to be unleashed. The Great Ape admires ingenuity, but not when it turns the ocean into a graveyard. Let this one be a reminder—not of power, but of what happens when power goes too far.”

The Great Ape takes a moment to marvel at this pulpy masterpiece

Because true terror is more than just a feeling—it’s a spectacle for the eyes.

Here we see the helpless damsel, caught in the looming shadows of her captors, the wine goddess’ slaves, drawn in vivid color that screams danger. The guillotine, ready to taste her fate, is the final note in a symphony of chaos—the monster is hungry, and it’s waiting in the wings. What delicious suspense, wrapped in dark fantasy and heavy with the scent of impending doom.

Terror Tales offered lurid nightmares on glossy paper. A world where every page turned brought you closer to peril. And the Great Ape? He tips his banana, because real pulp fiction pulls you straight into the pit and dares you to look away.

When Bud Faubel lined up at the strip in The Honker, nobody was safe. This 426 Dodge Dart was a beast, built for nothing but pure, unrelenting speed. Faubel, a master of Super Stock and Factory Experimental racing, knew how to squeeze every last ounce of power from his machine, leaving the competition choking on tire smoke.

This X-ray blueprint gives us a peek under the skin of the legendary Honker—tube frame construction, a monster Hemi, and enough torque to shake the pavement. Faubel’s racing philosophy? Be different. Be faster. Win.

The Great Ape salutes The Honker—because real racers build cars, and legends follow.

This is what pure sonic annihilation looks like. October 11, 1968, Winterland Ballroom, San Francisco—second show of the night. Jimi’s already burned through the cosmos, but he’s not done yet. Check out those Marshall quad boxes—battered, bruised, and on the verge of implosion. Those amps weren’t built to tame sound. They were barely holding back a force of nature.

Hendrix played like he was summoning a storm. He bent reality, shredded time, and made the air itself vibrate in submission. And if the speakers couldn’t take it? Too bad. That’s the price for standing too close to the fire.

The Great Ape salutes Hendrix and the 27 Club—the ones who burned bright, burned fast, and left their mark on eternity.

A can opener is a luxury, but hunger is a necessity. When you’re out in the wild, stranded in a kitchen with missing tools, or just proving a point, you need to know how to crack that tin wide open.

A pocket knife makes quick work of it. Stab straight down, keep your fingers clear, and punch your way around the lid like a barbarian with a plan. A spoon can do the trick—just grind that edge into submission until the metal gives up. If you’ve got nothing but nature, a rock becomes your best friend. Rub, shake, and pop that lid like a prehistoric feast.

The Great Ape salutes your survival instincts. You conquered the can, but now comes the real challenge—figuring out how to eat beans with a spoon covered in battle scars.

Roger Dean‘s a visionary who reshaped imagination into something tangible. His work is not only seen, it’s experienced. These war elephants, armored and alien, march through a world where nature bends, evolution shifts, and technology wears an organic mask. His landscapes stretch beyond reality, merging science fiction with fantasy, forming places that feel both otherworldly and eerily familiar.

With ethereal beauty, surreal architecture, and a vibrant color palette, Dean’s art transcends the frame. Each piece pulls you into a universe where the impossible looks like it has always existed. His vision expands far beyond a canvas—it lingers, it breathes, and it refuses to be forgotten.

Carol Kaye built the foundation of modern music, one bassline at a time.

Carol Kaye, a jazz guitarist turned studio powerhouse, she became the backbone of The Wrecking Crew, the session musicians who quietly shaped the sound of the ‘60s and ‘70s. You’ve heard her, even if you don’t know her name. That unmistakable groove on Good Vibrations? Carol. The driving force behind You’ve Lost That Lovin’ Feelin’? Carol. The heartbeat of La Bamba and River Deep, Mountain High? That’s Carol Kaye locking in, holding it down, making history one note at a time.

While rock stars burned bright in the spotlight, Kaye was in the studio, crafting the sound of generations. She wasn’t just a session player—she was the pulse of pop, the glue of Motown, the quiet storm behind the biggest hits of the era. From Phil Spector’s Wall of Sound to film and TV scores like Mission: Impossible, she played it all with the precision of a master and the swagger of a rock star.

The music industry moved fast, but Carol Kaye never missed a beat. Decades later, she still teaches, still inspires, still shows bassists how it’s done. Her fingerprints are on everything, her influence stretches across genres, and her legacy will never fade.

And The Great Ape? He bows his head in respect. No frills, no ego, just pure, undeniable groove. That’s how legends are made.

Before the legends took the stage, before the records spun gold, Carol Kaye was already there—laying down the foundation, one bassline at a time. From Sam Cooke’s velvet soul to the Beach Boys’ sun-soaked harmonies, her fingers carved out the pulse of a generation.

In this clip, Carol herself breaks it down—her iconic licks, the sessions that made history, and how a jazz guitarist ended up shaping the very DNA of rock, pop, and soul.

Turn it up, listen close—this is the sound of history being made.

The Queen Elizabeth cruises through the waves, with a small boat towing it in the distance. The great ship, towering over the tiny motorboat, exemplifies dominance, scale, and bold ambition. It’s a scene where the small meets the monumental, and one can imagine the motorboat’s owner, perhaps with a grin, holding their own while being dwarfed by such grandeur.

A powerful visual of contrast, where size and strength collide—but the boldness of the attempt grabs all the attention.

The Great Ape tips his banana—because when it comes to making waves, size holds no authority. It’s all about audacity, attitude, and knowing that even the biggest titans move when the right force pulls the rope.

Liberty Belle doesn’t need a mask—just golden locks, a name that rings true, and fists ready for action. If hiding in plain sight was an art, she’d paint the masterpiece.

No cape. No cowl. Just justice.

The Great Ape tips his banana to the Pulsar,

The wrist-worn marvel of 1975—because in an era of rotary phones and chunky calculators, this futuristic fusion of timekeeping and computing turned heads and bent minds.

With a tiny keypad requiring surgical precision and a screen that whispered digital dreams, the Pulsar wasn’t just a watch—it was a status symbol, a flex, and a glimpse into a high-tech tomorrow. This was Bond-villain tech, something to be admired, feared, and endlessly tinkered with.

Call it impractical, call it ahead of its time—but one thing is certain: this was the wristwear of a legend.

This is Ronnie Verrell,

You may not recognize his name but you’ll quickly recognize his talent. For all 5 seasons of The Muppet Show, Ronnie was the drummer for Animal.

Sadly, Verrell passed away in 2002, but we’ll always be thankful for all those wild performances

Some performances sizzle. Some performances burn. And some? Some catch fire and torch the whole stage.

Rita Moreno commanded The Muppet Show, delivering a rendition of Fever so legendary it won her an Emmy. But she wasn’t doing it alone. No, lurking behind her, all wild eyes and flailing drumsticks, was the one and only Animal, a force of chaotic percussion that refused to be tamed.

And that’s where the magic happened.

At first, Rita tries to keep her cool, delivering the song with her signature sultry finesse. But Animal, in all his unhinged glory, can’t help but hijack the performance with a barrage of over-the-top drum fills. That’s when Moreno—pure showbiz perfection—breaks character just enough to lay down the law. In a half-English, half-Spanish burst of exasperation, she scolds him:

“Mira, chico. I’m warning you—one more outburst, and I’m gonna slap you so hard, you’ll be seeing stars!”

Animal, ever the rebel, can’t resist. He goes for one last drum flourish, and—BAM—Rita clocks him. The drum kit wobbles, the audience roars, and Animal, in a daze, mutters the only thing left to say:

“…Lady got feevah.”

But behind all the madness, the drumming itself is phenomenal—because while Animal is the wildest drummer in showbiz, his real-life hands belonged to Ronnie Verrell, one of the finest jazz drummers to ever grace a kit. Verrell’s playing wasn’t just technically impressive—it had swing, energy, and the kind of raw power that made Animal’s antics feel alive. Whether laying down a groove or cutting loose with a frenzied solo, Verrell gave Animal more than personality—he gave him soul.

This was more than a funny skit. It was a masterclass in performance, timing, and musical brilliance. Rita Moreno owned the stage, Ronnie Verrell owned the groove, and Animal? Well, he got owned.

The Great Ape salutes this moment of pure television magic—because when talent, comedy, and drumming collide like this, the only thing to do is sit back and let the fever take over.

Beasty

Behold, the finest selection of bottled romance—or maybe bottled desperation—straight from the laboratories of King Novelty Co. Need love? Just splash it on! Need devotion? Douse yourself in it! Want to hold your man? Apparently, all it takes is a few drops of something that smells like commitment (or mild terror).

That guy in the ad? His thousand-yard stare says it all. He’s not in love, he’s under a spell, and he’s just now realizing it.

And the names! Love Me Quick? Lucky Lovin’? Good Times? They sound less like perfumes and more like neon signs outside a very questionable motel.

But hey, for 25 cents a bottle, who can argue? Just remember, true love lasts forever—perfume lasts until you sweat.

Landy

Chrysler, 1956. Chrome gleams, tailfins soar, and every inch exudes confidence, class, and unstoppable motion. A machine sculpted for the future, a woman stepping into it.

Style moves forward. The road follows.

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Nitro Nights and Neon Knights

Fast Hands, Faster Cars, No Second Chances

They weren’t playing for pinks—they were playing for keeps. Whether behind the wheel or behind the trigger, these night riders knew one truth: hesitation is the enemy.

The Other Munro—Caroline Munro

Hammer Horror Queen, Sci-Fi Siren, and Bond’s Deadliest Angel

Caroline Munro lit up the screen and burned a path through the genres of horror, fantasy, and sci-fi like a cinematic comet. From swashbuckling adventures to blood-drenched thrillers, Munro wasn’t just a Bond girl—she was Hammer Horror royalty, Sinbad’s fiercest ally, and an intergalactic warrior queen.

Born January 16, 1949, Munro’s career kicked off as a model, her striking beauty making her the face of ‘60s and ‘70s pop culture. But it was the movies where she truly left her mark. She tangled with Christopher Lee’s Dracula in Dracula AD 1972, slayed the undead in Captain Kronos – Vampire Hunter, and brought adventure to life in The Golden Voyage of Sinbad. She faced horrors from the Earth’s core to the streets of New York in Maniac, proving she wasn’t just a pretty face—she was a scream queen with bite.

Of course, Bond fans know her best as Naomi—the lethal helicopter pilot from The Spy Who Loved Me (1977). Few Bond henchpeople ever smiled that devilishly before unloading machine gun fire, and fewer still made their exit as iconic. She turned a small role into an unforgettable one, proving once again that Munro’s presence was as deadly as it was dazzling.

And for those who think she was all danger and no fun? She spent three years hosting 3-2-1, a British game show where contestants won teapots instead of explosions. If that’s not range, what is?

The Great Ape salutes Caroline Munro—the horror queen, sci-fi siren, and Bond’s deadliest angel. Some stars shine, but Munro? She blazed.

Fourby

Because few wield a brush like a cosmic conductor, orchestrating nightmares and wonders in equal measure.

These towering, bulbous-headed enigmas loom with ancient intelligence, their fragile skin stretched like living parchment, etched with the scars of time. No Hollywood cliché here—this is extraterrestrial horror with weight, history, and something unsettlingly familiar.

Eggleton’s work never offers easy answers. His aliens don’t step out of flying saucers with ray guns; they emerge from the shadows of imagination, from the space between what we understand and what we fear. First contact or final warning? The answer is in their gaze… if you dare to meet it.

Because sometimes, a wash goes a little deeper than expected.

A Citroën 2CV, half-submerged, half-clinging to dry land, while a man in swim trunks gives it one last inspection. Did it take a wrong turn? A wild joyride? A particularly ambitious parallel parking attempt? The onlookers in the background seem as baffled as we are.

One thing is certain: this is dedication. If you’re going to give your car a rinse, might as well go all in.

Because why own hair when you can rent?

For just a few pence a day, Ambassador Service Ltd. offered a full head of hair on demand, complete with regular servicing and free replacements. No costly repair bills, no long-term commitment—just a flawlessly coiffed dome whenever needed.

Was it practical? Maybe. Was it a stroke of entrepreneurial genius? Absolutely.

The Great Ape salutes this glorious grift of the follicularly challenged—because if confidence grows from the top down, then this was a luxury lease for legends.

Because this scene raises more questions than answers.

Archie dials the wrong number… or did he? This blonde bombshell answers like she’s been waiting for this exact moment. Reclined, smirking, playing coy—this isn’t her first rodeo.

But then—that framed photo of Archie in the background. Big, beaming, and watching. Why does she have it? Why is it so perfectly positioned?

Is she a fan? A stalker? A master manipulator who saw this moment coming before Archie ever fumbled the dial?

One thing’s clear—this nickel refund comes with a price.

The future of television—if the past had been a little weirder.

George Martin wasn’t alone in his praise. The great Leonard Bernstein—a master of classical composition—called Wilson “one of today’s most important musicians” after hearing Surf’s Up.

Pete Townshend, ever the cynic, admitted: “There’s not many people I would say that about. I think he’s a truly, truly, truly great genius. I love him so much it’s just terrible—I find it hard to live with.”

Even the notoriously jaded Lou Reed called Wilson’s work “beautiful”, and Bono—never one to understate—declared: “I know that Brian believes in angels. I do, too. But you only have to listen to the string arrangement on ‘God Only Knows’ for fact and proof of angels.”

For Wilson, however, genius wasn’t about theory or technique—it was about emotion.

When he met George Martin in 1997, Wilson was asked about the source of his brilliance. Ever the humble creator, he simply smiled and said:

“The songs come from down deep in my soul.”

And that, right there, is the difference between a musician and a legend.

Some songs break hearts. Some songs break boundaries. God Only Knows did both—then rewrote the rules of pop music forever.

Brian Wilson crafted something cosmic, something beyond the limits of melody and structure. It drifts, weightless, shifting through key changes like a dream that refuses to stay put.

Even McCartney called it the greatest song ever written. The Beatles felt its impact. The world stood still.

The Great Ape tips his banana to the genius who turned pop into poetry, harmony into heaven, and emotion into something eternal.

Hit play. Let the masterpiece speak for itself

Officer, I swear it only LOOKS fast.
Nothing to see here, just a fire-breathing Funny Car getting a roadside reality check. Maybe it was the flames on the hood, the parachute pack, or the fact that it runs on nitromethane—but something gave it away.

The Great Ape reckons he could have blown the cops away if he wanted too!

Where danger lurked in every jungle, and terror had fangs.

This Clarence Doore masterpiece delivers everything a March 1958 issue of Man’s Adventure demands—a fearless hero, a damsel in distress, and a snake pit straight from the depths of a fever dream. The colors scream desperation, the coils tighten, and the fangs drip with venom.

A perfect pulp storm, where every shadow hides a new horror and escape seems like a long shot at best.

A mustache is a declaration. A badge of honor. A monument to style. But even the most fearsome lip foliage needs maintenance, or you will end up looking like a wild-eyed prospector ranting about lost gold.

Start with a dry mustache and a fine-toothed comb. Hair stretches when wet, so unless you want to relive the horror of accidentally shaving off half your ‘stache in a moment of weakness, keep it dry before trimming.

Grab a pair of mustache scissors or a trimmer and start shaping. Trim along the bottom first, then move to the edges. Work from the middle outward, then back again, keeping that face neutral—this is not a time for wild expressions unless you want a lopsided catastrophe.

Once you have the shape, it is time to go for length. Comb the hairs straight and trim what extends past the comb. Go slow. You can always take more off, but you cannot tape it back on. If you are using an electric trimmer, work from a longer guide to a shorter one—unless your goal is to resemble a 14-year-old trying to grow a mustache for the first time.

Finally, give it one last comb-through and snip any rogue hairs. A great mustache commands attention. It leads the charge. It separates legends from the forgotten.

The Great Ape salutes your grooming excellence. Now step out with confidence, and may your mustache command the respect it deserves.

Jayne Mansfield defined the blonde bombshell. In 1956, she was riding the crest of Hollywood’s golden wave, a Technicolor tornado of glamour, wit, and perfectly calculated excess. A contract star at 20th Century Fox, Mansfield was positioned as the next big thing—a Marilyn Monroe challenger, but with her own brand of self-aware camp, razor-sharp intelligence, and business savvy.

That same year, The Girl Can’t Help It hit screens, and Hollywood had to pay attention. The film wasn’t just a rock ‘n’ roll showcase; it was Mansfield’s playground, proving she wasn’t just a pretty face—she could land a joke with the precision of a veteran comedian. The film cemented her as a pop culture force, her hourglass silhouette and breathless delivery becoming instant Hollywood iconography.

Fox marketed her like a dream they didn’t want to wake up from—photo shoots, magazine covers, and public appearances, all designed to sell the Mansfield mystique. But Jayne wasn’t just a creation of the studio system—she knew exactly how to play the game. She wasn’t just famous; she was fame itself, radiating an over-the-top charisma that made her impossible to ignore.

Yet behind the publicity machine, Mansfield was more than the image. A dedicated mother and a shrewd businesswoman, she carefully balanced her Hollywood spectacle with her real life. Even her legacy lives on—her daughter, Mariska Hargitay, carries the torch, proving talent runs deep in the Mansfield bloodline.

Though her life was tragically cut short in 1967, Mansfield remains a Hollywood legend, a larger-than-life explosion of femininity, humor, and ambition. She wasn’t just playing the game—she was rewriting the rules.

The Great Ape salutes Jayne Mansfield—the bombshell who knew exactly what she was doing and had a damn good time doing

This is a brilliantly warped take on Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas

Hunter S. Thompson’s gonzo chaos and Dr. Gonzo’s unhinged menace have been boiled down into something that feels like a twisted vinyl collectible you’d find at the bottom of a trunk in some roadside curiosity shop. Bug-eyed paranoia, cartoonishly exaggerated features, and that unmistakable “we took too much” energy—it’s all here.

This piece nails the essence of the story, where reality bends, time liquefies, and every face in the room is either melting or plotting against you. Even in plastic form, these two lunatics still look like they’re about to wreck a convertible, terrorize a hotel lobby, or test the limits of human endurance with a trunk full of contraband.

Pure madness. Pure art. The Great Ape approves.

A master of angles, shadows, and Gotham’s midnight air.

This piece leaps off the page, capturing Batman and Robin at their best—perched high above the city, capes billowing, eyes locked on the hunt. Gotham breathes below them, a labyrinth of towering steel and crime-ridden streets, but the Bat-Signal cuts through the night like a call to arms.

Rogers did more than illustrate Gotham—he built a city of impossible perspectives, neon reflections, and Art Deco menace. Every rooftop became a stage, every shadow held a story, every frame a pulse of action.

In the original Mirage comics and 1990 film, Splinter wasn’t always a sensei—he was a pet. A simple rat in the care of Hamato Yoshi, a legendary ninja master in Japan. But Splinter was no ordinary rat. He watched. He learned. He mimicked every movement of his master.

When Oroku Saki—the future Shredder—murdered Yoshi, fate had other plans. The mysterious ooze transformed Splinter into something more than a survivor—he became a warrior. A mutant, a master, and the one force standing between his new sons and the shadows of the Foot Clan.

The Great Ape respects a fighter—especially one who learned from the ground up.

Cologne is an art, not a chemical warfare tactic. Too much, and you’re the guy who gets avoided in elevators. Too little, and you might as well not bother. The Great Ape knows the balance.

Start with one spray to the chest—just one. From there, pulse points do the work. A dab on the wrists, behind the ears, or at the base of the neck is all you need. Anything more and you’re not applying cologne—you’re declaring an airstrike.

Never spray it on your clothes. Fabric traps the scent, mutates it, and leaves stains that scream “rookie mistake.” Cologne needs skin, body heat activates it, and natural oils lock it in for the day.

Rubbing it in? Amateur hour. That’s how you break the molecular bond, kill the longevity, and end up wondering why your expensive cologne lasts about five minutes. Let it dry naturally. Trust the process.

The Great Ape salutes your refined scent strategy. Walk in, leave a hint of intrigue, and let them wonder where that perfect balance of danger and sophistication is coming from.

Nothing screams golden-age sci-fi like a daring escape, a perilous fall, and a whole lot of space peril.

Here, Startling Stories delivers exactly what the title promises—high-flying, gravity-defying adventure where the universe itself is against you. Our hero reaches for salvation, while the cosmic damsel, clad in the finest sci-fi battle corset, spirals toward the abyss. Rocket ships blast across the void, trailing streaks of danger, and somewhere off-panel, a mad scientist or intergalactic warlord cackles with villainous delight.

Edmond Hamilton’s The Star of Life rides on the back of pulp’s finest traditions—bold action, cosmic stakes, and technicolor drama. The Great Ape tips his helmet—because the best sci-fi not only tells a story, it launches you headfirst into the unknown.

Back when kids could launch their imaginations for just 10 cents.

“FLASH Across the Skies!”

For just a dime, you could own a Revell model of the Gemini space capsule, complete with authentic details, a fully designed interior, and opening hatches. Bonus? You also got a Mercury capsule model AND an activity kit called “Man in Space.”

This wasn’t just a toy—it was a hands-on ticket to the Space Race. Kids could dream of joining astronauts like Gus Grissom and John Glenn, imagining themselves blasting off into orbit.

And the kicker? The science program subscription meant you’d get even more space adventures every month!

The Great Ape Salutes This One

Because real space-age kids didn’t just read about the stars… they built their own way there

A future written in rocket trails and cosmic currents. The Earth stands behind, the universe ahead—unmapped, untamed, unstoppable.

A single launch. A single step. The first leap into the infinite.

When Howard Hughes’ 1943 Western The Outlaw set out to redefine Hollywood sensuality, it needed an icon—and it found one in Jane Russell. But turning Russell into a pin-up legend took more than just a camera. That’s where Zoe Mozert, one of the greatest female illustrators of the pulp era, stepped in.

Mozert, a master of pin-up art and commercial illustration, was known for her lifelike, dynamic portraits of strong, sultry women. She wasn’t just painting beauty—she was capturing attitude, power, and allure. And with Russell draped across a studio couch, revolver in hand, Mozert transformed her into a legend before the film even hit the screen.

The Great Ape Salutes This One

Because real artists don’t capture beauty… they create legends.

Long before memes, before viral trends, before the internet had a say, one song spread like a fever across America—and that song was Surfin’ Bird.

The Trashmen, a Minneapolis surf-rock band with a love for fast rhythms and nonsense lyrics, took two R&B tracks (Papa-Oom-Mow-Mow and The Bird’s the Word from The Rivingtons), mashed them together, cranked the speed, and turned it into something completely unhinged. The result? A rock ‘n’ roll cyclone with a pounding beat, manic vocals, and a hook that drilled itself into the national consciousness.

Some say Surfin’ Bird is a novelty track. Some say it’s punk before punk existed. One thing is undeniable—it moves. You don’t hear this song, you get possessed by it. Legs start twitching. Arms start flailing. Feet start stomping. It commands you to dance like a lunatic, and resistance is futile.

So, my fine furry finks, hit play. Shake it like your reputation doesn’t matter. Because if The Trashmen taught us anything—it’s that everybody’s heard about the bird!

The Two Kashmir Giants and the Spectacle of the 1903 Delhi Durbar

When Lord Curzon staged the grand Delhi Durbar of 1903—a monumental imperial flex meant to celebrate King Edward VII’s ascension as Emperor of India—he spared no expense. A parade of elephants, a procession of bejeweled maharajas, and a display of military power that made sure no one forgot who was in charge. But nothing turned heads quite like the towering guardians from Kashmir.

The Maharaja of Jammu and Kashmir arrived with a retinue of warriors, but two men stood above them all—literally. The Two Kashmir Giants, elite riflemen of the Maharaja’s forces, dominated the scene. One measured an astonishing 7’9” (2.36m) while his “shorter” brother loomed at 7’4” (2.23m). Whether they were twins remains uncertain, but they were undoubtedly a spectacle. The British military officers and assembled princes, draped in their finest silks and medals, suddenly looked rather average in stature.

Among the international journalists and photographers covering the Durbar was James Ricalton, an American traveler with a knack for finding himself in the company of giants. In this 1903 photo, he stands between the towering Kashmiri warriors, looking more like a prop than a participant. We don’t have Ricalton’s exact height, but let’s just say he wasn’t clearing seven feet anytime soon.

The Brisbane Courier, in an article printed that same year, made note of the Maharaja’s impressive retinue, describing “a fine detachment of Cuirassiers and a huge Giant.” Only one? Either the second brother was standing just out of sight, or the sheer scale of the first had been enough to overwhelm the reporter’s senses.

Historical records suggest the giants hailed from “Balmokand,” though no modern maps seem to mark such a place. A lost village? A mistranslation? Perhaps another mystery swallowed by time.

The Great Ape Salutes the Giants of Kashmir

“There’s making an entrance, and then there’s bringing two of the tallest warriors in the world. The Maharaja understood the assignment.”

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Turbocharged Trouble and Chrome-Lipped Killers

Style, Steel, and a Bad Reputation

They wore their sins like red lipstick and their victories like bruises. A supercharged engine, a wicked grin, and the kind of attitude that makes even death hesitate.

Because Dime Mystery Magazine never whispered its tales. It shrieked them from the shadows.

A crazed ghoul hunches low, dagger poised, his face twisted in the flickering lantern light. The damsel in distress, draped in violet, grips the floor, caught between terror and fate. Below, a wounded hero struggles, his strength slipping away. The House of the Restless Dead promises horror, and every brushstroke delivers.

This is pulp at its most fevered, a world of garish color, sweaty desperation, and death lurking in every darkened corner. The Great Ape salutes the madness—because real mystery waits not for answers, it lunges from the dark and takes them.

The Great Ape’s Guide to Escaping a Sinking Car

Panic kills. Think fast, move faster, and get out before the deep takes you.

A sinking car gives you 30 to 120 seconds of float time before it goes under. That’s plenty of time to escape—if you don’t freeze up.

Forget the door. Water pressure turns it into a wall. Go for the window. First, unbuckle your seatbelt. If it’s jammed, cut it off. Four words to remember: Seatbelts. Children. Windows. Out.

If you have passengers, get them moving. Everyone for themselves is how people drown. Guide kids out first. Windows down? Roll them. Windows up? Smash them. Car glass is tough, but an auto rescue tool will turn it into fish food in seconds.

Once the window is open, escape headfirst and swim clear. A car sinks nose-first, so aim toward the back if needed. Stay calm, move deliberately, and don’t waste time second-guessing.

The Great Ape salutes your survival instincts. You can’t outswim the ocean, but you can beat the car.

Chicks dig Pie Cut Cheater Slicks! These boys know it…

When it comes to keeping time, Elvin Jones didn’t just play it—he bent it, twisted it, and reshaped it into something cosmic. But even a drum titan knows that when the bass drum starts wandering, it’s time to get down and sort it out personally. No roadie, no fuss—just a man and his mission to keep the groove locked in and swinging.

The Great Ape reckons he nailed it! Because when the foundation shakes, you don’t panic—you fix it and keep playing.The great Elvin Jones had the solution a long time ago, people!

Ed Valigursky’s Vision of Cold War Diplomacy

The year is 1958, and the Cold War is in full swing. Nations gather to discuss the fate of the world, but one delegation stands out—the representative from Venus. And judging by the expression on Khrushchev’s face, this galactic newcomer isn’t here to play nice.

Leave it to Ed Valigursky, master of pulp sci-fi illustration, to capture the paranoia, politics, and atomic-age anxiety in one perfect image. The space race, nuclear tensions, and fear of the unknown all collide in this satirical scene where a Venusian war machine takes its seat at the table of world powers.

The Great Ape reckons this sums up the era perfectly—because when the Cold War wasn’t scaring us to death, it was making us wonder if we were alone in the universe.

Because love, like justice, comes in many forms, but the best stories always end with a grand adventure.

A masked crusader and a royal vision—two worlds colliding in a moment of pure, campy, comic-book perfection. Whether it’s a wedding, a scheme, or just another plot twist in Gotham’s most outrageous saga, one thing remains true: love finds a way, even in the most unexpected capes and crowns.

The Great Ape salutes this union—because some romances swing from rooftops, others rule from thrones, but the best ones sparkle with a little mischief.

Nothing says Justice League team bonding like a good old-fashioned superpowered bar fight—and Julian Totino Tedesco captures the chaos perfectly in this variant cover for Action Comics #1040.

Superman? Calm, unbothered, probably winning.
Batman? All business, throwing punches like it’s Tuesday.
Robin? Swinging with gusto, not asking questions.
Green Arrow? Trying to keep it tactical.
The Flash? Always in the middle of things.
Plastic Man? Quite literally all over the place.

It’s a wild, wonderfully exaggerated take on the Golden Age-style hero camaraderie, where even the most powerful beings in the universe settle their differences with flying fists and stretchy sucker punches.

The Great Ape reckons this is the best kind of super-fight—where nobody saves the world, but everybody walks away with a great story.

Marilyn Monroe—The Definition of Timeless Elegance

Some icons fade, but Marilyn Monroe? She lingers.

This image captures her perfectly—poised, playful, effortlessly elegant. A wide-brimmed hat, a touch of softness, and a gaze that still holds the world captive. She wasn’t just a beauty—she was the blueprint.

The Great Ape salutes the legend—because Marilyn didn’t follow the spotlight… she was the light.

Flaming Led Sled…

In 1971, inside a Los Angeles Police Station, an image was captured that spoke volumes about desperation, compassion, and the unseen struggles of the time. A newborn, abandoned by an unknown person, lay swaddled in a desk drawer—a makeshift crib in a world that had momentarily failed it. The photograph, both heartbreaking and oddly tender, captured a uniformed officer smiling gently at the camera, her hand resting on the drawer as if to say, For now, this child is safe.

The story behind the baby’s abandonment remains a mystery, but its impact was immediate. It ignited discussions about child welfare, abandonment, and the gaps in social support systems. The 1970s saw rising concerns over struggling families, single parenthood, and the societal pressures that led to such desperate decisions. This moment, frozen in black and white, wasn’t just an image—it was a call for action.

Despite the initial tragedy, this child was found and cared for. The incident brought awareness to the urgent need for resources, safe havens, and support for vulnerable families, a conversation that continues today. The baby in the drawer became a symbol of resilience, a reminder that even in moments of despair, compassion finds a way.

The Great Ape knows the world can be cold, but sometimes, even a desk drawer can hold warmth.

1957 Ferrari 625 TRC Spider

“Judgment of the Damned”—where evil doesn’t rest, and neither does The Spider.

Grim laboratories, mad surgeons, and helpless victims—this is the dark underbelly of pulp fiction, where heroism comes wrapped in shadow and vengeance is dealt in lead. The Spider, a relentless force against crime, crashes through terror’s front door with fists, bullets, and a righteous fury that never quits.

The Great Ape salutes the pulp era—because real heroes don’t wait for justice… they deliver it.

The Great Ape stands in silent reverence—because this is more than a painting. This is a prophecy written in blood and steel.

The landscape is alien, but the ruin feels familiar. A battlefield after the end of all things. Monolithic guns sit rusted and broken, their final war long over. The sky bleeds, the land festers, and three robed figures march through the wreckage like priests of a forgotten age. Their symbols are sacred, but the world they walk offers no salvation.

Is this Earth or some distant shadow of it? Did they witness the fall, or are they the last to remember?

One thing’s certain—whatever was here before, it never left in peace.

When nature’s embrace means a lack of pockets, innovation strikes! This leather cigarette holster—strapped securely to the leg—ensures that even the most devoted naturist never has to go without a smoke.

The Great Ape salutes the sheer commitment—because if you’re going to break one convention, you might as well carry a pack while you do it.

They came expecting intelligence, progress, something resembling civilization. Instead, the mask lifts, the truth sinks in, and the experiment is over.

Primitive. Hopeless. The verdict is final. Back to the stars.

Well, My Fine Furry Finks, another step closer to the Lobotomy Lounge! De-evolution stands confirmed—a front-row seat to the downfall. If the aliens are shaking their heads, you know it’s bad.

The atomic age brought a new kind of diplomacy—where the handshake came with a countdown and the peace talks had a blast radius.

From the cockpit of doom, a faceless pilot delivers judgment with the twist of a dial, while radar-guided nightmares scream through the sky. The future ran on rockets—but survival depended on who pushed the button first.

Either we build the future, or we burn it down.

The Day The Earth Stood Still – A Warning, A Revelation, A Masterpiece

Before flying saucers became popcorn spectacle, before Hollywood turned aliens into bug-eyed invaders, there was Klaatu, Gort, and a message that rocked the world.

The Day The Earth Stood Still (1951) was more than a sci-fi flick—it was a gut-punch to Cold War paranoia and a warning wrapped in brilliant black-and-white tension. This was the era of the atomic bomb, the Red Scare, and a world teetering on the edge of destruction. When an alien visitor landed in Washington D.C. and declared, “There must be security for all, or there is no security,” the warning felt all too real.

This was no simple invasion film—it was a reckoning. Audiences weren’t ready for a movie where humans were the threat, where the great powers of Earth were the reckless ones, and where an advanced civilization had come not to conquer, but to warn. The mere thought that mankind’s aggression would not only doom itself, but further make it an intergalactic problem, rattled theatergoers to their cores.

And then, there was Gort. No flashing lights, no overcomplicated design—just a towering, silent metal god of judgment, able to wipe out cities with a single beam. He was the walking embodiment of the film’s warning: if humanity couldn’t control itself, something bigger, something stronger, would step in.

Klaatu barada nikto. Three words that cemented the film in sci-fi legend. Three words that could mean salvation or destruction. The Day The Earth Stood Still changed science fiction forever, proving that it could be more than ray guns and flying saucers—it could be serious, chilling, and prophetic.

So, sit back, hit play, and watch one of the greatest science fiction films of all time. A favorite for good reason. Because if we ever needed a reminder that security for one means security for all—it’s now.

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Good Luck in Your Mission, Chimp!

The Great Ape doesn’t sneak—he storms the enemy compound with a jetpack on his back and a martini in hand. But even he knows that no top-tier espionage operation is complete without the perfect soundtrack.

John Barry set the gold standard for spy music, and Propellerheads took it, wired it with explosives, and launched it into the next dimension. This is “On Her Majesty’s Secret Service”—a theme that doesn’t just play, it detonates.

So adjust your cufflinks, tighten your bowtie, and prepare for action. Your mission begins now.

THE GREAT APE’S GUIDE TO OLD-SCHOOL ESPIONAGE

Listen up, Agent X—The Great Ape has been dabbling in the world of espionage lately. That’s right. Forget car chases, martinis, and high-tech gadgets—we’re talking real-deal Cold War spycraft. The kind of cloak-and-dagger skullduggery where a hidden camera in a cigarette case could change the course of history, and a hollow coin might just mean the difference between freedom and a one-way trip to Siberia.

These old-time spooks weren’t armed with fancy digital hacking tools or AI surveillance drones—they had ingenuity, guts, and a pocketful of contraptions that looked like they belonged in a magician’s act. The CIA, MI6, KGB, and Stasi spent decades outwitting each other with gizmos, disguises, and hidden weapons that were equal parts brilliant and ridiculous. From microfilm to poison-tipped umbrellas, this was spycraft at its most creative—a time when one wrong move didn’t mean losing a WiFi signal… it meant vanishing forever.

Now, being a well-groomed ape of intrigue, I’ve been studying up on the best of these classic Cold War spy gadgets. And let me tell you—if I had half this gear, I’d be running MI7 by the weekend.

So if you ever find yourself on the wrong side of the Iron Curtain, or just need to deliver a message without tipping off the neighbor’s cat, sit back, adjust your fake mustache, and take notes.

Because it’s time to go old-school undercover—The Great Ape style.

Now here is my TOP TEN spy gadgets, and I’ll tell you exactly how a well-dressed ape would put them to use.

THE LETTER REMOVAL DEVICE – THE SPY’S SKELETON KEY TO SECRETS

Ah, the old Letter Removal Device—the ultimate way to read someone’s mail without leaving a trace. Forget steaming envelopes or holding them over a kettle like some amateur snoop—this Cold War-era marvel was the real deal.

Here’s how it worked: A spy (or nosy mail clerk with high aspirations) would slide the device’s pincer head into the small unsealed gap of an envelope. Then, with a delicate turn, the letter inside would wind up around the rod like a roll of top-secret sushi. After a quick read and a note to HQ, the letter would be slipped back inside, perfectly intact. The recipient? None the wiser.

Intelligence agencies loved this little contraption because it kept intercepted messages undetectable. Opening a letter the old-fashioned way might raise suspicion, but if the envelope remained sealed? Mission success. The KGB, CIA, MI6—everyone had their own version of this gadget, using it to pluck secrets straight from the hands of diplomats, spies, and double agents.

How The Great Ape Would Use It:
Sure, I could use this for classic espionage, but let’s be real—I’d be checking my neighbor’s takeout orders to make sure they’re not hiding the good barbecue joint from me. Or maybe making sure that mysterious letter addressed to me from “Collections Department” isn’t an invitation to an exclusive spy party.

No matter how you spin it, this device was a game-changer. When it came to Cold War snooping, this wasn’t mail fraud—it was mail mastery.

The Great Ape salutes the sneakiest way to read someone’s secrets—because a well-dressed spy never leaves a fingerprint, and never, EVER breaks the seal.

THE TOBACCO POUCH SPY CAMERA – PUFF, PUFF, CLICK

Ah, the Old Tobacco Pouch Spy Camera—because nothing says “I’m definitely not a spy” like reaching for a cigarette and secretly snapping photos of state secrets.

Disguised as an innocent pouch of fine tobacco, this Cold War contraption was hiding something far deadlier than nicotine—a 35mm spy camera with a spring-winding mechanism that advanced the film between shots. No clunky cameras, no suspicious fumbling—just a casual reach into the pouch, press the hidden button, and voilà! You just captured a dossier, a double agent, or maybe just your lunch because, hey, espionage gets hungry.

The beauty of this device was its sheer stealth. While enemy agents were patting down coats for hidden cameras, the best intelligence officers knew the real action was in the accessories. The KGB, CIA, MI6—everyone had a variation of this beauty, using it to snap illicit photos of documents, enemy blueprints, or the guy at the next table trying to signal a contact with a napkin fold.

How The Great Ape Would Use It:

Now, if I had my paws on this? I’d be snapping evidence of who’s been sneaking my bananas at HQ, or capturing blackmail material—I mean, important reconnaissance—on which of my so-called “friends” double-dips in the salsa at parties.

Because in the world of espionage, a picture isn’t just worth a thousand words—it might just be the only thing keeping you out of an unmarked van.

The Great Ape salutes the ultimate pocket-sized snoop device—because real spies not only watch… they develop their evidence.

THE CODED COMPACT – POWDER, PUFF, ESPIONAGE

Ah, the Modified Lady’s Makeup Compact—because nothing screams “I’m just freshening up” like secretly decoding top-secret intel while checking your eyeliner.

At first glance, it’s just another tool in a well-dressed spy’s kit, perfect for touching up before a rendezvous at the embassy ball. But with a tilt of the mirror at the right angle, a hidden message is revealed—encrypted codes, covert instructions, or maybe just the latest gossip from the underground spy circuit. No need for invisible ink or dead drops when you can carry classified information in your clutch.

This Cold War gem was a favorite among female operatives, who could slip intelligence past customs, border guards, or suspicious enemies—all while appearing effortlessly chic. KGB, MI6, the CIA—they all had their own variations. Some were used for ciphered messages, others to hide microfilm, and a few even concealed poison pills for those really bad dates.

How The Great Ape Would Use It:

If I had my paws on this? Oh, you’d better believe I’d be using it to decode the week’s secret banana shipments, track the movements of double-crossing chimps, or discreetly pass messages to my network of informants over cocktails. And if any enemy agents get too close? A quick whack with the compact and problem solved—spy games are brutal, after all.

Because in the world of espionage, appearances can be deceiving—but the right mirror always tells the truth.

The Great Ape salutes the coded compact—because real spies do more than look good… they see everything.

THE DEAD-DROP SPIKE – THE COLD WAR MAILBOX

Ah, the Dead-Drop Spike—because real spies don’t risk back-alley meetings with trench-coated informants when they can just bury the goods and walk away.

This Cold War classic was the original no-contact delivery system. A hollow metal spike, sharp enough to plunge into the ground, and discreet enough to keep top-secret messages hidden from prying eyes. Intelligence operatives could stash microfilm, coded documents, or even tiny weapons inside, leave it at a prearranged location, and let the next spy retrieve it without so much as a suspicious glance. No risky handshakes, no whispered exchanges—just a silent handoff buried in the dirt.

Both the KGB and CIA loved this little gadget. Whether it was hidden under a park bench, in a forest clearing, or right in plain sight in some poor farmer’s field, it made sure that secrets were exchanged without anyone knowing who passed them along.

How The Great Ape Would Use It:
If I got my paws on one of these beauties, I’d be leaving top-secret messages for my informants—coded notes about where to find the best banana smuggling operations or warnings about double agents hoarding all the good snacks. And if anyone gets too close? Well, let’s just say a hollow spike still makes for a solid self-defense tool.

The Great Ape salutes the dead-drop spike—because real spies do more than talk… they know when to stay silent.

THE SPY SHOE – TALKING YOUR WAY INTO TROUBLE

Ah, the Spy Shoe with a Heel Transmitter—because sometimes, keeping your ear to the ground just isn’t enough.

This dapper little number was Cold War surveillance at its sneakiest. Hidden inside the heel was a miniature microphone, transmitter, and battery, all designed to turn the wearer’s every step into a wiretap. If you were the poor sap given a pair of these, everything you said was being broadcast to someone nearby. A casual conversation about lunch? Picked up. A whispered betrayal? Recorded for posterity. That big plan to defect? Oops—too late.

Both the KGB and CIA loved these bad boys, slipping them onto unsuspecting diplomats, businessmen, and political targets. Once laced up, the spy shoe would secretly transmit conversations to an agent nearby, giving intelligence agencies a front-row seat to all the juicy details. And the best part? The target usually had no clue their own footwear was ratting them out.

How The Great Ape Would Use It:
If I had a pair of these? You better believe I’d be planting them on anyone who keeps “accidentally” eating my last banana. No more excuses, no more “I thought it was mine” nonsense. The Great Ape would have the receipts—straight from the source.

The Great Ape salutes the spy shoe—because real spies make sure the target walks their own secrets straight into the enemy’s hands.

THE CAMERA WATCH – SPIES ALWAYS HAVE TIME

If the Cold War taught us anything, it’s that looking stylish and gathering intelligence are not mutually exclusive. Enter the Camera Watch, the ultimate in discreet surveillance—because what’s more inconspicuous than checking the time?

Used by the German Secret Service, this little marvel hid a fully functional miniature camera right inside the watch face. A flick of the wrist, a subtle press of a button, and click—you just captured some top-secret blueprints, an enemy agent’s face, or maybe just a really good sandwich you wanted to remember. The lens was small, but the stakes were high.

Perfect for spies who wanted to keep their hands free (and not lug around those clunky camera briefcases), this gadget let operatives snap evidence while maintaining the I’m-just-a-civilian act. And because it was always on your wrist, no one suspected a thing. Well, unless you started aggressively staring at your watch in a dark alley—but hey, that’s rookie stuff.

How The Great Ape Would Use It:

If I had this strapped to my wrist? Every shady meeting, every suspicious exchange, and every time someone “accidentally” spills my drink would be immortalized. No more alibis. No more cover-ups. And if my enemies ever think they can sneak one past me? Let’s just say, I’ll have all the time in the world to remind them otherwise.

The Great Ape salutes the camera watch—because anyone can check the time… real spies capture it.

THE CIA POISON GLASSES – LAST RESORT, FIRST CLASS

Ah, the CIA Poison Glasses—because sometimes, getting caught wasn’t an option.

These weren’t your run-of-the-mill reading glasses. Hidden inside the arms was a tiny but lethal dose of poison, ready to take out the wearer in a single bite. If a captured agent found themselves in a “talk-or-else” situation, they could quite literally chew their way out of it—permanently. A grim but effective tool in the high-stakes world of espionage, where loose lips didn’t just sink ships, they got people disappeared.

Used during the Cold War, these glasses gave CIA operatives a built-in escape plan if capture meant compromising national security. The idea was simple: better to die on your own terms than spill state secrets in a KGB basement. Brutal? Absolutely. But in the ruthless chess game of spies, every piece had to be expendable.

How The Great Ape Would Use It:

Look, I prefer my escape plans to involve fast cars, rooftop chases, and maybe a conveniently placed banana peel for my enemies. But if things got really hairy? The Great Ape might consider a backup plan—though I’d prefer a smoke bomb and a backflip through a skylight.

The Great Ape salutes the CIA poison glasses—because real spies plan for escape and control their own ending.

THE KGB LOG BUG – WHEN A TREE REALLY DOES HAVE EARS

Ah, the KGB Listening Radar and Air Defense System—because sometimes, the hills (and logs) really do have ears.

This little beauty was Cold War paranoia made real. Designed to blend seamlessly into the natural environment, this fake log housed an advanced (for its time) listening radar, capable of picking up enemy communications and relaying them back to headquarters. While NATO was out there chopping firewood, the KGB was busy chopping up intelligence, one intercepted conversation at a time.

Disguised as a harmless chunk of tree, this bugging device could be hidden in forests, near military installations, or even along border zones. It was an unassuming yet incredibly effective piece of espionage tech—because who in their right mind suspects a log?

How The Great Ape Would Use It:

If I had my hands on this? I’d be planting it in every boardroom, kitchen table, and top-secret banana stash to catch every whispered scheme before it even leaves the tree. No more “I didn’t take the last banana” lies—this log would have proof.

The Great Ape salutes the KGB log bug—because real spies transform the whole forest into an informant.

THE BULGARIAN UMBRELLA – RAINING POISON ON YOUR ENEMIES

Ah, the Bulgarian Umbrella—because sometimes, a rainy day calls for a lethal dose of ricin.

This infamous piece of Cold War espionage was one of the most diabolical assassination tools ever deployed. Designed to fire a tiny pellet filled with poison, it allowed spies to eliminate targets in broad daylight with nothing more than a polite jab. The most notorious use? The 1978 assassination of Georgi Markov, a Bulgarian dissident stabbed in the leg on a London bridge. He barely noticed… until he was dead days later.

Operatives carrying these weren’t just armed—they were walking storm clouds of silent, untraceable death. One gentle poke, and the target would never see the sun again. The KGB and Bulgarian Secret Service loved this hands-off approach to murder, proving that sometimes, the deadliest weapons come disguised as a gentleman’s accessory.

How The Great Ape Would Use It:

I don’t believe in poison—I prefer my enemies to know exactly why they’re losing. But if someone tries to cut in line at the banana stand, maybe a little non-lethal poke is in order. Just enough to make them reconsider their choices.

The Great Ape salutes the Bulgarian Umbrella—because a real spy carries an umbrella… and brings the storm.

THE CIA DISGUISED BOMB – A MASTERPIECE IN MAYHEM

Ah, the CIA Disguised Bomb—because sometimes, the best way to make an impact is with a little artistic flair.

At first glance, this clever contraption looked like an innocent paint box, the kind a well-traveled artist might carry to capture the Paris skyline or a quiet countryside. But inside? Boom—literally. Hidden within its seemingly harmless exterior was an explosive payload, rigged and ready for some serious sabotage.

Perfect for sneaking into enemy territory, this device was designed for high-stakes demolition with maximum deception. A careless agent snooping through your luggage? No problem—just let them think you’re an aspiring Van Gogh. But open the wrong compartment, and suddenly, espionage becomes abstract expressionism in the worst possible way.

How The Great Ape Would Use It:

Now, if I had this baby in my arsenal, I’d be using it to blow the lid off bad fashion choices at high-end galas or to ensure that anyone messing with my top-secret banana supply gets one very loud warning.

The Great Ape salutes the CIA Disguised Bomb—because when real spies carry a weapon… they carry a masterpiece.

Sunday Mirror Magazine, March 3, 1947

The Great Ape cracks his knuckles and steps into the scene—because Ed Vebell captured more than street brawls. He froze the moment before impact, when the air turns electric, and the night holds its breath.

The jackets match, the smirks spread wide, and the unlucky soul on the ground knows exactly how this plays out. The streetlights cut through the darkness, but the real menace lives in the gleam of their eyes. A fist clenches, a pipe hovers mid-air—violence waits for no one.

Vebell thrived on tension, on that razor-thin second where a choice remains—until it disappears. This isn’t just a fight—it’s a lesson written in bruises.

And in a world like this, survival tells the story.

Smokem’ if you gotem’

Because in the world of Archie, a nickel can buy more than just a phone call… it buys opportunity.

Archie lays on the charm thick, dishing out compliments smoother than a malt shop sundae. Meanwhile, Betty (or perhaps an ambitious stand-in) basks in the glow of flattery, while the soda jerk serves up the second most delicious thing in the scene.

Was it the nickel, the double whallop, or just Archie’s natural gift for sweet-talking that made this moment happen? Either way, the Great Ape sees a lesson here—invest wisely, and the rewards will come dripping in hot fudge.

Naomi Johnson defined the golden era of the Ziegfeld Follies. From 1922 to 1930, she lit up Broadway’s musical comedies, embodying the pinnacle of glamour and grace. As one of Alfred Cheney Johnston’s favorite models, her image became an enduring symbol of the era’s beauty, immortalized in stunning portraits alongside the greatest showgirls of the time.

The Follies ran from 1912 to 1931 with one mission: “Glorifying the American Girl.” Naomi was the proof of concept—elegance, charm, and presence in human form. When she left the stage in 1930, she didn’t just exit the spotlight—she became the legend, a face forever etched into the dreamscape of Broadway’s most dazzling age.

The Great Ape raises a glass to Naomi—one of the last, best reasons we still call it the Roaring Twenties.

‘Cause style this slick don’t walk… it struts.

Snapped by Joel Meyerowitz in New York, ‘75, this right here? Pure soul on the sidewalk. My man in them sky-high platforms ain’t just steppin’—he floatin’. That hat? That stance? That look that says “Dig it, I own this street.” Brother ain’t just movin’—he orchestratin’ a whole vibe.

And shorty in the background? Stuck between “Damn” and “Where he get them boots?” She know she peepin’ a legend in real time.

The Great Ape see what’s real—style ain’t somethin’ you wear, baby. It’s somethin’ you breathe. And this? This right here? That’s a whole symphony.

Because designing legends requires bold lines, clean silhouettes, and a vision that cuts through time.

Space Ghost, immortalized in ink, takes form on this very sheet. The notes scrawled in the margins—**”No Belt Gadgets Now,” “Flight and Power Ray Buttons on Metal Sleeves”—**mark the evolution of an icon. Toth stripped away the excess, leaving behind pure streamlined heroism.

This goes beyond design—it’s a blueprint for Saturday morning supremacy.

The Great Ape salutes this masterpiece—because the strongest heroes embrace clarity over clutter. They stand tall, bold in form, draped in mystery, and etched into legend with every stroke of the pen.

It was a crawling, biting, bloodsucking reality. Gray. Relentless. Burrowed into every seam. Enough to make your skin crawl—literally.

Leave them alone, and they took over. No escape. No mercy. Just an army multiplying, spreading, and claiming new ground.

And what is with “Get a new Identity Tag”?! If The Great Ape caught cooties, a delousing wouldn’t cut it—he’d need a new name, a new life, and a safe house until the itching stopped. Maybe that’s what they meant… or maybe it was wishful thinking before the next wave hit.

She rode into battle against the Witch-king, defied fate, and shattered the prophecy that no man could slay him. But for Éowyn, victory was not just in the clash of swords—it was in choosing a new path.

No longer bound by the shadow of war, Éowyn found her peace in the green hills of Ithilien, alongside Faramir. While the world still sang of her deeds on the Pelennor Fields, she laid down her blade, embracing a life of healing and renewal. As the Lady of Ithilien, she and Faramir shaped a new future, one not built on conquest, but on hope.

Their love was quiet strength—a bond forged not in battle, but in understanding. Together, they raised a son, likely Elboron, whose lineage would carry their legacy into the Fourth Age. Their grandson, Barahir, would go on to chronicle The Tale of Aragorn and Arwen, ensuring that the stories of the great heroes lived on.

The Great Ape tips his crown to Éowyn. Some legends wield swords; others forge new beginnings. She did both.

Myth, legend, or a secret project that never left the drawing board?

Black-and-white, grainy, and dripping with conspiracy, this so-called Nazi flying saucer has fueled decades of speculation. Supposedly built for anti-gravity flight and rumored to outpace anything the Allies had, it stands as one of the most persistent pieces of Wunderwaffe lore.

Real? Faked? A cover-up or a cosmic wild goose chase? Whatever the truth, one thing’s certain—the legend refuses to fade.

Because no one paints flesh, fire, and fury like this.

A lone warrior, sculpted by chaos, grips his blaster as otherworldly figures descend. A woman kneels behind him, caught between awe and the unknown. The battlefield is primal, the sky swirls in crimson rage, and the ground twists like veins of a living world.

This is more than a painting—it captures the moment before the storm, the pulse before the kill. Frazetta’s vision burns into the mind, gripping hard and refusing to let go.

A War Bird!

Sun-kissed and radiating old Hollywood glamour, she turns a simple beachside moment into a masterclass in elegance. The white swimsuit, the red-striped towel, the soft golden light—every detail belongs in a dream.

Royalty lived in her every move, every glance, every moment the world watched.

2001: A Space Odyssey landed in comic book form! This panel captures that classic ‘60s sci-fi optimism—bold lines, vivid colors, and a future where lunar colonies moved from possibility to inevitability.

The Great Ape salutes the dreamers who believed space was ours for the taking.

In 1952, Sam Phillips stood at the edge of collapse. Eighteen-hour days split between radio and recording had drained him. The debts were piling up, and the weight of a seemingly impossible dream—bridging black and white music—was crushing him. At just 28 years old, a father of two, and drowning in financial ruin, he suffered a breakdown. Electroshock therapy was the prescribed remedy, but no doctor could shock away the fire burning inside him.

That fire was rock ‘n’ roll, and Sam Phillips was about to set the world ablaze.

He found B.B. King, Howlin’ Wolf, and Rufus Thomas, artists who defined the blues and soul of America. But Phillips wasn’t done. He launched Sun Records, opening the doors to a wild pack of misfits who would rewrite the history of music—Elvis Presley, Johnny Cash, Carl Perkins, Jerry Lee Lewis. The man with a broken mind and an empty bank account was about to change the sound of a generation.

They called Alan Freed the man who coined the phrase, but if rock ‘n’ roll has a birthplace, it was Sun Studios, and if it has a father, it was Sam Phillips.

The Great Ape knows the truth—sometimes, madness and genius ride the same track.

Thirst for Hurst

Perfecting an eccentric character, or just want to leave people deeply unsettled, this spring-loaded monstrosity has your back (or rather, your eye socket). Every movement sends it into a wild, twitching dance of chaos, ensuring that no one will ever forget the unblinking stare of madness you’ve unleashed.

The Great Ape salutes this piece of ocular absurdity—because if you’re going to have an eye on everything, it might as well be vibrating.

Because nothing says “home sweet home” like a steel bunker in the backyard.

Sacramento, 1961—where the American Dream came with a fallout shelter price tag of $5,000 and a side of existential dread. This ain’t just a practice run, it’s a Cold War fire drill, a duck-and-cover ballet, a race against the unthinkable.

The door stands open, bolts gleaming, darkness yawning below. Safety? Maybe. Survival? That’s the bet. But one thing’s for sure—this family is ready to ride the Atomic Age like pros.

The Great Ape salutes the era where peace of mind came with an air-tight hatch and a Geiger counter.

The Great Ape ponders this eternal question—because 15 cents and a fur wrap won’t buy the answer, but they sure make a hell of a magazine cover.

Confidence? Power? A glance that holds you in its grip and dares you to look away? Maybe it’s the way she moves, the way she commands the air around her, or the way she knows exactly what she’s doing—without saying a word.

Shirley Lewis smolders on this 1956 cover of Picture Week, and the real question isn’t what makes a girl sexy—it’s whether you can handle the answer

Bob Larkin, the legend behind some of the most iconic pulp, sci-fi, and comic covers, delivered this absolute masterpiece for Timeline of the Planet of the Apes: A Definitive Chronology. And what a sight it is—Cornelius, deep in thought, moving pieces in a cosmic game where humanity’s survival hangs in the balance.

Look at that strategic brilliance! While humans fumble through life, Cornelius is playing 4D chess with the fate of the planet. Move the orangutan, sacrifice the astronaut, and checkmate—the Lawgiver wins again.

The Great Ape salutes this masterstroke—because when apes play the game, we win and rewrite history.

The Great Ape’s Guide to Escaping Quicksand

Quicksand isn’t a death trap. It’s wet sand, mud, or sediment suspended in water. Hollywood says it swallows you whole. Reality says panic is your real enemy.

Stay calm. Wild thrashing pulls you deeper. Move slow, keep your weight spread, and work your way to the surface instead of sinking.

Drop the dead weight. A heavy pack drags you down. Ditch it, or be prepared to fight twice as hard to escape.

If your legs are stuck, don’t yank them. That’s how suction wins. Work them loose by slowly moving them upward one at a time.

Lean back. More surface area means more flotation. Think of it like lying on water instead of trying to stand in it.

Once you’re free, don’t stand up. Crawl or roll across the surface until you hit solid ground.

The Great Ape salutes your survival instincts. You live to trudge another day. Now go wash off the shame, because nobody looks cool crawling out of quicksand.

The first woman to dominate Top Fuel drag racing, she clawed her way to three world championships before fate threw its hardest punch at the 1984 Molson Grandnationals.

The crash was violent. Brutal. Unforgiving. A front tire failure sent her careening into an embankment, leaving her body crushed, broken, and barely clinging to life. A severed thumb, a shattered pelvis, legs twisted beyond recognition—the kind of wreck that writes obituaries, not comeback stories.

But Shirley wasn’t built to quit.

Here she is, surrounded by racing legends—Diamond Jim Annin, Ronnie Davis, and Houston International Dragway’s Alan Miller—being pulled from the wreckage of a machine that nearly took her life. What followed was years of agony, relentless rehabilitation, and sheer force of will.

The Great Ape salutes Shirley Muldowney—for being a survivor and coming back. Faster. Meaner. Unstoppable.

And. Terror Tales made sure every penny dripped with panic, peril, and pure pulp insanity.

Chains of the Living Dead—because nothing says “weekend read” like a mob of madmen dragging a damsel toward a fate worse than death. Wide-eyed horror, grasping hands, shadows that swallow hope whole—this is terror without a safety net.

The Great Ape flips through the pages and grins—because real nightmares aren’t whispered. They come screaming from the dark, chains rattling, and blood boiling.

Who the hell is Doctor Dingbat, and what kind of “inspection” is he running?

From the look on her face, she’s more than ready, but for what exactly? Routine checkup? Dress code assessment? A test of pure cartoonish confidence?

And the nurse in the background? She’s got priorities straight—lipstick first, questions later.

The Great Ape senses a real mystery brewing here. But one thing’s for sure—when Doctor Dingbat shows up, it’s going to be one hell of a scene.

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Atomic Aces and Jet-Age Junkies

Too Fast for the Future, Too Tough for the Past

Strapped to rockets, laughing at gravity, they rode the bleeding edge of technology and madness. When the world promised the stars, they took the damn cockpit.

Sunday Mirror Magazine, July 24, 1949.

Illustration by Ed Vebell. Vebell had a lot of girlfriends when younger, he said, but proposed only twice — to his longtime wife, Elsa… and to actress and future princess Grace Kelly. He met them both around the same time in Manhattan in the 1950s. “Both were aristocrats. I had to quickly make up my mind. And,” he said with a wry smile, “I tried hard to do that.

The Great Ape’s Guide to Sandstorm Survival

A sandstorm doesn’t care about your weekend plans, your road trip, or your skin’s delicate exfoliation needs. It rolls in, eats visibility for breakfast, and scrapes you down like a piece of driftwood. Survive it, and you might just walk away looking ten years younger.

If you’re driving, pull off the road and kill your lights. Other drivers are already flying blind—don’t be the beacon that lures them straight into your bumper. Windows up, vents closed, and wait it out. Sand in the engine means a bad day. Sand in the lungs? Worse.

If you’re on foot, find cover fast. A big rock, a structure, or anything that isn’t about to be swept away. If nothing’s around, head for high ground—being buried in sand is not on today’s to-do list.

Wrap up. Cover your mouth, nose, ears, and eyes. If you have a cloth, wet it first. Dry lungs and flying grit don’t mix. Use any extra clothing to cover exposed skin—unless you’re going for that “human sandpaper” look.

Stay put, ride it out, and resist the urge to wander.

The Great Ape salutes your survival instincts. You’ve stared down the wrath of the desert and lived to tell the tale. Now go shake the sand out of places you didn’t know sand could go, and maybe rethink that weekend getaway to the dunes.

Maybe it’s a Cold War fallout shelter turned high-end relaxation chamber, or the world’s weirdest spa where the therapy is just sitting in a cave and contemplating your life choices.

Could be a secret bunker for the elite of the elite, where they kick back in deck chairs waiting for the world above to get its act together. Or maybe… just maybe… this is the Lobotomy Lounge, where all the fine furry finks finally evolve in reverse and reach the ultimate state of relaxation—de-evolution at its finest.

The Great Ape salutes this mystery retreat—because sometimes, the best escape is deep underground, away from all the nonsense.

Tricked Altered Nova

Because finally, a solution to all those tragic facial mishaps.

For a mere 25 cents, you too can unlock the secrets of “Physical Culture for the Face”—a concept so revolutionary, it’s got over 300,000 people contorting themselves into beauty.

Forget paint, powder, or dignity. This book promises to dig deep into your facial defects and—presumably—scare them out of existence.

And that portrait? If that’s the ‘before,’ the Great Ape is dying to see the ‘after.’

By the time Glenn Strange stepped into Frankenstein’s oversized boots, the monster had already been immortalized by Boris Karloff. But Karloff had grown tired of the bolts, the lumbering gait, and the typecast shadow that followed. Enter Strange—6’5″ of raw presence—who gave the creature a new life in the Universal horror lineup of the 1940s.

Strange wasn’t just a towering figure; he was a workhorse in the industry, playing the monster in House of Frankenstein (1944), House of Dracula (1945), and, most famously, Abbott and Costello Meet Frankenstein (1948). It was in this horror-comedy classic that Frankenstein’s monster did something unexpected—he broke character.

The scene where Costello’s Wilbur sits on the monster’s lap had to be shot multiple times because Strange kept cracking up at Costello’s improvisations. It turns out, even Frankenstein’s creature had a breaking point—laughter.

Karloff, however, wanted nothing to do with it. He dismissed the film as too silly, refusing to play the monster or even watch the finished product. His rivalry with Bela Lugosi, who finally got to play Dracula again in the film, had reached its final chapter. But Karloff still helped promote it—as long as he didn’t have to actually see it.

Strange’s take on the monster may not have been the first, but it was the last in Universal’s golden age of horror. He became the face of Frankenstein’s creature for an entire generation, proving that even the most terrifying figures in cinema had room for a little comedy.

The Great Ape tips his hat to Glenn Strange. Horror, humor, and a whole lot of history wrapped up in one big, bolt-necked legend.

Dick Harrell vs Prosecutor

Ah yes, the bold predictions of yesteryear…

Turns out, by 2016 we didn’t exactly become cyber-enhanced super-geniuses jacked into the mainframe. Instead, we got Twitter arguments, conspiracy rabbit holes, and infinite cat videos.

They promised brains linked to computers—what we got was attention spans linked to doomscrolling. They talked about intellect skyrocketing—meanwhile, half the population struggles to set their WiFi password.

De-evolution confirmed.

The Great Ape salutes this grand technological misfire—because sometimes, the future isn’t bright… it’s just buffering.

Les Paul—1963 Oakland, N.J., studio – The Man Who Rewired Music Itself.

Forget capes and cowls—this is what a real superhero looks like. Les Paul, sleeves rolled up, deep in the guts of a control board, tweaking the very fabric of recorded sound.

Without him? Multi-track recording wouldn’t exist. The electric guitar might still be a clunky experiment. And rock gods like Slash, Jimmy Page, and Ace Frehley wouldn’t have their Excalibur in hand.

This repair job is more than fixing circuits—this is music history, built by the hands that shaped it.

Jungle Pam Hardy giving Jim Liberman the signal there’s no leaks

Ed Vebell knew how to paint a moment dripping with desperation!

And …this scene pulls no punches.

A ship engulfed in flames, swallowed by the sea. Debris floats like broken dreams, while survivors claw for something—anything—to hold onto. One woman grips a stone wall, her fingers raw, her face a twisted mix of exhaustion and willpower. Another reaches out to nothing but air.

This is no rescue—it’s the last breath before the abyss. Vebell’s colors bleed urgency, the water more like blood than ocean, the sky a firestorm of doom.

No safe harbors here—only the question: Who makes it out?

The Unfinished Obelisk: A Monument to Ancient Ambition

Deep in the Aswan quarries lies a colossal dream frozen in stone—the Unfinished Obelisk. Had it been completed, this behemoth would have stood as the largest obelisk ever raised in ancient Egypt. But fate, or perhaps the limits of even the mightiest of builders, intervened. A fatal crack during its carving left it abandoned, half-formed, still gripping the bedrock from which it was meant to rise.

Commissioned during the reign of Hatshepsut, the formidable Pharaoh of Egypt’s New Kingdom, the obelisk was meant to be a towering testament to her power. The unfinished monument, however, now serves a different purpose—a rare and invaluable glimpse into the methods of ancient Egyptian stonemasons. Chisel marks remain etched into its surface, evidence of the immense labor required to extract, shape, and transport such monolithic wonders.

At an estimated 42 meters (138 feet) and over 1,000 tons, had it been completed and erected, it would have dwarfed every other obelisk in existence. Instead, it rests in silent defiance of time, a monument not to triumph, but to the risks and realities of ancient engineering.

The Great Ape respects a bold attempt. Even in its incomplete state, the Unfinished Obelisk stands as proof that ambition knows no bounds—even when the stone says otherwise.

The Space Cowboy

Vette This!

Progress or pure lunacy?

Behold the Light Ash Tray, a groundbreaking invention for those who want to smoke hands-free while also flirting with third-degree burns. No more fumbling for an ashtray—just let it dangle precariously from your cigarette like a tiny metal fire hazard.

Because nothing says innovation like adding an extra step to something that never needed one.

A psychedelic odyssey straight from the cosmic depths

Galaxie #100, where the strange reigns supreme.

Philippe Caza’s cover is more than a window into another world—it’s an intergalactic invitation. Tentacled horrors, multi-eyed overlords, and a red-skinned sentinel standing tall in the chaos—this is sci-fi at its most feverish.

This is more than a journey through space. It’s a headfirst plunge into the unknown. The Great Ape tips his helmet—because the best sci-fi pulls you in and dares you to keep up.

Yeehar!

The Ultimate Playground for Mail-Order Madness

X-ray specs, kung fu lessons, and a pocket spy telescope—all available for the price of a few weeks’ allowance. Whether you wanted to hypnotize your friends, shock your enemies, or summon a life-size ghost, Johnson Smith Co. had you covered.

Every kid knew the truth: This catalog held more than ads—it opened a portal to endless possibilities.

No escape. Only abandonment.

Ed Valigursky delivers raw desperation in this Amazing Stories 55-05 cover for The Chained Man by P.F. Costello. The bright, hellish landscape mocks the lone astronaut, his freedom yanked away just as the rocket ignites. Hope burns in the distance, but he won’t be on board.

A sci-fi nightmare of betrayal and isolation. The Great Ape salutes the ones left behind—because space is unforgiving, and so are the people who leave you there.

Landy Tow Rig

The Great Ape peers into the classified abyss

Where history, conspiracy, and sci-fi collide in a tangle of black ink and forbidden blueprints.

This “VERY SECRET” document, allegedly tied to the Haunebu I project, teeters between wartime super-science and mythic speculation. Diagrams, schematics, and cryptic German text whisper of a machine beyond its era—a flying disc engineered not for today, but for a future that never was… or never should have been.

Were these Nazi UFOs the fever dreams of desperate engineers, or did something slip through the cracks of time? The Great Ape knows one thing—where there’s smoke, there’s always a mystery worth chasing.

Sunlight on Brownstones (1956) by Edward Hopper.

The Great Ape pauses, soaking in the hush of Hopper’s world—where light lingers, shadows stretch, and the unspoken carries the weight of an entire scene.

This sun-drenched brownstone, bathed in late-afternoon glow, holds two figures caught in a moment of quiet. The woman, poised, thoughtful. The man, mid-gesture, but saying nothing. They share the same space, yet feel miles apart—a Hopper signature.

Stillness lives here. The kind of stillness that breathes between words, fills empty rooms, and settles into the bones of a city long after the sun dips below the skyline.

The Great Ape tips his banana—because real stories don’t necessarily need a plot, just a window, a street, and a little bit of light.

10 cents for the cosmos—welcome to the space race, kid.

The Science Program had the right idea: hook ’em young, fire up their imaginations, and launch ’em straight into the future. A NEW Apollo Moonship, complete with reaction controls, scimitar antennas, and reclining astronauts—all yours for a dime and a dream.

For 10 cents, a kid could join the space race—because the right imagination could take you further than any rocket.

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A crash landing straight through the ceiling

Because subtlety was never an option.

Ed Vebell knew how to paint action that hit like a gunshot. The tension crackles in every corner—a woman frozen mid-step, a room full of stunned witnesses, and a man taking the express route through a skylight. The drama is immediate, the stakes high, and the execution? Pure pulp energy.

Whatever this poor fool was after, he’s getting a hard lesson in gravity instead.

The Great Ape’s Top Reasons for Carrying a Handkerchief

Some say the handkerchief is outdated—a relic of a bygone era, gathering dust in the pockets of old men and forgotten scoundrels. The Great Ape disagrees. A true operator knows that a handkerchief is more than a square of fabric. It’s a tool. A weapon. A statement.

Life is a battlefield, and sweat is the enemy. Whether you’re racing against the clock, running from the law, or simply existing in Queensland humidity, a quick brow wipe keeps you looking cool under pressure. When the moment calls for chivalry, a handkerchief can be the ultimate gesture. A crying lady? Extend it with a solemn nod. A distraught friend? Hand it over like a true gentleman. Either way, the legend grows.

Glasses fogged up, steamed-up shades, a window into your soul that looks like it’s been sneezed on? A crisp hanky is your first line of defense against blurry vision. How can you stare dramatically into the distance if you can’t see? Speaking of sneezes, tissues are flimsy, and your sleeve is barbaric. A real operator handles business with a sturdy, reusable piece of cloth. Bonus points if it has a monogram—intimidation matters.

A clammy handshake says, “I am unprepared for life.” A quick wipe says, “I am a man of control.” One of these people gets respect. The other gets avoided. And let’s not forget tradition. In the old days, a handkerchief could mean the difference between being remembered as an outlaw or just another guy at the saloon. Whether for dust storms, train robberies, or general mischief, a well-placed hanky is always handy.

The Great Ape salutes your commitment to old-school cool. Carry a handkerchief, and you’ll always be ready. Drop one on the floor? If someone picks it up and hands it back, you may have found yourself a loyal companion—or at least someone with good manners.

Paradise found—but business never stops.

Ed Vebell crafts a scene dripping with tropical ease and undercurrents of intrigue. A man and a woman, both dressed to impress in their island best, lounge beneath the palms, engrossed in documents that probably mean more than they let on.

The skyline of civilization looms in the distance, a reminder that no matter how far they escape, the real world is never too far behind. Sun, sea, and secrets—some vacations come with strings attached.

The power to “make mental slaves of your subjects”?

This ad is pure gold—hypnotic glasses for just $2.

What a deal! Forget years of practice in the mystic arts—just slip these bad boys on, and suddenly, you’re Svengali in a suit.

The best part? The “Book of Hypnotism” that once sold for a whopping $10, now yours for just $1.98—because who doesn’t love a discount on mind control?

And let’s not overlook the dramatic artwork—a man in sunglasses commanding a woman, the classic hypnotic spiral, and a promise of instant power.

Real question—did anybody ever fall for this? Or were they too busy being “hypnotized” into sending their hard-earned dimes to G&G Co., Dept. PHG?

Mamie Van Doren promotion for The All-American (1953)

TRI 5 Bone Shaker

Well, That Escalated Quickly

A normal day. A normal room. A totally normal lampshade made of human skin.

Some things don’t come with an easy explanation—and this guy is clearly realizing that he’s got some serious explaining to do. Maybe the real question isn’t how—it’s who’s next.

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Brass Knuckles, Black Leather, and Burning Rubber

They Didn’t Start Fights, They Finished Them

If you saw them coming, it was already too late. Fists like wrecking balls, engines like war drums—these were the ones who settled scores at 120 miles per hour.

You know it’s Lightning!

Nickey Chevrolet Dick Harrell

Ringo Starr and the Great Drum Riser Dream

Ringo had big dreams for his drum riser—a spinning, laser-shooting spectacle that would glide over the crowd as he laid down the beat. A cosmic throne for rock’s most unshakable timekeeper.

Yeah—nah. Just kidding.

Instead, he got a box.

But here’s the thing—sometimes a box is all you need. A steady platform, an ashtray, two drinks, and a stick of wood to stop you from tumbling backward. Because at the end of the day, the show wasn’t about lasers or floating drum kits—it was about holding the beat.

And Ringo always sat right in that groove.

The Great Ape salutes the man who made sure the world could twist and shout—without ever falling off the riser.

Sigourney Weaver behind the scenes of Alien (1979)

Get in Shut up Hang on…

The Great Ape’s Temporal Turbulence—When Time Travel Goes Bananas!

Turns out, piloting a UFO through the space-time continuum is a little trickier than expected. One wrong turn past the Mesozoic Expressway, and suddenly you’re crash-landed in dino territory with two very interested locals sizing you up for lunch.

Now, any seasoned time traveler knows the rules—don’t step on butterflies, don’t invent fire early, and definitely don’t get eaten. The Great Ape, however, has one advantage: he never skips leg day.

So after a quick diplomatic negotiation (which involved a lot of loud chest-thumping and one very strategic banana offering), the Ape hitched a ride back to the future. The lesson?

Always double-check the flux capacitor before takeoff.

The Great Ape salutes reckless time travel—because history belongs to those who crash-land and keep running.

1971: The Year of Wide Eyes and Even Wider Collars.

Susan Dey graces the cover of TEEN Magazine, and the world leans in. That stare? Hypnotic. That hair? A cascade of ‘70s perfection. That choker? Bold enough to command attention.

Between beauty tips, celebrity gossip, and deep reflections from death row (because why not?), this issue had it all. The ‘70s weren’t subtle, and neither was TEEN.

The artist stares, palette in hand, caught somewhere between admiration and obsession.

She knows it. That slow glance over her shoulder isn’t for modesty—it’s a test.

Is he studying the art—or the model?

Ed Vebell delivers another classic slice of mid-century tension, wrapped in warm reds, angled skylights, and a silent battle of wills. The title says it all—“Beware the Psychos!” from the Sunday Mirror Magazine, Sept. 25, 1955. But who, exactly, is the real danger here?

American Gothic” Gets an Upgrade—Robot Love in the Age of Steel

Grant Wood’s American Gothic is one of the most recognizable paintings of all time—a portrait of rural resilience, hard work, and the quiet, unwavering bond of a couple standing against the changing world. But in this mechanical twist on the classic, the pitchfork-wielding farmer and his solemn wife have been replaced by a pair of rusted, wide-eyed robots, their exposed circuits and patched-up plating telling a new kind of American story.

The details are brilliant—his heart is literally wired into his chest, she’s sporting a retro antenna bonnet, and their robotic child clutches a baby bottle, proving even the next generation of steel-plated farmhands need a little TLC. The barn still stands, the church still looms, but the future has clearly arrived.

The Great Ape salutes this mechanical masterpiece—because even robots know the heart of the farm beats with rust, wires, and undying love.

The Great Ape’s Guide to Erasing Regret—Bumper Sticker Edition

A bumper sticker is a commitment. Slap it on in a moment of passion, and suddenly, five years later, you’re still driving around with a faded “Honk If You Love Ferrets” plastered to your ride. But fear not—removing the past is possible.

Start with a clean slate. Wash the area thoroughly, because nothing makes a bad situation worse like grinding road grit into your paint job. Heat things up. A blow dryer or heat gun softens the adhesive, making the sticker more likely to come off in one glorious, satisfying peel instead of shredding like a cheap tattoo cover-up.

Once the edges loosen, grab a credit card, plastic spatula, or—if you’re feeling particularly desperate—a fingernail of steel. Work the corner up gently and pull the sticker free in one smooth motion. Resist the urge to yank it off like a Band-Aid—unless you enjoy scrubbing off stubborn residue for the next hour.

If ghosts of stickers past still linger, apply an adhesive remover or glass cleaner to break up the stubborn leftovers. Scrub gently. This isn’t a street fight with your car—it’s an art.

Finally, polish the area and throw on some wax. Your car will thank you, and you’ll finally be free from that cringeworthy political slogan or the band you swore was going to change music forever.

The Great Ape salutes your newfound wisdom. Next time, think before you slap a commitment onto your bumper—or at least make sure it’s something worth defending for the next decade.

Science or Sorcery?

Ed Valigursky delivers another technicolor nightmare, where the line between doctor and mad scientist is as thin as the scalpel’s edge.

Lasers hum, circuits glow, and somewhere in this sterile horror show, life is being rewritten. The patient? Suspended between death and whatever Tomorrow’s Gift has in store.

Hope or horror—only the man in the mask knows.

A pet monkey for less than twenty bucks. Bargain!

A mini-bike that may or may not arrive in one piece. A space probe you can launch from your backyard. And for those suffering from more earthly concerns? Blackhead removal in seconds!

This catalog opened a portal to a world where your wildest impulses came with a money-back guarantee. One page promised guitar mastery in seven days, another dangled 1000 magic tricks for just 25 cents—because who wouldn’t trust a magician working on a budget?

And let’s not forget the He-Man voice machine. Finally, the chance to sound like a Saturday morning villain while riding a mini-bike, launching a rocket, and training your pet monkey to collect the mail.

Let’s go Surfin!

City of Shadows

Ed Vebell’s illustration pulls us into a world where fire escapes double as front porches and windows frame the stories no one tells aloud.

A woman in red leans forward, caught between longing and curiosity. Across the alley, life unfolds in glimpses—a lover’s embrace, a quiet conspiracy, a lonely night by the radio. The skyline looms, but the real drama is here, where walls are thin and secrets echo between bricks.

The city breathes, and every window holds another untold story.

Blasting Off in Style

Forget countdowns—this mission is already in full swing. Three bombshells riding a bomb, grins locked in place, heels barely hanging on.

Somewhere between WWII propaganda and pulp sci-fi fantasy, this image captures an era where glamour met firepower, and the stars were just another stage.

The question remains: Are they guiding the missile or just along for the ride?

Roger Dean builds worlds that demand exploration.

His art expands beyond the canvas, shaping places both distant and familiar. Towering structures rise like frozen waves, trees twist with ancient purpose, and vibrant colors pulse with life.

His visions transform imagination into reality. Every piece opens a portal to a universe where nature evolves, architecture breathes, and adventure calls. Roger Dean shapes entire dimensions, turning dreams into destinations.

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Battle in Outer Space (1959) – The Final War for Earth Begins!

The Moon has fallen. The Earth is next.

From the farthest reaches of space, an alien invasion strikes without warning, overwhelming humanity with gravity beams, heat rays, and warships that tear through the sky. Cities crumble, world powers tremble, and all hope seems lost—until the nations of Earth do the unthinkable. They put aside their differences and launch an all-out counterattack in the most explosive space battle ever put to film.

Made by Toho Studios, the minds behind Godzilla, this high-octane sci-fi spectacle delivers everything you could ask for—spaceship dogfights, laser battles, massive destruction, and Earth’s last stand against a cosmic invasion. Stunning miniature effects, wild retro-futuristic tech, and an unstoppable alien menace make this one of the most ambitious outer-space epics of its time.

The Great Ape fires up the photon cannons—because when aliens try to take the planet, there’s only one answer: blast them out of the sky.

Enjoy the movie!

The Great Ape’s Guide to Pancake Perfection

Pancakes aren’t just food—they’re a test of patience, timing, and whether you can flip without disaster. A true master doesn’t settle for lumpy batter or burnt edges. This is an art form.

Start by sifting the dry ingredients like you actually know what you’re doing. Lumps add texture, sure—but there’s a fine line between “fluffy” and “chewing a baking accident.” In a separate bowl, whisk the wet ingredients until smooth. No buttermilk? A splash of lemon juice in regular milk keeps the pancake gods happy.

Now, combine the two, but don’t overdo it. Overmixing kills dreams. You want air pockets for lift, not gluey sadness.

Heat your griddle—medium-high, not incinerate-your-breakfast high. A frying pan will burn the edges before the center even gets the memo. Lightly grease the surface, pour out your batter, and let the magic happen.

Bubbles are your signal. Pop, sizzle, wait—then flip with the confidence of a trained professional. If you hesitate, you risk disaster. If you commit, you may achieve the legendary golden brown.

The Great Ape salutes your pancake mastery. Stack ‘em high, drown ‘em in syrup, and try not to start a domestic dispute over who gets the last one.

The Office Joker—Too Loud, Too Wrong, Too Much

Every workplace has one. A guy who laughs a little too hard at his own joke. The suspenders strain, the tie flaps, and the volume is always dialed to eleven.

Maybe he thinks he’s the life of the party. Maybe he’s the reason HR has a permanent headache.

A Bit Saucy, Béarnaise!

Paul Rader knew exactly how to turn up the heat without ever losing his cool. This 1960 masterpiece drapes a golden glow over a pin-up with effortless confidence—half-undressed but fully in control. The pose? A slow-burn sizzle. The expression? Pure knowing allure.

She owns the moment, commanding attention as the light and silk embrace her like a well-earned spotlight. The stockings stay on, the mystery lingers, and the temperature rises.

Paul Rader painted more than pin-ups—he painted temptation wrapped in elegance.

The Head Hunter – that is a cool chop..

The 1960s Shopping Cart—No Clicks, Just Stamps!

Before Amazon and overnight delivery, this was how you got the good stuff. Just send your money, sit back, and wait for magic to arrive in the mail. A transistor radio for cruising the airwaves, a home recorder to cut your own records, a reel-to-reel tape machine to capture secrets (or just your voice), and a BB repeater pistol—because why wouldn’t a kid need one? And if you really wanted to flex on the block, you could slap a “Sinners” or “Pacemakers” license plate on your Schwinn.

All this, delivered to your door, for the price of a few bucks and a postage stamp.

French Grand Prix, 1956—The Bugatti T251 Takes Its Shot

Under the watchful eyes of the pit crew, the Bugatti T251 sits open and exposed—a mechanical marvel with a transversely mounted 2.5L straight-8, a design choice as bold as Bugatti’s return to Grand Prix racing. Designed by Gioacchino Colombo, the mind behind Ferrari’s greatest machines, the car had all the right ingredients: an oversquare engine, a de Dion rear suspension, and Bugatti’s legendary craftsmanship.

But racing is ruthless. Driven by Maurice Trintignant, the T251 lined up at the 1956 French Grand Prix, ready to reclaim glory. 18 laps later, the dream was over. The car lacked the speed, the handling, the edge to keep up with its rivals.

A brilliant experiment? Absolutely. A race-winning machine? Not quite. But in the history of motorsport, few failures ever looked this good.

Somebody put something in my drink!

The Great Ape Salutes Ed Emshwiller – The Man Who Painted the Future

Some artists illustrate sci-fi. Ed Emshwiller built it. His covers erupted off the front of magazines, broke through the pages, and rewired your imagination. Bold, surreal, impossible visions—rockets twisting through dreamscapes, alien worlds alive with strange geometry, and machines too intricate for reality but too inevitable to ignore.

The man had a hand in everything—Galaxy, Amazing Stories, Astounding Science Fiction—his work defined the sci-fi aesthetic of the ’50s and ’60s. When people thought about the future, they saw it in Emshwiller colors—deep shadows, metallic shine, and that eerie balance of wonder and danger. But he refused to stay trapped in two dimensions.

Emshwiller broke loose from static images and took his vision into motion, warping time, space, and perception with his camera. While others played it safe, he chased the undiscovered country—blurring the line between cinema, hallucination, and the future racing toward us.

The Great Ape raises a glass to Emshwiller—visionary, mad scientist of the canvas, and prophet of the unreal. If your reality lacks the weird, you haven’t been looking at his work long enough. Turn the page, hit play, and step into the world he left waiting.

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Daredevils, Dragsters, and Depravity

Speed Is a Drug, and They Overdosed

No safety nets, no apologies, and no survivors. Whether launching off ramps or rolling the dice at 200 mph, these maniacs lived for the one thing that mattered—velocity.

The lowrider scene of the 1970s was culture, identity, and a movement that bounced to its own rhythm.

By the time this photo was taken, lowriding had evolved from a car modification trend into a full-blown Chicano cultural statement. The streets of Los Angeles, Fresno, and San Jose echoed with the slow, deliberate hum of custom rides, their candy-colored paint jobs flashing under the California sun. This wasn’t just about driving—it was about telling a story, celebrating heritage, and turning asphalt into a canvas.

Events like the ones at the Fresno Fairgrounds were more than car shows. They were community hubs, spaces where music, fashion, and identity came together. This was where hydraulic lifts turned Chevys into dancers and custom paint jobs became murals of pride. The people in the scene—from the ones working under the hood to those striking a pose beside the rides—were part of something bigger. A rolling testament to resilience, creativity, and self-determination, moving on whitewalls and wire-spokes.

And The Great Ape? He tips his hat to anyone who builds their own legacy. Low, slow, and full of soul—that’s how you ride into history.

Psycho Tom Sherlock Ford

Never Cross Troutman!

Some men settle their disputes with words. Others use fists. Troutman? He settles things with fish.

One second, you’re drawing your gun—the next, you’ve got a fresh catch plastered across your face. The sheer confidence, the perfect aim, the aquatic insult delivered at full force. This fight comes battered and served cold—justice, Troutman style.

Cross him once, and you’ll be picking scales out of your teeth for weeks.

“Darling, I simply must insist on the deluxe setting—my hair deserves it.”

On tonight’s episode of Salon of Doom, two unsuspecting patrons find themselves at the mercy of the latest in questionable sci-fi technology. Is this a mind-control experiment? A radical new perm technique? Or just Tuesday in the world of British espionage?

Mrs. Peel (right) remains unfazed—because if this is a diabolical plot, she’ll be out of that chair and delivering high-kicks before the rinse cycle is done. The other woman? Probably still waiting for the conditioner to set.

Strip Tease!

Ed Vebell’s illustration for a Sunday Mirror Magazine story

Published November 15, 1953, reimagines the workplace as something a little more relaxed. The filing cabinets are still there, but the real business is being handled over cocktails and candlelight.

The boss has a lot on his mind, and none of it involves quarterly reports. His dictation assistant leans in, cigarette poised, while a distant memory of stress—sketched faintly in the background—fades into irrelevance.

This is more than a workday—it’s a promotion to paradise.

Can you dig it? Absolutely.

Nothing says “final resting place” like an affordable, mail-order tombstone with easy terms and freight included—because even in the afterlife, a good deal is a good deal.

For the low, low price of $9.95 and up, you too can honor your dearly departed with a Rockdale Monument—a fine marker to ensure your loved one isn’t just resting in peace, but doing it with budget-conscious dignity.

Send for your free catalog today—because the Grim Reaper may not wait, but Rockdale Monument Company sure will.

The Great Ape salutes Noriyoshi Ohrai

A master who fused the organic and the mechanical into something unforgettable. His art pulses with life, even when the subject is more machine than human.

This split-face vision of beauty and circuitry reveals a world where emotions exist alongside cold calculation. A tear falls, but behind the illusion of flesh lies gears, wires, and a mind built to process the impossible. The apple at the core hints at knowledge, temptation, and the inescapable evolution of intelligence—organic or otherwise.

Ohrai’s work bridges the human and the artificial, capturing the moment where technology stops mimicking life and starts feeling it.

Gasser Passer on lift off!

Ed Kuepper Reflects on the Birth of [I’m] Stranded

“Around 48 years to the day—February ’77—I’m Stranded was unleashed on Australia.”

With those words, Ed Kuepper marks the anniversary of one of punk’s rawest, most electrifying debuts. The album hit like a wrecking ball—loud, unapologetic, and ready to start a riot. It was more than a record—it was a battle cry, a jagged blueprint for Australian punk that set the underground ablaze.

The LP housed the already-legendary title track, recorded in mid-’76, along with eight more feral anthems. Some of these—like Nights in Venice and Messin’ with the Kid—were among the first battle cries of The Saints, born from the band’s earliest days of thrashing it out in the Brisbane heat, far from the safety of London and New York’s punk hotspots.

But I’m Stranded wasn’t about following scenes nor about breaking rules, tearing up maps, and howling into the void with reckless abandon. Kuepper describes the era as an “inspiring and exciting time”—a moment of clearing the decks, setting the past ablaze, and making way for the next wave of sonic destruction. And that’s exactly what I’m Stranded did.

48 years later, the fire still burns and The Great Ape salutes The Saints—because proper revolutionaries like Ed don’t fade, they just get louder.

The Great Ape’s Guide to Stone Skipping Supremacy

Skipping a stone isn’t just a pastime—it’s a battle between physics, finesse, and your ego. The untrained throw a rock and watch it sink like a bad investment. The masters make it dance across the water like it owes them money.

Pick the perfect stone. Flat, smooth, and no bigger than your palm. Too heavy, and it’s a submarine. Too round, and it’s a cannonball. Balance is everything. Grip it right—thumb on top, middle finger underneath, index finger hooked like you’re about to pull off the greatest trick shot of all time.

Stand at a slight angle like a seasoned sidearm pitcher. Pull back, cock your wrist, and just before release, snap it like you’re flicking fate itself. The magic number? A 20-degree angle. That’s what the scientists say. The Great Ape says “throw with confidence and make the water respect you.”

When it skips once, you’re a beginner. When it skips twice, you’re learning. When it skips so far it enters legend, the Great Ape nods in approval.

The Great Ape salutes your mastery of stone skipping. Now get out there and defy gravity, impress onlookers, and pretend that one bad throw never happened.

Marilyn understood the real currency—presence.

A house of cards stacked with fortune, a casual flick of a bill—this image captures more than glamour. It speaks to power, allure, and the art of turning life into a spectacle.

The Great Ape salutes a queen who never needed to chase wealth—she made it follow.

The Misfits—A Final Bow for Hollywood’s Golden Age

Hollywood once thrived on myths—larger-than-life figures who carried the weight of dreams on their shoulders. The Misfits (1961) marked the moment those myths cracked.

Clark Gable, the undisputed king of old Hollywood, and Marilyn Monroe, the luminous star forever caught between fantasy and fragility, took the stage for one last act. Directed by the hard-living, hard-drinking John Huston, the film was more than a Western—it was a farewell. A meditation on loneliness, disillusionment, and the American dream unraveling at the seams. Not just the last ride for Gable. Not just Monroe’s final completed film. A goodbye to an entire era.

Monroe, ever meticulous, obsessed over Gable’s image, demanding retouches to ensure the King of Hollywood appeared as he always had. Maybe it was respect. Maybe she saw a reflection of her own fate. A star whose light burned so fiercely that the world refused to let it fade. Gable carried the weight like a pro, but The Misfits drained him. Less than two weeks after filming, he was gone. Monroe followed a year later, swallowed by the machine that made her.

The Misfits stands as a haunting farewell, a film soaked in dust, sweat, and the weight of finality. And The Great Ape? He watches Gable tip his hat one last time and sees Monroe’s smile flicker like the end of a reel. A curtain call for an era, for a dream, for Hollywood as it was. The lights stay on, but the ghosts never leave.

The Ultimate Career Dilemma—Why Not Both?

Why settle for one path when mystery and illusion go hand in hand? By day, a hard-boiled detective unraveling secret investigations from the shadows. By night, a master of sleight of hand, making evidence—and enemies—vanish with a flick of the wrist.

Top Hat Magic Co. has the tricks. Geo. C.N. Wagner has the cases. The real question is—are you ready to pull a career out of your hat?

Edward Hopper – Compartment C, Car 1938

A train in motion, a woman in stillness. Hopper traps a moment between destinations, where solitude hums louder than the wheels on the tracks.

Bathed in muted light, she reads, lost in thought, untouched by the rush outside. The open window breathes dusk into the cabin, but the landscape barely registers—her world exists within. Travel is movement, but this is a pause. A quiet, introspective space carved out of transit, where time slows and loneliness lingers.

Hopper painted more than scenes. He framed silences, shaped the weight of empty spaces, and revealed the unspoken stories between strangers.

Ed Valigursky painted desire like a live wire—charged, fleeting, and humming with the tension between passion and detachment.

Cold War curiosity meets pulp seduction—because nothing sells like scandal, satire, and a splash of red.

Pure, unfiltered childhood mayhem—no batteries, no rules, just the sweet sound of destruction!

The Great Ape remembers these beauties well. The howl of power, the snap of plastic, the glorious crunch of a perfectly executed T-bone collision. Smash-Up Derby wasn’t a mere toy—it was a battlefield for the fearless, where only the toughest cars (and kids) triumphed.

Salute to the golden age of reckless fun!

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The Great Ape’s Guide to Stopping When Your Brakes Say ‘Nope’!

Speed is a thrill—until it’s a problem. When the pedal hits the floor and nothing happens, you’ve got two choices: panic and pray, or take control like a highway hero.

Take your foot off the gas and flip on those hazard lights. Pump the brakes like you’re trying to start a fire. If that doesn’t work, downshift—gear by gear, slow and steady. When things get desperate, ease up the handbrake—don’t yank it unless you fancy a high-speed spinout. No good options left? The guardrail is your new best friend, and soft dirt is your escape route.

The Great Ape salutes your quick thinking. You conquered the runaway ride, now go check your brakes before they betray you again. Or just embrace the chaos and build a parachute for your car.

The Future Was Always Faster

Alex Schomburg’s image for Rockets to Nowhere (1954) launches straight into a jet-fueled fever dream of atomic-age optimism. Chrome-plated fins, gleaming rocket spires, and a sky painted in possibility—this isn’t dystopia, it’s departure.

The car growls like a rocket on wheels, the pilot dashes toward the unknown, and somewhere beyond that crescent moon, adventure waits.

The Great Ape tips his helmet—because the best sci-fi doesn’t hesitate. It hits the ignition and never looks back.

A six-pack?

Now that’s planning ahead! Nothing says family bonding like a house full of people strapped into the Trilesty Lipshaper™, looking like a 1920s orthodontic experiment gone rogue.

Not only does this miracle device reshape your lips overnight, but it also eliminates snoring—because who needs restful sleep when you can wake up looking like an ad for questionable 19th-century beauty science?

Order now! Supplies are endless, but dignity is limited.

Altered Tri 5 Blown Hell

Jughead seems to have left quite the impression!

Either he’s secretly the smoothest operator in Riverdale, or he just discovered the power of a well-timed snack-related compliment. Whatever just happened, she’s questioning reality, and he’s running off like a man with no regrets.

Step right up, my fine furry finks.

This catalog is a one-way ticket to childhood mayhem for the price of a burger and fries.

The Outlaw Target. Nothing says fun like blasting a mustachioed desperado’s hat clean off his head with a suction dart. Accuracy? Optional. Satisfaction? Guaranteed.

The Tune King Swing Accordion. Who needs talent when you’ve got plastic reeds and vinyl bellows? Play all the hits—or at least make a noise that makes the dog leave the room.

The 1951 Auto Sensation. A remote-controlled dream machine that’s probably faster than your dad’s old jalopy. Just don’t drive it under the couch—it’s a one-way trip.

Puncho the Fighting Clown. He’s weighted at the bottom, so no matter how many times you knock him down, he keeps getting back up. Just like your unresolved childhood issues.

Blondie with “Rubber Skin.” Squeeze her, she coos. Leave her in the sun too long? She melts. But at $2.98, you’re getting your money’s worth.

All this and more, mailed straight to your door. Send your nickels, dimes, or whatever loose change you found in the couch to Novelty Mart, Dept. 3, and let the chaos begin. Act fast—satisfaction may vary, but disappointment is forever.

Did You Know?

Camp David wasn’t always Camp David.

Before Eisenhower stamped his grandson’s name onto it, FDR called it “Shangri-La,” a nod to the mythical paradise from Lost Horizon. Built in 1938 as a retreat for government employees, it found new life as the President’s getaway—a hidden sanctuary in the Maryland woods, far from the chaos of Washington.

When Eisenhower took office, he decided “Shangri-La” sounded a little too grand for a military man. So, in 1953, he renamed it after his grandson, David Eisenhower, who was just five years old at the time.

Since then, Camp David has been the backdrop for history—secret negotiations, world-altering decisions, and the occasional presidential round of golf. But at its core, it remains what it was meant to be—a quiet escape for the world’s most powerful people.

The Great Ape salutes a good retreat. Even he needs a break now and again.

Sheldon Schmidt’s BB/FA 1934 Ford 3W

Heartbreak at the Door

Rules are rules, but try explaining that to a child with a suitcase full of hope and an elephant made of dreams.

The sign is clear. The door is shut. But the little one? Still waiting. Maybe someone will come along and make an exception. Maybe they won’t. Either way, it’s a hard lesson in the fine print of belonging.

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Redline Revolvers and Death-Defying Dames

They Drove, They Fought, They Conquered

There was no safe word in their vocabulary, no reverse gear in their transmissions. Every move was full throttle, every moment was a risk. Some survived. Some didn’t. None were forgotten.

COE!

The Great Ape stares at this image, and the gears in his mind start turning.

Because blurry snapshots like this hint at the unknown and beckon us to the edge of possibility. This image likely refers to a well-known piece of UFO footage, particularly from the 1950s, related to alleged sightings and unexplained phenomena dating prior to editing digital images.

This UFO, hovering over a quiet, snow-covered landscape like a ghost from another dimension, is a challenge, a call to reach beyond the boundaries of what we think we know. Who needs proof when the mystery itself is the answer? Whether it’s a figment of imagination, a government cover-up, or something that truly defies explanation, the question remains: What if? What if the truth really is out there?

The Great Ape tips his banana, because real explorers chase the answers, wherever they might be. And if those answers lead to the stars, he’s already halfway there. Unanswered mysteries fuel the journey.

Archie Dickens’ Fluttering Fantasy!

Some fairies grant wishes, some fairies guard lost treasure, and some—like the ones imagined by Archie Dickens—simply flirt with existence.

Wrapped in feathered mischief and twinkling charm, this sprite teases the viewer with a pose that says “Catch me if you can”—but good luck trying. Her bright red heels barely kiss the ground, her antennae shimmer with a knowing tilt, and that smirk? Pure pixie trouble.

This isn’t some delicate, dewdrop-dwelling nymph. This is a cheeky enchantress with a wink sharp enough to leave a mark. And if she does grant you a wish, don’t be surprised if it comes with a playful sting.

A Treasure Trove of Questionable Genius!

Nothing stretched a kid’s pocket money further than a mail-order miracle like this. A single crumpled dollar bill could turn you into a karate master, a hypnotic overlord, a master of disguise, or a ghost-summoning menace—and that was just the beginning.

See-Behind Glasses for outsmarting your enemies. Smoke Cloud Pellets for a getaway. A Joy Buzzer for enemies you wanted to keep close. Werewolf Masks, Secret Book Safes, and the ever-important Monster Ghost—because nothing solidifies your reputation like terrorizing the neighborhood.

And of course, the Raquel Welch Pillow. Because what red-blooded kid wouldn’t want that awkwardly stuffed onto their bunk bed for reasons they definitely wouldn’t explain to their mom?

It was a dollar well spent, a lifelong disappointment guaranteed, and yet—if you never ordered at least one thing from a catalog like this, did you even have a childhood?

Jean Harlow and Max Baer: A Scandal That Never Was

In 1933, Jean Harlow was Hollywood’s reigning blonde bombshell, and Max Baer was the heavyweight champion with a grin as dangerous as his right hook. Their paths crossed during the filming of The Prizefighter and the Lady, where Baer’s charm and Harlow’s star power created a combustible mix of gossip and speculation.

While Baer had a reputation for breaking hearts, he wasn’t swept away by the siren of the silver screen. “Too much brain work,” he quipped about acting, and Harlow, for all her on-screen allure, was a far quieter presence in reality. But the press wasn’t interested in the truth—it was interested in the story.

When Louella Parsons, Hollywood’s most feared gossip columnist, reported on Harlow’s frequent appearances at Baer’s fights and on set, the flames of scandal were fanned. Even worse, Baer’s wife, Dorothy Dunbar, knew about the affair. With a looming divorce, there were whispers that Harlow might be dragged into the courtroom drama—something MGM refused to let happen.

Timing made it even worse. Just a year earlier, Harlow’s husband, Paul Bern, had died under mysterious circumstances. A second scandal could have torpedoed her career. The studio sprang into action, orchestrating a quickie marriage to cinematographer Harold Rosson—her friend, not her lover—to steer the headlines elsewhere.

The marriage lasted only eight months, but it did its job. The whispers of Harlow and Baer faded, Hollywood moved on, and the studio machine rolled forward, as it always did. Jean Harlow was a star, but even stars weren’t immune to the brutal politics of image control.

The Great Ape tips his fedora. Old Hollywood played rough, but Harlow played to win.

Checkpoint Chaos—Exit Strategy Required!

Mort Künstler never painted a dull moment, and this one is pure high-velocity Cold War mayhem. The Brandenburg Gate looms in the background, but there’s no time for sightseeing—this is an all-American getaway gone wrong.

A red sedan screeches to a halt, throwing open its door like a last-ditch escape hatch. The dame? Pure blonde dynamite, caught between a desperate grab and a high-heeled sprint for freedom. The goon in the backseat? He’s holding on for dear life. The Military Police officer? Locked, loaded, and looking to settle this chase with a bang.

Meanwhile, the contents of a purse take flight—loose change, a compact, maybe a classified document or two? The stakes are high, the tension is thick, and the pavement’s got no sympathy for a bad landing.

No one’s walking away from this clean—espionage never comes with a smooth escape.

When you are fast, you need “Fast” Food too

The Future of Hair Perfection—No Extra Hands Required!

No more awkwardly angling hand mirrors or attempting ESP to style the back of your head. The New Hairstyle Mirror has arrived, and it’s as simple as glasses with built-in rear-view magic.

Just slip them on, stand in front of a mirror, and PRESTO! Your entire hairstyle is now visible—fully hands-free! Style, trim, or tint without playing a game of contortionist twister.

Folds up like a pair of glasses, light as air, and small enough to fit in your handbag. At just $2.98, you can finally master the art of the perfect updo—and when your friends see it, they’ll be lining up to mirror your genius.

The Great Ape’s Tactics for Catching a Sneaky Snooper

Paranoia? Maybe. But just because you’re paranoid doesn’t mean they’re not going through your stuff. Whether it’s a nosy roommate, a shady hotel staffer, or an overzealous spy agency, The Great Ape knows how to set the perfect trap.

A little talcum powder on knobs and locks turns any intruder into an amateur fingerprint artist. A stray hair placed across a drawer or passport can confirm whether someone’s been rifling through your secrets. A small piece of lint between zipper teeth on a bag is the ultimate travel alarm system—if it’s missing, someone’s been inside.

Look for the telltale signs. Scratches around keyholes? That lock’s seen some action. Items slightly shifted from where you left them? Your space has been compromised.

And if you’re really feeling like a secret agent, lay out your things in a very specific pattern before you leave. The smallest disturbance will tell you if someone’s been snooping. No dusting for prints required.

The Great Ape salutes your watchful eye. Now, go out and enjoy your day—but always come back ready to check if your fortress has been breached.

Toothy…

Sterling Silver, Secret Tricks, and Sultry Looks—All for Pocket Change!

A ring with a photo of your beloved, a deck of magic cards to wow the crowd, and pin-ups that promise to “inspire”—this vintage ad page has everything a red-blooded mail-order enthusiast could dream of.

Need a foolproof way to win at cards? Done. Want a custom ring that declares undying love (or at least an easy way to keep track of your sweetheart)? They’ve got it. And if you’re looking for a bit of glamour tucked inside your wallet, those pin-up sets are waiting—magnetic, inspiring, exquisite!

No money up front. No questions asked. Just send away and let the magic, the mystery, and maybe a little mischief arrive right at your door.

MISSION LOG: DAY ONE – FIRST CONTACT

Helmet secured. Ray gun armed. The young explorer embarks on his deep-space mission, venturing into the unknown—only to encounter a lifeform beyond comprehension. Not a mutant, not a robot, but… a butterfly?

Somewhere in the vast cosmos (or maybe just the backyard), the boundaries between science fiction and childhood wonder dissolve.

To some, it’s just a butterfly. To him, it’s proof that the universe is full of surp

Mr Rumble

Link Wray – Ace of Spades Live UK 1996 – 3 chords. 2 hands. 1 lung.

The legend of Link Wray is built on raw power, distortion, and a sound so primal it scared the suits into banning Rumble from radio back in ‘58. Bob Dylan called it “the best instrumental ever.” Pete Townshend once said, “If it hadn’t been for Link Wray and Rumble, I never would have picked up a guitar.” That’s the weight this man carried—a sonic wrecking ball that reshaped rock ‘n’ roll with nothing but attitude and a wall of sound.

From The Who to Neil Young, The MC5 to The Stooges, the influence of Wray’s dirty, swaggering riffs is woven into the DNA of every power chord ever blasted through an amp. Wray has been performing and recording since the 1940’s. And here, in 1996, the mighty Wray still had the fire, still had the snarl, and still had that unmistakable Ace of Spades riff cutting through the air like a blade.

The Great Ape bows to the King of the Power Chord—hit play and feel the rumble.

Ancient Echoes Across Time and Stone

From the wind-carved canyons of Utah to the rugged rock faces of Japan and Azerbaijan, the same vision appears, etched in stone. Winged figures, human-like yet otherworldly, reach across time and geography, telling a story we were never meant to forget.

Separated by oceans, continents, and millennia, these ancient artists never met—yet their hands carved the same truth. Were they inspired by something real? A shared memory, passed through generations? Or is there something deeper stirring in the human consciousness, a story written not in books, but in the very bones of our past?

Coincidence is easy to accept. But when the same message appears in places that should never have crossed paths, it starts to feel like a whisper from history itself.

The Great Ape leans in—because when the past keeps repeating itself, it might just be trying to get our attention.

Upgrade in Progress – Please Wait

Behold the cutting-edge of mid-century madness. Whether this is a brainwave amplifier, a high-tech perm gone rogue, or the world’s most ambitious dial-up connection, one thing’s for sure—she’s getting a download, whether she wants it or not.

The future is here. And apparently, it requires a lot of cables.

Traditional

She’s the center of attention. Mort Kunstler’s cover artwork for April 1967’s “Stag” magazine.

The Wizard and the Burglar: A Meeting That Changed Middle-earth

Gandalf was no fool. He knew Hobbits possessed an unmatched gift—the ability to move unseen and unheard, a quiet step that even Elves would admire. The Dwarves, for all their craftsmanship and warrior spirit, were sturdy, loud, and burdened by an old grudge. If this quest was to succeed, it needed something more than steel and stubbornness.

The great dragon, Smaug, had keen senses, an endless greed, and a fire that could melt armies. The Dwarves had vengeance in their hearts and boots that shook the mountains. But a Hobbit, quick-footed and light-hearted, could slip past the beast’s defenses where no armored warrior could.

And so, standing outside a round, green door, with a pipe in his hand and adventure in his voice, Gandalf changed the fate of Middle-earth. He saw the stirrings of wanderlust in Bilbo Baggins, a Hobbit sick at heart for a taste of the wider world, even if he didn’t know it yet.

This wasn’t just the beginning of a quest for gold—it was the first step toward the return of a King, the end of a Dark Lord, and the most unexpected hero Middle-earth had ever seen.

The Great Ape tips his hat to the old wizard—always two steps ahead, always betting on the little guy.

Drive-Thru Mayhem – No Reservations Needed

Nothing says “customer loyalty program gone wrong” like a high-speed shootout between a convertible Casanova and the angriest rent-a-truck employee in history.

The woman? Halfway to ejecting herself from the vehicle. The guy in the sports car? One hand on the wheel, one hand on the trigger—priorities. The shooter in the van? Clearly skipping the deposit refund process.

Flash Rent-A-Truck: Now offering express checkout—whether you like it or not.

Tackle? Tickle? Total Chaos?

The gym floor is a battleground of miscommunication and misplaced enthusiasm. Did the instructor demand a tackle, or is this a bizarrely aggressive request for a tickle? Maybe he’s just having a breakdown mid-workout.

The blonde? Unfazed. The guy in the shadows? Deeply invested. The instructor? Seconds away from a nervous collapse.

Whatever was supposed to happen here—this wasn’t it.

Science, Magic, or Just a Very Unfortunate Filter?

Look, real tans take effort—sun, time, and a mild concern for melanoma. But not Bahama Tanning Products! Just pop a few pills, bask in 20 minutes of sun, and voilà! Instant bronze, no orange streaks, and absolutely zero reason to question what’s happening inside your body.

The proof? A “before” shot straight from your driver’s license photo and an “after” that looks like you fell asleep in a toaster.

100% Natural! Money-Back Guarantee! No word on how long the glow lasts, but one thing’s for sure—this is a look that won’t be forgotten.

Leopard Print, Low Rent, and a Davy Crockett Exclusive—What More Do You Need?

Brief magazine knew how to sell a dream. Live for $600 a year! Learn the art of “packaging” a pretty girl! And just in case that isn’t enough—Davy Crockett like you’ve never seen him before!

Kim Wadsworth smiles like she’s in on the joke, wrapped in leopard print and mid-century optimism. Somewhere out there, a man is flipping pages, wondering if $600 really buys a year of paradise.

The answer? If it does, it won’t come with Kim.

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Graveyard Shifters and Gasoline Ghouls

When the Road Owns Your Soul

They say some drivers never stop, even after death. Maybe it’s the roar of the engine, the scent of burning oil, or the promise of one last, perfect race. Whatever the reason, the headlights still glow in the dark.

Of course—Boris Vallejo never holds back.

A burning alien sky. A goddess of flesh and fur. A kingdom ruled by the inscrutable gaze of a cosmic feline.

Vallejo’s 1978 cover for Godsfire goes beyond sci-fi fantasy—it’s dominance, desire, and danger wrapped in bronze light. The feline-humanoid stands tall, tail coiled, body sculpted like something worshipped in a lost temple. Beside her, a kneeling man—half awed, half surrendered—stares into the unknown.

But above it all, the true ruler looms. The great cosmic cat, watching from the void. Is it a god? A master? Or just an amused observer, waiting for mere mortals to act out their little dramas?

One thing’s certain—humans don’t run this world.

Science marches forward… but to where, exactly?

Whatever experiment is happening here, someone clearly approved the funding. A lab coat, a garden hose, and a woman inexplicably enjoying a high-pressure blast of water—because nothing says “scientific progress” like a full-on backyard sprinkler treatment.

Move along, folks. Nothing to see here but the cutting edge of… something.

The Great Ape’s Guide to Surviving a Plummeting Elevator

So, you’ve found yourself in an elevator, and gravity has suddenly decided to remind you who’s boss. Stay calm—screaming might be traditional, but survival is better.

If there’s a handrail, grab it like your life depends on it—because it does. Brace against the wall, knees bent, absorbing the impact like a seasoned action hero. No handrail? Hit the floor. Literally. Spread out on your back, arms protecting your head like you’re preparing for the worst trust fall of your life.

When the elevator finally stops trying to kill you, it’s time to make some noise. Press the emergency button, yell, bang on the doors—be the loudest person in the building. If nobody comes, find a thin piece of metal to pry the doors open. Whatever you do, don’t pull a movie stunt and climb out the top unless you enjoy the idea of high-voltage surprises.

The Great Ape salutes your survival instincts. You’ve cheated gravity, outwitted fate, and lived to tell the tale. Now take the stairs for a while—you’ve earned it.

When the Wild Ones roll into town, the rules hit the pavement.

Mort Kunstler captures pure outlaw energy in this high-octane heist—bikers, bullets, and bad intentions taking over a bank like they own the place. A fallen cop, a terrified crowd, and a deadly standoff that’s just getting started.

She leans against the chopper, cool as ice, while the gang lays down the law—their law. The American flag still stands, but for how long?

Time to check the balance—savings, trust, and the rule of law all just got overdrawn.

“Special Doughnuts”

Because nothing says “trust me” like a grinning man in a top hat offering glowing pastries.

She looks shocked. He looks delighted. The doughnut? Highly suspicious.

One bite could mean bliss… or oblivion. Either way, it isn’t breakfast—it’s a plot twist.

Paul Reubens: The Pre-Pee-wee Years – A Glimpse Into the Oddball Genius

Before Pee-wee Herman became a pop culture phenomenon, Paul Reubens was already cultivating his signature blend of eccentricity and absurdity. This 1979 bachelor pad photo shoot captured him as “Alfred,” a character described as an intellectual type—obsessed with classical music, immersed in books, and possibly a little too into his stereo setup.

Reubens, in thick glasses and a suit, saws away at a violin, while a lounging woman—dressed in gym shorts and sneakers—looks thoroughly unimpressed. The room is a curated mess of high-brow chaos—bookshelves stacked with everything from classic literature to anatomy charts, a skull, microscope, and typewriter scattered among the clutter. It’s like Pee-wee’s Playhouse before it got its coat of Technicolor insanity.

This wasn’t just a quirky photo session—it was a window into the madness brewing beneath the surface. That same year, Reubens debuted Pee-wee Herman on The Dating Game, an early glimpse of the childlike, bowtie-clad oddball who would go on to define an era of surreal comedy.

The road from Alfred’s serious-faced absurdity to Pee-wee’s laughing, dancing, prank-pulling chaos wasn’t long. By the mid-’80s, Pee-wee’s Big Adventure (1985) and Pee-wee’s Playhouse (1986-1990) cemented Reubens as a master of the bizarre and the brilliant. But even here, in black-and-white, stuck in a bachelor pad that looks one library card away from a mad scientist’s lair, you can see it. The spark. The lunacy. The genius.

The Great Ape Tips His Hat (and Maybe a Tiny Red Bowtie)

“Pee-wee wasn’t built in a day. The man had to marinate in the weird before he could serve up the full platter. This? This was the appetizer.“

GALA Magazine brings the heat, and Patti Waggin delivers the knockout.

Billed as an “Anatomic Bombshell,” she isn’t just wearing a bikini—she’s declaring war on dull. The battle of the bikinis rages on, but with curves this lethal, the competition may as well surrender.

Some names smolder. Some names explode. Patti Waggin does both.

Ed Valigursky takes us beyond the final frontier

Where gravity is optional, skirts stay short, and space travel comes with a side of seduction.

Blasting off at full speed, this cosmic siren isn’t just along for the ride—she is the ride. The rocket follows, the stars blur, and the laws of physics take a backseat to pulp-fueled fantasy.

Some travel light. Others travel legendary.

“Children love this delicious laxative!”

Sure they do—because nothing brings joy like a surprise evacuation. Ex-Lax: The chocolated laxative that turns digestive distress into a sweet treat. Mothers trust it, kids unknowingly love it, and nature never forgets.

One bite, one smile, and in no time, junior’s on a non-stop express to relief.

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Ed Vebell knew how to paint danger with a velvet touch.

She isn’t hiding—she’s waiting. Draped in red, half-lit in mystery, and smirking at the chase. The guards outside? Clueless. The real power is right here, stretched across the shadows, biding her time.

A getaway? A setup? Or just another night where the hunter becomes the hunted? Whatever the game, she plays it on her terms.

The Jayne Mansfield Hot Aqua Bottle

Because why settle for ordinary when you can cuddle up with a bombshell?

For a cool $5.98, you get 22 inches of pink vinyl glamour, scaled 1/3 to 1 to keep those Arctic nights a little less frosty. Jayne Mansfield in miniature, bringing the heat in a way only she could.

Straight from The Game Room’s catalog of “light-hearted gifts,” but let’s be honest—this is one for the ages.

Vee-Dubb!

I’m going to tread carefully with this one

Classic comic panels sometimes age like milk left in a hot rod’s glovebox.

Context? Who needs it? The dialogue is doing all the heavy lifting here, and let’s be honest, the unintentional comedy is off the charts.

Maybe it’s a heartfelt moment of encouragement. Maybe it’s about facing one’s fears. Maybe it’s just a perfect storm of old-school phrasing colliding with modern sensibilities in the most awkward way possible.

One thing’s for sure—Golden Age comics were built different.

Hey! You made it to the end—no toe tags required.

The Great Ape’s Last Laugh – One Step Closer to the Lobotomy Lounge!

Congratulations, you Knuckle-Dragging Nitro Junkies!

You just dropped one notch in the evolutionary scale—you drag-raced through insanity and came out the other side with a grin full of bugs and a trail of destruction behind you. You burned rubber across the wasteland, dodged the wreckage, and slammed the throttle straight through to oblivion.

The Great Ape salutes you— not with a handshake, but with a fist wrapped around a flaming gearshift and a roar that rattles the underworld.

DE-EVOLUTION DOESN’T WAIT – AND NEITHER SHOULD YOU

This ain’t no joyride through memory lane—this was a nitro-fed, fire-spitting, teeth-rattling warp drive to the unknown.

The pistons screamed, the tailpipes howled, and the brakes? Brakes are for L-Users.

You’ve officially taken one more wild leap toward the Lobotomy Lounge, where the weak tap out and the fearless rewrite the rules in engine oil and bad decisions.

You’ve officially taken one step closer to the Lobotomy Lounge, where the weak fear to tread and the strong embrace the madness, the mayhem, and the pure, unfiltered anarchy.

THIS MANIFESTO NEVER PARKS – KEEP IT MOVING

This is your last pit stop before the next meltdown.

The next issue? Louder. Meaner. A full-throttle, unhinged, nitro-burning beast.

Think we topped out? My Fume-Huffing Feral Apes, you haven’t even seen 2nd gear yet.

So keep the throttle pinned, the engine screaming for mercy, and your pulse in the red.
The Great Ape doesn’t believe in limits—he scoffs at them.

NEXT MONTH, WE RIP THE STREETS TO SHREDS

Stay wild. Stay reckless. And whatever you do—don’t let up.

Because when the following Manifesto Maravillado BigBoy detonates next month, you’ll either be part of the explosion or roadkill in my rearview.

So long! The Great Ape has left the building – Thank you … Thank you very much!

Oh yer and the Great Ape did write the riff even though he only hit the skins in “Speak Cyborg or Die!” Give it a play!