A Fling with Space Thing, Part 1

Welcome to 2014.  A little warning about this post, which starts the review of Space Thing, a 1968 soft-core Dave Friedman nudie.  This kind of multi-part, navel-gazing review is nothing new to my readers, all of whom are prisoners forced to read this blog Clockwork Orange style in order to repay their debts to society.

What is new is some of the most upsetting images you're ever going to see.  This is 1968, long before plastic surgery and razors.  Razors for men.  You've been warned.

A small preview of the horrors to come.

Our hero -- don't snicker, it's the best we are getting -- is ignoring his wife while reading sci-fi pulp novels.  He's pretty smirky for somebody that's half wildebeest.

Having the side of the bed that's next to the plywood bar is bad enough, but now the wife finds herself being ignored.  She's going to have to step it up.

Twiki had a hard time finding work after Buck Rogers was cancelled.

That is one sexy curl!

I'd say something about the woman but I'm fascinated by the painting, which seems be of the Salem Witch Trials, from the perspective of the burning witch.

This tactic works, and our first soft-core scene starts.  It's a doozy.  Buckle in.  Have your barf bags ready.  Here we go with the nightmare fuel.  First up:

She's going to get a back full of newsprint ...

There's parts of the 60s I don't think anybody wants returned.  For one, false eyelashes so big that they've formed their own gravitation wells, which for interstellar navigation help were marked by white parking lines.

Also, indeterminate neck and/or possible breast muscles, or just summer sausage sewed in underneath the skin in case there is a surprise famine.

I'm not hugging, I just can't get my fingers untangled from your back hair!

Tightie whities.

Thank whatever dark gods got into google and sent you to this blog that those things are clean.  They are tight.  They are white.  And, I suspect, they are barely holding in whatever terrible jungle -- full of crawling and clawing monsters -- that growing down there.

Are you still with me?  Here it comes.  I'm even nice enough to tell you what it is.  It's a picture of a woman licking a man's stomach.  That doesn't sound that bad, does it?

Oh, you fool.

You stupid, stupid fool.

... that or part of my dog.

It's OK to scream.  It won't get the image out of your head, that's there forever, but it will make you feel better.  For a little while.  The horror never dies.