I am just old enough to remember the last of the Golden Years of the Pulp Novel, those gloriously tawdry, cheap paperbacks that featured wildly-lurid art and titles, and tales of all kinds of taboo, salacious activities like Martian rape and girl-on-girl sweater-sharing. Of course, my family would NEVER EVER have had any of these around, but every so often I'd see one at a newsstand or in the hands of a sweaty neighborhood teenager. You couldn't help but look at them, as they usually featured busty, scantily-clad ladies, guns, aliens, and exclamation points, but then you'd worry someone SAW you looking, which would be unbearably embarrassing. In some way, these were even worse to be caught with than Playboy or Penthouse; not only were they overtly sexual, they were overtly stupid. Many, I believe, were written by dogs.

Let us celebrate these days with a few brilliant pulp novel covers of the mid-20th Century. They don't make 'em like this anymore...mainly because you can see everything you ever could think of on the internet now. What a world.

Terrifying Newt Wars!!! AAHHH! Actually, "Newt Wars" takes on a much more frightening prospect these days, if you think about Gingrich and his moon base.

"Ann's price was high..." For fifty bucks, you won't even get me to take off a sock. FAIL, Ann.

What on earth does this title have to do with this woman who is having issues with keeping her dress on, and why do we need to have the author's name and pseudonym on the cover? Bats fly at dusk, water is wet, get out.

Of course, I have no idea what this says, but if I had to guess it would be, "Giant Skull With Bullet Hole Sneaks Up On Sleeping Chunky Gal; Dick & Jane Shine Flashlights."

"The dead dance the samba," and star in a major motion picture with Carmen Miranda, apparently.

Let's bring on the lesbians! You can always identify lesbians by their penchant for wearing lingerie that's almost ready to fall off, and pants. They also tend to give smoldering hot looks to other women wearing these items. They also all live on Gay Street.

This woman strikes me as less "aroused" than "psychotic." Or perhaps she has a thyroid problem.

Ya know...this Suzy doesn't really seem to need anyone, especially not Mr. Chucklehead there. She'd eat him alive...and maybe that's the plot of the book.

And, what exactly is the problem here?

Best. Title. Ever.

Best. Superheroes. Ever.

What's hiding at the Monster Motel? Apparently some guy from Dreamworks.

I guess I'm just having trouble imagining the guy who is reading this, worried his lady friend is a sex fiend and wishing he, too, was a jungle raider. I possibly don't understand men, though.

That doesn't look like a fuse; it looks like a gun. Whole different way to ruin a dude's day, but possibly less messy.

What, she's already picking up his smelly gym socks and he never listens to a word she says?

You can always tell a loose hick chick by her ripped clothes and joint laxity.

And finally, brevity for the win!