B'wana Beast

-

B'wana Beast.  This is a for real comic published by DC in 1967.


Showcase #66 February, 1967




The second issue.


This is good art.  That is all I got to say about this.


If anyone is wondering about the Rhino/Zebra, remember that the 'helmet' lets him combine two animals and control it/them.  At this point I can't stand it any longer and wish to point out that this costume would get him arrested during Mardi Gras at any point in it's history.


Freedom Beast, B'wana's replacement.  You got to be fucking kidding me.  On top of the original insult to start with, now they put a black guy in here?  In a porn outfit?
Still, he kinda makes it work.  Dynamite pro wrestling get up to be sure.  Pimp my Speedos!



https://braveandboldlost.blogspot.com/2015/01/bwana-beast-and-conan.html


Lookin' pretty buff  at 53.


That's it, I can't even summon up a decent amount of snark for this.  Kudos to Andrew the Bee, Jungle Comics master, for bringing this to my basilisk attention.


Andy in a rare moment at home.  That is his eager assistant, Wendy, ready to tear into another uncharted Dark Continent adventure!



Kwaheri!

(Swahili for 'goodbye', subtlety is a waste of effort on this site). 


Jambo, B'wana!


Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

Father's Last Escape

-
Image
It happened in the late and forlorn period of complete disruption, at the time of the liquidation of our business. The signboard had been removed from over our shop, the shutters were halfway down, and inside the shop my mother was conducting and unauthorized trade in remnants. Adela had gone to America, and it was said that the boat on which she had sailed had sunk and that all the passengers had lost their lives. We were unable to verify this rumour, but all trace of the girl was lost and we never heard of her again.  A new age began - empty, sober and joyless, like a sheet of white paper. A new servant girl, Genya, anaemic, pale, and boneless, mooned about the rooms. When one patted her on the back, she wriggled, stretched like a snake, or purred like a cat. She had a dull white complexion, and even the insides of her eyelids were white. She was so absent-minded that she sometimes made a white sauce from old letters and invoices: it was sickly and inedible.  At that t
Read more

Two Bad Men, Said Their Murderers

-
Image
John Choate, 25 August 1818 - 3 August 1869 Crokett Choate, 1842 -3 August 1869 This tells of a grave by the dashing wave A fond friends lip that did quiver Of an eye that's hid by a leaden lid And a voice now stilled forever. John on the left.  They were originally buried where they were killed but October of that year the Refugio Masons moved the bodies to Rockport.  This was all part of the Sutton-Taylor feud, the Suttons were backed by the U. S. Government and of no particular righteousness, they were badge wearing murderers and bullies.  The two story house with the porch running around the second floor in the left background belongs to my sister.  A lovely house and the best behaved neighbors possible! Photos by Steve Davis. The man who killed them.  Sheriff.  Regulator. Murderer. https://books.google.com/books?id=PUvanZiwzdUC&pg=PA64&lpg=PA64&dq=john+and+crockett+choate+death+jack+helm+gunfight&source=bl&
Read more

Roller Ball Murder

-
Image
The game, the game: here we go again. All glory to it, all things I am and own because of Roller Ball Murder. Our team stands in a row, twenty of us in salute as the corporation hymn is played by the band. We view the hardwood oval track which offers us the bumps and rewards of mayhem: fifty yards long, thirty yards across the ends, high banked, and at the top of the walls the cannons which fire those frenzied twenty-pound balls-similar to bowling balls, made of ebonite-at velocities over three hundred miles an hour. The balls careen around the track, eventually slowing and falling with diminishing centrifugal force, and as they go to ground or strike a player another volley fires. Here we are, our team: ten roller skaters, five motorbike riders, five runners (or clubbers). As the hymn plays, we stand erect and tough; eighty thousand sit watching in the stands and another two billion viewers around the world inspect the set of our jaws on .multivision. The runners, those bastards
Read more