No more days 'till Halloween

Vintage Ad #32: Roman Brio After Shave, 1974

Think about it. That's right, just think about it.

Oh the shame of lingering household odors

Hey! Son of a Gun! It's Refreshment Time!

Or maybe it's high time the acid kicked in. Melting sticks of butter, gum drop fruit beards, candy cane tongues, and cosmic cows from outer space that magically turn into hamburgers. The smiley mouth with the front yellow pot tooth. French fries. Black Santa ice cream and falling hot dogs. Damn, I gotta freaking quit sniffing glue.

WHAT SORT OF MAN READS PACO CAMINO?

Take Off…On a Completely Unique Experience! The Paco Camino Man drinks a fuckload of beer and keeps mountains of Colt 45 talls plentifully stocked in his elevated mushroom house located above the Cliffs of Dover. Casually commandeering, the Paco Camino Man also prefers his mushroom house sex groupies to wear outlandish space outfits complete with silver boots, metallic shoulder shields and clear plexiglas helmet globes. Don’t worry though; they’ll be coming off when the pretty ladies adjust to his groinal area pressure changes, girthonal longitude and atmospheric increases. No problem here, Houston. The Paco Camino Man: Partnering with Colt 45 in exchange for Colt 45. It's out of this world.

Vampyros Lesbos, 1969

Music: "The Lions and the Cucumber," Manfred & Siegfried Schwab

The following handwritten letter was found crumpled on the windswept marble steps of McKinley Hall:

Dear Lisa,

So I hear Ellen DeGeneres is the new Michael Vick. Boy, that bitch really has some nerve finding a loving home for a stray dog adopted from an animal shelter. Hey my willy-nilly exchange returns are in, and it seems I’m substituting haphazard variances of differentiating discrepancies with alternating inconsistent mutations that morph randomly. At least I’m elated my bipolar condition is suddenly making me sad, but then blam, instantly, I’m like totally happy again and hmm, that’s weird, but now I’m so depressed. Hey have you ever had a tattoo peel off? Or a toenail fungus so rank, it infected your teeth? Suppose I should replace my nail clippers, huh?

Confusion is hard,

Kristin

Song of the Day:
“Chick Habit,” April March

PACO CAMINO TEQUILA!

The Naughty Stewardesses, 1975

"The Naughty Stewardesses--they're sweet, but know the score. The lovingest group of oversexed and undersatisfied females who ever graced any runway. Jane does it for kicks, Debbie does it for love, Margie does it for money, and Barbara does it for fun. They're the naughty stewardesses and they're flying your way now. Fly first class with the naughty stewardesses, the cutest, curviest, most caressable hostesses who will ever take care of you."

Vintage Ad #103: The Herbal Encounter, 1975

A most civilized shave. An uncivilized fragrance.

Scouring the globe to bring you the stupidest shit ever.

What in the name of Apu is going on here? Is this a rockin' Indian dance party hosted by John Matuszak of the 70's Oakland Raiders? Anyway, the dude with the shades sporting the fro and gold boots got moves like you've never dreamed of—keep an eye out for his badass backwards leap up to the top of the staircase. Oh yeah.

WHAT SORT OF MAN READS PACO CAMINO?

How many private planes do you own? The Paco Camino Man not only keeps several on stand by at his secluded mansion, but he’s also licensed to thrill aeronautically with top gun cockpit clearance to fly erogenous zones. Sporting perfectly windswept daredevilish hair, gold-rimmed, amber-tinted aviator sunglasses, and a daring, melon-colored wide lapel rayon sport shirt bursting from his formfitting tweed jacket, the Paco Camino Man is an experienced pioneer of the mile high club. Attracting sensual, wing-on-a-prayer birds of a feather, the Paco Camino Man only asks you keep the landing strip clear of debris, but still carpeted and well lit. Because the sky’s the limit when you’re flying high with Paco Camino baby.

The following handwritten letter was found crumpled on the autumn-baked marble steps of McKinley Hall:

Dear Lisa,

Is it possible that square block chunks of time might seem more like boxed clock-recorded cubes instead? I mean, couldn’t six weeks, four days, and 36 hours almost kind of seem sort of like five weeks, six days, and 53 hours on any third Sunday after a daylight savings time change following a holiday weekend on a leap year? Or maybe not. Oh yeah, I discovered that the foul odor emanating from the basement is from my flip-flops. It wasn’t a corpse after all. Don’t handle or lick them, as I understand they are totally fungally lethal. Good news though--my nuclear crotch-rot has been downgraded by the EPA and upheld by a district court judge, so you’re welcome to borrow any of my thongs again,

Kristin

Song of the Day:
Northern State, “Away Away”

Vintage Ad #93: Dingo Boots, 1978

O.J's third leg has always gotten him in trouble.

The Man's all legs and knows everything about feet. Listen: "Boots have to look great--but they also have to be made for whatever you're going to doing in them. That's why, when you say boots, you gotta say Dingo." Thanks, O.J. We make our insides be as cool as our outsides by using nothing but the best materials and nothing but the best bootmakers to put it all together. Like O.J. Simpson, we mean what we say, and what we say is: Nobody Puts Leather Together Like Dingo.