Now let's return once again to that magical time called the 1970s, when hip, sexy gals turned their backs to the road in an attempt to fool police into thinking they weren't really hitchhiking! And where else would one hitchhake to but the local commune, where one can tune in, turn on, drop out, etc.

In the 1970s, police officers introduced themselves to people with their full names, because all that "Officer This" and "Constable That" jazz is strictly nowheresville! Just because you're "the man" doesn't mean you have to go around acting like "The Man", man. Anyway, that's the way it was on the "rural route" beat. Pretty much all there is to that is picking up chicks and driving them to the commune anyway.

Leave it to Elvis impersonators to ruin even the idyllic commune experience with domestic abuse. He's a regular hunka-hunka-burnin' shit.

This must be one of those travelling communes that live in tents instead of cabins or burned-out farmhouses. You know, they go town to town, pulling ripoffs, dropping acid, beating women... or maybe they just prefer tents because it's easier to eavesdrop through canvas while skulking around outside.

Hey, sometimes Stupid Comics are "haha" funny and sometimes they're... well, not. Given this is a Charlton romace comic, odds are always 50-50 the abusive asshole is actually the hero, so... props for making him the bad guy this time, I guess?

If you look closely just over Asshole Elvis's left shoulder, you'll find some little black hearts hovering in the darkness. They're practically invisible in the actual print comic but I enhanced them a bit when I scanned them in. It begs the question: what the hell? Is it some subliminal message telling their little readers that this is what true love is really all about? A comment on the heart of darkness lurking in all men?

Or, it's just because Charlton used shitty printers that were mainly meant to print cereal boxes on cardboard and Christ only knows what sort of shitty ink they used. Maybe it's got something to do with that. The answer is lost to the ages!

Remember ladies, if a violent Elvis impersonator tries to put the moves on you, give him a good crake in the mouth! Or, you know, the nads. That works sometimes. The important thing is... crake.

I know this story isn't very fun, what with all the beatings and such, so here's a fun little game you can play: Go through the other romance comics featured on this site and see how many iterations of that particular drawing of a girl crying with her half-open hand raised to her forehead you can find!

Luckily, the cow pasture flatfoot is skulking not far away... skulking being a thing young men did a lot of in the 70s... waiting for Mona to turn state's evidence against her new friends. And hey man, "Mr. Eaton" is his dad's name! He's an on-duty officer of the law! Call him DOUG! I mean, labels are just a real bummer. A total drag, dig?

Oh Mona, it's not your fault your great-grandfather, Feivus Finkelstein, shortened his surname when he came to the New World. Just be glad you've found the one small-town cop who appreciates communism.

What's this world coming to when the good name of Joe Stalin gets dragged through the mud by drug dealing Elvis impersonators??

Actually... we don't have to find you a place to live, because the "opening at the state hospital" is really for a patient. You can pretend to be crazy, right?

It was in the fall that Doug Eaton proposed, and in the winter when Mona discovered the reason he doesn't use the title "Officer" is because he's actually just a dude in a rented costume and a car he painted himself. But the great conversations about class struggle make it all worth it!