Feel like taking a journey into the heart of deepest, darkest comics about a really fake Africa? Well, what a coincidence. That's what we're doing today, putting on our pith helmet and our khaki shorts, hiring some local porters and grizzled old white hunter type guides, and dragging along nieces, daughters and/or fiancées to be captured by evil beasts, tiger men, or handsome desert sheiks. This kind of thing happens all the time in American jungle comics of the 1950s, and it happens agan when those stories are cheaply reprinted in UK comics of the early 1960s! The moral here is, recycling works.

Old Dangu was a witch doctor, and when he wasn't advising Ross Bagdasarian on whether or not he should get married, he was watching over an old tree. A MAGIC tree. If you're lucky, he'll tell you all about it!

This story goes back before Dangu's ancestors were even born. So are we going back to the days of Chororapithecus abyssinicus, what, eight million years ago, when pre-humans diverged as a distinct species from gorillas? That's a long time.

The Bushongo did not fight or hunt for food. They were artists. Hungry artists. The first "starving artists," one might say.

Their objects were as if the gods themselves had made them! Sure, some people worship Don Post monster masks, it's true.

Then one day, some fashion influencer showed up and demanded free merchandise! Said she'd pay in "exposure." You know people die from that, lady!

Yes these are some super white-looking Africans. I honestly don't know what's going on. Maybe this all takes place in 1960 in Capetown.

SSSSAAAHHH! A curse on the Bushongos! Never shall it be lifted! The pecking of the little beak on my headband shall be like unto a torment unceasing! SSSSAAAHHH!!

You know what, my money's on the elephant in that lion vs elephant fight. Even a magic vulture-queen lion. One STOMP and that's all, brother!

That's the worst part about curses, any time anything bad happens you're sitting there asking, "Is this the curse doing this, or is this just a regular bad thing that would have happened anyway?" And THAT'S when the sky fire hits the magic tree, or the edibles kick in, whichever.

When the smoke cleared, the artisans of the Bushongo suddenly realized they needed to outsource their idol manufacturing to the sky gods, who were obviously better at it

"Oh? You will not give me the freebies? Then as a vulture I will pick your bones clean! After you die, of course. I'll just be hanging around waiting for you to die. I am a vulture after all. SSSSAAAHHH!"

Instantly there was a loud clap of thunder and the vulture queen turned herself into a vulture, and then the eagle carved out of the tree turned into a real eagle and grabbed the vulture by the throat, and if you think the artist was going to draw the two big birds in one panel to make things more understandable, you are wrong.

There was much rejoicing and the Bushongos were saved. And then they vanished forever for some completely unrelated reason. Maybe some other scavenger-animal queen got them? Who knows.

Well, so much for the short subject. Now on to our feature presentation!

That golden goddess of the Congo, Tiger Girl, is faced not only with the routine threat of evil white hunters, but now also must face the wrath of the Crocodile God! Who may or may not be a loony old guy in a crocodile suit!

All right, whistle-brain, make with the blip-box! Whistlebrain Blipbox, that's my new steampunk character name. Now pipe down, stupid, and pinch me!

"Famous in Leopoldsville" is the Tiger Girl version of "big in Japan," which in terms of fame is like saying "I have a girlfriend, but she lives in Canada."

Dogs! Swine! Crocodiles! Tiger Girls! It's a menagerie of excitement down here in the jungle today.

Neither Tiger Girl nor Crocodile God can stand up to the rifles of Hank Hammer. Or the hammers of Hank Rifle, for that matter.

One moment, until the thunders depart my brain and we may hasten to the K'Naga Drugstore for some aspirin and Alka-Seltzer. For the brain thunders.

Check out this awesome theme park! Dragon boats, a fun slide, a tower, a dance floor! Perfect for your next vacation, or your next sacrifice to the Crocodile Gods, whichever.

Wah! They send precious images into the swamp! Wah! Waaaaah!

Don't you just hate it when your Crocodile God sacrifice is interrupted by tigers, no doubt annoyed at the lack of sacrifices for the tiger god? Do we have to sacrifice something to every animal's god around this place?

A swarm of death fills the murky waters. But let's not talk about the local bond referendum to finance a new wastewater treatment facility, we've got crocodile gods to learn about!

Now wait a minute, Hammer and Blip-Box Boy have been tooling around the jungle in a ridiculous wheeled steam powered flatboat/swamp buggy this whole time-- and only NOW this comic is showing it off? Don't hide your light under a bushel, comic!

Here sits the temple of the Crocodile God, in the middle of the great swamps from which no human has ever returned alive. Guess those Crocodile God temple contractors got more than they bargained for with that particular job, huh?

Uh oh, it's Father Crocodile himself and you're on his naughty list, Tiger Girl!

You see, once upon a time Grampa here was a cowboy in some kind of Western comic, looks like. Then a cowboy-type buffalo stampede magically transported him to the swamp of the Crocodile God where he's accused of attempted plunder.

The wizard gave Billy Grampa some magic, sanity-destroying herbs and a fantastic costume. And now he fights jungle crime as Crocodile God! Right? Kinda?

Looks like that blip-box - you know, the one whistle-brain attached to the big crocodile- that blip-box has blipped Hammer and his jungle sloop right to the swamp temple! Tiger Girl must hurry and get the gold inside the temple so the crocs can use it for... they won't use it, it'll just sit there. Might as well let Hammer have it, to be honest, at least it'll be put back into the jungle economy.

Great is the wrath of Tiger Girl! Now feel the sting of her mighty whip, you scum of the jungle, and remember, for your next fantasy jungle girl encounter session, I take cash and all major credit cards. Tell your friends!

We all knew where these guys were going to end up, they were going to end up crocodile food. It was only a question of when, and by whose hand, and whether or not they'd be eaten by the giant croc with the blip-box strapped to it.

With the words of the Crocodile God burning in his brain, Abdola arrives just in time for the keyboard tigers to play us out. Remember kids, crocodiles and blip-boxes just don't mix!

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