Nerding Day: Pin-Up Pete (Patreon)

It’s 1952. You’re fourteen. Every nude shoulder makes your year. Then one day, your world changes. You find thirty pages of patriotic, navy-approved cheesecake…and its podcast.

The results have an alien charm. Pin-Up Pete serves at least three masters, and cheats on all of them. A marine rambles over cheesecake while readers try to leer in peace. Leaving near-comedy, almost-titillation, and definitely propaganda to compete for our heart.

Quite the gamble: pre-code fanservice could win one or one thousand issues. Let’s see how it shakes out:

Sadly, just a one-shot. I could riff on a series forever, but you’d get bored two years in. As things stand, Pete has three notable traits.

Pete fucks.

Pete needs you to know he fucks, and has photos.

Pete’s minutes from death.

Stellar opening. Sexual lies are middle school’s core tradition, and half of us never graduate. Why would mortal terror change that? It’s like I tell the Rockettes every weekend: I’ve never been married.

Then again, Pete has polaroids. So maybe every skit here’s canon, however stupid or impossible. Either way, as fire rains from heaven, Pete shoves go-go dancers into terrified faces. His big fish story precedes the world getting very loud and then very quiet.

Look at this disposable hero:

Nameless Marine is my Mona Lisa. His million yard stare captures a thousand emotions. Shock at Pete’s wondrous soul-capturing device. Envy at Pete’s immunity to gonorrhea. Doubt of air support’s existence. Pete’s talking, but his audience is worlds away.

Every paramour gets a full-page spread.

Plus Pete’s blog.

I’ll zoom in. Pete’s a wordy guy.

That wordiness includes a few relatable confessions. Fair, given the flames. Chaplains are there to dump your sins before the raid. And drive gags in perfect novels. By the way, Catch-22 tattoos are risky: a bad one looks like a festive swastika. Mine came out fine, but I did not enjoy waiting to find out.

It’s 1952, so Pete’s in Korea or quietly backing Batista. I get slacking off in Havana, but this massacre looks official. Pete needs to lock in to survive his share of Chosin trauma. I’m sure Cassie’s great—not Superkicking Pete means she has downers to spare. But think of all the unharassed wait staff out there. Fight, Pete. Fight. Life is worth it.

He has, depending on your search tags, much more/less success in the ring.

Who knew Andy Kaufman served? Truly a Renaissance clown. I’d question gluing this much text to a fanservice gallery, but we’ve found a piece of comedy history.

I’m beyond lucky. I was born after alternating current and before two-sided nuclear war. My closest brush with death was trying a Community kegflip and landing brain-first. And I don’t need a gram of irony to be choked by an indie wrestler. I’m free. On date three, I can say “Dawn ‘The Hammer’ Jones, I admire your skill, suicidal moveset, and framed portrait of David Carradine. I don’t need a safeword.”

Traumatized by strength, Pete pivots to dex.

Looks plausible. Pete’s wisdom and creepshots are fighting for space, so the Pepe Le Pew routine could work out this time.

We’ve all gotten curved at the circus. Also: what? I’d take four pages of this ninja dating show over Pete’s desperation scrapbook. The sex ed slideshow format is a cage.

That said, dark day for trapeze stalkers. I see why Pete doesn’t mind death: parkour rejection leaves shoeprints on your soul. And the plaster behind you, as they wall-run to a better date. It’s the hardest part of dating breakdancers, unless you’re Australian.

At this point, I thought I knew Pete. But I’d only seen Earth One. Pin-Up Pete contains three distinct visions for how often and well Pete fucks. Don’t worry about getting them confused: each prison changes the ratio of pain and failure.

Earth One Pete can’t spell no. See: Cassie, Lilian, Gertie. He fucks the way pawn shops get copper wire: taking all offers, asking zero questions, and paying generously. He is also, as I’ve noted, actively exploding.

Pete One almost dies the way he lived: begging.

Honestly, my favorite Petecast so far. Pete One would kill to end his dry spell, but leaves his M2 out of it. We’ve lost that art. Today, a dateless marksman drives years of headlines, decades of therapy, and zero legislation.

Then there’s Earth Two, where Pete is cursed by God to die alone. Any bed he touches ignites. Wedding rings rust away. Lips seal shut. Think Job, without a family to lose. Pete Two trudges across a featureless frozen hell, with only his photos and captive audience. I suggest surrender.

Someone make sure he’s still moving.

Can we call her “Drusilla Da Drilla?” It’s a small, obsessive detail, but those divide finished tankers and murder. Punished Pete should take the win: instigation and photo spam are half of love. That’s bullshit, but I want Pete to find hope. Otherwise hypothermia might win.

Pete Two also recalls more relatable failures.

We’ve all gotten curved in Transylvania. This is, for the scoreboard, my new favorite Petecast. The further Pin-Up Pete sprints from our gray reality, the better. For us, not him. Pete Two is Cupid’s plaything, which also leads to a few less relatable failures.

We’ve never been curved this way. If any of us had, at any point, I’d call this bleaker than the battle that killed Pete One. At least he thought he was on top. Pete Two can’t meet our gaze. And he’s not taking it well– the Petecast’s picked up some Askreddit flavor.

I’m a little too fixated on brevity for my own good–just saying “I hate lady painters” isn’t a better story. There’s nuance to writing: “She left me for someone that smiles” beats both. As things stand, this Petecast gets lost in time and space. I wish some kind of multi-panel art form could simplify those.

As bitterness and frostbite set in, Pete Two’s tone evolves. And he gets into sports.

These must be separate worlds. No one can lose a freerunner divorce and use that opening line.

I won’t let this go: he’s discussing pure sight gags. In a comic. Made of pictures. Pete’s writing alt-text for the panels we could have. Narration just underlines the resentment poisoning him faster than stale rations. And if pirouettes get you going, clutters pin-up art with sadness.

Our hero tries tennis (he falls into poison Ivy), bowling (his date fractures her skull), and baseball (he kinda sucks at it). Also skiing, which goes the way skiing always goes. Pete Two’s either cursed or a murderer, and frankly lacks the latter’s conviction. And all this slapstick is still trapped in prose.

Sports change Pete. Or isolation.

At least Pete Two has a real, sympathy-free friend. Find peers that laugh at, not with, your payback stories. Hearing “You got her good, and I respect you more for it,” leads to reposting skull shape charts. Though that draws countless crazed minions, so feel free to ignore me.

As for Pete Two, don’t worry. He learns to make pain his ally. Perhaps even his purpose.

A well-earned happy ending. Not for virtue–Pete Two’s a terminal sadsack. For simply surviving the Rom-Com of Job. Pete’s type is a long jumper that turns into bees. Bees that then sting another soldier while he watches.

While reality warps to torment Pete Two, Earth Three plays the premise straight. There, all you need to get James Bond results is a passport and dying liver. Pete Three’s got a travel kick and STIs untreatable in his lifetime. Yet he sucks.

Brevity betrays me again, as Pete Three says twice the nothing in half the space. No puns. No suffering. Just a lie and a wolf whistle. The art aims for French and lands on cosplay Penguin.

He still strikes out on occasion.

The pins in the corner are a nice touch. They have all the care the name “Honolulu Lulu” doesn’t. Fitting, since Pete Three’s thoughts are duller than blank space. I can appreciate the Looney Tunes and Notes From Underground flavor the first two brought to locker room talk. If I want to read normal lies, I’ll read my brothers’ texts.

Really, bring back Pete Two. Suffering keeps Pete Two fun and Pete One out of court. Otherwise, I’m just listening to Hulk Hogan lie without engaging slurs.

Pete fell for my trap: I’ve got all my finger-wagging lines ready. Just kidding, I’m fucking tapped after Patler. If Pete avoids saying “The Orient,” I’ll focus on him being off-model.

In his defense, there are a dozen mysteries here. Hazel’s brownface fakeout is baffling. Did readers dream of courting a Dolezal? Did Pete? Is minstrel allure an untapped romance gold mine? I wouldn’t write Shoe-Polished Hearts and retire on a boat, but Alan Smithee might.

You can do better Pete. Specifically this Pete, with adult social skills. Pete One should settle for Rachel Dolezal Sr., and Pete Two should settle for life. Still, we can learn a lot from them. I can’t tell you what, since I need room for this graphic:

Clearly, I don’t have values. Pete Three’s the only one that’s housebroken.

Even with a doomed mission, comics defy boredom. The only text bikini art needs is “January.” Instead, Pin-Up Pete adds your brother saying “I hit that.” Okay, my brother. Only instead of photos, he points at random passerby. And we’re not soldiers, I just listen to his crypto scams while writing these jokes on napkins. The point stands.

Fair experiment, really. I could see other lanes trying the same gimmick.

This article was brought to you by our fine sponsor and Hot Dog Supreme: Lucas Keen, who once made it with a boombox and brags about banging a Decepticon.

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