Appearing In: X-Men
Zack: I'm pretty sure I had Oracle as a non-slip sticker in the bottom of the shower at my last apartment. She had better get those torso lesions looked at, though. Get some antibiotic on that.
Dr. Thorpe: This is what a Troll doll looks like when it's all grown up.
Zack: Fashion Tip #54: When your outfit doesn't need a belt but your hips need some help, try tying a sheet around your waist. No one will notice that it makes no sense.
Dr. Thorpe: Wearing one bootcuff popped up makes you look like a total gangsta.
Zack: I like her matching gloves, too. It's like she's a space mom ready to do some fucking space dishes. She belongs in the space kitchen.
Dr. Thorpe: It's the only proper place for a space woman. Well, the kitchen and getting George out of whatever crazy contraption he's stuck in this time.
Zack: Maybe she is Adam Warlock's mom. Still sort of smiling and blissfully unaware of her son's confectionary suicide message writ large in chocolate chunk across the glittering tapestry of stars.
Dr. Thorpe: She's standing in the doorway to his room, her hands on her hips, ready to lecture him about stealing her spoons. But where is he?
Zack: There is a lump in his bed, I'll just give him a goodnight space kiss, but oh...what's this, it's just space pillows and a wig head. Where is my son?!
Dr. Thorpe: She shall be forever alone with her regrets and her son's legacy of gigantic cookies.
Zack: Oracle's powers are probably space cleaning and cooking nutritious meals like space pea casserole and space meat loaf. According to Adam Warlock they are probably "nagging" "riding [his] ass" and "not getting off [his] case"
Dr. Thorpe: She also must have quite a capacity for hair-teasing. Her gigantic do and Adam's gorgeous pompadour are not accidents.
Zack: Who knows what mysteries of hair science these futurions have mastered?
After years of being misunderstood, I had hoped we finally had "our" story. I was wrong.
For fans of meaningless awards, these awards are extra meaningless.
Fashion SWAT... the fashion industry is obsessed with impracticality. We know that what designers create was never meant to be worn by the grimy masses, but that doesn't somehow diminish how ridiculous many of these costumes are. Make no mistake, they are costumes, and like a Halloween prize pageant we will turn our discerning gaze on the grievous fashion misfires of Paris, Milan, and New York. We're not pulling any punches, and we're definitely not interested in making any friends. We're Joan Rivers without Melissa Rivers to temper our screeching. We're the Fashion Police in jack boots. We are Fashion SWAT.