Dick Grayson: Fashionista

I’m not really sure what anyone’s problem here is.

The real travesty is that plaid monstrosity on the floor there.

(via boywonderp)

I  have to be me.

Um. Okay, Conner. I’m — I’m going to try my very hardest to be objective here. Really, I just, I can’t let this slide. I can’t, honey.

Listen. The 90s were a bad time for all of us. Mistakes were made. Liefeld is a dirty word in this house, believe me, but — oh, God, you know how the eighties threw up on Booster Gold?

Well.

The hair, can we just — Superboy, honey. You have such lovely hair, what did you do to the sides. I appreciate pushing boundaries but…listen, did you get some gum caught in it?

Did Tim have to cut it out? Is that what happened? If that’s what happened, you can tell me. Nobody will laugh at you. You don’t have to pretend it’s on purpose; I can get you a hat or something. But that’s not even our worst problem.

Sweetie, look at the silhouette you’ve created. That bulky leather jacket and those gloves and that hair with nothing but leggings underneath? It’s too much. Very top-heavy.

I mean, don’t get me wrong, I was raised by Batman, I appreciate leather. And sentiment, God knows. But with the skin-tight primary color spandex? Really? Darling, this is less hardcore and more like somebody rolled you around in a thrift store until something stuck to you. Pick one.

Look at those belts. Do you need that many belts? Doesn’t that jacket have enough pockets? What are they even for? You need to learn to edit yourself.

Just travel down this road with me. Homemade faux-hawk, dirty red mechanic gloves, big leather jacket, belts, spandex crotch. One of these things is not like the others.

I just, I feel like I should apologize to you on behalf of the entire decade for what it did to you. This is…just…wrong. On a very basic level.

I like the glasses though. Nice touch. Bit impractical, but that’s fashion.

Oh, wow.

I mean…is he all right? Can he — can he see okay? Is something wrong with his eyes?

I feel kind of bad about this one, because I’m pretty sure he’s colorblind, but come on. Doesn’t the Rogues Gallery have a buddy system? Who let you out of the house this way, sweetheart?

The only way I can see this happening if that’s not the case is that you were raised in a sensory deprivation chamber and you’re trying to make up for lost time. That’s it. There are no other excuses.

I mean let’s just — let’s start from the top, because I have to work my way up to the…rest of it. Those goggles, honey, why. It’s like you took the shitty cardboard 3D glasses that came with your nephew’s copy of Shrek 3D, soaked them in acetone and shellacked them. Can you see through those? Because if you can’t that would explain a lot.

It’s just, they belong with someone’s elderly sleeping pawpaw, and the rest of you is…a whole other kind of problem.

The armwarmers. The legwarmers. Or whatever those are meant to be.

It’s like you told a bunch of kindergartners to color in a giant black condom and then you just…wriggled into it, somehow.

The shoulder pads are bad enough, but why —

WHY IS YOUR CHEST A FUCKING RAINBOW!?

And you know what? That’s not even the worst part. The worst part is that your chest is a rainbow that essentially points to your crotch. Why would you do that? Why would you do that to yourself? Why would you do that to other people?

All right, I’ve heard enough about this costume. Clearly, none of you understand the genius behind this collar.

Have you seen my hair? It’s flawless. Perfectly coiffed. Do you think that just happens? Oh, no, honey. No, that takes effort, you have to know what you’re doing. Why do you think Batman always wears a cowl? You do not want to see cowl hair, let me tell you.

And just put yourself in my boots for a minute here, darlings, because I have standards. My crime fighting doesn’t get in the way of good hair, but I work at night. You know what you can’t see at night? Black hair. It’s a real shame, too, because God do I work this do.

No. When I decided on my Nightwing costume, I knew I couldn’t let my perfect head go to waste. And then I realized — what better way to show it off than to put up a backdrop? It gives me fantastic lighting and really makes shadows that highlight my cheekbones. But more importantly, you know what shows up against really light things? Really dark things. Like my perfect do.

Long story short, babies, the collar is a canvas for the art that is my hair.

You’re welcome.

I can’t — I don’t — I never —

Who the fuck even are you?

Words, words literally fail me.

Why would you wear a taxidermy raven on your head?

Why would you wear Christmas ornaments on your ears?

Why would you wear green cat guts around your legs?

Why would you wear decaying sock puppets on your feet?

For the love of God, why would you bedazzle a bright pink Snuggie?

I can’t even form coherent thoughts. That’s it, I’m done, I give up. I’m going to go lie under my bed and bang my head against the floor until I forget you exist.

Okay, listen. Deathstroke.

Deathstroke the Terminator. Let’s — let’s not even touch that name and all the things it’s clearly compensating for, because that analysis would be longer than Crime and Punishment.

This, this right here, is definitive proof that I am, in fact, not “more like you than I can admit”. You know what I have that you never will? Taste, Wilson. Taste. Let me put it another way: you are definitely too old for this shit.

I’m just, oh my God, I’m putting a moratorium on the brightly colored panties until you get your shit together. First Lex, now you. Slade, honey, I don’t think you get it. I just, I can’t be seen fighting someone who dresses like this.

Batman’s having faceoffs with Catwoman in Gotham, and I am fighting Captain Halloween up in here with a side order of evil Aquaman.

Can we talk about the scales? It looks like you have an unfortunate growth on your lower body. It looks like you crawled inside of a dead mermaid. And it is rotting on your legs.

Seriously, you’re not some kind of camp bitch waving his ass for the nightly news. Why must you dress like a fancy bondage hooker? You know what doesn’t blend in in shadows or dark alleyways?

Candy corn orange, Slade.

God. I feel like my creepy uncle raided my closet and put on my fifth grade Halloween costume.

Okay, and the boots? The boots, really? I mean, by themselves, they’re not…awful, I guess. But that color, oh, honey, no. What kills me here is that you can’t have made these, no, you went out and commissioned somebody to make you a pair of boots with these giant pirate cuffs (which, by the way, is how prebusecent girls wear their Ugg boots) and just casually told them “Oh, and if it’s not too much trouble, just dye them eye-scorchingly orange while you’re at it.”

You put forethought into looking this stupid. I expect this kind of shit from the Joker, but you’re up your own ass about how serious and professional you are.

Let me tell you how it feels to see this half-face orange and sparkly blue ensemble coming at me from a dark alleyway. First stage: Oh my God, does he seriously think I can’t see the orange from the shadows? Second stage: repress internal laughter at your orange diaper. Third stage: wonder exactly how unhinged you are that you decided this was appropriate daywear.

Come the fuck on, Slade. At least Lex had the excuse of being a crazy person. This is just sad.

“Battle of the collars”? Excuse you?

Honey, I think we all know who wins this fight.