Mine Worthy Ally and Friend, The High Evolutionary,
It please thee, find attached with this missive the costume thou hast provided me. Though it pain mine warrior soul, must I confess thine superlative garment be too grand e'en for the Odinson. The immoderate use of gold and silver alone be more than enow to redden the cheeks of Hela's pale subjects. The sublimely mysterious accessories, such as the "bicep clasps" -- of which both function and purpose not e'en the All-Father himself might discern -- be o'er-worthy of this simple god. The symbols on the garment's severely abbreviated tunic, resembling naught so much as two Midgardian traffic signs, are of such an alarming shape and color that e'er had I mounted mine goat-chariot, Toothgrinder and Toothgnasher gazed upon mine newly-costumed form with much startlement and forthwith bolted from their stable, past noble guardsmen into the palace of Odin himself! (After much searching the beasts were located within one of Sif's boot closets. They maimed twelve men afore they could be persuaded to leave.)
Think thee not that the Thunder God mislikes thine miraculous gift! In truth, it is mine own body which is shamefully unfit to bear such finery. Mine lowly skin hath chafed fitfully 'neath its segmented trousers; likewise the mere act of donning the costume hath clipped mine bodily hair in a wondrous manner: though it be plentiful (if patchy) enow, each follicle individually hath been reduced to the length of a Midgardian gnat's phallus and I knoweth not if it might e'er return to its once-remarkable length. (The lone exceptions being the hair above mine knuckles, 'though why I knoweth not.) The helmet, a reproduction of mine original helmet in charming and dainty miniature and with an intriguing "widow's peak" added, be too tight for mine sensitive cranium, and the aches I suffer be more terrible than the teeth of accursed Fenris. (It may interest thee in addition to know that the helmet's very design hath a strange property of instilling mirth in all that view it -- e'en Hogun the Grim made merry, with a laugh so much akin to a horse's whinney that the Prince of Asgard was sorely discomfitted, with no choice other than to yank up his jerkin and make sport of his third nipple.)
Ne'er wouldst I knowingly bring dishonor 'pon mine father nor 'pon mineself, yet in good conscience must the Odinson return to thee this handsome armor, which be too grand e'en for a god.
In all respects,
Your humble servant,
The Mighty Thor
P.S. The kneepads shall I send thee in a fortnight. They presently reside somewhere on the snow-capped peakes of Jotunheim, as the younglings of Asgard hath mistaken them for toboggans.
[A special Blockade Boy thanks to SpiritGlyph for sending me the scans, and a hearty Blockade Boy apology for sitting on them for nearly two months until I could devise a post I thought would do them justice. Tomorrow: the essence of 90's fug, a.k.a. "The Godpack."]