Something tragic just happened in the illustration for Vogue 7513. I'm thinking 1950s sci fi and atomic reactors:
WHITE: Don't look. Don't look. If I don't look at them I can make myself forget that I'm twelve feet tall.
PINK: We haven't grown. Green shrunk.
GREEN: Yeah? Then why can I still wear gloves?
PINK: Pull them out of your pockets, missy. We know you have fourteen fingers.
GREEN: At least I don't have eyes in my throat. And let's not even talk about what's going on underneath that turban.
WHITE: Don't look. Don't look. I knew Dan shouldn't have messed with the dials. Whose bright idea was it to have Wives' Day at the nuclear turbo-charge space facility anyway?
PINK: Anyone up for lunch? Des Moines is sounding especially delicious!