You know what? I don’t even care if this is a joke. I don’t care about all the Stacy’s Mom Dave Strider covers in the world. Look at this girl. Look at this sixteen year old girl who has had her affections crushed, who has been called fat and other assorted horrible names by an immature alien, who has put up with Jake English whining about his relationship issues for SIX MONTHS and didn’t say a goddamn thing about how much it hurt her until she snapped, who was reduced to no words when Dirk told her he had been mistaken when he’d made her the leader, who is positive her father is dead, and who is currently possessed by an evil troll empress against her will. Now look at this girl that was the first human female to wear pants in-comic, that enjoys masculine things without sacrificing her love for baking or girly sleepovers, that isn’t ashamed to be a total cutie of a nerd, that never diminished her friendship with Dirk even if they were both crushing on Jake, who never held it against them even though she is often portrayed as the jealous exgirlfriend. Look at this girl that can swing around a giant fucking fork/trident with ease like a complete and total badass and still turn around and use “shucks buster” unironically. Jane Crocker deserves to be called hot. Jane Crocker deserves to blush. Jane Crocker deserves Channing Tatum in a well tailored suit on a bed of roses who will tell her she’s beautiful no matter what and that she is the smartest, sweetest, most down to earth girl he’s ever met. And I am so glad that even for one panel that really amounts to nothing more than a joke, she’s potentially flustered, cute, happy, whatever you wanna call it even if it’s shown through a very Dave-like way and while she’s still possessed. She deserves to have affection shown towards her because when you think about it he is the first person to ever tell her she’s hot, that she is actually attractive, even if his only knowledge of her amounts to “John’s hot mom.” Jane Crocker deserves to be called hot and so much more. And if Dave Strider will write sonnets of weird obtuse metaphors about her hotness while she chuckles along and occasionally blushes then hell fucking yeah I ship it.