The X-Men join the scam artist ranks of Dionne Warwick, Miss Cleo and countless phone sex lines

There needs to be some belated “You ought to be ashamed of yourself” commentary about this 1991 “game.” Really, Marvel? Really? I mean, it’s great and all that you capped the number of minutes that each call could last and the number of calls that could be placed in a week, but still… Without even getting into the shady economics of it, the game itself sounds mind-numbingly lame, with dumb prizes that I’m sure no one ever won. That this Erik Larsen-drawn promotion occupied two pages of prime advertising real estate (this one was scanned out of The Silver Surfer #56) is even more of a blight. It’s Marvel grabbing its audience by the ankles, tipping it upside down, and shaking the loose change from its pockets.

If this had been X-Men phone sex (“I’m the Juggernaut, and I’ve been a bad boy”) or tarot card readings it would have had more class. I mean, Psylocke was in her taut, cantaloupe-jugged prime at this point. They couldn’t have done something with that?

A side note: I’ve often wondered how many times parental permission was sought out before a call was placed to one of these numbers, and how many times it was actually given. Measured in the teens, I’m sure.