Zack: Hervé Villechaize is taking no prisoners.
Dr. Thorpe: I'm assuming this is an action movie, but everyone looks so happy. The guy getting strangled has a big smile, and so does the guy strangling him. It looks like Herve is just giving him a big hug. Or, a little hug, as it were.
Zack: There's also another mysterious hand in that picture that looks like it's pulling a chain through his head.
Dr. Thorpe: The woman in the background is happy too, he's saying "look at all this cool shit you're about to see! There's snakes and cars and motorcycle fights!"
Zack: I like that Hervé is taller in the picture. I bet he's on a step-ladder or something. Like he's a mafia boss and they beat the bald guy into submission and then dapper little Herve comes in and with a disappointed sigh steps up on the ladder and strangles the guy.
Dr. Thorpe: With his three arms.
Zack: That woman is not fat and she has enormous breasts and is wearing a revealing outfit, I question that this movie came out of India or Pakistan and not 1980s America. Where is the huge ass and sweatpants?
Dr. Thorpe: "Black Cobra" is such a blaxploitation title too.
Zack: Yeah, it's sort of adorable that they probably don't even know that. Are those hamburgers colliding in the background? The slim woman has just been explained.
Dr. Thorpe: All the hamburgers in this world have gone nuts and decided to ram into each other at top speed, leaving nothing for the women to eat until they have giant seamy butts.
Zack: They will feed on strangled cobras, but as you and I both know they are not very fattening. Really you burn more calories strangling the blood out of them than you'll ever take in eating the cobra.
Ernest Cline, writer of Ready Player One, shares his newest poem.
Fashion SWAT... the fashion industry is obsessed with impracticality. We know that what designers create was never meant to be worn by the grimy masses, but that doesn't somehow diminish how ridiculous many of these costumes are. Make no mistake, they are costumes, and like a Halloween prize pageant we will turn our discerning gaze on the grievous fashion misfires of Paris, Milan, and New York. We're not pulling any punches, and we're definitely not interested in making any friends. We're Joan Rivers without Melissa Rivers to temper our screeching. We're the Fashion Police in jack boots. We are Fashion SWAT.