Zack: Mandy Patinkin and David Crosby are the hottest DJs in the zombie rave underground.
Dr. Thorpe: Oh god, the U.S. Capitol Building is beaming instructions to a fat prog rock band!
Zack: This is probably a concert poster and not a movie poster at all. Come hear 432 spin the hottest tracks in Bangalore. They will make you feel the excitement with their trance beats.
Dr. Thorpe: "Beat up your girlfriend and come on down!"
Zack: "A strict white-scarf dress code will be observed." Another possibility is that those guys are salesmen for a music store. This could be a newspaper insert ad for that. "Come on down to Crazy Sanjay and Crazier Devanands turntable blowout! The spirit of democracy compels our prices lower BEYOND BELIEF!"
Dr. Thorpe: Whatever it is, it's really tedious. I don't think showing faces of bored, frustrated people is the best way to advertise, unless you're selling jeans.
Zack: I think it's sort of refreshing in a way. Usually you see people nearly orgasmic with joy over things like lower insurance rates or the latest portable game console. These people are positively morose over "432."
The singer dove off the stage and crowd surfed in a sort of reverse funeral procession where the person being carried is the only one truly alive. Touching him I felt religious ecstasy and started speaking in tongues and requesting songs that didn't exist.
There's no easy way to put this, so I'll tell it like it is. Bouillon is died. He went missing before the weekend and yesterday I found his skeletonized remains at the bottom of the #3 soup vat during one of my swims. I thought the cream of mushroom soup had an especially nourishing taste, and a lot more clumps of fur and skin than usual.
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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.