Dr. Thorpe: Oh god, it's a carnival of pudgy depravity.
Zack: I think that guy with the bloody knife in the corner is like a magical projection of everyone's thoughts when they see the rest of the poster. It's probably a weight-loss themed horror porno. "Doctor Poundsaway and the 99 Girls."
Dr. Thorpe: The guy in the corner is some sort of serial killer who takes women's skins. Not like in Silence of the Lambs, though. He doesn't want to make a woman suit, he wants to make a big heavy winter coat out of women and maybe use their tallow to make candles.
Zack: I like how a lot of them are posing in the exact same position. It's like how the Terminator was supposedly just one of thousands of these identical human-like robots. Maybe there's a factory somewhere spitting out fat girls with their butts sticking out and their hands on their hips ready to dance the night away and sing love songs about cake.
Dr. Thorpe: This poster has probably the least flattering ass-shot in history. That line down the middle of the ass... what is that? I don't even want to think about it.
Zack: Check out the lustful look of the woman in the lower righthand corner. It's like she's looking right at you, and you happen to be a double stack breakfast at Bob Evans.
Dr. Thorpe: I bet the killer is a guy who gets revenge on girls who used to be cute and then let themselves go.
Zack: I think you're looking at this the wrong way though. You're seeing the guy as the aggressor. I am seeing this guy bloodied and battered while desperately trying to defend his family from hordes of seam-assed fat girls in sweat pants and crop tops.
Dr. Thorpe: They've chewed through half his crops already and he'll be damned if he's going to let them put his farm out of business with their voracious and bestial appetites.
Zack: Yeah, these women are like doughy singing and dancing locusts, eating anything that can be ground up and digested in their crude gizzards. Crops, foodstuffs, people, bones, rocks, lakes, artillery pieces, whatever is in their path.
Dr. Thorpe: He's like Rambo, he's going deep into fatty territory to rescue his strawberry shortcake from grizzly doom.
Zack: Grisly doom. Grizzly Doom would be the Khatarnak. I bet the set of this movie smelled like the outhouses at a chili cook-off. You can almost smell their gastrological action through the poster. They could have put a cartoon cloud coming out of seam-butt's ass and it wouldn't have been anymore stench-apparent.
Dr. Thorpe: Maybe it's a workout tape lead by the guy with the knife, and anyone who doesn't keep up with the jumping jacks gets eviscerated. The Tough Love Workout with Dr. Brick MacArthur.
Zack: Dangaerobics. It's like Carmen Electra's stripping workout with a knife-wielding swarthy Indian guy. They probably do pilates next to a fog-shrouded swamp and he will occasionally rise up out of it with his knife to get them to pick up the pace and feel the burn.
Dr. Thorpe: "My Commando Yoga program has proven successful for 100% of the women who try it! They all lose weight, whether it's from sweating from aerobics and animal fear, or from me gutting them like swine!"
We've found some cool stuff in the woods. Now it's time for you to pinkie swear you won't tell mom and dad.
There's a Brainiac. He's not THE Brainiac. However, he's one aspect of Brainiac. Or maybe there's supposed to be a different Brainiac in every universe and they're all cosmically connected, presumably via their brains. Either way, I think this particular Brainiac is the boss Brainiac.
I highly recommend Windows 10 With Mouse + Keyboard Support Edition
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.