Zack: That gypsy is trying to steal my guitar!
Dr. Thorpe: Ani DiSkanko
Zack: I'm digging her whole Melissa Etheridge on chemo look she's rocking.
Dr. Thorpe: Hey, is that Lou Diamond Phillips' guitar!?
Zack: Is that David Crosby's semen?
Dr. Thorpe: Wait a minute... how long ago did the Crosby/Etheridge kid happen? Could it be...?
Dr. Thorpe: Seriously, imagine her with a soup-stained mustache. It's uncanny.
Zack: Right now I'm trying to imagine what is chasing her out of frame. Whatever it is, it's big.
Dr. Thorpe: Maybe the giant purple-haired girl has come to steal her sucker.
Zack: I doubt she could stop with a sucker. That poor gypsy girl is going to be reduced to hollowed-out bones in about fifteen seconds. Then that purple-haired girl will be hunching around with the tatters of her shirt clinging to the immense lumps of her shoulders.
"Really, Holmes!" I dropped into my seat, shocked. "You are remarkably tall! What are you, six foot six? Six foot eight?"
As the 19th century diver approaches a giant clam, a flash of brilliant golden light flares from within the shell. I emerge in a swirl of bubbles and do the timeless universal underwater hand signals for the following: ZODIAC KILLER, KKK, BLOOD OF YOUTH
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.