Zack: She really should not have asked for that Red Ryder BB gun for Christmas. She shot most of her face out with it.
Dr. Thorpe: I can make out the "M" and the "O," and maybe an "E," but I think that for the most part the tattoo artist was just making things that sort of looked like letters.
Zack: She could probably rob a bank doing what she's doing with the straps of her shirt there. Just lift them up and wiggle them, menace the person behind the counter with the threat that she might reveal the butt on her chest.
Dr. Thorpe: She's looking a little bloodshot. She must have a pretty rugged skull, because it looks like they snapped off a few ice picks while they were performing the lobotomy.
Zack: I wonder if there is some alternate continuum to ours where this is what people look like when they're trying to get important or high-paying jobs. Like somewhere out there is a guy in a 3-piece suit working behind the counter of a Coconuts suggesting a Rancid album to a guy in a blazer.
Dr. Thorpe: Even in that world, this girl would probably be dying her hair and snapping fake piercings into her face to look presentable for her job at Blockbuster.
Cons: causes bad nightmares. I used to have to eat beef until I passed out to have these kind of terrors, but this machine does it for me every time I fall asleep inside it.
Sorry about the blurry photo. I was lunging at my phone, yelling at it to take a clear picture. It's the only image of me that exists. I'd take another picture for you, but I'm in the middle of a rigorous trampoline session.
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.