Dr. Thorpe: If there were an Amnesty International for shirts, I'd be calling it right now.

Zack: You know you need to work on your posture if you've got 40DD breasts and the first thing people notice are your shoulders about to bust out of your shirt.

Dr. Thorpe: She looks like Bruce Banner in that thing.

Zack: If we are what we eat then she eats a lot of really poorly wrapped burritos with flagons of purple drank.

Dr. Thorpe: I think those suspenders are clipped to her nipples to keep her boobs above her waistline. Godspeed, little fellas. They must feel like the cables on the Golden Gate Bridge.

Zack: Yeah, if those things give out someone is losing a limb and it sure as hell isn't going to be her. It would take Semtex to blast through her upper arms.

Dr. Thorpe: The WPA is going to spend $100 million retrofitting those suspenders to prepare for a major disaster, like hearty laughter or a single pork rind.

Zack: I wonder if she thinks about Evanescence or Avril when she orders her third Big Beef and Cheddar at Arby's. "Yeah, Horsey Sauce is still scene."

Dr. Thorpe: This Ain't a Scene, it's a Goddamn Glazed Ham.

Zack: I don't know, I think there was a Scene like this in Salo. Didn't they force her head into a bathtub full of shit?

Dr. Thorpe: She's getting her revenge by doing basically the same thing to anyone who looks at this photo.

Zack: Oh, let her have a little revenge. She'll never get to have sex with the bass player for Fall Out Boy, so what else does she have left to her?

Dr. Thorpe: I'm sure the rejection would break her heart, but her heart is nearly unbreakable. It's got this thick layer of yellow stuff around it. It's like trying to grab a wet bar of soap.

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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.

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