Dr. Thorpe: Somewhere, the Tin Man has a big sloppy grin on his face.
Zack: For now. In about two hours he's going to have a bunch of itchy sequins popping up on his crotch.
Dr. Thorpe: Even under treatment, it may still be possible to spread bedazzles to others.
Zack: Sleep with the wrong person and you might just end up with "COREY" written on the back of your denim jacket in rhinestones.
Dr. Thorpe: God, Peter Gallagher's tweezers must be so jealous right now.
Dr. Thorpe: I'm not sure what that means, but if you don't think too hard about it, you'll probably be able to accept it as an eyebrow joke and move on.
Zack: I'm just glad to see the Karma Chameleon has bounced back from the endangered species list.
Dr. Thorpe: Well, it comes and goes.
Zack: I was worried that mankind had irreversibly encroached upon its natural habitat of men's bathrooms in Brixton.
Zack: I'm not sure what that means, but if you don't think too hard about it, you'll probably be able to accept it as a cottaging joke and move on.
Dr. Thorpe: This picture kind of reminds me of when George Lucas puts his kids in the Star Wars movies. "Who's that fat little alien in the bad makeup? No, don't look at the camera, you're in a movie! Stop it!"
Zack: I wonder if she has ever been on a date with a guy and he sort of struggles for a compliment and then just blurts out, "your face is really round!"
Dr. Thorpe: Yeah, or if he's trying to work up something romantic to say, and he looks up at the full moon, then down at her face, then up at the moon again, then he thinks "nah, better not."
If you are 35 and you are not integrated into the Gigathrax then you are not ready to retire.
While designing this space, I imagined David Fincher being forced to recreate the music video for Nine Inch Nails' Closer in a haunted gas station bathroom.
My game is funded. Now I know everything.
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.