Zack: Welcome aboard the HMS AUUGGGGGGGGH! If they have a GPS aboard they'll probably wonder why the "HERE THERE BE DRAGONS" warning keeps following them around.

Dr. Thorpe: Wow, it's kind of amazing. Put your hand up to the monitor and cover up the left side of her face, and she's sullen, then move it to the right side, and she's smiling.

Dr. Thorpe: Then cover both sides of her face and hit the "back" button on your browser.

Zack: Can you imagine anyone looking at this picture and wishing they could see those breasts of hers? It took me five minutes just to realize she wasn't some sort of be-capped maritime she-snake emerging from a porthole.

Dr. Thorpe: Every single thing about this picture is a problem. Everything. Try to find a non-problem in this photo. I dare you.

Zack: Yeah, from the nest of varicolored yarn to the weird iodine smudge on her cheek it's hard to find something that isn't at least slightly disconcerting

Dr. Thorpe: "Well, her nails look okay..." You mean the ones that eye-shatteringly clash with her hair? Try again, buddy!

Dr. Thorpe: It takes serious effort to make a dude notice that your hair clashes with your nails.

Zack: This picture is really freaking me out. It's like one of those pictures where the eyes follow you only her whole neck seems like it's moving and twisting around.

Dr. Thorpe: I think her forehead might be hairy. I'm not going to look closely enough to find out, but I'm telling you, there's peach fuzz.

Zack: I think her Adam's apple - which she isn't even supposed to have - dripped down her neck a few inches.

Dr. Thorpe: I can't bear to look at it another second.

Zack: Yeah, let's bail out of this ship before it drags us down.

Dr. Thorpe: I hope the cook goes down with the ship, because damn, feed that girl something.

Zack: Or feed her to something.

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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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