Zack:The eye is drawn to her almond-shaped left breast. Hell, it's like her entire left side is melting. She's got a figure from a Dali painting.
Dr. Thorpe:Her hand already oozed off and slid down a sewer drain, apparently.
Zack:Her face looks like a fucking marionette puppet with painted-on rosy cheeks.
Dr. Thorpe:Hey, you wouldn't look so hot either if you'd just been VIOLATED AND ABANDONED.
Zack:Yeah, well at least I'm not, uh, lost in pantaloons of violation and Al Queda trapped in a Call-forwarding Sin City.
Dr. Thorpe:I took a few years of Spanish in college, let me help you out. "The pandas of Voltron's kettle trapped in a college without saliva." Can you even imagine such plight?
Zack:It would be quite a conundrum for those loyal servants of Voltron. Without help their breasts might become conical and melt down a drain. You know, normally I wouldn't let this excuse work when it comes to VIOLADA some poor girl, but this one is totally asking for it.
Dr. Thorpe:The ninjas in the background are kinda hesitant about whether they should help or not. "Uhhh.... should we go back there?" "Nah, let her melt, we've gotta get back to the college to help out Voltron's pandas before they get cottonmouth."
Zack:"Put those nunchucks away, Miguel! They're serving crackers for dinner tonight and those pandas will be done for if we don't regurgitate food into their mouths!"
Dr. Thorpe:"We can't just leave her! It's one thing to allow her to be violated, but nothing is worse than being violated and abandoned!"
Zack:Maybe that shimmering hair is an indication that she's a ghost. She's been really abandoned.
Dr. Thorpe:Nah, she's been shampooing her hair with stolen panda saliva. That's why she got violated. Voltron won't stand for it.
Zack:You know how Voltron is: hit it and melt it.
Dr. Thorpe:He's my kind of guy. "Violate 'em and abandon 'em," that's my motto.
"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.