Dr. Thorpe:I knew that someday Flava Flav would influence trends in European high-fashion.
Zack:Can a brutha get a beard?
Dr. Thorpe:He's opening his coat and yelling "who stole my giant clock pendant?"
Zack:"Whoooo stole my beard?"
Dr. Thorpe:I wonder if he's just the cheap Italian knockoff of Flav. He stands behind Etro all day, occasionally yelling out "Yo, Etro, I still don't think these cats understand what you're trying to say! Hit em again with some big beards, man!"
Zack:If that's the case then he's saying "Fuck fuck fuck these guys who are making fun of us right now in their article"
Zack:The hat makes me think it's awfully cold, but then he's wearing half a sweater so I'm getting mixed messages.
Dr. Thorpe:It looks like he forgot to wear a bib when he went out to dinner and he spilled some wallpaper samples from 1972 all over his shirt.
Zack:Either that or he had a really bad lobster.
Dr. Thorpe:Yeah, like a surreal lobster.
Zack:He cracks a claw and cartoon rainbows comes out followed by unicorns and talking birds. I have to admit, though, I feel sort of hamstrung on this one because I keep thinking of things that are vaguely racist. Ohhh poor me and my white man's burden.
Dr. Thorpe:Aside from that, the red suit is actually sort of snazzy. I think it has its place in this world. Like maybe on the lead singer of some doofus teenage-girl band like Maroon 5 during a sham awards ceremony.
One wizard thinks our President's magic control initiatives have gone too far.
Are we not allowed to be real parents anymore? We may have feared the CyborFreaks, but we damn well respected them and learned about boundaries.
Ron Paul spins in his chair, trying to grab his decorative antique musket but Freddy gets it first.
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.