Dave: I'm a big sucker for dancing to Bobby Brown's "On Our Own (Theme from Ghostbusters II)," and I don't know how these guys can do it in all these big suits without sweating through their boxers and inviting ruthless fungal infections in their genital folds.
Zack: I wear a conductor's waistcoat when I hit the floor to Space Jam but I talc it up my man. You have to look like you just rolled out of a kiln or you will get crazy diaper diseases on your taint.
Dave: Pee yew, brother, I did NOT need to hear about the talc game you rock on the scrote. But I can relate-- when I dance to "Motownphilly," I make sure to wear a scarf to cover up the oozing psoriasis that develops on my neck and shoulders, cause when that shit starts flaking big pink scabs on the dance floor, you best believe the honeys ain't down!
Zack: I hear you on that. If you don't want some trouble in your ABC BVDs then you better get you a tincture made out of some yarrow. Put that all down your crack, front to back, or you will get those creeping sores, those deep boily ones that bust out all bloody and never quite close up. I wear my scarf to catch my slough mostly.
Dave: These guys in the back are rolling smart with those blazers all trussed up tight under hard black buttons. Gotta keep that thorax hemmed in, or you'll be poppin' sick hernies left and right while you pop and lock to Tony! Toni! Toné!. Plus, the tight pants shore up the anal column against inevitable prolapse.
Dave: You gotta batten down all of your hatches if you want to bust a move, brother, or your insides will spill out your mouth like the scene in The Jackal.
Zack: Shit, last Friday I had double hernias and I straight up Yossarianed myself onto the dance floor. Grabbed that zipper to show my full-chest Banzai print t-shirt, yanked it down and bleeeehhh all my guts fell out. That was embarrassing.
Dave: Nothing like being in the club trying to mack on a fly lady while you're trying to Snowden in your guts with one hand and hold a Mojito in the other.
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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.