Dave: Now, see, shit like this is why I don't even play video games anymore. What kind of a madcap addie-popping Japanese pedophile designed THIS Technicolor fruitcake?
Zack: I don't even know exactly what I'm looking at. Is that part with the green the top or the bottom? Is it some sort of robot?
Dave: I think the glowing part must be its eye or something, but I can't make heads or tails of this psychedelic nightmare.
Zack: It's certainly a reminder that I'm getting too old to play video games. Like, older than five and not brain damaged and suuuuuuuuper questionable in a sexual sense.
Dave: This insane fucking picture is a pure reefer madness odyssey to the furthest reaches of the human mind. I just ran up and touched the wall of the haunted house, bro. I just went over the fucking swingset.
Zack: This is what it feels like to die, to have all your reality fade from darkness into a shimmery kaleidoscope of misfiring neurons, to have pure phosphene nightmare-things populate your shrinking inner space. Until you are a single brilliant point, pulsing with your past lives, memories and all you ever were.
Dave: Some scientists speculate that what we know as consciousness is naught but a modulated psychedelic experience brought on by the naturally-occurring DMT in the deepest reaches of our brain. Seeing this crazy whatever-it-is must somehow tap into our pineal gland reserve of The Spirit Molecule and just flip our wigs totally inside out, maybe forever.
Zack: I can't answer you. I exist only as energy now David.
Maria Mitchell is shown holding a telescope to each eye, using them to ogle passing hunks on the street below. OOOGA! Her tongue rolls out like a firehose, her eyes comically bulging through the ends of the telescopes.
The Internet experience of 2014 has been condensed into a single article for your convenience.
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.