Zack: The Erotic Commandos. The only unit elite enough to scale trees in silk stockings and high heels.
Steve: I was going to say she is hot as heck and then I looked at her eyes. What the heck is going on?! They're all black!
Zack: It looks like those aliens from Communion ransacked a Frederick's of Hollywood and then joined the insurgency in Iraq.
Steve: I'm not kidding, man, this is freaking me out.
Zack: She probably just had a bad case of stripper back and is dosed out of her mind on Vicodin. That pole is brutal on the spine.
Steve: It says in that little box up there that she is a waitress in Kansas.
Zack: I think "waitress" is Kansasonian for "she works Tuesdays at Sassy's Gentlemen's Club off I-70".
Steve: I would never go there if she worked there. I'd rather take a class at an insane asylum on how to paint dead clowns.
We're not going to solve gun massacres with bad manners, people.
The guns are gone. Now what happens to all those paper targets? Don't tell me you forgot about the paper targets. The ones hanging from little clips on fancy clotheslines at shooting ranges. With no guns to destroy these legions of paper bastards, they go unchecked.
A sign proclaiming "BACTA: DA FUTURE" marks the town's medical clinic
1998: I upload dave.pcx, and change the course of history
Set goals for yourself, and fulfill them. Absurd! Only in video games!
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.