Dr. Thorpe:These girls look like they spend all day soaking in big bathtubs full of iodine.
Zack:They have been prepped for the surgery that will finally remove their pesky non-tumor skin.
Dr. Thorpe:Yeah, they're disinfected like crazy. I bet they apply fruity lotions to put a cutesy mask over the iodine odor, but at the end of the day they always wind up stinking like rusty metal and old people.
Zack:They remind me of some kind of horrible organ-grinder monkey in this picture. I think it's the eye shadow and the way the one in the bottom right looks like she's waiting to be given a peanut. "Good Melanomie, you danced a merry jig today!"
Dr. Thorpe:They look rather pitiful sitting there, like they're awaiting some grim punishment from the other fruits.
Zack:They've already been stripped of most of their status bracelets.
Dr. Thorpe:"Not enough bracelets! Chop off their heads!"
Zack:You know the punishment for them would probably be just blasting off that layer of bronzer with high pressure hoses. The kind they use to take hair and skin off a hog at a pork plant.
Dr. Thorpe:Zack, let's make a pact never to go to Japan. There's always the chance that we'll come back dressed in candy, throwing peace signs, and looking like giant tangerines. Lord only knows what kind of grim fetishes we'll pick up along the way. It must be hard enough to get any when you look like that, but imagine combining it with the fact that you can only get off by watching cartoon women being ripped apart by werewolves.
Zack:I'll make the pact about not going to Japan but I don't think that should be chief among your worries. Japan is so xenophobic we would leave the airport and be dragged down into the tunnels beneath the streets to be taken apart systematically for the fats and oils our bodies can provide their lotion stills. "Shk-ppphhhh...Shk-ppphhhh," a still-warm brown slurry slides out of a chute and they immediately begin shrieking and smearing it all over each other.
Dr. Thorpe:All the Japanese tourists I see in San Fransisco are just decent, nicely-dressed families looking at Alcatraz with binoculars. But they're probably just like the glowing baubles that deep-sea fish dangle in front of their toothy mouths: they make me feel secure, I go on a trip to Japan, and BAM: I'm in a little bottle in some teenage girl's neon-green purse.
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
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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.