Zack:Oh no! Oh God, they've found us! They're following our pheromone trail. When hell has no more room the tan will walk the earth.
Dr. Thorpe:The walls have been breached, we're overrun! The sickening smell of iodine and Pez stings our nostrils!
Zack:A seething river of fangs and peace-signs, propelled by a singular inhuman lust for more tanning lotion.
Dr. Thorpe:Jesus, second from the right, second row from the bottom: She looks like an Ewok!
Zack:Wicket is hanging with a bad crowd. There are a few almost normal people mixed in there though. They are just beginning their metamorphosis.
Dr. Thorpe:Yeah, like the girl in the bottom corner. Her hair is bleached, but she's still pre-op. They haven't soaked her in chemicals like the guy in "Black Like Me" yet.
Zack:I imagine this pack moving down a street bustling with life and activity and in their wake it's just tampon wrappers, energy-drink cans, and sorrow.
Dr. Thorpe:And that horrible orange slime-trail. It will look like somebody poured salt all over a massive slug made out of burnt umber Crayolas.
Zack:The real horror is that there are obviously many more of them than those pictured. Their population was vastly underestimated by Imperial census. The ganguro are a power to be reckoned with. Bronzer power.
Dr. Thorpe:They're sort of like the opposite of goths. Dark makeup, white circles around the eyes, bleached hair, bright clothes. And somehow they're much, much scarier. Goths could learn a thing or two about true evil from these cats. In order to taste true darkness, you must trade in Bauhaus for The Vengaboys.
Did Louis C.K. jerk off in front of two female comics? And why are these ladies squandering an opportunity to learn from a comedy legend?
Elliot said my breakup must have been due to the sweater curse, an unexplained phenomenon where anyone who gives their significant other a hand-knit sweater gets dumped. The only way to break the curse, Elliot said, was to destroy the sweater.
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.