Zack: It's like a Saturday Night Live sketch that writes itself! Now all we need is a girl in a "cock" costume with a rooster head and Horatio Sanz or Jimmy Fallon standing in the background laughing at everything. Hey guys, just because laughter is the best medicine doesn't mean the doctors get to stand in the pharmacy dumping pills down their throats.
Dr. Thorpe: I love that not only is this a "beaver" costume, but it's presented in awesome vintage ringer t-shirt style so that you can look like a humorless piece of human garbage AND a clueless phony hipster who wouldn't know "hip" if it bit him in the pre-faded ass. This is a perfect distillation of The Mystery Method, "Nerdcore" rap, the Dave Matthews Band, Adult Swim, and Clerks 2 into one glorious entity of aesthetic failure.
Zack: Hey! I met my wife using the Mystery Method. I just gently ran my finger across her elbow while we were talking and she agreed to marry me.
Dr. Thorpe: Then again, she was only a child and you were a rich American with a boat and two dozen unsold houses.
Zack: True, that was after I had paid her family a hundred thousand baht, but it was before I had the shackles on.
Dr. Thorpe: But anyway, look at the piece of shit they got to wear this costume. Doesn't he just have "clueless attempt to be hip" written all over him? Even despite the costume, imagine talking to this guy for ten minutes. I guarantee that he'd mention MC Chris, Death Cab for Cutie, and Family Guy within the first 30 seconds.
Dr. Thorpe: His sixteen-year-old girlfriend loves him because he's just so random!
Zack: Yeah, the problem with this whole scenario is that these shirts are so terrible that twenty or thirty years from now there are going to be hundreds of them in thrift stores and it will become a serious trend among real hipsters, who are just as terrible as failed hipsters only they have more elitist standards.
Dr. Thorpe: Well, the real point of all this is that there is no way to conceive of a scenario wherein we do not hate the person wearing this shirt.
Zack: I can't think of a scenario wherein I do not hate the person wearing any shirt. I pretty much agree with every word spoken in the Matrix by Agent Smith, so you'd better be at a giant rave at the center of the earth and wearing a mesh vest or you're human garbage to me.
Dr. Thorpe: A person could walk up to me and say "I just cured cancer, now let's go relax and watch a Bergman film and maybe listen to my extensive collection of ultra-rare Trinidadian calypso 78s," and I'd still snub the fuck out of them.
Zack: But what if that person walked up to you and looked directly into your eyes while speaking and gently touched you whenever they reached a strength word?
Dr. Thorpe: I don't know man, I'd rate myself about a 9.2, I'm mostly immune to those kind of tactics unless you've got a pretty good command of "negs" and you're confident enough to subtly tell me I'm fat a few times until my pussy is just dripping with desire.
Hows about you, me, and five uncomfortable minutes in my basement apartment next to the dusty Christmas tree that's still up from my last visit with my estranged children.
The Upper Kitchen Cabinet Where Your Roommate Keeps His Food: You’ll 'need the footstool' to reach your roommate’s 'fine selection' of 'stale cereal,' but he'll never notice if 'only a little is missing from each box.' Feel less guilty by reminding yourself that Jeff 'acts weird around your girlfriend,' and always 'asks about her.' What a 'creep.'
This ain't your daddy's globe...! .... or is it?!
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.