Dr. Thorpe: Hey, let's do a little bit of word association:
Dr. Thorpe: "Decorum."
Dr. Thorpe: "Propriety."
Dr. Thorpe: "Culture."
Dr. Thorpe: "Courtliness."
Zack: I'm trying to come up with a shit joke here, but I think they have all already been taken by these costumes.
Dr. Thorpe: Wait, did they do bull... oh, okay, nevermind.
Zack: After that last one and these five pictures I think I can honestly say that I "get" the whole "Death to America" thing. If I heard about some horribly oppressive country where people are tortured constantly and randomly imprisoned, but they had these five pictures up in their customs offices with orders to shoot on sight, I think I would move there.
Dr. Thorpe: "Milady, would you perchance allow me to escort you to the duke's masquerade?" "Why yes, dear sir, I should be quite delighted to attend. I shall have my ladies-in-waiting prepare my finest shit joke costume."
Zack: "We must ensure that mine does not correspond to that joke being told by another lady or it will no doubt be the scandal of the ball. What of "hot shit", has that been taken? Lady Chatterley, you say? Drat and confound it, I do hope there is something to be worn."
Dr. Thorpe: "My stars, who is that dashing gentleman? He cuts quite an elegant profile in his pizza tunic."
Zack: "Ladies and gentlemen, I hereby announce the arrival of his most honorable, Duke Marmonth of West Stepford, as the notable sir, Bartholomew J. Simpson."
Dr. Thorpe: "Good heavens, is that Lord Canterwine in the 'crock of shit' vestment? I should think he would be too ashamed to show his face here, after he was so disgracefully ejected from the ball last year, when he flew into an unseemly rage after Count Worrington mistook his Magnum PI costume for a depiction of the dead man from Weekend at Bernie's."
Zack: These costumes are so irritatingly stupid that you could really justify pretty much any sort of hate crime against someone wearing one of them. Just dress your victims up as turd jokes and then machinegun them into a ditch or lock them in a burning barn. The war crimes tribunal will understand.
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.
Can't tell a drinking fountain from a urinal? We've got you covered. Brush up on your drinking fountain enthusiast -- or sipper -- vocabulary and learn to talk and swap sips with the best of them.
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.