Dr. Thorpenstein: I was pretty skeptical about the sexiness of some of these costumes, but I'll admit they got me with Sexy Corn Field.
Zackula: Five girls, one terrible costume, a minimalist concept for your Halloween party so brilliant your friends will be talking about "the corn party" for years. It's the perfect theme if you live in a corn field.
Dr. Thorpenstein: Even if you don't live in a corn field, you can bring all the sensual magic of a lot of corn to wherever your party is "popping" off.
Dr. Thorpenstein: We can all instantly see that a bunch of corn costumes are sexy, but I think the trickier thing is why? I mean, you can picture ripping the husks off of some women and throwing them on a barbecue, but that only gets you so far.
Zackula: Covering them in mayo and selling them out of a steamer cart with a bicycle bell and a Mexican yelling "elotes!"
Dr. Thorpenstein: My theory is that at the end of the day, the ear of corn fantasy is an insertion fantasy.
Zackula: I can buy that. We want them inside of us, whether we eat them or just straight up shuck them and shove them raw into our hungry holes.
Dr. Thorpenstein: We want to dry them out in the baking desert sun until they're hard and gnarled, and we want to drill them into our holes until the friction pops every last kernel.
Zackula: We want to drop our pants around our ankles and go to town with that rock-hard corn until the bucket formed by our pants looks like the seat of a baby's high chair after a family reunion.
Dr. Thorpenstein: We want to boil them, slather them in butter, and spin them around in our gapes until they're creamed through and through.
Zackula: Did you know, Dave, that when they are cramming cobs down their nasty holes the Indians call it maize?
The singer dove off the stage and crowd surfed in a sort of reverse funeral procession where the person being carried is the only one truly alive. Touching him I felt religious ecstasy and started speaking in tongues and requesting songs that didn't exist.
There's no easy way to put this, so I'll tell it like it is. Bouillon is died. He went missing before the weekend and yesterday I found his skeletonized remains at the bottom of the #3 soup vat during one of my swims. I thought the cream of mushroom soup had an especially nourishing taste, and a lot more clumps of fur and skin than usual.
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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.