Do you remember what it was like to die? How could you, because you've been a ghost for so long muhahahaha! You probably forgot! Now it's time to remember and die all over again! Come one, come all, goblins, boogeymen, ghosts, ghouls and goofs to this season's annual reunion of Count Zackula and Dr. Thorpenstein. No costumed tots or be-togged dogs to spoil the fun, just a bunch of movie monsters we found fiendishly frightmarish!
Dr. Thorpenstein: BooOOoOooo, my ghostly babies! The night of witches and demons and far-away animal noises approaches-- can you handle the bone-chilling fright of a FASHION SWAT HALLOWEEN MONSTER MASH?
Zackula: Imagine your mother about to be crushed by the jaws of a sea beast and just in time you pull her to safety only to find...your mother is a wolf and she has your face! Just one of many shocking scenarios that could play out to a bloody conclusion tonight, if you foolishly turn your back on a drug.
Dr. Thorpenstein: Count Zackula has prepared a mortifying menagerie of malevolent mutilators for our grim delight... as long as we don't DIE of SCARINESS before the night's end!
Dr. Thorpenstein: Loving the clip. In fact, I paid $7.99 for something pretty similar at my favorite Female Phonebooth Engulf & Devour site.
Zackula: They call that phone booth move the Akira special.
Zackula: The Blob is a no-nonsense monster. It doesn't bother with skin or bones or anything like "frights." It doesn't make any noise. It just creeps up on you and eats you. That's the entirety of its agenda. Eat people, get bigger.
Dr. Thorpenstein: That's the entirety of my agenda too, but replace "people" with "burgers." I'm no less relentless, emotionless and inscrutable.
Zackula: Also I have seen people run screaming out of a movie theater you were in.
Dr. Thorpenstein: Yeah, a lot of theaters have this gimmick where they hand out barf bags if I'll be in attendance.
Dr. Thorpenstein: For some reason I can't get too scared of death by blob, because whenever I imagine it I somehow turn it into something kind of pleasant. Like, this big wad of Jello creeps up and engulfs me, and it's all warm and soft and relaxing, and I slowly drift off into blissful sleep as the digestive enzymes wash my cares away.
Zackula: Let's have our next girl's night out at the blob spa.
Zackula: These days if they remade The Blob the monster would become an overbearing metaphor for consumerism, but I appreciate the simplicity of the original. Try as you might to discern meaning, the blob really was just a slime monster devouring everything. And a masturbation panic metaphor.
Dr. Thorpenstein: I always thought it was about communism, just because everything back then was about communism. Body Snatchers are communism, The Fly is communism, Mickey Rooney is communism.
Zackula: Don't conflate red panic with fear of the atomic bomb. America stayed awake at night afraid of that mushroom cloud appearing to turn Mickey Rooney into a giant ant.
Zackula: Well, a medium-sized ant at least
Dr. Thorpenstein: I kind of like masturbation panic though, and I think there should be more masturbation panic horror movies. Mickey Rooney is definitely masturbation panic.
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.