Dr. Thorpenstein: I think Dracula is scary to us because he represents our intense fear of guys who are cooler than us.
Zackula: Dracula is the name brand vampire. If you're watching a vampire movie and it isn't a Dracula then, son, you need to step up your game.
Dr. Thorpenstein: Accept no Nosferatus.
Dr. Thorpenstein: Nosferatu is the Pepsi of vampires.
Zackula: Blade is the Dr. Pepper.
Dr. Thorpenstein: Blacula is the quasi-racist beverage joke.
Zackula: Dracula ties back into masturbation panic, but it's female masturbation. Like the poorly-understood analog of a man's pneumatic action is this suave romeo character who might be a wolf, might be a bat or might just be a mist that creeps in through the window (orgasms) at night to seduce your wife.
Zackula: "Honey, what was that buzzing I heard? Why is the window open? Why does it smell like the hot meat tray at the buffet?"
Dr. Thorpenstein: Yeah, the plot of Dracula is all about that. You bring home some rich client from your job, and suddenly your ladyfriend is laughing a little too hard at his jokes, and next thing you know the female orgasm is attained by some mysterious means that are totally lost on you.
Dr. Thorpenstein: I think I have to object to the Dracula/Wolfman pairing posed in this clip. I don't think Dracula has a single minute to spare for a roughneck like Wolfman. Dracula is a caped sophisticate, but Wolfman is just a guy who can't hold his shit together.
Zackula: Maybe they have a Big Brothers type program for monsters. Dracula gets a wolfman to play floor hockey in a crypt, Invisible Man ends up trying to feed french fries to the Creature of the Black Lagoon.
Dr. Thorpenstein: It just feels like a mixed metaphor. Dracula is a female masturbation metaphor, Wolfman is a getting drunk metaphor. Dracula's a little bit country, Wolfman's a little bit rock and roll.
Zackula: Dracula is totally not country at all. Dracula is a David Bowie song heavy on the synth. He's dressed as an orchestra conductor but fancier.
Dr. Thorpenstein: It's just a figure of speech. Plus, Dracula is totally country.
Dr. Thorpenstein: He lives out in the woods, he has a dog (Renfield) and a truck (wagons and shit) and he's pining over his lost love.
Zackula: He lives in the mountains, he has a castle and a harem of vampire slave women, and he has excellent dental hygiene. About the only thing reminiscent of hillbillies is that he is afraid to travel in a plane over the ocean, but that's because of a literal curse and not the curse of morbid obesity.
Dr. Thorpenstein: No way, cowboys are Dracula metaphors.
Zackula: Speaking of castles though, that's another reason to look down on Wolfman. Back in the day if you didn't have your own castle you were hardly worthy of monster pantheon inclusion.
Dr. Thorpenstein: Well what the fuck good are you as a monster if you can't at least take over a castle? If you get super good at killing with impunity, the first thing you should do is find a castle and kill everyone in it, because free castle.
Zackula: It worked for King Ralph.
Dr. Thorpenstein: Well this ties it all together, because John Goodman is both totally country and also a female masturbation panic metaphor.
Zackula: "Roseanne, what was that noise I heard and why does it smell like -- oh, you brought the loose meat tray home again."
Not what I had in mind when I ordered an Italian gondolier. This is literally just a tiny toy. Needless to say, the Italian businessmen were not impressed and I looked like a damn fool. We lost the pizza pie account and will have to lay off half our factory.
Did you know that you only use 10% of your brain? You may have heard that before. But what if you could use 100%? YOU CAN!
Time to applaud the man who applauds in a loop until the end of time.
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.