Zack: "Mom, I will totally slay this dragon and win your heart."
Dr. Thorpe: "I shall protect thee, Lady Mom!"
Zack: "The perfect costume for the boy who longs to refer to his mother as 'wench' for at least one day of the year."
Dr. Thorpe: Okay, we both jumped on the same thing. Obviously this guy is a knight and he's in love with his mom. He's even got that awkward hand position where he probably tried to hold hands with his mom but she swatted him away.
Zack: My guess is that mom picked out the costumes. It's all a part of her effort to totally emasculate him in front of his peer group because she believes, deep down, that she is the only woman right for him. Her recently divorced husband is out with his new girlfriend in the vinyl hotpants FBI uniform and she is not going to let being dateless and frigid stand in the way of having a good Halloween. So she has dressed her son up in a matching costume and intends to project all of her sexual frustration onto him.
Dr. Thorpe: It's probably a two-way street though. It wasn't her idea to breastfeed him until he was 9.
Zack: Yeah, but she's the one who tells everyone all about it. "Oh, yeah, Cindy. Breastfeed as long as you want. I didn't stop until Donny was 12 and I still fill up the old jug in the fridge whenever it needs topping off. He just loves the taste of my breastmilk. Can't get enough of it. Oh, is this your oldest, Cindy? She looks about Donny's age. Oh, in the same class you say? Well, that's a darling Cleopatra costume."
Dr. Thorpe: Her husband left her because of all the weirdness. "Gale, the boy is fifteen, he doesn't need to sleep in our bed whenever he has a scary dream!" And then Gale would always start crying and say "well if I can't protect my precious little angel, who can?"
Zack: She probably had like three miscarriages before she gave birth to Donny. She has little memorial alcoves set up around the house with baby books and morbid post-mortem footprints and little angel statues.
Dr. Thorpe: But then Donny would interrupt the discussion by barging in and going "hey dad, I'm going to get some pillows out so you can sleep on the couch tonight, I wet my bed again so I'm gonna bunk up with mom. Oh, and mom, the jug is looking a little empty, want me to get out the pump?"
Zack: "I have to warm it up when I take it out of the fridge because Donny like it fresh. It's what he's used to." I don't know what I was saying about his "class", there can be no doubt that he is home schooled on a particularly dopey form of Christian teachings. Like the kind where she has a text book with a picture of Moses on the front and all of the biology stuff has been replaced with big color pictures of dinosaurs with saddles on them and little kids playing with lions.
Dr. Thorpe: He's probably going to get married and then his wife will leave him after six months because she's sick of being compared to his mother. Then he's going to move back in with his mother forever until they eventually start defaulting to sleepining in the same bed. "Well, he never has accidents when he sleeps with me, so it's just much easier this way."
Zack: Then he either becomes a serial killer or he and his mother go "all the way." Either outcome is equally hideous.
Dr. Thorpe: Even if they never go "all the way," they'll eventually just start living as common-law spouses. It makes the taxes easier, and then they can go out to social events together without the stigma.
After years of being misunderstood, I had hoped we finally had "our" story. I was wrong.
He had a yellow inflatable tube around his waist, the kind with a comical duck head. There was a tiny fish in one of his hands, and a trident in the other. In the background a squirrel wearing shades was water skiing.
For fans of meaningless awards, these awards are extra meaningless.
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.