Dr. Thorpe: What is this costume hiding? There's obviously something "no-no'ed" out at the bottom with a red circle-slash, but what is it?
Zack: It probably has a little picture of the costume.
Dr. Thorpe: Maybe it's a piece of poo, and this is a "no shit, Sherlock" costume.
Zack: Unfortunately, I think you're right.
Dr. Thorpe: Well if I'm right, this is an incredibly fucking stupid costume.
Zack: Halloween costumes love taking phrases and making them literal. For example, you can go as an egg with horns and a pitchfork or a cigarette with a back brace on and a drinking straw glued to your spine. It's hilarious because, see, there are words, and you took them and made them into a costume. And it's funny.
Dr. Thorpe: This is much worse than either of those, because it adds the "I am in fifth grade and I just learned to swear" element.
Zack: B-but it has a giant pipe!
Dr. Thorpe: THAT'S WHAT YOUR MOM SAID.
Zack: This costume is pretty much the exact opposite of that Elvis costume. Nothing you could do with it would ever make it cool or creepy. You could fill a warehouse with corpses dressed in this costume and the person you were pranking would see them all and go "ha ha, very funny guys. Grow up."
Dr. Thorpe: Yeah, the only scary thing about a living rebus is that he might try to talk to you and you'd have to suffer through his stories about dank nugs and how he totally felt up a drunk girl.
Zack: The sort of person who would wear a costume like this is probably either a stoner, like you said, or some totally square businessman who is just breaking loose and proving that he can be as funny as the rest of them. So it's either "I've got a one-hitter out in my car" or "who wants to limmmmmbo?!" Choose your poison.
Dr. Thorpe: I wonder if people who think this costume is funny are technically a different species as us. It's hard to imagine that they could share our genetic code. Maybe we could mate with them, but our offspring would be infertile.
Zack: The good thing is costumes like this serve as a sort of threat-patterning to ward us off ever procreating with their ilk.
Dr. Thorpe: Yeah, we can tell them by their No Shit, Sherlock costumes and their Dave Matthews Band bumper stickers and their Celtic armband tattoos.
Zack: If you hear them raving about anything served at Applebees or buying clothes at Wal-Mart it's a safe bet their genetic dead end. "These Grande Fiesta Nachos are amazing, but I spilled some on my Taz shirt."
Dr. Thorpe: "Hey brah, want to go to the Moxy Fruvous concert with me?" "Sure, but you won't be getting any viable offspring out of it!"
Zack: Meanwhile we can prey on the girls listening to the Decemberists on their iPod. We may hate everything they stand for, but their trait signals are close enough that they can carry fertile offspring. I'd like to add that the Decemberists can't even spell their own fucking name correctly so, emokinds, be aware that you're listening to the "pirate rock" equivalent of Lynyrd Skynyrd.
"Really, Holmes!" I dropped into my seat, shocked. "You are remarkably tall! What are you, six foot six? Six foot eight?"
As the 19th century diver approaches a giant clam, a flash of brilliant golden light flares from within the shell. I emerge in a swirl of bubbles and do the timeless universal underwater hand signals for the following: ZODIAC KILLER, KKK, BLOOD OF YOUTH
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.