Elegant Evening Fur
Dr. Thorpe:This guy sweats champagne.
Zack:This is what MTV would look like if Mozart had written a piano concerto about spinnaz.
Dr. Thorpe:I wonder why they chose the photo where he's standing like a bouncer. Terrifying as that coat is, it just doesn't project menance. It's only terrifying because you have to imagine how it smells after a night out: like Brut, scented body oil, hair gel, and testicle.
Zack:I don't know about that. I think this coat makes you think the dude either killed a polar bear or a really big sheepdog. That's plenty of menace to check the fake IDs of some college freshmen.
Dr. Thorpe:Nah, it just looks like he killed a few novelty steering wheel covers from Spencer Gifts.
Zack:They've got him standing in a castle I think. Is this picture historically accurate? Is this what kings look like? If so then "Black Knight" has some explaining to do.
Dr. Thorpe:That movie definitely has a lot to answer for, like wasting Martin Lawrence's talent.
Zack:I know. I sat through that whole thing and there was nary a "DAAAAAAMNNNN, BABY!"
Dr. Thorpe:It was no Bad Boys II (which I seriously think is a great movie, and nobody's gonna change my mind).
Zack:That part where Martin Lawrence is verbally working over his daughter's date was one of the most well written scenes in film history. It made Glengarry Glen Ross look like a joke about beer goggles on the back of a cardboard coaster.
Dr. Thorpe:God, this guy gets all fancied up in his pearl bowtie and his giant fur horrorcoat, and he doesn't even bother to shave? What a slob. This isn't the Eighties, the George Michael thing isn't going to work anymore.
Zack:Are you kidding me? Taking care of a shin-length fur coat is a full time job.
Dr. Thorpe:Yeah, it's like an addiction. That coat rules his life. Can't shave, can't shower, can't sleep, can't even leave the castle.
Zack:If he spills something on it he probably takes it to the dry cleaner and then just stands there waiting because he doesn't know what to do with himself without the coat occupying his life.
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
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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.