Zack:This guy looks like he should be working a table at a casino in Vegas where the theme is something like "the inside of the ear" or "celebrity skin grafts." He could be the "Brian Kilmeade after a sulfuric acid burn to the torso" impersonator. He could make really bad sports jokes and then accuse people of being liberal and challenge them to fist fights.
Dr. Thorpe:He's turning to the side and smiling because he's having to explain for the millionth time that he's not the valet. "No, sorry, I just dress like this, I'm just basically a big homo."
Zack:"Sorry, gotta run. I've got a DJ gig at this state's first gay wedding. I never knew there was a dance mix for 'The Invitation to the Jellicle Ball.' Heh, learn something new every day."
Dr. Thorpe:I bet if you pop that gold button off his collar the whole outfit falls off. It's a trick stripper suit.
Zack:That would probably be a relief to pretty much everyone nearby.
Dr. Thorpe:Yeah, this outfit is much more shameful than the human form. But you just know he'd have some kind of awful thong underneath that would just make it worse.
Zack:Yeah, he would be wearing those edible fruit rollup panties and it would have melted into his crotch creating this hideous morass that looks like he has been having sex with a slop bucket at a slaughterhouse. Speaking of terror, this is really the sort of thing that terrorists should wear when they're trying to sneak weapons onto an airliner. You don't search a guy wearing something like this. No terrorist is that stupid.
Dr. Thorpe:Yeah, you just wave this guy past, if you search him you'll just wind up smelling like cocoa butter and stale sex.
Zack:And that only makes you wonder who or what he has been having sex with. Helen Keller would recoil in horror from this guy. Terri Schiavo's cells would screech inhumanly and start her wasted frame Hopak dancing just to prove that even her flesh is unwilling.
Dr. Thorpe:He's having sex with all the other goofy assholes in the International Male catalog. They're like the drama kids in high school, they all get laid all the time, but only with their own horrible, horrible kind.
"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.