Dr. Thorpe: Wow. This guy is just such a huge pervert.
Zack: Seriously. I'm amazed they would give a job to such a deviant.
Dr. Thorpe: Everything about this guy is just an arrow pointing to his dick.
Zack: And his eyes are lit with a modest proposal. One that involves gallons of vegetable oil and a sawhorse.
Dr. Thorpe: He's got that sizing-you-up look. You can hear his brain going "yes... yes, I think you'll be just right."
Dr. Thorpe: All night he just casually walks around his mansion looking through keyholes at the perverse little living dioramas he's got set up in every room.
Zack: This is the kind of guy who would drive around in the family's station wagon soliciting sex and he's not choosy. He'll take a handjob from the silent Dominican of indeterminate sex or he'll scrape a dead raccoon off the side of a frontage road with a snow shovel and dry hump it to climax.
Dr. Thorpe: Nah, he hasn't done shit like that since he was ten years old. Now he's independently wealthy and he somehow manages to base his whole life around his perversions.
Zack: He has a room hidden behind a bookcase in his bedroom and inside there's a huge cistern and a dolphin ready to service his every need.
Dr. Thorpe: In one room, he's got what could only be described as a Nazi rape machine. He bought it on the Swiss black market for three million dollars. It can use a human being up in a matter of minutes. It's almost the equivalent of one of those machines at tourist attractions where you put in a penny and it smashes an embossed image into it.
Dr. Thorpe: "Allow me to show you the centerpiece of my collection," he says to some young virgin, and then he takes her into the machine room, and she sees this huge thing, Swastikas all over it, huge steam valves, big glass tubes, metal rollers, lots of switches and dials. "Oh my," she says, "is it a pipe organ?"
Dr. Thorpe: But he's got a soft spot for her wide-eyed innocence, so he decides that she's not quite ready for Der Reichenrapenmaschine, so he takes her to the next room over and watches while she is ravaged by a zebra that's been injected with hormones.
Zack: The dolphin and the rape machine are both good starts, but I'm sure his tastes have long since become jaded to such pedestrian endeavors. These days he's hiring infamous art thieves to steal pre-human skeletons from museums. Then he pays scientists from China to extract the DNA, clone the poor beast, carry it to term in a surrogate and then be born only to be used as little more than a toy in one of his sexual games with another hyper-rich perverted psychopath.
Zack: He can't even achieve an erection anymore unless a sentient being has died.
Dr. Thorpe: He's not satisfied merely by killing something, but it has to know it's being killed, and furthermore it has to know it's being killed for sexual gratification.
Zack: They sad thing is that there are probably resorts in Thailand that cater to exactly this sort of guy. You just walk in, pick out a girl, pay like 500 US dollars and strangle her while a pod of dolphins leaps into the air nearby.
Dr. Thorpe: After that, you're free to stuff her in your suitcase and take her home to be pureed into a delicious slurry by your favorite Nazi appliance.
Zack: Which you can then chill and drink through a straw made out of the thighbone of a fetal Neanderthal
Hey, have you guys ever seen a picture of a cat before? Well, guess what. It’s your lucky day, because I’m mixing the concept of a picture of my cat with the concept of the Internet!
Once again I'm stuck with a useless egg man statue and nobody to tend to my robust physical and emotional needs. Worst of all, the egg man didn't even come with a stool. I have to share my recliner and bed with him, and he is not sensitive to my needs at all.
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.