Dr. Thorpe:Oh god, more of this.
Zack:These guys look like the sketches you'd see in a 1920s encyclopedia if you look up "fisticuffs". They're going to have it out! Place your bets!
Dr. Thorpe:The shorts in the inlay look like the exaggerated undergarments you see on cowboys when their pants are pulled down in old comedies.
Zack:At least these guys had the sense to stay away from the bog for their photoshoot.
Dr. Thorpe:If I may ask a personal question, do you tuck your undershirt into your underpants?
Zack:No, I generally do not make a habit of it. It sort of defeats the purpose of underpants.
Dr. Thorpe:I don't, but then again, I've never been a model.
Zack:A trait you share with these lads.
Dr. Thorpe:Wait, maybe they're not tucked in. Maybe they're one-piece garments that zip up the back.
Dr. Thorpe:Which is a good name for these guys if they started a band.
Zack:Most of them also seem to be wearing the lower portion of their undertard above their navel. Although who knows the birthing methods of the Morlocks. Perhaps they have no navels and grow in a great cauldron full of nutritious gelatin.
Dr. Thorpe:They must be born in those things, because who in their right mind would put them on?
Zack:"Aye Connor, I'm fresh from the spawning churn and I brung me royal trumpet."
Dr. Thorpe:Then again, what photographer in his right mind says "I've got it! A guy in his undertard holding a trumpet in front of some sort of Saxon tapestry!"
Zack:I like how they have the four full body shots of the undertards and then the cowboy pantaloons in the inset. Like "Buy these or, if you must, buy the cowboy shorts."
"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.