Dr. Thorpe:If this guy is truly a realist, then I guess that makes this outfit okay, because he knows how stupid he looks.
Zack:Dateline, Kitchen: DA REALIST SURRENDERS TO FASHION AUTHORITIES! That's like the kind of shirt an old man would wear to bed with a stocking cap in the 1950s.
Dr. Thorpe:I think it's more of a smock. He's clearly an artist, after all, and what's an artist without a paint-caked smock?
Zack:Obviously he's a realist.
Dr. Thorpe:He's not a realist, Zack. He's Da realist.
Zack:He has just completed his masterpiece: "PItbull Wearing Diamond Necklace." Available at a fine black velvet airbrush painting retailer near you, or being sold by a Mexican outside of a gas station.
Dr. Thorpe:He won critical acclaim in the world of high art with his 1996 piece "Big Titty Angel with Caddy" and his recent airbrush on car hood mural "Aaliyah RIP"
Zack:His "Weed Leaf Triptych" will hang in the Met.
Dr. Thorpe:He found commercial success with his limited series of "Custom airbrushed e-bay Dipset XXXXXL Shirts" but recently returned to his realist roots with the matching smock-and-cap affair we witness in this candid shot.
Sometimes I dream that I'm sitting in the back of the defunct Weinermobile as it careens driverless down the highway. At first I thought this was symbolic of the powerlessness I feel in life, but then I realized it's actually the Weinermobile's dream of being able to drive again.
Three years ago, when we were burying my uncle, Cleaver and some gross lady dog (Solstice???) showed up at the cemetery and starting going at it really loudly. It ruined everything and we had to have a "re-do" the next day and it cost a fortune. I've hated him ever since for that.
Ignore the hype. Find out how these games will likely go right or wrong.
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.