Dave: Ah, my favorite character: electric retard Kewpie Jesus.
Zack: Maybe it's a tribute to Ol' Dirty Bastard.
Zack: Too obscure?
Dave: If anyone out there doesn't get that joke, they are just the worst person. Just the worst.
Zack: When you see a tattoo this poorly executed you've got to wonder at what point did the process fall apart.
Dave: I'm guessing the tattoo artist tragically fell asleep during a routine Jesus tattoo procedure-- you can tell because it clearly says "ZZZ" up in the left corner.
Zack: That's "222," the number of Infant Christ.
Dave: Infant Christ is part of the Holy Trisomy.
Zack: First referenced in Rugrats 8:15: For the number was 2 thrice given and it burned in the thundercharge that danced about the Infant Christ's head as he prepared his attack on Krakensaur.
Dave: And lo, the beard of Infant Christ was cleft in twain by the crackling power.
Zack: His powers are like Christ's, but less mighty. He creates wine from sippy cups full of bad juice and he can tread water really well.
Dave: He didn't die on the cross and rise again, but he did get all tuckered out playing with his He-Mans and wake up from his nap a little cranky.
Zack: When he overturned the tables of the money changers he ended up swallowing a nickel.
Dave: "Juge not," Infant Jesus tells us, "lest ye be juged."
A reluctant family is forced to welcome a non-human participant to Thanksgiving dinner.
Perfect Eggs Every Time: Hold an egg in your cupped hands. Put your hands over a fire, squeezing them together gently to crack the egg open. Try not to let any egg liquid or egg shell fall out between your fingers.
You cant go around life being smart in an unconventional way, it could change the world.
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.