Dave: Why do I smell Pabst Blue Ribbon and clove cigarettes?
Dave: I don't know who owns that arm, but I can just feel her pretending to like Guided by Voices, right down to my bones.
Zack: You can have this or a master's degree, but you can't have both.
Dave: Yeah, but the point is that Bob Barker lives on in our memories, because he's such a groovy dude, right? I mean, Bob Barker, come on, he's the fucking coolest. Remember Bob Barker? I love that dude. Remember Plinko? I'm fucking obsessed with Bob Barker, dude, I swear. Ha ha. No fucking way, Bob Barker. I'm gonna get a tattoo of Bob Barker, seriously, wouldn't that be fucking rad?
Dave: What was that shit at the end, like... "remember to spay and neuter your pets?" Remember that? Ha ha, this is a popular culture reference which we can all enjoy forever.
Zack: By the time next year's Pitchfork Festival rolls around he'll have it covered with a giant picture of that fucking cup from Aqua Teen Hunger Force.
Dave: I was assuming it was a girl because this is the kind of miscalculation girls tend to make when they get to thinking they're funny.
Zack: No way, it's a dude. If it were a girl there would be Jhonen Vasquez bullshit everywhere.
Dave: Nah, I'm standing by it. It's a girl. Girls have the kind of Ghost World ironic obsession mentality that can carry a hilarious inside joke to this sort of level.
Zack: Yeah, okay, that "COME ON DOWN" does look suspiciously like it could be written on the cover of a composition book full of bad faerie drawings.
And you thought women had one-dimensional script intros that treated them like sex objects. Ewoks have it even worse.
No one seems to like the new Doom box art. But it's still the same old Doom Guy under that space marine helmet. Right?
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.