Zack: That's...uhhhhhh...quite a tableaux.
Dr. Thorpe: I'm going to do like a James Randi kind of thing and offer up a million-dollar prize to anyone who can prove that this is sexy.
Zack: Imagine you're at a party at some house with commercial doors, presumably in Germany, and you're drinking some beers and having a good time and then you wander upstairs looking for the bathroom, open a door, and....this.
Zack: What I'm feeling looking at this is what I imagine those guys felt on the alien ship in Fire in the Sky.
Dr. Thorpe: This is more like the kind of thing you'd see if you opened up a random door at the Overlook Hotel.
Zack: They all stop whatever inscrutable act they are in the middle of and their heads would slowly turn towards you.
Dr. Thorpe: You'd be like "well, this one isn't so bad compared to the old naked rotting woman in the bathtub," but then when you think back on it years later it'll still be this one that sticks in your mind and keeps you up at night.
Dr. Thorpe: It's not only horrifying but perplexing. You'd lie there in bed in a pool of cold sweat going "what do they even think they can do in all that stuff?"
Zack: It would certainly be near the top of The TV Guide Channel Presents the 50 Creepiest Moments of Horror Movie History.
Dr. Thorpe: It would probably beat out that skin-peeling-off sequence in The Fly in the Top 50 Itchiest Moments of Horror Movie History, too.
"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.