Once again, and as aways, we find ourselves staring at a photo of Phil the way Nic Cage watched the snuff film in 8 MM, our primitive minds unable to tell the difference between actual horror and that on the screen and activating our adrenal glands and flooding our bodies with dumb, and fight.
try to find the apex of atrocity in this one: you’ll be wrong, unless you have a true Enthusiast’s eye.
It is not the “America, fuck yeah” theme he has going, as if he were invited to a locally-produced pro wrestling show on July fourth. Nor is it the haircut, which looks as if Phil is a suburban dad going through gender-reassignment.
It’s the backup sweatbands.