In a rousing finale, our correspondent offers nine fabulous lessons from Fashion Week

Fashion is a circus, and like every good circus it needs a clown—a sad clown with a rubber nose and a willingness to utter unspeakable truths. Unfortunately, Andre Leon Talley is under contract at Vogue, so we sought out Greg Gutfeld. At Radar's behest, the high-flying former editor of Stuff, Maxim UK, and Men's Health flew in from London to take a peek at life inside the tents. Fashion Week may never be the same.

To me, Fashion Week is like going back to school. But instead of learning about planets and geography, I'm learning about tie-back skirts and pleated charmeuse petal dresses. And really, isn't that what an education should be? Seriously, when did you actually use anything you learned in, say, A.P. English or algebra? But every day, you have to put on a shirt. Or, in my case, a medical truss.

But now that Fashion Week is drawing to a close, I feel like I'm graduating! I have learned so much. For example:

If you want to accentuate the flaws of both sexes, give a woman a headset, and a man an earpiece. It's amazing how a headset can turn a decent woman into Eva Perón. Or worse, Eva Longoria. And once a man inserts that little thing into his ear (no, not David Spade's penis), he suddenly thinks he's protecting the President. No, sir, you're working the door for Lela Rose—keeping the world safe from full skirts, swingy jackets, and princess coats. Honestly, will you ever take a bullet for a belted trench?

Fashion is to women what sports is to men. Both serve as arenas to assert superiority over other members of your sex. For men, it's a great tackle that provides the adrenaline rush. For women, it's laughing at someone's shoes. Obviously this does not apply to gays or lesbians—gay men excel in fashion, and lesbians prefer to chop down trees.

It's hard to blend in when everyone around you is so gorgeous. A case in point: Just before one of yesterday's shows began—I can't remember which one—a few photographers gathered around a beautiful blonde model and her so-so boyfriend. The lensmen snapped away politely, until one finally said, "Uh ... now just with her." The guy sheepishly realized that the earlier shots had been utterly pointless—they were just waiting for him to move. He did, and the photogs really started shooting. I took this opportunity to laugh at him. He looked so unimportant!

See, if it weren't for cameras, we would never know who is and isn't important. Models are important always, but even they get boring from time to time, and your eyes drift away from them and toward the rows of important people on the opposite side of the catwalk. I watch as they slowly follow a model down the runway, until out of the corners of their eyes, they see another leggy creature beginning her walk, and their stylish skulls return to their original position. It happens very slowly, so that everyone appears to be watching a game of tennis played by invalids. Sexy invalids in wisteria faille coat-dresses, sadly the kind that keep getting caught in the wheels.

What's not invalid: the UPS deliveryman. Always there, always with a nice package. During a break between shows, I headed to the UPS booth—mostly out of curiosity as to why there was, in fact, a UPS booth. I approached a blonde woman and pointed to the words painted on her booth, which read: "UPS: As reliable as a little black dress." I wanted to ask her why, sadly, my deliveryman won't ever wear one, but she cut me off with, "Our spokesperson is in the bathroom." So I approached a young man named Josh, who was sporting tight brown shorts and a brown vest bearing the UPS insignia. "I'm actually a model," he said, but he was willing to pretend he wasn't. "Now that I am working for UPS, it's like Christmas every morning," he joked, with a wink. I winked back. He winked again. Or maybe it was a twitch. Would he be twitching later, while enjoying the ministrations of my Furniture Mate? [Click NSFW link ... if you dare.] Maybe. It boasts all-steel construction with a heavy-duty slide mechanism you can use almost anywhere, and the folding stand makes for easy set-up and storage. I would fasten on his preferred style of Vac-u-Lock, set the desired depth of stroke, and let 'er rip. UPS delivered it to me last week, and I think Josh would like it, but I didn't have time to ask because I was off to the Y and Kei show (entitled "Water the Earth," which I needed to do after three beers).

Accessories are key, but infants are on the way out. In line, I spotted a man in front of me wearing glasses so large that when he turned his head, he looked as though he were rounding a corner in a U-Haul. He wasn't a short person. But he was small. In a spiritual sense. The larger the sunglasses, the more you need to hide yourself from the world—because you're a dick. And who hasn't put sunglasses on their penis once or twice? Not me, that's for sure. It would only irritate the stitches.

A woman in line in front of me kept using "party" as a verb. I wanted to party all over her tiger-print dress (if "party" means urinate). But I couldn't because next to her was a pregnant woman, dressed in a gray frock. I bet her fetus is really stylish—a delightful little thing, featuring a cream embroidered umbilicus and enveloped in the palest of pink placenta. In two months, however, it will be born, and then painfully out of season. Fashion hates babies, and for good reason. With infants, it's always "me, me, me."

I don't know if it was Y or Kei, but one of them had stipulated that all the models have identical hair: pageboy wigs of varying colors. The label seems obsessed with chiffon—white chiffon, pleated chiffon, taupe chiffon, and ... chiffon tops! And then there were the blueberry ruffled chiffon, black chiffon, and dove gray chiffon evening gowns. Sadly there was no chiffon underwear. I could use the padding.

The color of the collection was white, but the models were gloomy. Perhaps they were sad because they knew I was leaving. Or maybe the wigs were too tight. The show breezed by uneventfully. As I left my seat I saw an elderly woman wearing a bright green-and-pink flower pattern. I told her I loved it, and she responded with a bit of French. "Je suis desole, mais je ne comprend pas d'Anglais." That's what I wrote down anyway. I think it means, "Please don't hurt me, I have four grandchildren."

She had the softest lips!

There are no sacred cows, pigs, or ermines in fashion. I walked outside to the cool evening air, and heard chanting. "Stop the insanity. No blood for vanity," a half dozen or so animal-rights activists shouted, as they brandished photos of tortured animals, again demonstrating conclusively that activists are the last people you'd want to sit next to on a plane. Moments later, they began a new chant: "Anna Sui! What do you say? How much fur have you killed today? Gassing! Trapping! Anal electrocution!"

Anal electrocution? Don't knock it until you've tried it, sister.

I realized then and there that I am defined more by what I hate than by what I like. I am confused by fashionistas. But I hate animal activists, whose ideology, I suspect, has more to do with their poor relationships with people than with their love for animals. They are intensely unlikable, except to animals, who are far too busy eating one another and sniffing their own anuses to care. If I were a cannibal, I'd eat nothing but animal-rights activists. Strictly free-range, of course.

But instead I settled for a bacon, egg, and cheese sandwich, a cheeseburger, and a chicken burrito.

Evian spelled backward is naive, but it has many fine properties. Feeling awful, I headed to the Evian Detox Spa on Fifth Avenue. When I got there, I found 20 or 30 people (no celebrities, alas), wandering through the spa. I saw a bartender with his arm in a cast and ordered a "styletini"—Bacardi Limón, pomegranate juice, lime juice, and sugar. Yum. Fashionably drunk, I espied a woman in the corner and asked her name. "Cheryl," she said. She had kind eyes. She took my hand and began to touch it. Gently she pulled on every finger while she stared at me. "Your hands are so stiff," she said, as she reached for the lotion. She squirted a bit into her open palm and began to rub it all over my right hand, extending up to the hairy part of my forearm. I felt a tingle in Shame Corner.

"Do you drink water?" she asked me, a strange come-on, I admit. Yes, I do. "What kind?" The free kind, I said. And then it began: She preached to me the wonders of Evian. All I wanted was a hand massage, and now I was getting a blow job. "The sulphur in the water stimulates and detoxifies the liver and gallbladder," she told me, using a term—"detoxifies"—that is only spoken by people with a Ph.D. in Crapology. "The bicarbonate stops the activity, so by drinking Evian and using Evian-based spa treatments, you are helping your body both inside and out." I tell her I already treat my body with water—it's called showering. And as I shower, I sometimes touch myself, in a way that is both soothing and relaxing, probably more so than the Evian detoxifying reflexology.

I wandered out still feeling sick from the food. And from the fashion. Which led to the biggest lesson of all:

Style isn't just what's on the outside, it's what's inside too. I need to change not only my look but my whole self. I want a pewter linen liver and fringed kidneys. Because, in the world of fashion, what's in always ends up going out.

So, along with my normal diet today, I shall digest gold-bead mixes, silvery sequins, art-glass baubles, and a peach amber foil heart. Then I will swallow a coil of wire and work it through my bowel. By the morning I intend to poop an actual tiara.

That, truly, would be some fashionable shit.

Greg Gutfeld edits The Daily Gut, among other dubious Weblogs. He is a frequent commentator on The Huffington Post.

Previously:
Part IV: Time is on My Side
Part III: Frock Puppet
Part II: Mr. Gutfeld Goes to Fashion Week
Part I: The Devil Wears Skechers

Gutfeld photos by NickyDigital. All other photos by Getty Images.