Dr. Thorpe: Wow, it's like that scene in Lady and the Tramp except they're sucking up each end of a Twinkie.
Zack: They have the hottest woman, as a disembodied head at least, of any of these movies and these two guys are making out over a flower at the top of an oil well eruption.
Dr. Thorpe: Ricky Martin and Little Richard have found true love at last, and this Twinkie shall facilitate their first kiss.
Zack: Maybe this is a poster for another really shitty Super Bowl half time show.
Dr. Thorpe: They're kissing while the disembodied head looks on in... something. How would you describe her expression? Concern mixed with stupor?
Zack: She looks like she wants a bite of that Twinkie
Dr. Thorpe: They found it in her hair, after all. It's only fair.
Zack: She's like a carnivorous plant only instead of honey-scented traps for insects she hopes that Twinkies will draw men to her eight foot braid of hair.
Dr. Thorpe: You'd think after the first guy licked the Twinkie and his tongue got stuck to it, the second guy wouldn't try it too. Shouldn't he have thought, "oh, that guy's tongue is stuck to that Twinkie, I'd better not lick it or the same thing will happen to me!"
Zack: That guy on the left doesn't look like he's paying attention to anything. He's probably thinking about the sweet jumps he did in Tony Hawk three hours ago and is only barely aware that he's sucking on a Twinkie. "Why isn't this thing going in my mouth? Oh man, that 1080 Wallflower with a Bangers and Mash Upsy-Daisy was amazing."
Dr. Thorpe: He's just tired of fighting it. The Twinkie drugs are working on his system, lulling him into a coma so the big woman head can suck out his juices. The other guy is still probably scared and thrashing around a little, but soon he will be pacified.
Zack: It takes minutes for her mouth to close around them. Things don't happen fast when your veins are full of chlorophyll. You can see the sort of hallucinogenic effects her envenomed Twinkie has on them bursting in the background.
Dr. Thorpe: I'm hoping that sucking on something in a woman's hair is just some Indian custom that we don't understand. I'd feel pretty cheated if I showed this to an Indian person and they said "what the fuck is going on?"
Dr. Thorpe: I guess I expect an Indian person to look at it and say "oh, they're doing the customary prenuptial Beech Mein Hair Ritual to decide who is the better man. What's funny about that? This is what competing men do to decide who shall marry the slackjawed floating head of their lover. No big deal."
Zack: I almost hope they are as confused as me. I think if they knew exactly what was going on I might start questioning that we had evolved from the same simpler simians. It would be less horrifying if they saw in infrared or could taste sound or something.
Dr. Thorpe: I bet they look at us throwing rice after a wedding and say "yeah, whatever, you fucking weirdoes. Isn't anyone going to suck anything out of the bride's hair? How will you know who gets married next? What? Throwing a bouquet? That's fucking ridiculous!"
Zack: "How do you know he is the right man if he and another hopeful have not sucked Twinkies out of your hair? What, why am I being thrown out?! This is an outrage! I am going to burn a teacup full of menstrual blood over this I'll have you know!"
The singer dove off the stage and crowd surfed in a sort of reverse funeral procession where the person being carried is the only one truly alive. Touching him I felt religious ecstasy and started speaking in tongues and requesting songs that didn't exist.
There's no easy way to put this, so I'll tell it like it is. Bouillon is died. He went missing before the weekend and yesterday I found his skeletonized remains at the bottom of the #3 soup vat during one of my swims. I thought the cream of mushroom soup had an especially nourishing taste, and a lot more clumps of fur and skin than usual.
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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.