Dr. Thorpe: "Oh, don't mind me, I've been hired by the city to etch out graffiti with my caustic vagina."
Dr. Thorpe: "Oh, don't mind me, sometimes when my worms get really bad I just have to scoot along the driveway like this."
Dr. Thorpe: "Oh, don't mind me, just doing a little yoga. This position is called the shitting toad."
Zack: I get the feeling that about two seconds before this picture was taken there were klaxons sounding and an automated voice warned, "structural integrity failing." Then the world discovered that it was possible to bruise cement.
Dr. Thorpe: I wonder if scientists came to photograph the giant wet print. "Our findings suggest that this area has been licked by a wooly mammoth."
Zack: "It's either that or someone has dropped a cupcake the size of a VW Bug icing-side down."
Zack: By the way, that is the most ominous cleavage I have ever seen.
Dr. Thorpe: Dozens of foolhardy spelunkers have been lost within Clammy Gorge.
Zack: You could probably shake a couple Tie Fighters if you have the skill to fly down her shirt. I can just imagine the modulated scream and burst of fire as one slams into an areola the size of an asteroid.
Dr. Thorpe: You'd better get out quickly, or a giant carnivorous worm will shoot out of her vagina to devour your tiny craft.
Zack: Yeah, don't park it in there or you'll have to go outside with the flamethrower and burn the boob lampreys off the hull.
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.