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Zack: I can't tell you how many times I have truly craved to see the characters of "Hey, Arnold!" fucking.
Dr. Thorpe: Man, where did these kids learn language like that? Maybe from looking at cartoon porn of themselves.
Zack: Language? I had no idea prepubescent children could lactate, as this image clearly implies.
Dr. Thorpe: It must have something to do with bovine growth hormones or something. That kid is stacked.
Zack: She probably mainlines HGH every morning and then spends an hour after school with a breast pump to get herself into peak condition to appear in cartoon porn.
Dr. Thorpe: Side effects include monobrow and insatiable sexual appetite.
Zack: That's two Frida Kahlo references for you already.
Dr. Thorpe: I think "Heh, easy on my ass, Arnold" is kind of a good turn of phrase. More than I'd expect from cartoon Hey Arnold porn. I mean, I can imagine using that one if one of my friends is embarrassingly complimenting me, or something. "Hey, easy on my ass, Jimmy."
Zack: Sure, the dialogue is classy, but this is possibly the most blatant objectification of a woman I have ever seen. Arnold gets thirsty so he tears her clothes off and drinks her breast milk while painfully sodomizing her. She's like a soda fountain with an anus and a foul mouth.
Dr. Thorpe: That gives me a great idea for an invention! Get this: it's a soda fountain with an anus and a foul mouth. This is a million-dollar idea.
Zack: As long as it has a monobrow and free refills you can sign me up.
Did Louis C.K. jerk off in front of two female comics? And why are these ladies squandering an opportunity to learn from a comedy legend?
Elliot said my breakup must have been due to the sweater curse, an unexplained phenomenon where anyone who gives their significant other a hand-knit sweater gets dumped. The only way to break the curse, Elliot said, was to destroy the sweater.
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.