Zackula: Greetings humanoid. I have arrived from the very sexy planet called 1997.
Zackula: Our blinking shirt technology is advanced far beyond your comprehension.
Dr. Thorpenstein: People of Earth, I am here from a mid-1990s softcore erotica pictorial. Take me to Bob Guccione at once.
Zackula: I have been chugging water the whole way over here and I would really like to get that part of the shoot out of the way.
Dr. Thorpenstein: What is this wonderful thing you Earth people call... pee-ing?
Zackula: On my planet we call it "shibosh" and it is how we reproduce. Here...let me show you earthman.
Dr. Thorpenstein: I must take my leave now, earthman. Your planet needs my wig for a Salt N Pepa video.
Zackula: I do not actually have a ship, just this hallway leading into a juice bar, which is also my home planet.
Zackula: Can you and the camera crew leave? My boss Terry says this is pushing it.
Dr. Thorpenstein: It's depressing to think that if there's intelligent alien life out there, there's a really good chance they'd just come to Earth to work in our sexy juice bar industry.
Zackula: They would arrive on earth as perfect humanoids in form-fitting costumes of advanced polymers and within three years they would all be obese and addicted to pornography.
Zackula: No civilization can match our calorie delivery technologies.
Dr. Thorpenstein: They'd have a few good years working in our booming Johnny Mnemonic Cocktail Bar Scene Extra industry, but after that we're all big McNuggets to them.
They told us to stop playing videogames on a school night. If only we'd ignored them.
As a vicious predator, I find that I have a constant, overwhelming urge to lick apples out of a huge block of ice. It's only, natural, right?
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.