Zackula: Papa Jonathan Swift's.
Dr. Thorpenstein: So is the baby a chef, or a slice of pizza? What the fuck? I don't appreciate this kind of nonsensical metaphor-mixing in my infant costumes.
Zackula: Maybe the baby is indicative of a cream filling. I think Pizza Hut has a pizza like that. Almost like a pizza eclair, but with baby custard. The OTHER baby custard, you perverts.
Zackula: Baby on a pizza is a pretty solid idea, but you just know it's going to be one of those bullshit premium toppings like spinach.
Dr. Thorpenstein: What's with the toppings on this baby pizza, anyway? Is it like leeks, kidney beans, dots of meat and some kind of gross beige cheese?
Zackula: Looks like dog food and mechanical pencil lead.
Dr. Thorpenstein: This is the least appetizing chefbaby-stuffed pizza I've ever seen.
Zackula: The other thing is the false happy baby they Photoshopped on there. I bet the real baby was crying his eyes out as they walked him around the photo studio on their giant pizza spatula.
Zackula: Although now I think I want to see a whole pizza of these. Is there any way to get 8-10 babies on short notice?
Dr. Thorpenstein: There definitely is. Here, let me make a Jay Leno-style joke about Angelina Jolie or Madonna real quick, then everyone will have a good laugh.
Zackula: Ugh. No thanks. I meant white babies.
The human anatomy is home to more than three hundred organs. Doctors and chocolatiers agree that the vast majority of these revolting lumps of tissue serve little to no function. If you find yourself standing in a long line or stuck at the airport waiting for a delayed flight, consider taking a few minutes to remove the following from your person.
Do you have what it takes to make it on the ballot?
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.