Dr. Thorpe:This guy's playing it cool despite the fact that he's about to get executed by firing squad.
Zack:This is an exact copy of a Marlboro ad. If that pose can sell something as bad as cigarettes it should be easy to sell something as good as a cotton moleskin zipper suit!
Dr. Thorpe:He looks like he just fell out of Easy Rider and is looking around trying to assess his situation.
Zack:(chest wig sold separately)
Dr. Thorpe:"Where am I? Where's Fonda? Where's my hawg? Shhiit."
Zack:"How do I get out of this damned cave? I knew I should have worn one of those miner hats but the color just clashed with my moleskin zipper suit"
Dr. Thorpe:"Better just stand here and smoke 'til I die. Lord knows I ain't gettin' any cleaner."
Zack:"At least I have plenty of pockets in case I find any diamonds or treasure maps"
Dr. Thorpe:He's not going to give up until he finds the chastity belt that he's got the key to on his neck. It probably belongs to a plump gap-toothed Mexican maiden.
Zack:The yellow rose of ciudad. "I knew I shouldn't have trusted Haspel Jones. He catches wind of a Nazi plot and he leaves his hirelings to die in a god-forsaken Aztec tomb."
Dr. Thorpe:You know, another direction we could go with this guy is that he's just sort of a recalcitrant and unprofessional model. He shows up at the shoot without taking a shower. They try to get him to pose, but he just unzips his shirt and smokes. "Yeah, what can I say, I'm a terrible model. There it is. Ain't like there's a fuckin' manual." I love this guy, imagine him talking like Kris Kristofferson.
Zack:"It ain't like opening a bottle of wine."
Dr. Thorpe:"Can't buy a fuckin' robot to model your clothes for ya."
Zack:"Look at all these pockets. Who came up with this, some sort of homo paratrooper? All I need is one for my cigarettes and one for my wallet. When do I get paid?"
Dr. Thorpe:"Nah, fuck you, I ain't standin' by that car. I'm leanin' on this fuckin' wall and havin' me a fuckin' smoke and I don't give two shits if I get your fancy clothes all dirty, you Hollywood queers."
Zack:"There had better be some goddamn bourbon and raw meat over on the craft services table."
Dr. Thorpe:"My goddamn son Tad stands by cars all day in his powder-blue queer suit, but I ain't havin that shit. This place is squaresville, I'm cuttin' loose."
Zack:"Hair and makeup, my ass. The last time a woman touched my hair was when she was picking pieces of a windshield out of it."
Dr. Thorpe:"See this chest hair? I got this from eating rabbits I caught with my own two goddamn hands, not from sittin around all day in a fuckin' nineteen-twenties style loft doin' crossword puzzles and gettin' involved in queer orgies."
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.