Dr. Thorpe: Back when fleece was illegal, guys had to peddle it inside their coats like fake Rolexes.
Zack: Man, fleece jackets and turtlenecks. You'd think that the spaceship would at least be heated. I guess with the price of heating oil what it is the aliens just figured they'd turn the thermostat all the way down and let the humans cope with their primitive secondary skins.
Dr. Thorpe: Heated? Are you kidding me? The hull isn't even properly sealed. The aliens are playing a cruel game where they open up the airlock more and more and see how long it takes the humans to explode. It's a game they call "Open Air Man."
Zack: Oh man, Sean Connery and Pauly Shore will never get out alive! Unless they can somehow harness the power of the weeeee....sulllllll.
Dr. Thorpe: Perhaps there's a Slurpee machine somewhere nearby, and Pauly can at least be afforded the dignity of one final weezing of the juice.
Zack: Brendan Fraiser has to be lurking nearby. Surely he can take time out from his career to save Pauly from another one of his mistakes.
Dr. Thorpe: On a completely different note, I think it's a bad policy to have a fashion advertisement in which one of the models looks truly disgusted to be wearing the clothes that are being advertised.
Zack: Yeah, he definitely looks incredulous about the whole thing.
Dr. Thorpe: Sean Connery is tugging on his jacket and giving the photographer a look like "am I really going to be wearing THISH THING!?"
Zack: He's one rum away from yelling "bloody hell, arse this!" and tearing it off and hurling it in the face of some poor intern woman. If the real Sean Connery is one thing he's a besotted chauvinistic shithead. He'd probably drop the coat over a woman's head like a hockey player yanking up the jersey and then just pummel her with his shoe. "My dear, it's a lesson you had to learn. Never dress me as a fool or brigand."
Dr. Thorpe: You can tell he'd been saying some really disgusting things right before this photo was taken. The other guy looks extremely nervous. He's kind of got an "I don't know this guy" look.
Zack: "Like this? You want me to prance around like a stinkin' cunt? Come over here and I'll jam both of my fists so far up your fanny I'll be able to clap my hands in your empty skull."
Dr. Thorpe: Nothing is allowed to touch Sean Connery's body but silk and ants. He demands to have a thick layer of ants crawling over his skin under his clothes at all times.
Zack: Oh yeah, he has to spend hours in makeup just having ants brushed off his face and hands and being sprayed with a demarcating line of pesticide at the cuffs of his shirt.
Dr. Thorpe: It's obvious that he'd stop being so ornery if he didn't have ants biting him all over his body twenty four hours a day, but he refuses to accept it, because he fears that without the erotic energy of ten thousand ants continually crawling into his most intimate areas, he would never be able to function as a man again.
Zack: Yeah, it's like any hedonist knows, once you experience the extremes of pleasure anything less will not satisfy you. Without the ants he would be left with just his testosterone injections and a bound American college girl he bought from the harem of a Sheik.
Dr. Thorpe: And since he'd be unable to function sexually, he knows he'd just end up beating the girl to death in frustration. So, in a sense, it's the ants that are saving her life. Think about that, Moral Majority Coalition!
Zack: Connery never lets her forget it either. He names the ants one after another in a soft cooing voice as they spread across her body during their violent coupling. "That is Pacey, lass. She is my best ant. My prize ant. There goes wee Tiberius, boldest of the ants. Feel him? He is in love with you."
Dr. Thorpe: She just grits her teeth and waits impatiently for Stockholm syndrome to set in.
Zack: Not much can make you long for your days of being kidnapped from Bob Jones University and being turned into a sex slave of an Arabian Sheik, but at least the harem had some down time and pampering.
Dr. Thorpe: With Sean Connery it's just yelling, sex, ants, more yelling, more ants, and some slapping. He does very few movies nowadays because he's unwilling to leave his sex slave for more than a few hours at a time, because he worries that she'll fall out of love with his ants if he does.
Zack: And God save you if you backsass him. He will summon the fury of a berserker and cleave you in twain with his decorative sword from the set of the Highlander. Nothing hurts worse than being cut in half with a decorative sword. It's like being cut in half with a brick.
Dr. Thorpe: He believed that movie. That movie wasn't a movie to him. He didn't know he was in a movie. Whenever a solicitor comes to his door, he slices his head off, thinking he's an immortal come to claim his power.
Zack: That's the key really, everyone is a Highlander and he only watched parts of the other movies so he's not sure if they're all aliens or Scotsmen or what. All he knows is that through the Quickening he has taken the strength of a thousand immortals.
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.
Were you enjoying your day? STOP! There is outrageous crap going on you need to know about!
Experience several minutes of top-tier modern game design for FREE.
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.