Dr. Thorpe: A day in the life of the idle rich.
Zack: These are from their "ignoring the furniture" collection.
Dr. Thorpe: Once you're rich enough to recline in pajamas all day long, you get sick of furniture really fast.
Zack: These plush couches, these elegant chairs, they're all so confounding. Let us stretch out on the only surface we can truly call our own: sweet home Berber.
Dr. Thorpe: "What do you mean our lives are easy and without physical hardship? Do you realize that we have to change our pajamas every six hours to prevent infection?"
Zack: "This carpeting is little better than a ditch of raw sewage, but it is our ditch of raw sewage and we will live in it like kings."
Dr. Thorpe: We are so in love that we must look at each other ceaselessly, day and night, or we will instantly fall out of love."
Zack: All of these seem to be in the same room. Maybe they are trapped in there. Baron Klaus Von Drowsy waits at their step, prepared to use his mesmeric powers to transform them both into spine-chilling somnambulist killers. "Honey, I want you to promise me you'll kill me if he gets in here. I don't want to live like that, with no will of my own." And the Baron would lean his head against the door and sing macabre lullabies about babies being eaten by dogs and women eating a poisoned pear and never waking up.
Dr. Thorpe: Have you ever seen "The Prisoner?" It looks pretty peachy, but if they try to escape, that big white rolling balloon will envelop them before you can say Jack Robinson.
Zack: I wonder where they go number two. Do you think there is a slop bucket somewhere in there? A bedpan or a chamber pot or something?
Dr. Thorpe: Maybe in the fireplace?
Zack: As long as they don't have to go number six.
Dr. Thorpe: They do that in the bubble. They just fake an escape if they need to go number six, because what happens in the bubble stays in the bubble.
Zack: Oh man, a Las Vegas joke. I'm sending you to the fucking Village, buddy.
Dr. Thorpe: Hey, don't pretend to be too good for Vegas. I seem to recall a delightful evening with Dave "The Sax Man" Brown and some nickel slots, mister. That joke is so esoteric that nobody but Zack and I will get it.
Zack: You've broken the code. It has not remained in Vegas. For you: a punishment worse than death itself. Another trip to Vegas.
Dr. Thorpe: Fuck! Can't I just go to debtor's prison?
Zack: Sorry, it's either Vegas or Australia.
"Really, Holmes!" I dropped into my seat, shocked. "You are remarkably tall! What are you, six foot six? Six foot eight?"
As the 19th century diver approaches a giant clam, a flash of brilliant golden light flares from within the shell. I emerge in a swirl of bubbles and do the timeless universal underwater hand signals for the following: ZODIAC KILLER, KKK, BLOOD OF YOUTH
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.