Dr. Thorpe:Each little bar on those graphs represents a different profession. "Hobo, fishmonger, male prostitute, discount cologne salesman, garlic farmer, cheese vat supervisor, Indian restaurant line cook, garbage man, body builder, mud wrestler..."
Zack:Oh man, how embarrassing, her display wore the same font to the fair as the display next to her.
Dr. Thorpe:They used the same pinking shears to cut the edges, too. I smell a cheat.
Zack:Maybe they're in some sort of sense-ghetto. The next display in line is "who tastes the sweetest?". Surprisingly it's the loser of the smelling best contest, the Indian restaurant line cook. He tastes just like a curry plate.
Dr. Thorpe:The hobo, predictably, did not fare too well in either of those, nor the "Who Feels the Smoothest?" contest.
Zack:They're still debating the results of "who sounds the most like a bird?". It's down to the male prostitute and the body builder.
Dr. Thorpe:God, look at that poor, earnest girl. She just wants you to approve of the way she smells. Is it so wrong for a lonely, friendless girl to make a science fair project just to fish for compliments about her odor?
Zack:She looks more like she's been working as a drug mule and she's sweating out the last of a busted condom full of cocaine.
Dr. Thorpe:Sure, you can make fun of her, you might be some hotshot who can see the picture the fastest, but can you see her, the girl who's standing right in front of you, the plain, tall girl who's been in love with you since fifth grade and just wants to smell pretty for you?
Dr. Thorpe:Did you even notice that she stole some of her brother's Axe body spray, mixed it with a little Pine Sol, and dabbed it behind her ears?
Zack:She knew it was love from the moment you spotted that fennel seed in the cheese vat from a hundred feet away. Eyes like an eagle, heart like a luchador. But in some "Gift of the Magi" twist of fate, you burned out your scent receptors when a truck full of Camembert overturned in the loading docks.
Dr. Thorpe:And when she finally worked up the courage to kiss you, alas, she accidentally kissed where you'd just been. She was born with a tragic birth defect: she sees slow.
Zack:Now all you smell are the active cultures, forever, burned into your nostrils like a Mario score bar on a projection TV. She wants you to smell the vanilla extract and jasmine she has carefully blended in her lab, but she's just more cheese to you.
Dr. Thorpe:She wound up marrying the cologne salesman, just so she could live among smells.
Zack:He's a slow-seer too. They spend days just trying to look into each other's eyes.
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.