Zack: "I'm so wasted I'm not even taking my coat off. Just get this judging over with so I can get back to watching reruns of Gumby"
Dr. Thorpe: You're all about the obscure cartoon references tonight. Is all this looking at 13-year-olds turning you into a chickenhawk? "Hmm, maybe if I impress them with some Gumby references they'll let me take them out for a little 'ice cream social.'"
Zack: Close, it's actually because I spent my entire failed college career watching Gumby reruns and eating Sun Chips. Did you know you can sell a 500 dollar meal card for three pounds of weed?
Dr. Thorpe: Okay, but as long as we're talking about this, you might as well admit that "Spurt" got your feathers a little ruffled.
Zack: Spurt was intended to ruffle feathers. Those girls knew exactly what they were doing to me. They were asking for it.
Dr. Thorpe: No jury in the world would convict you.
Zack: Well, when they say "of your peers" they mean other pederasts, right?
Dr. Thorpe: We can only hope so. Anyway, back to the matter at hand. Hypothesis: It's really hard to score weed when you haven't got a car and you're 13.
Zack: Procedure: smokin' what I can find in my mom's pantry.
Conclusion: Nutmeg will f*ck your @55 up
Dr. Thorpe: Conclusion: Turned out to be bay leaves, but I got some from my older brother for my old Nintendo 64, but he mostly gave me seeds and stems so I told my mom about his porn stash.
"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.