Dr. Thorpe: I don't know, man, maybe we'd better leave this one alone. Are we going to get arrested for this?
Zack: Look, they put it out there for the judges, so I think we are legally entitled to discuss it. So...uh...8th grade has changed I see.
Dr. Thorpe: Well, uh... so what are you ladies doing later?
Zack: Did you bring your tape measures with you?
Dr. Thorpe: I've got a car, you know... and I can stay up as late as I want.
Zack: I would LOVE to know what the hypothesis was on this one. Just so I could somehow detour my soul out of the eternal fire for which it is bound.
Dr. Thorpe: Please, God, give us something to work with that's not innuendo. Even that graph is a little suggestive. Wait, damn it, no it's not! I just think it is because it's right next to the word "spurt" and a tape measure.
Zack: I bet this one made every male judge cut his eyes to the side and mumble questions uncomfortably. The female judges are like, "I always wondered about spurts myself. Oh really, 8 feet is the greatest distance? Todd Jenkins you say? My, my, my. I wonder what his mother is feeding him."
Dr. Thorpe: All the boys in the class had to wander past this one a few too many times with their sweaters tied over their waists. "Dude, this is better than the Shannon Tweed aisle at Blockbuster."
Zack: I bet there's some male classmate who sees this science project and next year comes in with "FEMALE EJACULATION: FACT OR FICTION?" with a bunch of construction paper question marks and pictures of Annie Cruz.
Dr. Thorpe: Hypothesis: those bitches is just peeing.
Dr. Thorpe: Addendum to conclusion: And for some reason a cricket came out.
We clear up the BREXIT for confused Americans wondering why the global economy is collapsing this time.
BEEP! BOOP! ZAP! Video games aren't for my dad anymore! Because he's dead.
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.