Dr. Thorpe: That door handle is showing up a little too often in all the wrong places. It's kind of like Value Ape. It's basically the insignia of something-fucked-up-is-going-on.
Zack: Oooh, nice reference.
Dr. Thorpe: Yeah, I'm awarding myself 10 points on the Dennis Miller scale for that one.
Zack: To put that in gooncentric terms: it's the arrow in the FedEx logo. You will never un-see the door handle.
Dr. Thorpe: Care for an obscure reference-off?
Zack: Sure, let's do this.
Dr. Thorpe: She looks like the Moldovan flag.
Zack: She looks like a parfait at the Heritage Foundation's July 4th fundraiser dinner.
Dr. Thorpe: Did she pull those boots off an extra in Freejack?
Zack: I don't know about that, but Tetragrammaton troopers shouldn't be selling their footwear to an obvious sense offender.
Zack: Not without incident anyway.
Dr. Thorpe: God, she's as sweaty and hairy as David Hodo after a long night at the Paradise Garage.
Zack: I'm half expecting her to start attacking Pepperland.
Dr. Thorpe: With that thing over her face, she looks like Robert Z'dar in Beastmaster 2.
Zack: I don't know about Beastmaster, but I could definitely see Trap Jaw here picking some fights with Beast Man.
Dr. Thorpe: She looks like Jeff Fahey in the final scene in Iron Maze.
Zack: She looks like one of the data pylons from Compustorm started offering haircuts.
Dr. Thorpe: She looks like Kitty Carlisle's hat at the 1934 Oscars.
Zack: Which one is the rock layer where they found the monolith in Howl of the Druid?
Dr. Thorpe: I'm getting flashbacks to Jerry Van Dyke in the fifth season finale of Coach.
Zack: Was that the one with the "Party Snake" or was that season four?
Dr. Thorpe: Heh. (I should point out that it takes a pretty deep understanding of Coach to get Zack's little double entendre there).
Dr. Thorpe: Didn't Captain Beefheart name an album after this picture?
Zack: Nah, you're thinking of one of the b-sides from Zappa's Porcustrada.
Dr. Thorpe: She looks like Kent Tekulve celebrating after the 79 World Series.
Zack: Oh man, yes! It must have taken them 20 minutes to drag him out of that ditch. I can't believe the network stayed with the broadcast. It was like the world series broadcast just transitioned to the Baby Serpico rescue from '81.
Dr. Thorpe: And speaking of babies, doesn't her head popping out like that remind you of the infant Prometheus emerging from the falcon's egg?
Zack: Haha, good call, but I'm sad to say you're thinking of the chimera's egg.
Dr. Thorpe: Oh, are you one of those Hesiod fags? I prefer the Hyginus account. But then again, I don't like R.E.M.
Zack: Look, you follow the Janus school. You know it, I know it. Anyone who reads your blog knows it. I follow the Amemnoch school, and I think I have every major mythologist from Sperlmann to Urberlune to back me up. Stop being childish and accept that I have the facts straight and you don't.
Dr. Thorpe: Looks like someone woke up on the wrong side of his Petherotanaculus.
Zack: Stick your Ceolopathus right up your pretentious cunt, you hob. We are done with this shit.
Dr. Thorpe: Ha, I know how to push your buttons, just like Michael Nouri's wife in The Hidden.
Some of the Internet's most veteran anatomy experts convened to discuss the stolen nude photos of Jennifer Lawrence and other beautiful celebrities.
Master is troll wizard, so's if he get angry he might cast spell up on my self and bite off my whole head in one chomp.
We're spelunking through the movie catacombs this week. Join us, won't you?
Kirk Cameron destroys the internet with his rage and jacks it to boats, hallelujah!
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.