Dr. Thorpe: O RLY?
Dr. Thorpe: I'm sorry for publishing that stupid meme on this otherwise reputable website, but you have to admit, it's uncanny.
Zack: "Don't *pthhh, pthhh* don't make a mthhh *ptthhhh, ptthhhh* hair in my mouth, hang on..."
Zack: "Ma'am, can you describe the man who raped you?"
Zack: "Well, he looked sort of like Space Ghost and he was reaaaallly itchy."
Dr. Thorpe: "I don't think he can see very well, and... I don't know how to put this, but... he missed. I'm totally fine, but I'm definitely going to need a new purse."
Zack: Man, can you imagine trying to eat a hamburger in this thing. It's just a mustard and ketchup nightmare.
Dr. Thorpe: Yeah, you definitely don't want to mix this fetish with a 9 1/2 Weeks kind of a thing.
Zack: "Yeah, so I scratched my retina again on my ski-mask, but the good news no matter how cold it got my face stayed perfectly drenched in sweat."
Dr. Thorpe: This is a photo on a website where they're into this sort of shit, but even so, you can tell that he's in agony just keeping this thing on long enough to snap a digital photo. It's like being inside a neverending sneeze.
Zack: Yeah, you know that feeling when you put on a new shirt and you forget to take one of those little plastic tags out? Imagine a mask that covers your whole face and is nothing but plastic tags.
Dr. Thorpe: Nah, you know that feeling when you have an itch really deep in the back of your throat because you got a hair back there and you have to make this sort of awful hacking sound to scratch it but it doesn't really do anything? Well, imagine wearing a really stupid fucking mask.
Zack: I guess he could make a pretty good wool-themed luchador. El Scratchacabra maybe, or Los Calamine.
Dr. Thorpe: He looks like a medieval folk remedy.
Zack: "Relax, milady. Lie back upon thine pillow and allow the chirurgeon to apply the Wool Chasseur to soothe thine humours."
The singer dove off the stage and crowd surfed in a sort of reverse funeral procession where the person being carried is the only one truly alive. Touching him I felt religious ecstasy and started speaking in tongues and requesting songs that didn't exist.
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.