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October 13, 2006

Fug-Out Boy


MICHELLE TRACHTENBERG: I hate everything about this whole night.

PETE: Wicked!

MICHELLE: Oh, stop it. No one who's wearing what could pass for a flower basket on his head is allowed to call anything "wicked."

PETE: Rad!

MICHELLE: Sigh. I suppose this is what I get for maybe-dating a guy who commissioned a grown-up version of his favorite childhood pajamas. Are those multicolored boomboxes? I mean... really? WHY is this happening to me? WHY are you trying to bring musical Underoos for adults into the world?

PETE: Funderoo! Ha ha!

MICHELLE: STOP IT. You know, since you aren't bothering with your big-boy clothes, I don't feel NEARLY as bad about wearing a flesh-colored sack that makes me look like I'm dying of a chronic wasting disease.

PETE: Your sack is WACK! Consumption is BACK! SNAPS!

MICHELLE: I am so tired of you. If I hadn't already smeared my eye makeup, I would do it so I had an excuse to go to the bathroom. And then leave.

Posted by Heather at 03:53 PM | Permalink


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