♪ Pop my tarts pop my tarts ♪♪ Pop-Tarts, Pop-Tarts, Pop-Tarts ♪♪ A boppa-boppa boppa-tarts- ♪

Can we please just go in? My chain mail's stuck in my underwear.

Okay, for the final touch, this is an eyelash curler. You just place it on your lashes and squeeze it closed.

When he does, it's always with this disappointed scowl, like someone skimped on the meat in his sandwich.

Look, there's a note in here. Oh, it's probably from Rico. He's obsessed with me.

You're a performer. You kneel down on the wire. You unhook from side, clip it on the other. The audience will think you are saluting.

Dear, I would never come between you and Leonard. That's for your parade of roomates to do.

The online description was completely misleading. They said eight slots, plus removable ID.

It's because you keep trying to stick pencils in it. All right, fine, don't tell us. There's nothing to tell. All right.

If the first, I should get in your way. If the second, I can admire you much better from here.

This is an ordinary top hat. You've chosen that card freely. I do not have a set of lock picks lodged in my keister.

But caught between the need to keep producing and the increasing cost of a chemical arms race they couldn't win, they needed a game changer.

To any rational person, that would mean room for nine cards, but they don't tell you, the removable id takes up one slot. It's a nightmare!