BOOBS: Hey, Kaiser! Can I call you Kaiser?
KARL LAGERFELD: No. not unless we’ve met before, and even so, nicknames are for lazy. REPENT.
BOOBS: Right, cool, got it. But seriously, it’s me. It’s Blake.
KARL: Blake Carrington?
BOOBS: Blake Lively. The face of Chanel.
KARL: No, knave. You are a wig factory of LIES.
BOOBS: It’s true! Look, you even gave me this awesome toga to wear.
KARL: It is not a toga. It is a dream uterus.
BOOBS: Really? Wow. So in a way, I’m, like, being born from your dreams.
KARL: Only if my dreams are in fact nightmares pregnant with wallpaper. PEEL.
BOOBS: Okay, I can…
KARL: TOUCH ME NOT.
BOOBS: Let me try this again:
BOOBS: Greetings, Mr. Lagerfeld. My name is Blake and I am incredibly famous.
KARL: You are a Grecian mermaid, and my heart is Poseidon’s casserole. REHEAT.
BOOBS: Sweet! It worked!
KARL: I’m kidding. Can you not tell that I’m clearly joking? My entire demeanor changes.
KARL: I can tell you what you’re not: A barstool.
KARL: I have grown tired of your shenanigans. My necktie swells with ill-use. Begone, gnat, until such time as you’ve finished the brass-rubbing someone started on your torso. And even then, hang back. Enthusiasm is where excellence takes a bathroom break and desperation steals its seat. RINSE.
BOOBS: So do I still have a job?
KARL: Is the moon made of lapel juice?
BOOBS: … I’ll ask some other time.