Justin Timberlake: Wait a minute, you ready, JT?

The Garbage Lady, née Jennie Thwaites: To sing a resounding duet with you at the Superbowl this year? Born ready, Timberlake. Shall we rehearse now? I’ll lead the vocal warm ups. WEEEEEEEHOOOOOOOO. HAWERRGGGGGGGGGGGH. BAHHHHHHHHHBAHHHBAHHH.



Garbage Lady: You’re right, it’s a poor idea. I remember what happened last time you sang a duet at the Superbowl. Now, to the matter at hand! Clothing myself. J, can I be honest with you? My wardrobe and I are in a rough patch. No matter what, we just can’t seem to be NSYNC. We want different things; that’s the crux of it. My floral Reformation crop top is practically screaming to escape my drawer. She claims I’m neglecting her and that it’s an “issue” that I’ve worn the same crusty vintage Air Force sweatshirt every day for the past two weeks. I can’t confirm or deny the validity of those allegations, but I can say for certain I feel like quitting this whole “getting dressed” thing.

Justin TImberlake: Don’t be so quick to walk away.

Garbage Lady: You really think so, Justy? What’s your go-to when you’re in a sartorial rut?

Timberlake: I be on my suit and tie shit, tie shit, tie

Garbage Lady: Sage advice, Timberlake, but what if I want something a little more, shall we say, ethereal?

Timberlake: Can I show you a few things?

Garbage Lady: Proceed.

Timberlake: All Saints for my angel. Alexander Wang too.

Garbage Lady: Sure, while we’re at it let’st just add “Take a stroll down the Yellow Brick Road with Kermit the Frog and Marilyn Monroe” to our list of options. Justin, my fictitious confidant, I can’t afford such finery. Thrift shops and bins left on the side of the road are more my style, you see?

Timberlake: No disrespect, I don’t mean no harm.

Garbage Lady: None taken, my mellifluous pal. Now, answer me this: what are your thoughts on these thrifted striped Guess jeans? I even cut the bottoms off myself to accentuate the curve of my ankle bones.

Timberlake: You know this ain’t the clean version.

Garbage Lady: Okay, yes, fine, it’s been some time since they’ve seen the inside of a laundromat. But frankly, my other pantaloons are in no better condition, so let’s move on. What do I wear on top?

Timberlake: Dirty pop that you can’t stop. I know you like this dirty pop.

Garbage Lady: Timberlake, you sly dog! You’re rhyming with me AND you’re suggesting I add a pop of color! This is why they pay you the big bucks, huh. Perhaps this forest green vintage Victoria’s Secret jacket?

Timberlake: I see something that money can’t buy. I’m lovin’ it.

Garbage Lady: The jacket was fifty cents. My effortless style and laudable modesty? Priceless. Next question: Should I shower?

Timberlake: Don’t need no L’oreal. Cause bitch you bad as hell.

Garbage Lady: It’s like you read my mind. A quick sprinkle of bright pink earrings and silver heels and I think I’m ready to discuss my first record deal.

Timberlake: Go ahead and be gone with it.

Garbage Lady: Later then? Over sushi?