Q.: If our underworldly tour is any mysterical, there surely ain’t no magic involved in it. We are gyrating
       in a narrow circle around the nucleus like free electrons trying to attach. Lacking the slightest charge
       of attraction. Black flies of the Unlord tempted by the fire. You’ve always been a fashion freak in 
       overworn trenchcoats. The only thing that fascinates you beside porn and rock. You’re a ravenous 
       parasite of unknown origins looking for the cheapest gratification. Now we’re down to the core of cores 
       again. Taking a real crack at starting a formal selection of the universal refugee. With an elitarian 
      takeover of the world on your nasty undermind. The usual gist of obscene insanity.
A.: What is the constant that’s perennially changing? It is the way we look. The face of human time. That’s
       the class we belong to. Fashion first. Our slogans never die. O.S.P. is a centrist phantasmagoria above 
       left and right. The real people’s party.
Q.: The major flaw of your modus operandi is its ideological overtone. Your advertisement is an encrypted
       manifesto. It is not a sectarian sect we’re founding here but a modeling agency. The way you present 
       it is reeking of the blue cheese of agitation. 
A.: My promography (!) is a sarcastic reflex of the industry’s preceptsz. An open letter of indulgence. Violent
       transfusion of the instituted veins. Calling out for a moral crusade.
Q.: Very cool but you are beguiled. Gene democracy is not your scattered brain’s illegitimate child. Nature
       has provided it by random mutation ever since creation went out of control. After all slaughter and
       despise, Beauty persists as the undisputable queen of the Beastdom. You don’t have to convince 
        professionals about it from the outside. They know better who they are than you’ll ever know yourself.  
        Your arrogant apotheoses won’t flatter keen their well-established genius. 
A.: ‘UR Models’ ain’t supposed to act as a conventional organization. Its agenda is an astute reversal of the
        critical mirror. A parody of the social judgement. It is in fact a habitual quest for intelligence. To sign up
        requires a higher sense of humour. That Oshist quality.
Q.: A beggar’s joke is never funny. Artificial ignorance won’t save your missing reputation. You don’t 
       understand a tiniest bit to the art of business. I worked for the worst modeling agency for ten years of 
       our lives. So that you didn’t have to crave for your cigarettes. I know how you lie for the money. Sincerity 
       has no credential here. Sales is a technique, not semiology.
A.: I’m not just ironical, I’m plainly provoking. Beating them at their game of thrones. Our page is a nihilist 
       pamphlet fashioned by the Procedure of Enrollment. I cannot do another thing. But I’m doing it right.
Q.: That’s a daring proclamation regarding the portfolio of your unsuccess story. A common bum should
       better be less uncompromising. Words are empty vessels if you can’t back them up. Communication is a 
       two-way deliverance. Not an obscure war-cry from empty battlefields. It won’t echo. It can’t be heard.
A.: ‘UR Models’ is a megaproject just in time of mayhem. It should be sponsored by the best entrepreneurs.
      Its potential of triumph is phonetically precalculated. You can’t say no to Negation.
Q.: I’m afraid you can. The iron balance of Gravity is an indomitable stronghold. Resistant to random 
      intervention. You must work your way in through deliberate espionage. Not quixotic assaults of futility.
A.: Fashion is the bottom line of reconstruction. The fulcrum of the Atheist incentive. The reign of the lie we
       are poised to fight for. The Earth belongs to those that cultivate it. The Socialist Kingdom is an Elysian 
       Field in the Stygian darkness. Fashion is our testing ground. If we can do it there, we can do it 
       anywhere. ’UR Models’ is a company of unlimited perspectives. A historical initiative.


Q.: You shouldn’t forget what it arose from. The nastiest goad of existential necessity. Whilst you are idly 
       waiting for the miracle, I got kicked out of the Bar of our redemption on the false accusation of jerking
       someone off. Because they hated me working alone on my colour codes when the place was empty. In 
       stead of flirting with the bosses for free drinks like normal strippers do. Besides, we are to pay thousands
       of dollars in debt to the government for illegally having had the job now lost. It’s a diabolical trap we’re
       fallen in due to your decadent passivity. We have invented this solution as a potential egress. I’m 
       alarmed of seeing you screw it up in advance. It’s not a false pretext of political dissemination. 
A.: ‘UR Models’ is an integral part of our counterrevolutionary propaganda campaign. The top of our secrets.
       I am obeying to objective impulses. Exclusively conditioned by the extremes. It might be wrong but that’s 
       the way I like it. Straight and rough.
Q.: That’s a stubborn integrity, leader without a pack. Your self-destructive strategy is more unhinged than 
      the Unabomber’s. First you go for the insult, then blame their insensitivity if they don’t get it. Always 
       injured, never sorry. Is that your model of an UR? A pansy hypocrite?
A.: I have total faith in the Author. I always say what I have to. I can’t censor myself.
Q.: You can’t control yourself, with another word. Modesty is no part or parcel of your delinquent 
      character prone to be assassinated. You want to stay an outcast at any cost.
A.: You are getting this fairly wrong, Gina. I’m no rebel without a cause. I am trying hard to live up to my 
        aesthethic (!) ideals. I don’t know what’s my line but I know how to draw it.
Q.: That’s where you are wrong! The ideal you adore does not exist. It’s only your longing’s dim reflection.
      The totalitarian overtones of ‘UR Models’ is obtusely transparent. The martial propensity of your
       vicious fashionismus leave no reasonable doubt. Don’t have to overstress it with riotous paraphernalia.
A.: Why shouldn’t I for Christ’s sake? I want Fashion run the world. Ain’t it what they’d like to hear?
Q.: It’s depreciating what a charade you are. An octopus couldn’t kill it, so slime. The ruling class don’t 
       need to be confronted with their assignment. Getting thus degraded to a social status quo. The world 
       government you’re daydreaming about is well and alive out there. They are the brandmarks of our
       famous moguls all over all nations. 
A.: That’s correct. Perfumery rules the world. We put great emphasis on the scent of the tribes.
Q.: You don’t say. You have no olfactory sense either. Couldn’t differ a Versace from a Gucci. Never could
      purchase quality cosmetics. Your deification of the commerce is low-standard sublimation. Here comes 
       the bankrupt groom with his plastic ring asking for the luscious hand of the affluent bride. Nice Oshist 
      caricature but the sorriest saga ever feigned. Incompetence can’t be concealed by poetic radicalism.
      The system must be fucked one way or another. You never had gay sex – you will die a virgin. You don’t 
      have no sanctuary here.
A.: International selection will recreate multiracism. UR that UR. An icon of New Style. Chosen by your
      unique taste for the greatest fashion show ever staged. What can go wrong with that?


Q.: Slogans won’t do the job any well coined. They need a speaker you can hardly produce. Heralding true 
       meritocracy with the credentials of a Welfare cheater. Beware of the diamond dogs. They’ll tear you apart
       with ease if you incite them.
A.: I am coming up with a frantic redistribution of the common wealth. The Socialist Kingdom is a state of 
      elitcult. The Antimarxist renovation. Meant to keep the upper echelon as happy as can be.
Q.: That surely sounds like a Putsch of the Capital, beloved. Won’t be too persuading for a Calvin Klein 
       deputy. We’ll have to risk to give ourselves some fake donation to seem we’re on the tracks. Don’t even 
       have an office or something. And our non-profit Incorporation only exists on expired papers. From 
       nowhere to nowhere we go with the speed of the devil. A new flash in the old pan.
A.: I’ll send out our link to the giants. Steal some pretty faces and declare them our crew. Cheat and lie 
      whatever we can. I don’t want to lose this good thing. “Nous Sommes Les Mannequins”. I found the 
       superslogan for all ages and genders.
Q.: You’ve brazenly expropriated it, to be precise. Plagiarism is your only aptitude. The problem is that 
       there is no face behind your sham values. In the practice you are an Android lunatic with no  
       plausible attitude. An unapologetic nobody begging for attention.
A.: I’m casually cast for the unworthy role. Incongruence is the nature of my game. Is it any wonder my
       lost every orientation? I can see my plight from very far above. But alter it I cannot and I’ve figured out
       why. I am to test the passive verb in conditional tense. Epitomize the width of the circle from the inferior 
       stance. I will never be a sleeping prophet. I am a nightmare lodger paying my rent in fear and shame.

                                                                                    
Q.: What you are missing is a genuine obsession. Your confused intellect prevents you from believing the 
       facts of life. You’re terrified of leisure worse than competition. And it ain’t no supremacy but a psychotic
       handicap turning you into a delusional Untermensch.  The only way to get rid of it is to focus on the 
       money. Money is the godhead and you must worship it with consummate devotion. Without business
       there is no art in the material world. From Rembrandt to Warhol and onward. Your asocial Weltschmerz
       is more obsolete than a neo-Nazi. Vainly are you praying for the seventh trumpet all the livelong night.
      You have to wake up on your own and start a new day.      
A.: My source of energy has been exhausted. Strength comes through joy and I never had any. Only the 
       white lies of my ignorant spirit guide. I could never help anyone. Nor has anyone helped me. I’m out
       with the outcrowd. Can’t rise and shine like an honest soldier.
Q.: All you need is good old libido, my chum. It is the key of all gates. The mother of resurrection.
A.: Libido is conditioned by self-love in a noble man. Of which I’ve been relentlessly deprived by my
      disrepute. That’s a severe ordeal for an ugly Narcissus. It is my moot dialectic that keeps me asexual
      in the valiant service of the Angel of Sin.
Q.: Because you are a Masochistic loafer. It’s easier to be depressant than manic. You must convert your 
      visions into a popular format. Or else we’ll stay stuck in the Bardo for ever and anon.
A.: I hate to apologize, but the issue is explicitly pathogenic. My program can’t be modified. I would feel the
       same bad if I were a winner. I do not deserve it. You have married a theory, practice. And cannot divorce.
Q.: But at least you know what’s the expectancy. You’re left alone but not disinformed. All you’ve got to do 
      is overcome. I’m sick and tired of your pathetic confessions. It is high noon. You’re fairly belated, my 
       forlorn sleeping doll. Must get up in haste and begin to socialize. Haven’t you always desired to work 
       with gorgeous models? Here is your big chance. You should be jumping in the air.
A.: Too many dimensions, too little time. You may excite some studs yet but I don’t have any appeal left.
      Never had much but lost it all. My words are only sound on paper. I cannot properly pronounce them. 
      It’s better for the project if I stay in decent incognito. 
Q.: I don’t know what’s with you. That’s what you’ve always been doing. I am running about with your 
       bizarre messages whilst you’re hiding scared behind invisibility. That’s not an equal share of labor.
       It is not my duty to raise your brainchild. Wouldn’t you like to be a man once in a lifetime?
A.: I think I got it. I have to execute this mission as Charlotte Bonaparte. Undercover agent of the 
      Overnational Front. That would relieve me from the paternal scruples. The chains of serenity. No more 
       identity crisis! Thus shall the Word come true.
Q.: There you go. We have found the solution, darling. That’ll shift the whole concept in a different angle.
       And you won’t have to worry of making a mistake. A freak has all the rights in the world.
A.: Maybe you should apply for a grant. I can write for you a fabulous CV. I only want to be your girlfriend 
       in this scenario. Bye Bye Aleph & Ta. It’s Gina & Charlotte from now on.  
Q.: Thank you very much for your collaboration. This was an unusually constructive dialogue. You have to 
       learn walking in high heels immediately. And paint your mohawk deep purple. Let the showcase begin.
A.: Maybe we should try to get a loan. To afford some dresses and make-up. Charlotte will save the day.
Q.: I’m so glad we have reached a consensus. Let’s try to pump some fresh blood in your lame dick for
       a ride. We will kill the lazy Jew.
A.: Welcome to the Army of the Few. The great genesis of a Fashion Militia. Our alternative market will 
    shake the foundations of the old house. The future is here. The spell has been broken.