Jesus, Mrs. Nutmeg is a terrible looking woman. The joystick hat is one thing, but she just looks so lumpy and awkward. She's using her breasts as some kind of table to rest her T. Rex arm upon, while the other, with it's half-hand, seems to be pointing somewhere...perhaps the local suicide booth. With her unflattering dress/coat combo and tiny, useless glasses, Mrs. Nutmeg is simply a walking abombination. I wonder how, or even if, Iggy's parents were procreated. I'm assuming that, if Iggy is the product of sexual contact, it's incest. That explains a lot, actually. Perhaps he crawled up out of the sewer.

Looks aside, it is Mrs. Nutmeg who offers us today's outdated, misinformed punchline. I would double check to see if Feng Shui involved the location of living, breathing things, but I'm sure that, if it did, it'd be possible to acheive perfect balance. I like the inference that all interior designers practice a stupid buzzword. I also like how the use of picture frames is supposed to set this generic store front apart from the rest.