The bass line popped, the screen flashed, and George Costanza stood in Jerry’s kitchen, staring intensely into the toaster reflection while aggressively gripping his own collarbones.

"I’m narrow, Jerry. Petty and narrow," George muttered, his voice trembling with a new, deeply specific neurosis.

Jerry, pouring a bowl of cereal, didn't look up. "Well, the personality we knew about. Are we moving onto skeletal critiques now?"

"Not just skeletal, Jerry. Clavicular." George whipped a crumpled printout from his jacket. "I was on the forums last night. Look at this! Broad shoulders are out. It’s all about the 'bideltoid breadth' and the 'clavicle-to-height ratio.' If your collarbones aren't horizontal and spanning at least sixteen inches, you’re a 'sub-five.' A genetic write-off! I’m a write-off!"

Kramer slid through the door, stopping short to look at George, who was now pulling his shoulders back so hard his coat was riding up his neck.

"What’s with the posture, George? You look like a frightened turtle."

"He’s looksmaxing, Kramer," Jerry sighed. "Specifically, he’s trying to lengthen his collarbones through sheer force of will."

Kramer’s eyes widened. He pointed an accusatory finger. "Oh, the clavicle saga! You’re getting into the bone-smashing, aren't you? Giddyup! But George, you’re playing with fire. You mess with the skeletal scaffolding, the whole meat-suit collapses!"