Tag sex

Star Wars Gets You Pregnant

Turner L. Watson 3 Comments

You know how they say that all geeks really think about is sex?  That’s partially true.  But the way we think about sex is often decidedly non-standard.  We even have our thoughts drift to the theoretical nature of it all;  sex, life, the universe itself, and, well…Star Wars. It’s just what we do. I’m not sure where this particular thought came from or why, and I’m surely not the ONLY person who’s ever noticed this, but what follows is my attempt to collect some evidence to support the finer points of this particular theory in greater detail.  Okay.  Deep breath.  Ready?

The Death Star destruction scene in the original Star Wars: A New Hope is really a depiction of baby-makin’.  Fertilization.  Yep.

Let’s begin with the “briefing” scene.  A bunch of dudes sitting and getting a lecture about the exhaust port, which leads to the belly of the beast.  You hit this thing right and she’ll LITERALLY explode.  Uh-huh.  Tell me this isn’t similar to every sex-ed class you ever had, amirite, bros?

And here, gentlemen, is what we call "the clitoris."

And here, gentlemen, is what we call “the clitoris.”

And let’s talk about those “penetrating” snub fighters.  I mean,  there’s the obvious chromosomal suggestion:  Seriously, it ain’t even subtle.  A swarm of tiny fighters are attacking this big orb, trying desperately to penetrate its defenses.  Oh, and those tiny fighters (many of whom will dash themselves against the impenetrable shell) are X-wing and Y-wing fighters.  Yeah.  Like this…

COMIN' AT YA!!

COMIN’ AT YA!!

And also this…

COMIN' AT YA!!

COMIN’ AT YA!!

And then there are the other rather obvious references, such as…ahem…

This is LITERALLY just the tip.

This is LITERALLY just the tip.

Or the plight of poor Porkins.  See, he couldn’t pull out (up) in time, and…yeah.

Even worse? They came from behind.

Even worse? They came from behind.

And then, when Luke finally delivers his explosive payload down the chute (I feel so terribly filthy writing this) this is the result…

GAH!! GODDAM NUVARING FAILED!!

GAH!! GODDAM NUVARING FAILED!!

Fireworks. That’s what they used to use as a metaphor in old movies and television.  Fireworks!  Also?  You could say that there’s a “Big O” in the sky there.  Whew!  An exciting CLIMAX to this movie, yes?  All those little guys swarming in a long trench and OH MY GOD WHY DID I START WRITING THIS?!?!  Also?  Darth Vader’s helmet.  STOP ME, SOMEONE!!  And the lightsabers.  Ever seen a male dog get frisky?  See, it’s like this little lipstick, and what happens is…NO!!  I REFUSE!!   Princess LAY-ya.  And on and on.

Actually, now that I think about it, I’m not the pervert here.  Lucas  George M. F. Lucas.  He’s the motherfucker.  And think how dirty this movie would’ve been if he’d had access to the CGI.  Thank the maker!

Super. Hawt. (Part One)

Turner L. Watson 16 Comments

‘Bout time I got another blog out.  Yeesh!  Been a crazy couple of weeks, kiddies.  Sorry for the delay.  Now then…

A few weeks ago I decided it was high time I wrote a blog dedicated to one of my very most favoritest of things about comics.  And by “comics” I mean Comic Books.  Many folks have only recently discovered the medium (and we welcome you) through Hollywood’s current obsession with turning anything print-related into cinematic masterpieces (“Rise of the Silver Surfer” for the MOTHERFUCKIN’ WIN!!!)  This is one reason why I am not at all against rebooting the Spider-Man franchise: the more folks that decide they like that character and want to delve further into his universe, by all means!  The problem is when people watch something like “Silver Surfer” or “Ghost Rider” and are turned-off of the comics medium forever.  You can almost hear them: “Yep, I knew that was a buncha geek shit.  I was right. ”

Anyone else thinks he should be asking about the whereabouts of John Connor? Also, maybe he should put on some pants?

But anyway.  I was born in AD 1970 (by your Earth-man reckoning) and raised in a time long before the Internet.  Hell, we didn’t start stealing cable until I was about twelve.  If you’ve ever tried to watch scrambled adult movies for that one-fifteenth-of-a-second glimpse of areola, then bub…you haven’t lived.  You also don’t appreciate how good you have it now.  EPIPHANY: This is my generation’s “walking a mile through the snow to get to school” story.  “When I was your age, we had to scan the scrambled channels for hours in the hopes that Shannon Tweed would pop a nipple out and we’d be able to see through the miasma long enough to enjoy a blurry red-and-green smudged bouncing tit.  AND WE WERE HAPPY FOR THAT TIT!”  We were.  We really were.

Wait for it...wait for it...GAH!! FOILED AGAIN!!

But if, like me, you were into comics by that time, well then…It wasn’t quite porn, not even soft-core.  It was miles shy of even Playboy.  But it’s not too long a stretch to say that the babes rendered by the likes of John Romita, Jr. and John Byrne were our version of MAXIM’s “Hometown Honeys” or whatever they call that cheesecake.  It was a simple eight-color version of the SI swimsuit issue.  It was glorious.  Seriously, there was a story line in X-Men where Rogue was trying to sort out her memories from those of Carol Danvers (Ms.Marvel) and she goes on a soul-searching walkabout of sorts.  There are a few panels where Rogue is wearing…wait for it…a black bikini.  I literally fell in love.  John Romita Jr. wasn’t always my favorite artist, but the way he captured Rogue, Kitty Pryde, and Storm always worked for me.  In a very real sense.  Ahem.  I also just realized that my mom is reading this entry.  Moving on…

Ladies and gentlemen...John Byrne's She-Hulk. The defense rests.

So that brings me to this disclaimer:  this blog is, and always will be, MY opinions.  Therefore, they are not always going to be the POPULAR opinions.  So, like any ranked list, my choices are going to be different than yours.  So let’s just get this argument out of the way right now:  Wonder Woman is not, and never will be, on my top-hotties list.  Apologies to my gay male friends and to one very-perturbed Kansas City roller derby goddess.  I’ll let you shout at me for a minute, then I’ll give you my rationale.  We good?  Got yourself under control?  Okay.  My argument follows:

Wonder Woman is stupid. <ducks flying debris…>  Seriously.  Allow you and me to have us a virtual conversation (I’ll play both parts.)

YOU: Wonder Woman is awesome.  She’s an Amazon Princess, who…

ME: Like, South American?  From the Amazon River?  That IS pretty badass!

YOU: No, like the old Greek Island Amazon.  They wear togas and such.  Anyway, she’s got these bracers (don’t call ’em bracelets!) that allow her to deflect bullets!

ME: Wow, that’s some serious ninja-shit!  I like her!  Tell me more!

YOU: Okay, she also has this “Lasso of Truth.”  If she snares you in it, you–

ME: Wait – lasso?  Like, rope?

YOU: Yeah, like I was saying, when she ropes you, you have no choice but–

ME: Like “Wild West” lasso?  Is this Amazon Island near Tombstone?

YOU: What?

ME: Just figured, you know, maybe she was really a cowgirl or something.  Her backstory would be a lot better if she were actually Annie Oakley with amnesia or some shit.

YOU: No!  It’s just…a lasso!  I mean, maybe they had to break their own horses on the Amazon Island!  Anyway, she also has an invisible jet, so she–

ME: You’re fucking with me now.

YOU: No, no!  It can’t be seen with the naked eye, and–

ME: So an island civilization that apparently still ropes and breaks their own wild horses, and which has apparently been overlooked by, you know, THE FUCKING WORLD for centuries also manages to have the technology and the actual physical manufacturing wherewithal to produce the greatest stealth technology the world has ever seen?  And they make exactly ONE of them?  And give it to a Princess so that she can go to the United States and fight crime?  With her lasso?

YOU: Look, it’s not like that!  You see, she started out fighting Nazis, and–

ME: Oh, like Captain America?  Was she frozen in ice like him?  Not that his story is plausible, mind you, but at least it’s something.

YOU: Just…NO!  Just, listen!  Okay, so…fuck, where was I?

ME: Aaaaand scene.

Okay, then.  Break into groups and discuss.  When next we speak, class, I’ll have the hottest babes from comics.  And NO Wonder Woman.  Sorry.  My blog.  My rules.

Excelsior!

Randomity!

Turner L. Watson 5 Comments

Getting ready to go camp out at McDonald’s for Ronald McDonald House, so I thought I’d throw a quick blog together.  It’s sort of like leftovers…and it ain’t even Thanksgiving yet!  Bing!  In other words, no rhyme or reason here, just more random thoughts and observations. Such as…

Winter is Coming.

Those are the Stark words, and living in the wasteland that is Northern Indiana, it’s a fact that’s on everyone’s mind.  me?  I love winter.  LOVE. IT.  I love it for many different reason, but one of my guilty pleasures is leaving work after it’s been snowing and using my arm to clear a little space on my windscreen.  Not the whole window, mind you: just a patch.  Then I pretend I am driving an old Sherman tank like in Battlefield.  I suggest you try it.  however, please try not to be too terribly drunk when you do so.

WEEEEEEEEEEE!!!!

Nazis in my shoe

Sometimes the seam of my sock loops over my little toe.  It’s one of those things that I try and tell myself is no big deal at first.  “I’m sure it will shake itself out before long.  No big deal.  It’s just a sock, after all.”  After about thirty minutes, it feels like there is a little Nazi sneaking up behind my toe with a wire garrote.  Little bastard is totally trying to cut my piggy’s head off.  I hate Nazis.

Get...out...of...my...SHOE!

Ethnic names

Some people make a big deal out of “ethnic” names.  You know what I’m talking about: Daekwon, LaToya…names that tip you off  to the far-away origins of the person’s family history.  You know, names like Ian, Connor, or Josh.  Aboriginal names like Braden, Caden, Jaden, and Binladen. (Okay, that last one was a joke.) It goes in cycles, though.  I would say there was a 100% chance that the white kid serving you pretzels at the mall in 1998 was named “Josh.”  And here’s another little insight into my situation:  in college I briefly squatted with some fellows in the campus apartments at the University of Southern Indiana.  Turner Watson, Marcus Gresham, and Micah Hawkins all sharing a room.  People would look at the housing rolls and assume we played for the basketball team.  Racist? Possibly.  But absolutely true. Later in life I had a surfing buddy named Lawrence Hawkins.  Also terribly white.  Never judge a book by its cover, people.  (Notice I didn’t say you people.)

Wu Tang is not a group of troubadours to be trifled with lightly, good sir.

Bachelorette fun!

Adult bookstores are great places to stock up on gag gifts.  Funny cards.  Bachelorette party supplies.  And Avatar-themed Fleshlights.  The bachelorette stuff always strikes me as funny.  You girls are so nutty!  A straw that looks like a penis!  HOW CRAZY IS THAT!  LOLZ!! See, when guys go on a bachelor party, they drink and look at titties.  It’s what you do.  Some cool bachelorette parties do the same thing.  Hell, my lovely wife and I actually ended up at the same strip joint the night of our respective parties.  Got his-and-her lap dances.  It was awesome.  ladies, THAT’S how you begin a healthy marriage.  Which makes me wonder about how much actual materiel the adult bookstores sell every year.  My guess?  A crap-ton.  And there’s a very simple reason: camouflage.  Say a gal wants a personal sexual toy or marital aid.  She goes to the bookstore.  She shops around.  Finally, after exhaustive research and hours of self-debate, she settles on the $250 double-ended Taint Ranger with vibrating love rabbit, perfect for those nights at home watching Twilight!  Only now she feels a little self-conscious.  As she approaches the checkout, the young lady wonders whether the cashier will thin she’s a deviant (hint: no.  No, they won’t.  Those employees see REAL deviants every single day.) So to confuse and obfuscate, she grabs a “#1 Bachelorette” tiara, some penis straws, and a colorful “Bride to Be” feather boa.  She’s going to pass the $250 Vadge-inator off as a gag gift.  And God bless her.

This exists.

Front-clasp bras

While on the subject of femininity, what the hell ever happened to these things?  I remember the first time I ever encountered one in high school…fumbling around under her shirt, prolly clawing the shit out of her back in a vain attempt to smoothly undo her brassiere and free her budding teats into my waiting, eager hands.  After about ten minutes of this nonsense, she pushed me back, lifted her shirt, revealed the magical mamary-constraining mechanism, and out came the globes.  It was very anti-climactic.  I was trying to be all George Clooney.  I was not.  Good riddance to these abominations, now that I think about it.

Whaddayouknow! Heaven has a front gate!

Red Cream Soda

What the fuck is that? Strawberry?  It’s not cherry.  I know that shit for damned sure.

Don't know what it is, but I drank the shit out of it in college art class.

Cracked Pavement

Ever see a parking lot or side street with a spiderweb of cracked pavement…that someone has painstakingly gone over and caulked with that rubbery black stuff?  What the hell, dude?  I understand that you don’t want big asphalt chunks laying all over and the resulting ever-widening holes and whatnot.  But how about just re-paving that shit?  Can it really be more troublesome?  I don’t get it.  I don’t. Then again, it’s pretty obvious that there’s a lot I don’t get.  Life is a mystery to me.  Like a front-clasp bra in eleventh grade.

No problem! We'll have this banged out in about twenty years.

Quick and Dirty.

Turner L. Watson 9 Comments

In reference to the title of this entry: THAT’S WHAT SHE SAID!  So, there’s that.

Anyway, I noticed a couple of things the other day.  One:  I start wayyyy too many paragraphs with “Anyway…” so I’ll try to get more creative with my transitions.  Two, thanks to you reading this blog (and all the other entries herein) I’m approaching 10,000 views since the beginning of August.  Dayum…I never figured people would actually want to read this!  So in all sincerity, thanks.  And keep spreading the word!  Would it be out of the realm of possibility to see 20,000 by the end of the year?  Or to put it bluntly: can a nigga get a table dance?

Anyway…

So they had me in a “Brainstorming” meeting today to help a client find ways to market a series of sex-type classes for couples.  I shit you not.  They actually WANTED me in there.  Most of my ideas were rejected.  I suggested that the client have a series of classes called “Your Wife’s Asshole Is Like a 9-Volt Battery: You Know You Shouldn’t Put Your Tongue On It, But You Will Anyway!”  I also mentioned that many of us would sign up for a class called “Bitch, It Ain’t Gonna Suck Itself” and also “What The FUCK Was That Noise, And Where Did It Come From?”  I was asked to leave the meeting early.  Their loss!  But while I was bored, some thoughts crept into my had.  Here are some of them…

1. You know what would be terrifying?  Not zombies.  Fuck zombies, man.  They’re slow. (REAL zombies are slow.  28 Days Later was Rage Virus, you imbecile.)  Ah, but what if some mad genius outfitted an army of zombies with Segway scooters?  A horde of undead douchebags with Bluetooth headsets coming after me? I’m OUTTA here, Jack! Get me to some stairs, stat!

While writing this piece, I had NO IDEA that this was already a thing! Seriously, Google "zombie on a seqway." I'll wait.

2. People know I don’t like the show Big Bang Theory (ahem…) but did you know that the guy that plays Sheldon on that show was recently a guest star on iCarly?  True story.  He played a patient in a mental ward, and he was actually very entertaining.  See, sometimes you have to hate the game, not the player.

3. I’m starting a rumor, right here and now, that a big-budget remake of “Smokey and the Bandit” is underway with Michael Bay writing/directing.  Ryan Reynolds has been cast as Bandit, and Emmy Award-winner Peter Dinklage is signed to play Smokey.  In fact, in this remake the name of the character Buford T. Justice has been changed to simply “Smokey” because they want this thing to be as stupid as humanly possible.  I love the Dink, and though I hate to see him belittle himself (see what I did there?) with this kind of role, but dude…strike while the iron’s hot!  (Seriously, though…his Tyrion Lannister is spot-fucking-on.)

TOTALLY not 'shopped.

4. Speaking of “Game of Thrones,” does anyone else think that George R. R. Martin only added the extra “R” initial so that people would call him “The American J.R.R. Tolkien?”  If so, that shit worked, because that’s EXACTLY what everybody calls him.  Maybe he’s just a big railroad fan.  Maybe somebody took his first choice, George H. W. Martin.  I ain’t care, long as he gets to writin’ some more books, y’all!

5. Finally, I learned recently that it was after the Battle of Bannockburn during the Scottish war of independence (the big one) that the esteemed GaGa’s received their peerage, land, and title.  Brave Lord GaGa so confounded the troops on both sides of the battle that Robert the Bruce was able to cement his claim to the Scottish throne by getting wasted and puking all over the Stone of Scone, which became customary at the coronation of every British monarch since.  In fact, the name of the sacred stone comes from the simple fact that scones were all the Bruce had eaten that day.  The English, upon seeing this horrifying display, wrote their digits on a bar napkin and left the field.  The Bruce never even called them back.  Actually, he totally ran into the English army a few weeks later and claimed he’d meant to call but couldn’t find their number.  Oh, and he dropped his phone in the toilet, so yeah.  But he suggested that maybe they could totally hang out one day.

"...the FUCK is he doing?!?"

The End.

Ah, These Kids Today…Part 2 (Electric Boogaloo)

Turner L. Watson 2 Comments

So, yeah.  I have a couple of boys.  Simon is six, Rhys is almost three.  Good kids.  Spoiled rotten, but hey, that’s the fault of me and the missus.  Do I want to beat ’em sometimes?  Sure.  People without kids always say “That’s HORRIBLE!!  How can you even JOKE about abusing your kids?  They’re all God’s little angels!”  People that have kids know better.  Oh, do we ever.

 

The face of evil.

 

My kids are what we in the parenting industry like to call “all boy.”  Dirt, guns, fights, hockey, farts, couch-cushion forts…the whole nine.  Initially, I wanted a boy AND a girl. My sperm refused me, and now I have two li’l Terminators.  I have friends with daughters that have mentioned to me that they love their little princesses but intend to suture up their lady parts until well after the girls’ twentieth birthday.  I then remind them that without access to the vagina, kids will find all sorts of interesting places to put penises.  This usually results in my friend taking a swing at me.  The truth hurts.  Usually me.

Sorry! I meant your OTHER daughter!

My kids will make it to teenagerhood, provided the “tooth fairy” doesn’t put too much Benadryl in their juice (go the fuck to SLEEP already!!) and cause them to lapse into a coma or worse. I do not look forward to those years.  I do not look forward to those years because I have worked at a public pool.  We’d work the pool in the summer and then open the public ice rink in the fall.  I got to witness the teenage population up close, and it ain’t pretty.  Ever see the Harmony Korine/Larry Clark film “Kids” from 1995?  Might as well have been a documentary.  Kids fucking, kids doing drugs, kids stealing, kids beating someone with a skateboard, kids giving each other AIDS.  I saw just about all of that shit take place whilst working for the man to put a little change in my pocket.  Used condoms in the parking lot, empty bottles of whiskey and porn mags in the restrooms….legit, yo.  I mean, hell…that was the early 90’s.  I can only imagine kids today are already into gang-bangs and making their own snuff films. “Um…Timmy ran away, mom.  Yeah.  By the way, does dad have any of the following items: lye, a hacksaw, gloves, and a section of garden hose?  I’m asking for a friend.”

Best. Science project. Ever.

And the jailbait.  Don’t get me fucking started on the jailbait (and please, lord…don’t let me get caught fucking the jailbait.)  Swear to God, the other day I was shopping for Halloween costumes for my children.  At the same time and location, a mother (I guess?!?) had her two thirteen-ish looking daughters checking out SLUTTY HALLOWEEN COSTUMES.  Slutty Pirate, Slutty Cop, Slutty Schoolgirl (which is ironic, since these two WERE Slutty Schoolgirls) and so on.  The mom (?) asked one of the workers if they had any of these costumes in a thirteen-year-old size.  The woman told her that yes, in fact, they were in stock, but warned her that these slutty costumes RAN A LITTLE SMALL.  Yes, these whoreish costumes (complete with thigh-highs and extra slut sauce, whatever that is.  Okay, I made that part up, but still…) were made to fit PRE-TEEN GIRLS!!  What the fuck sort of parent lets their daughter go out in such an outfit? “Oh, I like your costume, dear!  What are you supposed to be…Rape Bait?” Or better: “Mom, does this skirt show too much underaged gash when I cross my legs?” HOLY SHITBALLS!!!

Dude...she's like twelve.

I actually have a solution to the pedophilia problem.  Seriously, this thought has crossed my mind.  Let’s pass some sort of legislation or maybe even just suggest strongly that Victoria’s Secret can no longer sell yoga pants with words like “Pink” or “Love” or “Cram Your Sausage Here” on the ass to anyone UNDER the age of eighteen.  Maybe even take it further and make it mandatory for college-aged sluts to wear these pants so that they can be more easily identified.  The chlamydia rates would drop sharply. 

DUDE! TWELVE!!

Yes, I know there are male sluts, an that’s a discussion for another time,  one probably involving Ed Hardy and tight Hollister shirts.  I might even get into another double-standard:  guys who mention how much they like that saucy little Sam on iCarly are branded as creepy pedophiles.  Thirty-eight-year-old women that get all self-lubricated at the sight of a seventeen-year-old Taylor Lautner are seen as women “in their prime” looking to get one last statutory rape in before menopause. Uh-huh. Fair and balanced.  That’s me.

Sexy as FUCK.

 Seeya at the mall, kids…

NSFW

Turner L. Watson 6 Comments

See, here’s the thing about this blog.  Because of what I do for a living (at 98.9 the Bear) I have to watch what I say.  On the air, anyway.  Add to that the fact that I have two kids, ages six and almost-three, and most of my day is spent not saying “motherfucker.”  Too bad, really, as “motherfucker” and “goddammit” aare two of my favorite things to say.  The point I’m trying to make here is that it’s ’bout to get drrty up in this blog.  Because when not plugged into a mic broadcasting to literally DOZENS of listeners or taking my children to a gaddam splash pad or somesuch, I get short-term Tourette’s Syndrome.  Seriously filthy.  So y’been told.

Daddy, why did you call my teacher an ass-whore?

Right off the bat, here’s a recent incident at our fine radio station.  Someone discovered a discarded condom wrapper in the studio. True story.  Some idiot was smart enough to use a condom, but left the wrapper behind.  Perhaps they were trying to be all Kevin Spacey and leave little clues.  Perhaps they were just stupid.  But the amazing thing is this: no one has fessed up to banging someone in the on-air studio, even though THAT’S WHAT DJ’S DO.  Oh, I’ll add this little detail: the condom in question was a Magnum XL.  Yes, the perpetrator is apparently packin’.  Big time.  And yet, collective silence from our 99% male staff (see what I did there?  Male? Staff?)  “What’s that you say, Mister Program Director?  Big pecker?  No, not me!  When I get aroused it’s like a hamster trying to wag its tail!” What the hell has happened to male pride?  Back in the seventies and eighties, dudes were all about chest hair and unbridled male engorgement all over the place. “I don’t even use condoms.  Nossir, I simply grab an old bread bag, some duct tape, and Thompson’s Water Seal.”  Now we have online ads telling us how to increase the size of our junk.  God, we’ve failed as a society.

For the love of God...do NOT search for "huge meat" with your safe search filter off.

When my mind starts a-ramblin’ like this, weird thoughts materialize.  For example, I wonder if old guys generate as much man-sauce as younger dudes?  I’m 41 and have had a vasectomy.  My seed is more like “Seed-flavored Kool-Aid.”  Or so I imagine.  Never been that thirsty, frankly.  But I remember being in my twenties and filling up a pickle jar with my stuff after spending an afternoon with a copy of Swank magazine.  I can only imagine it’s a diminishing return, even if the body keeps making new swimmers.  Old guys probably just release a puff of air, like those things they (for some reason) blow on your eyeball at the optometrist’s office.

Okay, look right here while I fuck with your cornea for no good reason...

Back to the big-meat problem, or for the ladies, the LACK of big meat.  I think that’s a bit of a misconception, the belief that all women want twelve inches of “wrist-thick cock” (I read that description in Penthouse Forum once, and loved it so much that I’ve been waiting for an opportunity to work it in.  Yes, I just said I wanted to work in a wrist-thick cock.  Sure did.) is akin to assuming that all men want to fuck an inflexible hole the size of a quarter.  Not as cool as it sounds.

You know you want it...

Perhaps ladies should be thankful for what they have nowadays.  Lack of quality Mega-Schlong (a new movie on SyFy) isn’t all that big a deal now that men go down with regularity.  I’ve overheard old guys mention that they’ll never put their mouths on “that filthy thing.”  I think there’s more than just the old-school conservatism at work here.  I think it’s that back in the day, say, the late-40’s and early 50’s guys didn’t want to lick punani because they were afraid their hair would get messed up.  Likewise, when ladies had an orgasm (female orgasms?  In the FIFTIES?!?) they would get their hands in all that greasy, sticky pomade and then have to wipe it on the pillow or something,  embarrassing both parties and killing the mood.  And trust me, when it comes to pomade, I know what I’m talking about.

I also happen to be an expert in killing the mood.  Dang.  Wish that had been MY condom wrapper.