Damn you, Matt Dillon!

Ok, Dillon, I get it. There's something about you, or something about me, but let's face it; we'll never be friends. You scowl at me, and close elevators on me because perhaps I'm a threat to you. Maybe I am; I perform menial public relation tasks for a Broadway show! And I take care of kids! What's the story, Matt? Are you mad at the world because of Herbie Fully Loaded and One Night at McCool's? You can't coast of Coppola forever.

One of these days, when we're both on Conan, I'll tell the story of the time you let the elevator door close on me. And we'll laugh, and laugh. But until that time, let it be known, I loathe you Matt Dillion. We are now sworn enemies. It's officially "on." My feud with you has begun.

Stroke of genius! Get it??

How often has this happen to you? You're tugging your partner's nuts impatiently, while they're putting the condom on, and you think "Golly, I wonder where I can pick up the "Q" around here" or "I don't have much confidence in the Coca-Cola corporation. I need some convincing!"

Really, I'm all for this plan. Safe sex rocks! Ever since Equus (damn Equus!) and possibly Brooklyn, I'm quite fearful of riding bareback.

I have a rule with the condoms I distribute. Yes, I'm the one for the job. If I give you one, and it's used in another state, you must mail the wrapper back to me. Bonus points if used overseas.

Wrap it up, Boys - it's cold out there!