Star Trek
DS9: “Let He Who Is Without Sin…”

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The Sun Also Risans
The very next shot we have is of two Klingon hands holding a gold lamé Speedo. No. No. No. While Worf is hopefully deciding upon the best way to incinerate that thing, his doorbell rings. Some fussily over-dressed man in drab colors walks in to talk to Worf about his puritanical ideals as embodied by the Essentialists Movement and how he thinks Risa and pleasure suck. He thinks the Federation should get in on the book-burning and hair-shirt-wearing, so he invites Worf to their rally to help shut Risa down. Those ralliers are going to be like the palest people on Risa, aren't they? Dax and Worf walk around some gauzy rooms. Dax is still in her metallic suit, but Worf thankfully is still not. They talk about Drab Man and his ideas and his analysis of the Federation. Worf finds his analysis insightful and disturbing. What Dax finds disturbing is that Worf is still in his uniform. Shut up, Dax -- the metallic is bad. You know what disturbs me the most about Worf's gold lamé Speedo? The fact that Dax called it his bathing suit. Like it wasn't one that Risa provided for them in their rooms, gratis. Like at some point Worf went out and shopped for the suit. Like at some point Worf went out and tried the suit on and it had that gross plastic "sealed for your sanitation" lining in the crotch. Okay, so it would be even grosser for bathing suit shoppers if that plastic "sealed for your sanitation" lining weren't in the suit, but it's just not a fun thing to think about anyway. And don't try to deflate my train of thought by saying they don't buy things in Star Trek because they clearly talk about it and the latinum needed to do so. We get a look at someone's naked and unexfoliated feet as some sort of humming massage object is waved over them. I guess the soothing effect happens in sound waves or something because there's no contact being made. What a racket that is. "No, no -- it's working. I know you can't feel anything but believe me -- it's working!" Leeta is even heliumated in her moans and sighs of delight -- how is that possible? As the humming object moves up her legs and closer to her half-turned hip, which is encased in white gauzy material, Leeta sighs that not everyone can be a Dabo girl. "First of all, you have to be able to wear the clothes -- and believe me, that's not easy. You have to be able to calculate odds in your head very quickly." I don't think she does ANY-thing in her head "very quickly." Meanwhile, the Risan assigned to her is wearing the GAYEST sheer navy blue shirt. And while I'm heartily glad it's more refined (if I can even use that word when talking about sheer shirts) than your basic redneck net shirt, it's just not the kind of thing you'd want your man slave wearing as he listens to you with the blankest of all possible blank looks on his face. At least, not if you were a woman. This dude's got a silver head tattoo as well. I'll bet it's a measure of how many tourists you've "entertained." Somewhere there's a very exhausted individual on Risa with a gold tattoo on their forehead. "But more importantly," Leeta goes on, because she's still tootling along, "you have to have a very supple wrist -- like this." Leeta pushes her hand into his to demonstrate, which is unnecessary, really, because I think this guy knows everything there is to know about a nice supple wrist. "Dabo," Leeta says flatly and moves their hands around in a circle. Nice cleavage, Leeta. Or not really. I mean, what is that kind of cleavage called when you aren't wearing a bra or anything else but a loosely draped robe and they're just limply lying there? It's not cleavage between dinners -- more like cleavage between one dinner and area of trunk under said dinner. ["Pencil-test catchment area?" -- Sars] It's the area that gets sweaty when you don't wear a bra -- it's her sweatage. Nice sweatage, Leeta. Still arguing Worf and Dax stumble upon Leeta, her bored, gay, masseur, and her sweatage. Leeta asks them to join her and her bored gay masseur in taking a reyamilk soak. Dax politely refuses and drags Worf and his bugged-out eyes back through the gauze from whence they came. Leeta keeps limp-wristing her bored gay masseur and sighs.

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