I’m reading this comment while sitting in one of those bookstore coffee shops with a friend. I look up from my phone and, in what I believed to be an appropriately discreet indoor voice, ask, “Who the hell is Johnny Sins?”

To my right sits a lovely woman. Short, average build, shoulder-length black hair. I didn’t ask her age, but I’d put her around thirty. She’s wearing stylish glasses with thick black frames, the sort you buy when you want people to know you put some thought into your glasses.

Before the final s in “Sins” has even finished leaving my mouth, this woman launches a light brown iced beverage out of her nose with such extraordinary force that I find myself within the splash zone.

She immediately begins laughing. Not ordinary laughter, either. Violent, uncontrollable laughter. Snorting, heaving, struggling for air. The kind of laughter that makes nearby people wonder whether medical assistance might be necessary.

I am frozen in fear. She has my complete attention.

Eventually, she manages to regain just enough composure to inform me, through several barely contained fits of laughter, that she is indeed very familiar with the name Johnny Sins.

She apologizes for the beverage incident. We assure her it’s perfectly fine, although I remain thoroughly confused.

“So, who is this guy?” I ask.

Her face turns bright red. She attempts to speak, fails, and dissolves into another fit of laughter.

“You’re going to have to look that up on the Internet,” she finally manages.

So I did.

Oh, my…