Our old friend Terrence is once again a sad and withered shadow of his former self, with a tendency to lurk in the corner of the living room (behind a pile of crap, natch), grunting and muttering to himself about his former glories and the merry killing sprees in which he used to indulge.
Sadly such ravaging days are no more. And, like many other lonely, impotent, withered individuals, he has had to turn to artificial stimulation for his thrills. Usually he waits till the house is empty - or at least till we are all in bed - to indulge in these sick and abnormal practices.
But then he got desperate. He was down to his last puff of helium, and the world was beginning to darken around him. And then someone went and turned the vacuum cleaner on.
What can he say? He just finds hoovers really, really sexy. Particularly that tarty Dyson, with all its sexy roaring and saucy sucking pipes.
Before he - or anyone else - really knew what was happening, he had pounced upon his dust-gobbling prey, trust himself forcefully upon him/her/it (do vacuums have genders? Now there's a philosophical question for you. Answers in lucid prose of less than 2000 words, please). And then he found himself in a rather - ahem - compromising position.
Yep, we've all been there. Innocently cleaning the house in the nude, slipping on some inconsiderately abandoned object, and landing with our todger up the suction pipe. Embarrassing, yes. Completely innocently explainable to the good doctors in casualty?
Unfortunately, all of this was witnessed by one young bystander, who was rather shocked.
But also oddly intrigued and amused.
Yet ultimately just a bit disgusted.
Eventually, Lumpy decreed that Terrence should be freed from his degrading and shameful position. Luckily this delicate operation was performed without permanent injury to his inflation pipe (though it did make his eyes water somewhat). Afterwards, Lumpy had a serious chat, man-to-extinct-flesh-eating-dinosaur, about private parts and why we should keep them to ourselves and not stick them in household implements (the clue's in the name. Private. Pri-vate. Not to be put into blenders or wanged around in public.)
Terrence was, needless to say, suitably chagrined, and slunk back off to his corner to lick his wounds (so to speak).
Boob lady! For God's sake, never, ever get that vacuum cleaner out again!
Now that's a promise I feel I will be able to keep.