I did sign off yesterday wondering if I'd imagined up the toaster thing. But Google says it's an actual Thing, for which I'm dubiously relieved. I'd hate to the be one to have imagined that one up. I've also been advised that sadly no one fucks a toaster in Fifty Shades, which I think is a shame, and might have added a little much needed colour in more ways than one. Insert your own crumpet joke, but hey, don't insert your own Thing. This is your obligatory don't-do-this-at-home kids warning. Really, keep your dick out of the kitchen. It's advice my wife gave me some time ago, and I've never had to be rescued by a fireman and a liberal salving of I Can't Believe That's Not Butter.
Apropos of nothing, I used to share an office with Britain's most prominent academic urological organ. My office mate, the delightful Veronica, dutiful servant of said organ (hey, these bondage allusions don't come easily to my anointed little fingers) would gleefully show me pictures from their case study submission section. There truly is no place that the male penis hasn't pioneered. They're like the Indiana Jones of anatomical stupidity, always dashing into danger. And you don't want to know the sort of thing its chucklesome spheroid twins do for comic relief. If we had an inner goddess, she'd undoubtedly be shaking her head in resigned shame.