My bedroom is a converted roof space accessed by retractable metal ladders.
I fought my brother for this room at the young age of 12, and being the eldest it really was no contest.
You see at this young age I had already foreseen the benefits of being able to pull the ladders up and shut myself away from the world.
Actually, if I may take this chance to say a few things.
My 15, 16, 17 and 18 year old would like to thank my 12 yr self for providing the freedom to masturbate at will.
My 19, 20, 21, and 22-year-old self, thank my 12-year-old self for giving me the freedom to shag girlfriends in a fully occupied house.
My 23 yr old self however is less grateful and would have no qualms about kicking my 12 yr old self in his pre pubescent ballbag.....and Iíll tell you why.
Years of striding down my ladders have resulted in a certain degree of schoolboy arrogance and blatant showboating on my part.
4 steps at a time, no hands, 360 degree turns in mid descent, were some of my more daring moves.
I have managed to navigate these ladders in all states of drunkenness, with a broken foot, carrying cartons of beer; fuck I could have probably juggled while hopping backwards on these ladders, until the fateful day.
On those ladders, gravity was my bitch.
However this particular morning, Gravity it seemed, was in no mood to be taunted, and had conspired with Dyson to teach my sorry disrespectful ass a lesson... quite literally.
It was a Saturday morning. I woke up fluffy haired and blurry eyed following a heavy night out on the piss. I had a footy match in 1 hrs time and was faced with what has now become a weekly task of playing 90 minutes hung-over, I take my football very seriously.
The awakening of my bladder dictated that the toilet would be the first stop of the day and thus urged me towards the ladders for the trusty standard 2-step descent with speed.
I'd made this journey many times, 5 strides and I would be on my hallway.
The first 3 strides were uneventful,
The 4th stride un fucking forgettable,
There was no 5th stride,
For at this point, I was almost raped by a Dyson.
If I needed any further clarification that inserting anything up my ass was not going to be a suitable lifestyle choice then this was it.
The speed that I was traveling coupled with the all too perfect positioning
of the vacuum cleaner meant that the attempted anal entry was fast and brutal. (Seriously, I reconstructed the scene many times after and there was only one position the Dyson could have been sitting at to enter me with the precision it did that morning)
In hindsight, the lack of lubricant, and my heterosexuality saved me.
Any previous tampering with my asshole, KY jelly, Vaseline, or spittle on that handle and that fucking Dyson would have gone so far up my ass I would have been able to wash dishes and vacuum at the same time, if in fact I actually did either.
Such was the ferocity of the assault, man-made materials were no defence for this custom-built ass raping machine masquerading as a household appliance.
The shaft of the dyson tore right through my combats and my homer simpson boxer shorts, finally meeting its resting place in the shape of my tailbone.
The pain was like nothing I've ever experienced.
Let me take this opportunity to tell you what I have learnt about my body's natural defence mechanism to different forms of pain over the years
Punch on the head = Punch the fucker back
Punch in the stomach = Punch the fucker harder
Kick in the nuts = drop to the floor
To this I can now add,
Vacuum cleaner up the ass = run like fuck with minor terets
This was the first type of pain that my body has ever told me to fucking move, and move fast. Not in any particular direction or to any specific location, just to keep running. Kind of like Forest Gump.
The desire to run like fuck was accompanied with the desire to swear, and swear continuously.
So I did.
I sprinted down the stairs and must have ran round my kitchen a good 15 times clutching my ass shouting expletives at the Dyson
"HOLY MOTHER FUCCKKKK!!!, YOU FUCKIN DUST SUCKING BAGLESS BASTARD!"
This was followed by a continual stream of swear words.
As I rounded on what would be my last lap of the kitchen, I found myself slightly impressed with my ability to formulate incoherent sentences purely with swear words.
This brief sense of pride however was quickly overshadowed by the realization of what had just happened to me
I'd just been anally assaulted by my own Dyson Vaccum Cleaner.
My experience undoubtedly has emotionally scarred me.
You will never now see me descend ladders without a thorough initial scan of the area below, accompanied by a tentative outstretched hand feeling around for any object potentially obstructing my landing area.
You also will never see me do any housework.
Everyday is a struggle, but I have to be strong.
What kind of example would I be setting to the rest of the household appliances? That itís ok to sexually assault the occupant and then carry on as if nothing had happened?
There have been times when I've come close to using the toaster, emptying the dishwasher, or clean up the beer Iíd spilt, but you'll be pleased to know these near lapses have only reinforced my determination to never to lift in a finger to help in the house.
I take your applause people.
To Mr. Dyson I say this,
You've managed to pay millions to remove the troublesome bags from Hoovers, and thus prolong the suction, but would it have really have hurt you to go the extra mile and maybe have foam padding on the handles.... Prick?
Surely no other man should have to endure the hell having to watch their mother/partner near collapse lifting a vacuum cleaner up 3 flights of stairs.
To confused teenage boys I say this,
If you think you stare just that little bit too long in the communal changing rooms at your male school mates, go squat on a dyson.
Years of hormonal based confusion answered in a painful/gratifying second. (Delete as appropriate)
Beware the Dyson.