It was a quiet Tuesday afternoon in a tea room in Chaffinch St Cock, when a disheveled man entered with his garments loose and improper. His trousers only came up to the bottom part of his buttock cheeks, and his patterned blue and red underpants were visible for all to see.
"Are you alright?" asked prim Mrs Lipperton, adjusting her spectacles. "Have you had an accident?"
"Nah," said the uncouth visitor. "You got any coffee?"
"We do serve coffee, but I was referring to your britches, which appear not to be fastened properly. Do you require a belt, or perhaps suspenders?"
"Nah," whined the youth. "I always wears them like that. It's fashion."
"Young man, I worked in a haberdashery for thirty years. That is most certainly not fashion," scolded Mrs Lipperton. "And if you will not cover yourself up, then please leave my tea shop."
"Alright, you old hag. I'll get some Monster Stimulant drink down at Tesco's." And with a scowl, he turned and limped awkwardly towards the door.
At that moment, he tripped over his erroneously fitted pantaloons, and fell onto the floor, smacking his face against the parquet.
How we chuckled! The entire room began to titter. Old Mr Scrotula spat out his peppermint tea in amusement.
Gathering up his garments, and what remained of his dignity, the intruder stumbled out of the door and never appeared in the establishment again.
"What a queer duck," exclaimed Mr Scrotula.
"I'll wager he's either incontinent or a rent boy," said Mrs Lipperton.