The Cow was intrigued, but Mr Timberland was having none of it. It was, he confessed, so mortifying he hadn't even had the courage to tell his wife. The Cow laughed. "Don't worry about that!" she chuckled, "I'll tell her!" Mr Timberland blanched and recoiled.
The Cow persisted. "You can't tell me that, and then not tell me what happened! It's against the rules!" Mr Timberland shifted nervously. "Perhaps," he muttered, "I'll feel better if I confess."
And so he did.
Such as it was.
It was the most anticlimactic confession the Cow had ever heard. Rather than being monumentally stupid, Mr Timberland had simply done what mere mortals do several times apiece in the course of their mundane lives. He'd shown himself to be human, but no more stupid than that. It was all terribly disappointing.
The Cow stomped back into her office. "Do you think I can sue him for false advertising?" she asked Gramsci.
"I doubt," ventured Gramsci, "or every second male would have garnishee orders on their salary cheques repaying disappointed lovers."
The Cow paused. She felt a whole lot better. A disappointing idiot was far better than a disappointing lover, after all.