Has that ever stopped you before?
Elton shows up at your door. He's dressed in a gold lame cape and little else. His eye makeup looks professionally applied. There appears to be some kind of residue present on his lower thoracic area that might suggest he's been fettling some sort of filled pastry.
He leans into the doorway, snaking one "Pinball Wizard"-height platform around the inside of your door. A surprisingly strong arm pulls you toward him as he whispers in your ear, "mooooooooore piiiiiiiiiiiiie...' His breath smells of alcohol, amyl nitrate, and something akin to the inside of one of those sliding-door theatres. He pulls off your silk cravat and uses it, whipsaw-style, to remove the accretions from his lower nexus...
But enough about weeknights at the bakery. How are the pooches?