So, back in 2006 a massage therapist filed a police report against Al Gore accusing him of "unwanted sexual contact" at an upscale Portland hotel. The massage therapist's story (as relayed by Gawker) is awfully dry, so we reconstructed the scene as best we could from the police report so you could experience the horror firsthand.

GORE (hugging her): Hi! You're the massage therapist? Thanks for coming!

MASSEUSE: Hi! I'm excited to meet you! (To herself): Hm. That hug lasted just a little too long.

GORE: Well, let's get to it. You know what? I get really tense here on my inner thigh.

MASSEUSE: Okay. I'll see what I can do.

GORE: Here too, on my abs.

MASSEUSE: Okay.

GORE: A little lower.

MASSEUSE: How's that?

GORE (growling): LOWER!

MASSEUSE: There?

GORE (still growling): LOWER!

MASSEUSE: Look, why don't you show me?

GORE (grabbing her hand and placing it on his "pubic crest" region): There!!

MASSEUSE: Ohmigod!

GORE: Grrrr!

MASSEUSE: No! That is not considered safe territory for a legitimate massage.

GORE: C'mon, it's therapeutic. It's one of my chakras. I got a lot of tension there.

MASSEUSE: No! I'm sorry, sir, but you have crossed a boundary, and I am leaving now. I am going to pack my things.

GORE (hugging her): Don't go!

MASSEUSE: I'm definitely going. Stop that! Don't caress my back! Stop caressing my buttocks! And stop caressing my breasts, which seem impossible since you're currently hugging me.

GORE: C'mon, baby! Relax!

MASSEUSE (spotting a box of chocolates nearby): Why don't you eat some candy instead?

GORE: Oh, okay. Mm, these are tasty. How about eating one out of my hand?

MASSEUSE: No, thanks.

GORE: Well, then, how about some Grand Marnier from the minibar? Wait there while I open the fridge, get the bottle out, untwist the little cap and pour it into a glass. There. Have some.

MASSEUSE: No thanks.

GORE: HAVE SOME!!!

MASSEUSE: OKAY!!!

GORE: Now kiss me, baby.

MASSEUSE: No!

GORE: We're kissing whether you like it or not! Ha ha ha!

MASSEUSE: Stop this! Stop groping me! Stop flailing about! Forget this horrible seduction and just let me go!

GORE: C'mon, baby!

MASSEUSE: Stop pressing your body against mine! (To herself:) Ohmigod! Is that his erection I feel? I've really got to get out of here!

GORE (throwing her onto the bed and pinning her down): Make love to me!

MASSEUSE: Get off me, you big lummox!

GORE: Kiss me!

MASSEUSE: Let me go!

GORE: At the very least, look at my iPod! LOOK AT IT!

MASSEUSE (examining iPod): You like Pink? "Dear Mr. President"?

GORE: Yes, it's a great song. She almost mentions me in it.

MASSEUSE: Wow, that's cool. Well, now I've really got to go. This has been horribly insulting, bordering on sexual abuse. Goodbye and good riddance!

GORE: No, wait! Please!

MASSEUSE: Do not grab me! I'm right here at the door, and I'm going to open it! No, don't hug me! THTOP TONGUE KITHING ME! Now, stop massaging me! Stop rubbing your crotch against me. Hey, get your hands off my buttocks! Stop groping my breasts! Hey, that nipple squeezing is painful. And all of this while you're hugging me, again!

(She throws open the door and finally gets outside.) Ohmigod. That's incredible! Nobody will EVER believe me! I'm going straight to the police in a month or two, but I have no proof. OHMIGOD! There are stains on my pants that could be Al Gore's bodily fluids! I'd better wash them at once.