 The pest pulled up, propped his pushbike at a pillar box, pulled his 'peen, paused at a post and pissed.
'Piss in the proper place' pronounced a perturbed pedestrian, and presently, this particular part of the planet was plunged into a panorama of public pressure and pleasure through pain.
The pandemonium prompted the police, who patrolled the precinct in panda cars, to pull up and peruse the problem, while pickpockets picked pockets in pairs.
'Arrest the pest who so pointedly pissed in that public place' pleaded the peeved people, practically palpitating.
The powerful police picked up the pest: pronounced him a poof, a pansy, a punk rocker, a pinko, a poodle poker. They picked him up, pummeled his pelvis, punctured his pipes, played ping-pong with his pubic parts, and packed him in a place of penal putrifaction.
The period in prison prooved pitiless. the pendulous pressure of a painless personality purge prompted the pest to ponder upon progessive politics... and a workable prognosis.
He put pen to paper and provatively and persuasively propogated his personal political premise -- pity: a police provacateur put poison pellets in the pest's porridge. the police provacateur was promoted, and the pest was presented with the Pulitzer peace prize... posthumously.
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