text: Perry Penguin was waddling down the street one Thursday. As she strolled silently, she happened upon a peculiar person. The person was preparing pizza for the President. As the pizza person, whose name was Peter, pressed the provolone and prosciutto, Perry peered through the window. &#x200B; That window, where Peter pressed pizzas, was washed on Wednesday, allowing an unobstructed avenue for observation. When the waddler watched, her wet wing waved wildly. A certain smear left by the slippery sap caught Peter's perception. Perceptive Peter the pizza presser peered at Perry. Perry peered at Peter, pressing pizzas, through the pane. Their eyes exchanged encouraging expressions. Now they knew they never knew their interest in inter-species intermingling. &#x200B; Perry and Peter now also knew what was needed. As Peter placed his pressed pizza upon the peel, Perry peered persistently. The ensuing scene was somewhat of a strange sight. Pizzas puffed. Perry peered. Peter pressed. The President patiently prepared for his private pie. Peering persisted. Perry longed for lips to lick as drool dripped down her downy cheeks. The tense tension taunted the two. And the President too. &#x200B; Peter placed the prepared pizza in a brown box to bring to the patient President privately. Perry edged eagerly to the edge of the establishment. Peter exited, exuding an engorged ego. He was happy to have had a hand in hindering the hunger of His Highness, the President. Perry popped imperceptibly into Peter's Prius, planning to profess her peculiar propagation plans to her new pizza-pressing pal. As they meandered mellowly to the White House, the tension tensed twofold. &#x200B; That the Secret Service takes security seriously is no secret. Dogs, detectors, and dinging devices provided no privacy for the place where Perry pretended not to be present. Surprisingly the Secret Service supervisor said, "Penguins pose no potential problem to the President. Please proceed." &#x200B; "Penguin? That thing that they think they see surely isn't stuffed behind the seat. Penguins? Please. Nothing in here but me and these," protested Peter, pointing to his pressed pizzas which were wafting waves of warmth from the westward-facing window. Another agent acquiesced and agreed to provide Peter a path to proceed. Peter parked his Prius in the place for delivering deliveries to the patient President, still preparing his palate for a private pizza pie. Upon his exit, Perry popped upward from her prone position, proving to Peter that a penguin was present indeed. &#x200B; Peter and Perry peered, separated still by that pain of a pane. Peter's pizza would probably expire if the peering persisted. The thin crust could not contain a crunch when cold. Turning towards the towering topiary concealing the quiet porte cochere, the tan pizza man Peter inhaled. He had to hide his hunger--not for pizza, but for a particular penguin princess panting in his pizza scented Prius. &#x200B; Following a failed and depressing delivery--you see, the President prefers pepperoni and pepperoncini over provolone and prosciutto--Peter plodded to his Prius. Returning his his kitchen, the cook craned his cranium and cried. Confusion came crashing upon him. &#x200B; "Why did that intern, Imogene, not indicate in the order the toppings that tickle Trump's tastebuds?" "Has man previously pondered procreating with penguins?" "Will I waste away in Walla Walla pretending my preference is not perverted?" &#x200B; Without a word, because beaks bar articulation, Perry gently patted Peter's head. Sadly sniffing, Peter started heaving heavily. Viewing the violent vomiting, the visitors visiting under the veranda vacated. Peter hated honesty with an awkward audience, but he had to tell this tiny-legged traveler to take a hike. No perfume could provide a pleasant cover for Perry's putrid parts. Perry just peered, plagued by shame and sorrow for a bleak tomorrow. On her way out the door, she took something more: an ample array of American anchovies. &#x200B; Poor Peter done got duped by Perry Penguin's waddle and wave. Peter prefers penguins, people plainly perceive. An odd obsession, one would likely admit. Whether good or degraded, attraction attracts no authoritative action. No crime was committed, but when Perry entered the fray at /r/AITA, a unanimous union of anonymous humans fairly replied, "YTA.