Rowan was given a list of words starting with "P" and 20 minutes later handed me this:
The pogrom served its purpose. With the pigfucker lying prostrate, ostensibly in penury, guilty as he felt over the pixelate polyps infesting his palacious undercarriage, the pistol-wielding pontiff, whose piddling improprieties were no secret, assumed the position. Which is to say, we all gathered reverently (in no small part in consideration of the pistol) in some prescribed polygonal formation, at which point our polygamous orator proceeded to circumnavigate the punitive consequences of his progesterone-induced pandemonium. Well if a night of parabolic and uncertain profundity desperately espoused to the tune of the most pedestrian prog-rock stylings doesn't ring as true as ptocin-fuelled contemporary birth ceremony, then friend you know nothing of a purposeful pogrom, and so your Paxil-pacified plenitude may yet benefit from a proper pillaging by characters of no uncertain negritude.