Mildly Indecent...Surely Not Criminal

Summer was fast approaching, Johnson Graffman's favorite season. He was fond of limping over to the pier and watching the ladies splash around in next to nothing. He liked to imagine himself a dog rather than a cursed human being. He hated being chained to polite society, to it's restrictive conventions. Dogs, thought Johnson, hump all over town without discrimination, as they should. Were Johnson his animal of choice he'd surely be a Great Dane. A beautiful beast with
stamina and romance. Ah yes, a Dane.

"Ruffffff, ruffffff," barked Johnson as he adjusted his monocle. The abrupt dog sound scared a young woman in a purple polka dot bikini that left little to the
imagination. She gave Johnson a look of horror; he shook his jowls and winked.

Much to his surprise this nubile blonde's expression soon changed from horror to animalistic curiosity. Her brow bent and contorted. She plumped and pursed her lips. And then to the Great Man's delight, the young She Beast began panting as if in heat.
'Dare I approach,' he wondered. Before he could reach a decision, the lovely woman crawled to him on all fours. Panting still, she allowed her tongue to drip from her mouth. Drool moistened her lips.
'What a strange affair,' Johnson said to himself as he bent down to offer the creature a thorough petting.

Later, Johnson tried in vain to explain his actions to the authorities.
But they paid little heed. In fact, the desk sergeant, a tall Irish bloke with curly red hair and the thick bulbous nose of a serial imbiber, took Johnson to task for his outlandish tale.

"You say twas a day dream come to life, eh Mr. Graffman. Sure, sure we get all kinda day dreamers in here who have a mind to fondle a young lass as she lay sunin'. Ack, a day dream," Sergeant O'Malley cackled, "what a load of sheep dung. Think I've never read a hackneyed dime novel?!"
"Dime novel...," Johnson whispered to himself.

In cell block 42 Johnson had time to think about things, to wonder where his life went wrong. In a few short years he was a great man who had fallen a great distance. Who knew that a young bombshell on a beach would be his final undoing. God, why did I have to act like a damn dog, Johnson thought and then he punch himself. He heard approaching footsteps. "Johnson?? You there Johnson????" Uh oh, it was the voice of Mikey - the one everyone feared. Johnson knew it was his turn.

Pantaloony

"Who better?" he spat a third time, jabbing his cane in the direction of some riff raff. Johnson would sleep well tonight, he always did when he got riled up slightly early in the day.

"Rheumatism," he coughed, with compunction. "Blasted foul beasts!" he yammered, awkwardly kicking at some pigeons.

Kicking, he felt the familiar and comforting tug of his Space-Ghost underwear against his loin. It pinched his manhood with the crisp bite of unwashed cotton.

"I'll cut the confounded bugger off if it continues to devil me this way!" he muttered, one hand working furiously at his privates in an attempt to gain some relief.

Finally, with great struggle he released his knobby, pink cobra by slicing open the frontispiece of his pantaloons with a piece of glass he had picked from the streets.