//------------------------------//
// ...Yet Trouble is Asking For You 
// Story: Letters from an Irritated Princess 
// by Tired Old Man 
//------------------------------//

Dear Prince Rough Turd, 

My apologies, my quill is still having trouble parsing your name correctly. However, a few troubling concerns have arisen after a certain pink friendship ambassador returned home with a report on the status of your leadership.

To put it bluntly and in thy native speech, Yak Prince blow it big time.

I’m guessing the avalanche did more than enough harm to a fragile mind like yours to the point where coming up with a decent solution to your problem seemed impossible. And that’s okay, Roughed-up Nerd! It’s fine to admit you had no idea on how to handle a situation that hasn’t happened before instead of attempting to save face in one of the dumbest ways possible—admitting it happens every...what’s the name? Yick Sherbert fest?? That just makes it sound like a chronic problem you didn’t have a good answer to fixing yet.

But I’ll entertain this “fact” of yours for a moment. Let’s say that this happens annually (or quarterly, monthly, however often you do this). Obviously since this happens every time you host these festivities, you have a tried-and-true method for clearing snow, or a thought-out plan that involves easy access to snow-clearing tools of some kind, like a snow plow or snow shovels. Maybe they are kept in a tool hut where yaks keep tools, and if by chance you also kept that in the snowed-over village, perhaps that should have been the first spot to uncover the roof and gain access to. 

Of course, that’s giving you an immensely generous benefit of the doubt that you aren’t lying your frozen ass off instead of swallowing your pride and admitting mistakes were made.

Pride cometh before the snowfall, Prince Rubber Fur, and you should know when to let it go before your people start to pay for your stubborn spirit.

Henceforth, it would really help you and your fellow Yaks the sooner you grow a fresh pair of nuts since your current pair seems to have died a bitter death from frostbite. Grow a pair that doesn’t suggest sleeping on a snow sheet, listening to shushed slush tunes, and consuming enough snow in two days to load up a summer snow cone stand for… also two days, but in a far more appropriate setting with sweltering heat instead of sub-zero cold. 

I want to believe you won’t suffer an icy death in the event this happens again and there isn’t a friendship ambassador within the immediate vicinity to bail your ass out as you make do with igloos and icicle pops. To that end, I heartily encourage you to call upon us if you need any assistance. I’d rather you take a hit to your lone wolf, arrogant, “put yourself inside an ice hole you somehow survived in for a whole winter with no air because the ice hole froze over but you could still wave to your family and friends that somehow couldn’t help you because Ruthy no like logic GRRRRRRR!” (Pinkie’s description, not mine) sense of pride than to die senselessly and be remembered as an icehole whose name will live on in infamy through many, many rancid ice puns.

Although that would be a fun thing to put in a history book, would it not?

Ice writing to you again,

Princess Chillestia

Luna, have you seen Granny’s dentures? She lost them and thinks she left them here last night.

Have you checked your bathroom? See if there’s a cup filled with blue or green fluid; she said she’s sure she cleaned them! I’m checking my bathroom right now.

The cup’s empty? Well, I’ll let her know they’re not… here...

...Sunny, what do you have in your mouth? Sunny, are those—SUNNY, get those out of your mouth right now!

You do not need those for your alien cosplay next Nightmare Night! This is horrifying enough as is!