Slow fade in to the interior of Carousel Boutique.
Rainbow Dash is standing uncomfortably on bent legs. Her flank is straight as a board. She fidgets, somehow unable—or unwilling—to move from that exact spot.
Seconds later, we hear the clop-clop-clop of dainty hooves.
Rarity sashays into view, sporting wide-framed glasses and humming an elegant tune. She approaches Rainbow Dash, swivels around, and sits down on her backside. Reduced to a chair, Rainbow Dash whimpers something, but keeps her muzzle shut.
“Mmmmmm...” Rarity reclines, casually sewing a pocket onto a blouse. She looks at the camera with glamorous disinterest. “As somepony who has often trotted through Sweet Apple Acres' fields, I have seen many apples in my time. However...” She crosses one lower hoof over the other and tosses her mane back. “...all of these apples are in various states of undress.”
The fashionista removes her glasses and lets her pouting lips hang open a bit before continuing in her sultry voice.
“Are there any sorts of fashion apples have worn over the years? And, if so, what sort?”
There's another whimper from the limb-locked pegasus beneath her...
...and we fade out.
WHAT ABOUT APPLES AND FASHION?
Special Thanks to fourths for the question
Fade in to Professor Applejack standing on a dimly-lit black stage. Beyond the penumbra of the spotlight engulfing her we see ponniquins suspended on strings. Each figure is dressed in randomly designed gowns, pantsuits, prison outfits, and firepony uniforms—all sporting a red or green fruit motif.
“What a wonderfully cultural question for you to make, ol' Rarity ol' Pal!”
Professor Applejack adjusts her brown overcoat and leans against a marble podium featuring a large hardbound book entitled “Le Apple Dresse.”
“As it so happens, the history of apple fashion is just about as fancy and excitin' as the history of apple farmin'... apple transit... and apple warfare!”
She reaches over to the book.
The camera switches to a macro of the opening pages, featuring illustrations of ponies wearing apple-inspired evening wear, ponies wearing farming overalls, and just sad-faced ponies drenched in copious amounts of cider.
“But... as you can see... there's a wholllllle heapin' lot more than what can be covered in forty short minutes of public broadcast programmin'! So... for yer sake and for the curious audience hankerin' for some delicious apple knowledge... a simple run-down should suffice, ya reckon?”
Cut back to Professor Applejack's smiling, freckled face.
“So come with me on a trip, y'all... a trip of apples and fashion. And I promise...”
With a simple fade effect, Professor Applejack disappears like a ghost.
“...it won't be too exposin'! Heh-hyuck!”
Slow fade to a series of cave paintings featuring equine outlines seated around a campfire, sharpening spears. Tribal percussion muzak rumbles in the background.
“Back in prehistoric times, primitive ponies didn't have time for dressin' up. Or for apples! Very sad, ain't it? Well... all of that was about to change with the invention of... this.”
Camera pans to a chalk outline of a ladder against the cave wall.
“Looks like a ladder, dun it? Well, in truth... this was the approximate shape of the dreaded Woolly Giraffe... a now-extinct predator that was the scourge of prehistoric caveponies. These bloodthirsty varmints roamed the earth about seventy million years ago! And they liked nothin' better than to prey on our poor grand-grand-grand-grand-grand-grandparents! So... bein' the crafty Cro-Maregdon folks that they were... the caveponies of yore fashioned a bunch of sticks and wooden planks together so that they'd resemble their predators from afar! This fooled the Woolly Giraffe somethin' fierce, on account that their visual acuity was based on movement n'all. It just so happens that—while wearin' these wooden branches and stayin' dead-still while herds of Woolly Giraffes wandered by... one or two lucky caveponies happened to be posed right next to an apple tree. And one of their brothers or sisters took a gander skyward and was all 'Shucks! I see some tasty fruit! Hey, cousin! Stay still while I climb yer sturdy disguise and grab me some plump fruit to suckle on!' And this completely revolutionized the art of huntin' and gatherin'. Pretty soon—once the Wooly Giraffes went extinct from chokin' on a pill bottle cap or what-not—there was no use in the caveponies disguisin' themselves no more. But their disguise had worked so well in gettin' high off the ground to pluck apple trees that they chose to do the latter! And that's how the 'ladder' came to be—and got its name to boot! Ha-Hah!”
Fade to a lowering boom camera shot of Professor Applejack trotting down the Royal Canterlot Museum. She passes by an exhibit of petrified stone fragments propped together to form a rough “apple” shape.
“So here y'all have an example of prehistoric equine culture learnin' to dress itself and feed itself at the same time! Soon enough, habit became bigger than purpose... and shamanistic ponies began worshippin' the apple spirits hidden deep within the apple trees.”
Professor Applejack comes to a stop, gesturing to the stone apple with faded red berry paint.
“So—to get all up in the apple tree's business—they fabricated themselves these big apple fetish suits made out of stone and feces!”
She trots along, and the camera follows as she stands beside an exhibit of apple-shaped armored plates.
“And to appease the apple gods—they wore these armored plates in the shape of apple fetishes, made out of bronze and feces.”
She trots along further, and the camera reveals a monk's robe plastered all over with apple designs.
“And here's the traditional apple fetish worn by servants who worked in harems dedicated to the Pantheistic Apple Spirit, through which all souls are born and slaughtered in what is called 'Seedsara' by Eastern Ponies, no doubt smellin' the fumes of their burnin' incense... but mostly feces.”
Professor Applejack smiles in a still-shot that lasts a bit too long on the editing room floor. The edge of a crewpony's shoulder is briefly seen to the right of the frame just as—
The camera cuts to a macro of renaissance artwork. Pony philosophers are seen in flowing robes, staring point-blank into apples cradled in one hoof while they make sketches of pony skeletons and pony muscles with the other.
“But not all historical fashion ponies were dumb droolin' idiots! Here we see a bunch of artistic thinkin' ponies buildin' the cornerstone of modern equine civilization, thanks to a lot of philosophy, spaghetti, and apple fondlin'! It's from this glorious mess that we get the first phase in elegant female attire!”
Fade to the interior of a fancy baroque chamber, full of lush paintings of royal ponies. Guards in overcoats stand upright before the door. All the while, a mare strapped in a tight bodice of whalebone and apple stems sits on a poofy skirt before a harpsichord, playing mildly away at the ivory keys.
THE APPLE BODICE
“At last, appreciation of apple wear made itself known to the monarchs of Stirrup! This began what we historians like to call 'The Applestocracy!' In wearing the Apple Bodice, matriarchs felt emboldened to take fashion to its next pivotal step. And that was to use the taxes of the proletariat to dress up the fruit of the royal gardens!”
Cut to a vast green orchard located beyond a hedge maze surrounding a magnificently ornate villa. Apple trees dangle with fruit—each of which are ensnared in frilly ballgowns and lace pantsuits. A princess mare trots elegantly down the treeline in her dress, fanning herself as she smiles at the lacily-dressed fruit. She pauses, blushing, to stare prolongedly at a spicy apple dressed in nothing but leopard pelt and a loin cloth. The mare fans herself faster.
“But... while appreciated by nobility, the dressin' up of fruit at the expense of the workin' class had taken its toll throughout the years...”
Fade to a slowly panning shot of a group of green apples lying on pedestals above wicker baskets.
“...with expected results.”
SCH-SCHIIIIING!
The blades of multiple guillotines fall down, slicing the apples into halves and revealing their cores. As their dress clothes are ripped to shreds, shouting peasant ponies with grimy faces gallop across the juice-stained courtyard. They fight over the fabric and dance around, screaming bloody murder while their comrades storm the nearby villa's gates with torches and pitchforks.
“This, of course, led to clothes-wearin' apples bein' shunned by society. Many fruit sought refuge in borderin' nations, practicin' their fashion in secrecy... growin' more close-knit and pious by the decade until... at last...”
Fade to a macro of Enlightenment canvass paintings that illustrate green apples in drab puritannical garb crossing the ocean. Thanks to a series of artistic cross-fades, a tiny sailing vessel makes landfall upon a snowy shore, and several starving apples roll onto the exposed soil of the New World, where they immediately bow and pray.
“...they settled a new land... a free land where apples could dress and sashay about in all the frills and garments that they saw fit.”
The next illustration shows red apples in leather moccasins and ornamental feathers greeting the green refugees, exchanging food and seeds and farming tools.
“Thus began a new blossomin' relationship between two halves of the world... ... ... with expected results.”
A bugle can be heard warbling in high octaves.
The camera jump-cuts to a desert countryside. Cut-out hoofpuppets of green apples in dark blue cavalry uniforms are seen on horseback, chasing wildly whooping red apples across the arid frontier, shooting them to death with guns while a few unluckier natives are happy to just roll over and die from smallpox.
“And that's how the wild fashion was won! But don't be sad! It's just beginnin'!”
A whirring noise as the camera cuts to a slide photo of an apple standing propped up in legionnaire guard.
“The military uniform evolved to be more useful and utilitarian over time!”
A whirring noise. The next photo slides into place, showing an apple in a helmet.
“Soldier apples got the bright idea to wear metal headwear! To protect them from sniper bullets and artillery shells!”
Whirring. The next photo slides in, showing an apple with a bayonet and gas mask.
“And here's an apple fashionin' itself to be safe from mustard gas!”
Whirr. The next photo shows an apple in a bomber jacket and flight goggles.
“Here's how apples dressed to keep themselves nice, warm, and toasty up in their fancy bombers! See? It's all come full circle to Stirrup!”
Whirr. The photo slides to a kimono on fire above a pile of ashes.
“And here we have... oh... whoops! Uhhh... movin' right along!”
Bright flash fade to an apple in patchwork hippy wear upon a stage with loud speakers, kneeling before a burning guitar.
“Groovy! Back in the days of peace protestin' and Whinnystock, nopony knew what in the hay apples were gettin' their fashion ideas from any more! If you ask some ponies in the local couture scene, it was all downhill from there! Thankfully we had the high-tech days of big business to make all that nonsense marketable again!”
Fade to a brightly-flashing discotheque. Mares with frizzy hare, abundant lipstick, and broad poofy blouses are camping around a bar counter with canned sodas in their hooves. Bland and redundantly synthesized music warbles on in the background as they stare bored at one another.
“So—like—why should the Saddle Arabians hog all the oil?” one mare drones, taking time and effort to click her tongue and let her mouth hang open. “All they're good at burning is feces!”
“Yeah—like—I know, right?” another mare in exactly the same voice clicks and drones. “It's—like—every kingdom but Equestria is full of sooooooo many selfish ponies.”
“That reminds me. Did you—like—watch that episode of Okrah last night?”
Behind them, a shiny red apple on a stick “walks” down the middle of the dance floor.
The two mares turn to gawk, their fake eyelashes fluttering in disdain.
“Oh. My. Celestia.”
“Do you—like—see what the fruit is wearing?”
“Absolutely nothing! She's nekked!”
“You're right! She's absolutely nekkedddd!”
“Like... so nekkkkkkeddddddd.”
Silence. Synth music. A few beats.
Both mares grin at each other. “That's sooooooo sexy!”
SO SEXY
The scene freezes on that same frame of the mares' grinning muzzles looming kissably apart.
“And just like that... equine culture adopted the tail end of the apples' multiple centuries of fashionsploration!”
Cut to a beach at night. A sign labeled “Burn Clothes Here” is pointed boldly to a large bonfire. Mares and stallions are seen rushing towards the sight, stripping off their garments and tossing them into the flame.
“So Equestria had itself a decade or two of cultural adoption! Namely, if apples could be nude and taste delicious... then so could we nude! And taste delicious!”
Ponies dance and frolic and hug each other in a tribal circle around the flickering flames. They coo and chant and sing to the percussion of crashing waves.
“...also feces!”
Cut to a stage in modern times, with ponies cradling digital cameras and taking multiple flash photos of a runway. Ponies sashay up and down the raised platform, gazing every-which-way with deadpan expressions while sporting flouncy gowns with apple motifs and fruit fetishes.
“And what about today? Well, y'all, the post-modern era is a time of hindsight and recursive cultural appropriation. So—what do we settle for? Dressin' ourselves? Or dressin' apples? Well, I'd say it's a little bit of both! That's the benefit of bein' alive today! We get to sample from the smorgasbord of all of the previous centuries of anguish, sufferin', and struggle! Well... not includin' the Third Whinny parts of the globe that are still dealin' with anguish, sufferin', and struggle today... but... y'know what I mean. We've got credit cards! And apple dresses! And feces!”
A stallion poses in a dress made completely out of apple stems. The camera slowly zooms in on his sweating face as flash bulbs strobe around him.
“This... this hurts so much...”
More and more sweat beads form along his face.
“I don't mean emotionally but physically... intimately. This hurts.”
More and more flashes. The camera is painfully close on his muzzle now. It can see the bags under his eyes and the red vessels pulsating in his cornea.
“Stop. Please stop. What do you think this is? Do you actually believe this is some sort of ill-forgotten public-paid program? Help me. I am in very real pain. Can't you see that I'm in pain? Please, for the love of Celestia, somepony get this dress off of me and help—”
Freeze frame.
Musical fanfare.
APPLES!
Slow fade to black.