Some ponies are born great. Celestia. Daring Do. Pre-Sellout Vinyl Scratch.
Others have greatness thrust upon them. And even though my job isn’t important, or interesting, and I’m pretty sure I’m getting paid less than the guy that changes the lightbulbs, that pony is me, Pen Pusher. I’m the one that makes sure that each and every stamp in the offices of the Equestrian Mail Service is licked. I sacrifice my saliva each and every day on the altar of the postal service, and my reward? The satisfaction of knowing that somewhere out there, I’ve managed to avoid mildly inconveniencing someone.
It’s not an easy job, mind you. Sometimes you have to go above and beyond the call of duty. Sometimes you have to hold your head high , rise above the rest, and say ‘Not me!”. After all, the office world is filled with oppression. Desk Job, and his insufferable watercooler antics. Special Delivery, always demanding I ‘get back to work’, as though somehow taking a 45 minute break once every hour is unreasonable, and the ever provocative siren-song of Red Dress, that temptress (that one’s not her real name, but the judge told me I wasn’t allowed to talk to her—or about her—anymore.)
Still, one must soldier on. There are stamps that need licking, and not everyone has what it takes, after all. Stamp licking separates the colts from the stallions, you see. It determines whether you have what it takes to work your way up the ladder. Most ponies come in here, ask where the real offices are, and leave, but me? Hah! These are the real offices. The offices where real work is done.
Down here, we don’t worry about the petty little things like wrapping parcels, or delivering mail. Why would we? Derpy Hooves can handle a mailbag, for Celestia’s sake. No, it takes a true hero of the Equestrian Mail Service to get to take one look at a box of stamps and think ‘Now there’s one box that needs a licking’ (Please note that I have not attempted to lick the boxes.)
And so I lick these stamps- no, these symbols. Symbols of Equestrian ingenuity, of integrity, of valour! So that letters can be sent, connecting ponies across the world. And what do I ask of my fellow ponies? Love? Admiration? No. I am a working class hero, forgotten by history, my songs unsung. But I will move forward, head held proudly, knowing that I have done my duty.
Some may say I am a relic, that my ideas are ‘delusions of grandeur.’ But when the mail piles up in the streets and the unsent parcels choke the life from the dying ponies below me, they will raise their hooves to the sky and beg, beg me to save them... and I will look down and laugh. (Also note that I will not allow mail to accrue in the streets, at least not to levels that would cause fatalities.)
Others say I am replaceable, that my endeavour is of no more value than a stick of glue. That my job is unnecessary, and that I am only still employed because my uncle is a bigshot in the Royal Guard. To them I say ; who else will do my job, if not me?
Who else will suffer the slings and arrows of my lowly caste? Would Desk Job sacrifice his namesake, cast off his high position and deign to mingle with the common folk? Would Special Delivery lower his mailbag, and trade the skies of Equestria for the stuffy, slightly- damp and really cramped working conditions of the Equestrian Mail Service’s basement? No. I did not think so.
You may sit there in your fancy office chair and wonder what I have to offer you, why you should not cast me out with the rest of the stamp lickers as the wheels of automation crush the dreams of the hard working common pony underhoof. Well, I offer my loyalty, my generosity, my courage, my honesty, and the other ones. All of these things I have to offer you, but most of all, I offer you a chance. A final opportunity to save yourselves from the terrible mistake you are about to make.
Tell yourself, gentle reader, as you look over my CV, hoof hovering over the ‘Fire’ stamp as you go through the annual downsizing, what will the future bring for you? What will you do when the last of the stamp-lickers and donut-glazers and button re sewers is gone? Who will be next? When there are none but vultures in the desert, will you be next on the menu?
This is more than a chance to save my job, dear friend. It is a chance to save yourself as well. To save yourself the pain and indignity of knowing that you once fired those poor redundant fools, only to become redundant yourself. Think about it- the cogs of progress turn both ways, my friend, and someday you may be squished beneath their callous- profit driven gears.
But it is not too late. There is still time. Perhaps not for all the others, but at least for you and me. Especially me. Please don’t forget about me.
Take back the red stamp of our destruction, and bring forth the green stamp of courage. The stamp that says yes. Yes to life. Yes to hope! Yes to me not getting fired!
The choice is yours, my friend. You are about to embark on the most important decision of your life. Will you spare this poor, humble soul his job, or let him fall victim to a system that oppresses us both? That much, I leave to you.
Your ever faithful stamp licker,
Pen Pusher.
PS: I promise I’ll leave Red Dress alone, it was just the one time and frankly she was leading me on to begin with. Also, those staplers you found in my locker were planted there in an attempt to discredit me.