An Anti-Brony Goes to Equestria.

by SilverOrion

My Name is Bob.

I want to start off with introducing myself.

My name is Bob. I live a pretty normal life. I wake up, go to work at the Roice Lab a couple blocks away from my house as a quantum physicist, then I go home, do any extra work that I couldn't finish at the lab, eat some dinner, watch some TV, then I go on the internet to troll bronies.

What are bronies, you ask? Let me put it this way: they're closeted gays. They just are, and they can't deny it, because they watch My Little Pony before going straight to their computers to hit their favorite little online forums so that they can talk about their favorite little rainbow ponies. And if they're not gay, then they're probably just pedophiles trying to be accepted in society. That's, right, you heard me, I'm talking about forty-year-old men with beards watching a TV show for prepubescent girls.

Anyway, I troll these 'bronies' before going to bed at night, then I wake up and do the same daily routine all over again. Unless it's a weekend, I get weekends off.

It was a pretty normal and happy life for me, y'know? Content, no problems, nothing, until...

Until Phil came.

Now, if there was anyone who I would have suspected was a brony, it was Phil. Every day at work while we're working on our parallel universe projector, he brings in a bottle of applejack with him. Don't get me wrong, I've trolled bronies enough to know about their little 'keywords', and I know that applejack is the brony word for 'silly'. I am on to him, I tell you, I am on to him.

Horrible, right? Wrong. Because that's not even the worst of it. Seventh day of work, Phil comes up to me and asks, "Do you like ponies?" and I answered, "No, because ponies are for girls." Then he looked at me with this glazed look in his eyes (which I still think spells guilt for him) before he went and answered, "Oh, no, I mean ponies as in the breed of ponies. I took you for a horses man, that's why I... That's why I asked."

GUILTY, GUILTY, GUILTY!

I can already imagine Phil now, sitting in his basement, singing My Little Pony over, and over, and over, while being surrounded by his shrine of pink pony toys, just staring back at him with their creepy, absent-looking faces. I can imagine his very masculinity being stripped away by every second of those ponies having tea parties with butterflies on that sick television show of his while he hugs his little pony dolls.

Of course, I can't prove anything. Maybe I am just a little prejudiced. I remember I was chatting with one of my fellow anti-brony men on an instant messager (he calls himself R1T3ousFyr3 in his account) about the situation, and he advised me that I may just be working myself up over nothing. Maybe I am, and maybe he's right. Maybe Phil really isn't just a creepy pony-occultist wearing a tutu.