I've got a talking, breathing, eating, drinking Pinkie Pie pony in my kitchen that keeps singing the Piñata Song. HELP!
People say that "Things happen for a reason." Well I doubt they were talking about things like magical piñata ponies that clean your house and drink your beer while spouting off nonsense about "secret missions".
--Based off of real life events that really happened. Or not. Maybe I was drunk. Who knows? Rated Teen for alcohol, language, and shameless self insertion.
“Pinkie, you’ve done some outlandish things in the three years I’ve known you, but this…is…CRAZY! You can’t just fly into a whole other dimension!”
Ponyville’s librarian and newest alicorn princess Twilight Sparkle didn’t look quite so dignified as she latched on to Pinkie Pie’s tail and attempted to keep the zany pink pony from proceeding with her plan. Twilight coughed and sputtered as the dust and grit kicked up from Pinkie’s back legs filled her mouth.
“Oh Twilight! I know it’s going to work out great…I’ve been planning this for exactly six…make that seven whole minutes! Besides, it worked out okay for the Wizard of Oz.”
Twilight didn’t have an opportunity to ponder who, what, or where Oz was before Pinkie’s tail shook violently, roughly dislodging Twilight and propelling her into the air. As Twilight’s wings unfurled and the mare glided gently back to the ground, she knew that there was only one course of action left. One ace left up her sleeve. The nuclear option.
“PINKAMENA…DIANE…PIE!”
Those three words. Three words that Pinkie’s mother used sparingly, but with great effect.
Pinkie Pie’s full name.
Unable to resist Twilight further, Pinkie stopped, turning to face the mare who used her full name in vain.
Twilight saw the fierce determination raging, burning just below the placid exterior of Pinkie’s persona.
It was the grin that ultimately stopped Twilight dead in her tracks. That grin. The one she used when fighting Chrysalis last year. The one that said, “Don’t fuck with me.”
The one that could deflect The Stare.
Jaw open and eyes wide, Twilight stepped back, one hoof behind the other. A slight breeze rustled Twilight’s tail; in an hour, maybe less, Ponyville was going to be ground zero for a major thunderstorm.
“The weather team has already begun to make the storm, Pinkie! Feel the breeze? That’s going to be a hundred times more powerful after Cloudsdale’s finest have their way.”
Pinkie continued her solemn trot forward, her gaze locked on to the hot air balloon that Twilight kept behind the Golden Oaks Library. Saying nothing, she began to loosen the ropes and anchors that securely tethered the balloon to the ground. With uncanny skill, expertly tied knots gave way to Pinkie Pie’s precise pulls. Yanking on the release valve, Pinkie vented the hot gases into the balloon’s chamber, and soon the fully inflated lighter-than-air craft stood ready for its passenger to initiate liftoff.
Pinkie Pie finally addressed her friend, a solitary tear rolling down her right cheek. “I have to find Dashie. She could be anywhere out in the human world and I can’t wait twenty something moons for the portal. It’s now, or never, Twilight.”
Stepping toward the hot air balloon, she understood now why Twilight tried so hard to dissuade her from her course of action.
Twilight already lost one friend, and couldn’t bear to lose another.
Pinkie glanced one final time at Twilight; the princess's sobs were breaking her heart, but she knew the path ahead of her. She knew, all her life, this was her destiny. But one last hug couldn’t hurt, at least. She galloped back to Twilight, throwing her forelegs around the purple princess's neck.
Embracing Twilight with every ounce of love she could muster, Pinkie Pie gently stroked her best friend’s mane. The sweet scent of Twilight’s lavender shampoo clung to Pinkie, and she breathed it in as though it were the most wonderful frangrance known to pony or beast.
“Twilight….shh. I’ll be perfectly, one hundred and sixty two percent okay! After all, there’s a reason balloons are my cutie mark, and it’s not because I’m an airhead!”
Through Twilight’s soft sobbing, Pinkie Pie clearly understood her soft plea in sotto voce. Twilight’s words forged Pinkie’s resolve from a soft, rubbery mass into hardened steel. If it meant never having to see Twilight cry again, Pinkie Pie would do anything.
Anything.
“You can count on me.”
Latching the basket’s gate behind her, Pinkie released the final tether holding the hot air balloon, and it steadily rose above the library and Ponyville’s clock tower. One final wave to Twilight was all Pinkie could muster before turbulence engulfed the balloon, rocking it back and forth as it slowly but surely floated toward the darkened skies just beyond the small town’s borders.
Three words.
Pinkie wouldn’t stop regardless of the heartache.
Regardless of the pain.
Regardless of the fact that the human world probably didn’t have cupcakes anywhere near as good as the ones they made at Sugarcube Corner with real sugar and not any of the artificial sweeteners like high fructose corn syrup or aspartame.
Pinkie braced herself against the gale force winds, holding the strong and sturdy ropes of the balloon for balance as it drew closer to the storm brewing just ahead. The dark and cylindrical cloud wall was a dead giveaway for the tornado she needed; she only hoped that the balloon would hold against the tempests just beyond the cloud wall.
Piercing through the clouds, the wind escalated in speed further, and the sound was as if the Ponyville Express had decided to take a detour through Pinkie’s eardrums. She pressed on, stinging rain and hail pelting her from every direction. The sights and scents of an unfamiliar world assailed Pinkie in casual snippets as the balloon was battered, tossed, and flipped relentlessly. While the raging storm continued, Pinkie remained suprisingly calm, taking solace in the three words that echoed in her head…three words from her friend that she took more seriously than even a Pinkie Promise. On her life, she would do what Twilight asked.
Well, I doubt they were talking about things like magical talking piñata ponies that come to life, clean your house, and drink your beer.
No, I’m not drunk, crazy, lying, or exaggerating. Let me explain.
I was on the hunt for the My Little Pony dog tags, and hoped I might be able to pick up a few for cheap. There were a few places online that sell them, but at ridiculous prices.
They seriously thought they could get some poor sap to pay TEN bucks for something I could get for three dollars and change at Wal-Mart?
Well forget them, and fuck their extortionary tactics.
Even though I was the broniest brony to ever bro (in New Jersey), I didn’t have much MLP related décor. I didn’t have any of the Builder Bears I keep seeing in advertisements on the Hub. I couldn’t really afford those, hence why I was shopping at Wal-Mart.
Cut me some slack. My diet consisted of beer and ramen; sometimes even ramen with cheese, when I could afford cheese. Such was the life of a broke college guy. My financial woes and dietary shortcomings weren’t that important, though. I had to have those tags.
I knew Wally World, of all places, had what I wanted. I once bought some of the MLP dog tags from the Wal-Mart near Cherry Hill, New Jersey. But that was a good half-hour the other way from where I lived now in Mount Holly. So I popped on in to the store closer to me, hoping I’d find some of those tags cheaper than the god forsaken online scalpers.
I searched the front of the store.
I searched the back of the store.
I searched the toy sections.
Only thing I found there was the “Rainbow Power!” Twilight Sparkle. Holy shit…the season finale was less than four days ago and they were already pushing this consumerist crap? I was mortified, disgusted, and disappointed.
Dejected, I meandered through the aisles of the soulless store, hoping I could escape without encountering any People of Wal-Mart. If you don’t know what they are, for the love of God and your own sanity, do not look them up.
I was a minute from leaving empty-handed before I spied a familiar pink shape out of the corner of my eye. A whole row of piñatas sat there looking at me, and in the center of them was one that kind of looked like everyone’s favorite party pony, Pinkie Pie.
“No way,” I thought. I moved in to get a closer look. Sure enough, there was no way you could mistake the three balloons on its backside for anything other than a cutie mark. An orange price tag hung from the right ear, advertising “CLEARANCE: $7.98”. The piñata seemed well made…almost too well made. The volume of its curly pink hair, the colors of the balloons in its cutie mark, even the depth of its rich blue eyes…it was definitely the work of a talented craftsman and something that should not have been relegated to a dusty bargain basement shelf. Hell, the mane even smelled like cotton candy.
I turned the price tag over, trying to find where this piñata had been made. Damn near everything coming out of Wal-Mart these days was manufactured overseas, but I should have been able to find the ubiquitous “Made in China” marking, label, or sticker. I couldn’t find anything, but I wasn’t too worried about it. Some overzealous child probably manhandled the piñata and ripped off the tag.
I picked it up. It felt really dense; most piñatas are light—after all, they are made of papier-mache. But this one felt like it might have been prefilled with candy. I couldn’t feel anything move around, but if there was already candy inside, eight bucks and change sounded like a steal.
I felt silly buying a piñata that might never be used, but I reasoned that I couldn’t leave it there to the mercy of spendthrift degenerates. My mind wandered through a scenario where some rushed mom bought this very piñata for a little brat’s birthday party where 7 and 8 year olds proceeded to whack at it until the head came off or candy spilled out, tearing apart the papier mache body just to get at the sweets inside.
The thought of that made me sick; I felt my intestines knotting themselves while I weathered waves of mild nausea.
I bought it for $7.98 plus tax and headed home, my philanthropic side congratulating me for saving a piñata from kids with sticks. I placed it in my car’s passenger seat and drove back home, although I was slightly peeved at not finding any of those dog tags.
It’s funny how you never find what you want, but you always find what you need.
When I got home, I brought the Pinkie Pie piñata inside and sat it next to my laptop. I tried to do some Internet research on who, or what company, might have made such a beautifully crafted piñata, but even with my skillful application of Boolean logic I couldn’t turn up definitive answers.
The absurdity of it all kind of hit me three fold. I was a damn near thirty year old man doing research about a pinata based on a show for eight year old girls.
But you know what? My Little Pony is my show. Fuck the haters.
I grabbed a cold craft beer out of the fridge, hoping that the alcohol would lubricate my mind and slake my thirst as well. It served admirably on both counts, every gulp washing down the receding disappointment for not getting those damn dog tags.
My mind wandered back to the candy I believed was still inside. I tried searching for a seam, figuring there had to be some sort of weak spot. I found none, and quickly gave up on any hope of extracting the candy without disfiguring the pony’s delicate features.
Something was off, though. Something not quite right that I couldn’t place.
“Why the looooooong face, Pinkie Pie?”
I tried looking at the pinata objectively. It was pretty fancy for something under ten dollars. My mind struck on a golden idea as I looked into the piñata’s glossy blue irises. I grabbed one of the leftover conical party hats from New Year’s Eve that I didn’t have the heart to throw out and secured it on Pinkie’s head. I stuck a party favor in the mouth just for good measure.
“Now, Pinkamena Diane Pie, you can truly call yourself a party animal.”
I expected no response, and received none in return. I spent the better part of my evening screwing around with this pinata business, and I was dead tired at that point. The beer didn’t help matters either.
As I curled up on the recliner that doubled as my bed, I turned out the lights from the switch near my head, soon finding myself enveloped in the warm bliss of a nocturnal vacation from reality.
KA-THUD.
The unmistakable sound of my refrigerator door moving roused me from my slightly inebriated sleep. I wasn’t sure how the hell anyone got into my apartment, because I usually was a very light sleeper, prone to awakening at the smallest noise. I grabbed the baseball bat I kept near my recliner; I wasn’t in the “bad” part of New Jersey, but you can never be sure. Crazy people do crazy things.
Switching on my living room light first, I stumbled slightly as I rushed to greet the intruder with thirty eight inches of Louisville Slugger.
Imagine my reaction when I rounded the corner to see the piñata I just purchased holding one of MY beers in its hooves, then popping off the bottle cap with its mouth.
