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It may be a bright and sunny day in Ponyville, but you couldn’t give a fuck about that. You only have one thing on your mind today:
Fuck. Pony. Furniture.
It’s a mantra you repeat over and over again as you work on your new project. Last night you tried to sit down at a bar for a drink with friends, and found that you were just too big for the stool. The tiny thing collapsed under you in a shower of splinters and nails, and everyone in the bar stopped drinking to stare at you. Rarity called you fat, everyone laughed, and you ran out of there like a teen who got her period on her white dress during prom night. As you said before, fuck pony furniture. You've sworn, as of this horrifying incident, that you will never fall victim to tiny furniture again, even if you have to take it into your own, unexperienced hands. Even though you've never built furniture before, you can feel you have a knack for it. A talent. If you had a cutie mark, you're pretty sure it would be a hammer and nail, because you'll be damned if this isn't going along swimmingly. Or at least you'll just keep telling yourself that until it's true.
You’re interrupted from your incessant hammering by the sound of a gentle, southern cough from behind you. You don’t turn around, already knowing exactly how this conversation is going to go. Southern drawl this, whine whine colloquialism that, gentle but honest criticism that actually means she's just quietly calling you a moron. (It took you way too long to learn that "Bless your heart" wasn't a compliment.) Maybe she'll just go away this time, you think, but as usual, you aren't that lucky.
“Uh… Anon… Sugarcube… what in the hay are you doing in my barn?”
You heave a slow sigh, then turn around and spit the nails you’re been holding between your teeth onto the ground. Yeah, someone will probably step on those, so that was a pretty shortsighted decision. But right now you just don’t care. That’s what tetanus shots are for, right? For now, you need to find a way to tolerate this Apple pony, and you do not have time to deal with this pony’s shit today.
“What does it look like I’m doing?” you growl, not even trying to hide your annoyance. “I’m borrowing your tools. For a project. A project that requires tools.”
Applejack looks at your sweating, scowling face, then down at your magnum opus, then back up to you. She tilts her head a little questioningly, and scratches one temple with her front hoof.
“Well, I can see that much,” she says with a gentle frown. “I just… don’t rightly know what this project is.”
You feel rage bubble inside you at these words. She’s messing with you. You know it. You know how beautiful your furniture is, you know how clean the lines are, how artistic this piece is, even to the untrained eye. You've stained the wood, partially with your blood, but that just adds character. You’ve sanded it down so finely that it’s broken in places and needed to be replaced, that’s how thorough you’ve been. You've also learned that hot glue is not how you lacquer wood, but hey, that's how you grow as a person. She says she doesn’t know what she’s looking at, this bitch wouldn’t know woodworking if it bit her on her oddly attractive ass.
Come on, Anon, sexy pony butt thoughts later. Angry bitter carpenter schtick now.
“Don’t give me that,” you snap. “Isn’t it obvious?”
“I… er… no.”
You give a scornful laugh.
“Fine, if you want to play that way, I’ll go with it. It’s a chair. And a damn fine chair at that.”
Applejack’s face twists up like she doesn’t know whether to laugh or cry. She bites her lower lip and again looks from your masterpiece to you in quick succession.
“Y-you sure about that?”
“Of course I’m sure! I built it after all.”
“But… doesn’t that part go… actually, I’m none too sure where that part goes. If it’s supposed to go anywhere.”
“You’re just jealous,” you spit the words in her general direction.
“Jealous?” she says with a little cough. “Pretty sure I’m just being honest. Like usual.”
“Right, like you were honest with Granny Smith about who knocked you up last year?”
“Hey,” she says with a glower. “That’s between me n’ my brother. But that’s neither here nor there right now. I just don’t see how that thing’s a chair.”
She points to the back of it.
“Aren’t those supposed to be legs? Why are they way up there? And how does it stand up? Pretty sure your legs would have to bend in the opposite direction for you to even sit in that proper.”
“Shows what you know,” you say, puffing up your chest. “It’s actually ready for me to kick back in right now!”
Applejack pauses, then she suddenly smirks and gestures with one sweeping hoof towards the chair.
“Okay then,” she says gently. “Have a seat.”
You both stare each other down for a moment, then you slowly rise and position yourself over the chair. Carefully, you fold one leg under you, wrap the other around the side and bottom, being careful to hook your ankle under that rung so you don’t tip over. Your other foot, you position with the tip of your toes on the ground, right next to the second of three legs, the one shaped like a beached whale. You throw one arm in a falsely nonchalant gesture around that jutting piece of wood to keep your body upright, and position your weight over one hip so you don’t crush your nuts between those two boards. At last, you gingerly lift the tips of your toes off the ground and teeter there for a second, finding your balance, before you again look at Applejack.
You beam at her, triumphant and defiant, and wait for her to admit her defeat. After a moment or two, she shrugs.
“Huh, guess I was wrong,” she says. “You sure do look comfy. I suppose I don’t know human anatomy that well, after all.”
“You suppose right,” you say cooly, wiggling your rear a little for emphasis.
“Well, then I’ll leave you to it!” she says with a smile. “Happy building!”
She turns and moves away from you, whistling a jaunty tune. You wait until she’s far enough away not to see or hear you before you let out your first whimpers of pain. The sensation of being in this chair is god-damn excruciating! Dear god, human bones are not supposed to bend in the middle! You didn’t even know you had a muscle there! And... is that your spine you're staring at? How on earth are you staring at your own spine right now?!
You weep openly as you slowly unwind yourself from the accursed contraption, and collapse, trembling to the ground. You're pretty sure your shoulder is dislocated, and you can no longer feel your toes on your right side. You look with tears in your eyes back at the "chair" and you could swear the thing is actually laughing at you. In that moment, you find a new mantra: Maybe pony furniture isn’t so bad after all.
Or maybe, when it comes to seating, it's just better not to go against the grain.
-END-
Author's Note
This was dumb and I feel dumb for writing it.
I hope those of you who build things appreciate how horrible Anon is at building things.
-Pencil
