Slow down it's like you're speaking some other Language

by MrPengu1n

Rating: everyone
Tags: Comedy, Discord, Human, Main 6, Original Character, My Little Pony: Friendship is Magic
Length: 2479

99.9% of all stories that involve space aliens as major characters have all conveniently taken English I and II as their second language in Alien High School. In this story, this is not the case. Human in Eq.

Most other fics on this site I've noticed try to lure in viewers and readers by having a new, interesting and original premise, maybe a fancy piece of cover art or some such thing and a description that is very hurr durr 3deep5u. When it works, it's ridiculously successful, like Emma Watson and Jennifer Lawrence starring as lesbians in a zombie apocalypse movie. When it doesn't work, it's just embarrassing, like letting your dog out and not expecting him to dash off after Generic Thing Dogs Hate™, and then when he does you have to chase after him in your bathrobe, and while chasing him you run by your boss who's suddenly decided to take up jogging in your neighborhood that very morning, and your dog suddenly decides that his shoe is indistinguishable from a fire hydrant with milkbones for tits.
In this story, I've decided to skirt the whole ordeal, I'm not going to try and dance for you with an OC HiE story on a hurr durr premise, what you get is what you get, and I do what I want.
Anyway this story is a HiE story, except unlike probably every single other fic you'll ever read in this one Humans and Ponies don't speak the same language. And that's probably a holey premise in itself, given that in the show ponies speak English rather fluently. But I don't care, as previously stated I do what I want, and I'm tired of stories that involve space aliens in general skipping over the fact that the aliens conveniently speak every language on Earth including Pig Latin.
The Human character is Anon, a nameless faceless human that you all can project yourselves upon. But I don't want to remove my own cynical self too far from the story, so Anon is a snarky, satirical, misanthropic loner with a penchant for run on sentences and perplexing metaphors. And the only other character I'm allowing to speak English is Discord, because he's mother bucking Discord, he does what he wants, we're very alike in that respect.
Read it if you want, if not, why did you read all this to the very end, have you nothing better to do? Well if that's true then just read it, it won't kill you, you ungrateful (expletive).

Published 2014-03-13 02:50:17 UTC
Last updated 2014-03-13 22:35:06 UTC

Generic Chapter Title, The Seconding

I am a banana.

I say that partly because I like taking off all my clothes and diving into bowls of Muesly™, and also partly because I think I'm going soft as I get older. You see as I was sprawled out on the cartoon grass looking up into the eyes of a gibberish speaking bubblegum pony with no idea where I was or how to get home if it was at all possible, the only thing I could think of was, "D'awww."

And I don't know why, maybe it was my gloomy day good mood, or Bubblegum's anime eyes staring into the very space a soul would occupy if I had one, but that cartoon-y-ish pony-Thing™ was the most adorable thing I had ever seen.

If you tell anyone I will personally thrust my fist through time and space into your house and push everything one inch to the left, so you end up bumbling around and bumping into everything like a stoner who just became hyperaware of his own two feet.

Anyway, I pushed myself up onto my feet and turned my attention to Bubblegum, giving it a scratch on the head while saying, "D'aww, look at you!"

And Bubblegum, surprisingly, began to nuzzle (I'm assuming "her") head into my hand and said, "Rwy'n falch does neb yn siarad Cymraeg"

"Yes, you are," I said obliviously, oddly entertained by the language barrier between us.

But then, quite suddenly, Bubblegum reared up on her back hooves and wrapped her two front legs around me in a skeleton-crushing hug that squeezed so much blood into my head I forgot to wonder how it was possible for a horse to bend this way. "Bite y gobennydd, dw i'n mynd yn sych" she said with a happy smile.

"I have absolutely no idea what you just said," I responded, nodding and smiling.

Thankfully, Bubblegum let go of me and allowed my internal balance of blood volume in the various extremities to return to equilibrium. Unthankfully, Bubblegum then took my hand, somehow managing to grab it with her hoof, and dragged me off in one direction. Obviously, I resisted, and for a moment it was liking leading the horse to water with a splurge of role reversal. But I gave in a moment longer with a sigh. Maybe this talking piece of Bubblegum can lead me to other pieces of Bubblegum that speak English, I reasoned. It seemed farfetched, but next to the chance of being sent through a wormhole by something that looks like God created in his infancy days, it seemed about as sensible as assuming a baseball bat to the crotch would hurt.

So I allowed Bubblegum to lead me away, and after no time at all I found myself being dragged through an entire town of gibberish speaking pony-Things™. There were ponies of every shape, size and COLOR. For expletive's sake, the colors! The town looked like the lovebaby of Elton John and Clay Aiken puked rainbows all over everything! And what made it worse was the fact that everywhere Bubblegum lead me, ponies were turning their heads and babbling in confusion as if I was the odd one out.

Which was probably true, given I saw no hint of humanity in any square inch of land within a five mile radius, save the buildings, which looked startlingly well constructed for the builders not having any thumbs (Hooray for evolution).

But still, I felt strangely conspicuous and self conscious, which was quickly replaced with burning contempt, that a bunch of garish talking ponies could make me feel bad about being a human! If I wanted to feel bad about being a human, I'd just go to Walmart for thirty minutes.

Nevertheless, Bubblegum lead me on fearlessly, turning back at me every once in a while and saying, "Rwyf wrth fy modd godineb!" and then continuing on as if she was mother expletiving George Washington crossing the Delaware avenue towards Walmart.

But I didn't object, partly because I couldn't explain to Bubblegum that I'd rather bumble around the town full of pony-Things™, peeping into showers and jumping out of closets while reciting Amazing Grace with my undercarriage wrapped up in a shower curtain, and also partly because I was honestly curious about where she was leading me so urgently.

And I must admit, out of all the locations that I could think of that a cartoon talking pony-Thing™ could build (chiefly among them was an enormous set of table and chairs, a communal water trough, and a semi-annual lettuce festival), I don't think I would ever guess it to be a building literally built into a tree, like something that jumped out of a WoW server and rubbed itself in a pile of fantasy books, wanking with a copy of the Hobbit and then diving into the dreams of an online mmorpg addict.

Still, I was curious to see the inside. That didn't last long.

Author's Note

Before writing: yolo
After writing: hello darkness my old friend

Generic Chapter Title, Part the First

I think everyone has a run in with a pony once in their lives, usually at a carnival-Thing™ that your parents dragged you to kicking and screaming because you couldn't stand to be away from your precious pre-fps era video games any longer than it takes to inhale artery clogging fat slapped with a "chips" label. And once you get to the carnival-Thing™ you happen to glance up from your portable handheld gaming long enough to spot actual animals instead of collections of brightly colored pixels with various elemental excretions coming out of their backs with names that looked like somebody mashed a fist into their keyboard and added vowels (yes I am referencing pokemon™). So you abandon your Pikachu and your Salamander and your Bug to check out the actual animals that don't have superpowers, and eventually you come across the Pony™, something that looks like a cow without any udders that got it's face stuck in an industrial size vacuum and a bucket of paint. The Pony™ is just standing there, blinking slower than a snail hitching a ride on the back of a turtle, so you think it's safe to actually reach out and touch the Pony with your own hand, when suddenly the big fat snout of the thing swings around and bites you! And your parents have to drag you away kicking and screaming again because now you think you're going to die from rabies!

Or is that just me

Anyway that was my experience with a Pony™, and I never saw or touched another one as long as I lived, until now. And I couldn't shake the nagging feeling that I was lucky for that.

And I was right! Because I would trade those awful, fly covered carnival-Thing brand Ponies for these pony-Things™ in a heartbeat.

I'm still trying to wrap my own head around how I got here, my rational side (ie: the side of me that isn't dead in the water) is screaming at me and beating me over the head with a rusty shovel of logic labeled "THIS IS IMPOSSIBLE," but nevertheless, here I still am.

I suppose I should introduce myself, my name is Anon (why my parents chose that name I'll never understand, they tell me it's Turkish) and I am in a land of Technicolor talking ponies that are definitely not magical in any way shape or form. Oh, should I have put a spoiler alert right there or something? Boo hoo.

I'll tell you all I know about how I got here, which isn't much anyway, but screw you, listen to what I have to say and you tell me if you could explain it any better.

The day was a gloomy one indeed; the sun was somewhere behind a layer of clouds thicker than the skull of a CoD™ fan (HA gaming humor) hiding like the solar system had become a tsundere anime overnight, and good ol' Sol had just bought a new skirt. Everything was gray, the kind of gray that you get when you mix the two sides of your children's yogurt, and consequentially everyone was in a sour mood, like the kind of mood you get when people question why a grown man would be eating children's yogurt with his lunch. But while the threat of rain was in the high 90s of percentages and getting uncomfortably close to you in the elevator, it never had the guts to do anything about it, like a passive aggressive co-worker who is 76% sure you're the one who made the mess in the break room (which is true but there are still better ways to handle it, Toby!)

In short, it was a gloomy, bitter, dreary day, the kind of day everyone just wants to sleep away, but they can't because of these icky things called jjjoOobs, so everyone is constantly ragging on everyone.

Yes, truly a glorious day.

So there I was, waiting for my most preferred method of public transportation while high winds whipped past like a good time at a party, wearing a wide grin on my face because everyone else around me was so miserable. (Schadenfreude, I believe the word is.) when suddenly something hard and metal pinged me in the back of the head. I look down to see a tin can rolling away, back towards it's point of origin, a dark alleyway just out of the line of sight of any police cars that might happen to pass by just in case of any illegal activities.

Now normally I wouldn't do anything that would directly put my body in jeopardy of becoming inside out, but I was in a good mood because everyone else wasn't and I decided any amount of trouble I could get myself into I would be able to get myself back out of with lots of run on sentences and colorful metaphors, like something very clever.

So putting on my best menacing face, which was pretty much just a slightly deeper frown than what I usually wore coupled with a few furrowed brows, I stepped into the alley and proudly declared, "Tin cans are a perfectly recyclable waste product! Littering is bad and you should feel bad!"

"Oh, woe is me," declared another voice, completely ignoring my noble defense of recycling, "Oh, sob, oh, cry,"

"I don't think you actually expect me to believe you're crying," I said, stepping further into the alley. Anyone intelligent enough to appreciate the satirical humor of feigning blatantly fake despair would also most likely be intelligent enough to be too lazy for wanton violence.

"Your skills of observation are unparalleled," the voice said, dripping with sincerity.

"Thank you," I nodded, peering deeper into the darkness. Quite suddenly, I noticed a foreign, unrecognizable shape slinking around a trash can next to the wall. The shape skillfully wrapped itself around the can and slithering into the open, proudly visible and grotesquely ugly. It looked like somebody had cut the head off a goat and smashed it onto the body of something long, tubular, and covered with brown fur. Instead of legs that matched with the body and/or head of the creature, one was that of a lion, one was of an eagle, one looked almost like a ram's foot, and one was covered in scales. (Although, do they not match by not matching? The extremities are uniform in their dis-uniformity.)

I took a startled step backwards, nearly tripping over the long since forgotten tin can, "What are you?" I asked in a voice that I'm sure expressed nothing but scientific curiosity.

The creature crossed two of its many legs and eyed me, a forked tongue flicking about a cancerously long snaggletooth, "And in that moment, I swear all the concern for my false despair evaporated," he said in mock narration. That's my job! "Such is the weary existence of a monster,"

I got up, trying to convince myself this was a creature of intelligence equal to that of my own, and tried again, "Pardon my surprise, it's not every day you get to see a...Thing™,"

The Thing™ clicked its tongue, "If you must know, I'm called a Draconequus™."

"Sure,"

"Anyway," the Draconequus™ continued, "I'm 'sad' because I'm bored."

Now, the rational side of mine was having a lively discussion with me, "Huh, a grotesque creature that shouldn't possibly exist, much less be talking is expressing to you its boredom. It would be wise to bid the Draco-Thing™ goodbye and go back to your real life where these things only happen in bad fanfiction for children's shows." It advised.

Obviously, I made several colorful suggestions as to where my rational side could shove its advice, and continued fearlessly, "How exactly does your boredom affect me?" I requested sincerely, "Is that why you beaned me with a tin can instead of recycling it like a responsible citizen?"

A grin that can only be accurately described by the word "malicious" spread across the Draco-Thing's™ face, as if that were just what it had been waiting to hear. "Oh, you can do more than you know," it said with all the euphemistic undertone it is physically possible to cram into eight words (I know you just paused to count, you expletive. What, don't believe the narrator?).

And this is where things start to get a little iffy for me, because I don't know what exactly happened. the Thing™ lifted it's bird claw leg and snapped it's talons, which already shouldn't be possible, when suddenly I was thrown into what I imagine was a interspatial wormhole. It felt like splashing into a pool of water, and then falling out of the bottom perfectly dry. And it happened so fast you'd miss it if you blinked, which of course I did, so I can't tell you what the fabric of reality looks like. Boo hoo, you try getting thrown into a wormhole sometime.

Anyway I was spit out on the other side into some Technicolor™ grass, which felt and looked like feathers without the hard spines in the middle that poke you and betray your faith in everything good in the world. Then I looked up and I saw a Pony™, except this one was bubblegum pink, and had a mane that looked like it was made out of the same. Its eyes seemed to be the largest organs in its body, and its hooves were indistinguishable with the rest of their respective legs.

The explicitly cartoon-ish Pony™ looked me in the eyes and said, "Wnaethoch chi mewn gwirionedd yn mynd a chyfieithu hyn?"

I, in return, looked it back into its disturbingly large eyes and said, "what"

Author's Note

Before writing: I do what I want.
After writing: remember to recycle™