Three AM at the Waffle House
There you are, sitting on your ass again. It’s like the fifth time this week. Just sitting on your ass at the Waffle House, licking the excess bacon grease from the plate and wishing you hadn’t spent your extra dough on that jazzersize VHS tape last night. I mean, sure, it sounded like hilarious viewing when you were drunk, but it could have been like twelve more pieces of bacon.
Oh, and your name is Hubert for some fucking reason.
Fucking. Hubert.
So anyway, there you are at that Waffle House (again), when this guy comes in. Since it’s three in the morning, it’s kinda surprising. Your dumb ass was the only one in there, and that’s only because you just work two days a week at the local pool. They pay you eight bucks an hour to clean out those little traps that collect the bugs and leaves. So you’ve got all this free time and a fucking jazzercise tape. That naturally leads to hanging out at Waffle House until the wee hours of the morning and wishing that you had more bacon and less jazzercise in your life.
Back to the guy. He comes strolling in, blowing right by that hostess who keeps disappearing into the back. She thinks everyone buys that bullshit about her “checking the inventory”, but you guys all know it’s meth. She comes out just tweaked as fuck, scratching and sniffing and moving around in that hurky-jurky, disjointed way, like her body always decides midstream to do something else. Still, you’d do her.
Man, will you ever get to this guy?! Okay, you can do this, even with your fucking ADHD. So this guy blows by the hostess and comes and sits down at your table, which is pretty weird. You’re thinking about saying something, but what exactly? I mean, it’s a little bit unexpected, and you’re named Hubert. If you had any fucking initiative, you’d have changed that shit by now!
Hubert.
So he’s just sitting there, breathing kinda heavy, and it sounds like he might have a deviated septum. And it also looks like he has a perm. And, like, not even a good perm, but one that you’d get at some friend’s mom’s house because she’s trying to make some money on the side as some sort of ghetto beautician. The kind of place where you got that haircut that everyone was too nice to say looked like total shit. This guy looks like he went there, too, only he kinda looks like he’s the lead singer of Scorpions. Well, his hair does, anyway.
He himself looks like a weasel. Not in a vague way. His face is a weasel face because he’s got on a weasel mask. Not sure why you didn’t realize that before, but it’s probably because your name is Hubert. Get it together, schmoe.
Weasel Face leans forward and takes this figurine out of his pocket. It’s a plastic Twilight Sparkle, and it is glorious. For once, they’ve gotten that 3D weirdness worked out. You know, where what seems adorable in two dimensions somehow seems alien and off-putting in three? Yeah, not this figurine. It’s fucking cute, and you aren’t afraid to think so.
“Holy balls!” you say, because that’s something you’d totally say. “Where did you get that? And what’s with the mask?”
“Never mind the mask,” Weasel Face says, his deviated septum whistling. Honestly, his breathing problem makes him seem like Darth Vader’s nerdier brother. With each breath, that thing just buzzes. You bet he snores like a mofo. “This figurine is a key that will transport you to an entirely new world!” he continues. “I want you to have it.”
Well, that confuses you some. “New world?” you ask, scrunching your face up in that way that’s become habitual since your mom thought it was hilarious when you were five. “But, wouldn’t that be hot and filled with lethal gasses? I mean, when the earth was created, wasn’t it, like, several thousand degrees in temperature?” You shake your head. “Why would I want to do that?”
Weasel Face’s weasel-y eyes dart back and forth for a minute. That wasn’t exactly the reaction he was expecting. Licking his lips, he tries again. “No, I mean, the world will be new to you!” he says, pushing the figurine closer to you. “It’s a magical world, filled with ponies. And magic.”
“Equestria, you mean?” you say, rolling your eyes. “What is it with you guys? It’s like you think we don’t go to Equestria like every damn day.”
Taken aback, Weasel Face sits silently.
“Yeah,” you continue, shaking one of those little creamers in the dish that they brought. Pulling back the tab, you down it in a single shot. “My friend, Mark? He was playing the ‘Road to Equestria’ video game, and it sucked him in. He was on light-hearted and pony sex-filled adventures for two weeks. Oh, and Dan? He bought the MLP gum, and when he blew a bubble, he rose into the air and floated away until he ended up in Canterlot. Ended up in BDSM relationship with Luna. I’m in Equestria more than I’m at work.”
Agitated, Weasel Face picks up the figurine. Not knowing what else to do with it, he uses it to tap out a nervous rhythm on the faux-wood table. “Well…” he says finally before stopping.
A minute or two rolls by. Minutes that are still baconless. Across the table, Weasel Face shifts from side to side, looking forlornly at the figurine.
“Oh, for Christ’s sake, just give me the damn thing!” you say, holding out your hand. You know from experience that this will go on for several hours if you let it. These Equestrian diplomats are tenacious.
Weasel Face inhales sharply, his deviated septum buzzing like a cicada. Wiggling happily, he slaps the figurine into your palm and you feel the world begin to spin.
“Hi! Welcome to Ponyville!” the cheery voice calls out.
It’s always the fucking same. You come here, have an adventure of some variety, and then leave, having helped these things learn some sort of valuable lesson. Then you get sent back again, and they don’t even fucking remember. These ponies are like goddamned goldfish. No memory at all. You teach Fluttershy how to have a fucking backbone, and then she just goes right back to cringing at the sound of rustling paper or something.
And these ponies are all weird freaks, too. They just can’t seem to get enough of each other.
But, yeah, here comes Pinkie Pie because she’s got this human homing beacon thing going on. It doesn’t matter when you get here. She just comes out of nowhere and tackles you. That would probably be fine, but she always smells like B.O. from all that fucking jumping around.
“Hey, you don’t have to—ack!” you say, flailing as a double armful of pink madness slams into you, knocking you to the ground. She’s just beside herself with joy, wiggling and squealing. You’re completely covered in pink hair and pony sweat now.
“I just know we’re gonna be the bestest of best friends!” Pinkie Pie yells, wrapping her legs around you and rocking back and forth in the dirt. “I don’t know what you are, but I somehow know that you can speak my language, and that you are trustworthy! Your alien-ness isn’t weird or off-putting in the least. Let’s go meet some of the most important ponies in my life!”
You try to say something, but Pinkie trots back toward town, dragging you behind her. Anyone else would have gotten their feet under them by now, but there you are, just kicking and flailing around like a landed fish as you try to untangle yourself from that prehensile mane.
“Oh, I just know that you’re gonna love everypony in Ponyville!” Pinkie says, starting in with her usual schpeel. You must have heard it a million times by now. As usual, she starts jumping around all over the place, slamming your feet and knees into the ground every time she comes down. Hurts, yo.
“Look, everypony!” Pinkie calls out as she leaps through the door to The Golden Oaks Library. Too bad you slammed into the jamb. That’s going to leave a bruise, but it’s okay. Everyone kind of expects it out of you. I mean, you’ve got night terrors, so you’re always running into crap. “I found a thing!”
“Ooh!” Twilight says, trotting down the stairs. “What is it?”
You get up, holding your head. You kinda wish that your nose was bleeding because that would make you feel a little bit like all the pain you were feeling was justified. But, no. You’re just a fucking Hubert, and you can’t handle your shit. “I’m a human!” you say, tenderly touching your nose while imagining that it might be broken. Key word is imagine. You know damn well it isn’t, drama queen. “We’re always humans! We visit you guys every fucking day!”
“I think it’s a mite confused,” Applejack says, exiting the kitchen with a tray of apple turnovers. “Pinkie, where did you find this thing?”
“It was under the bridge!” Pinkie screams in that irritatingly shrill way that she does for no reason. She’s still over there, jumping around and getting fucking Pinkie Pie sweat all over the carpet. Even from here, you can smell her, or maybe it’s her sweat on your shirt from before. Smells like a nudist’s bike seat.
You lean against the wall and apply pressure to your throbbing nose. “So what problem have you guys run into this time?” you ask, hoping that it won’t take too long. Or get too weird. It always seems to end in banging with these ponies.
“Well, it’s funny that you should ask!” Twilight replies. “We were trying to figure out which one of us was the cutest, but nopony wants to hurt the others’ feelings, so we can’t decide!” Twilight grins, drawing Pinkie Pie and Applejack in for a big hug. “We all love each other so much that it’s impossible to figure it out!”
“You guys brought me all the way over here for this?” you say. “I mean, there’s not even a rampaging monster or some sort of disaster looming?”
“But this is a disaster!” Applejack says, placing her front hooves on your chest as she rises to look you in the eye. “If we don’t know who’s the cutest, then we can’t advance in the bracket!”
You put your hand on Applejack’s forehead and push her back to the floor. Great. Now your shirt smells like Pinkie Pie sweat and manure. You’re going to be a big hit when you get back to the Waffle House. It’ll be another visit to the drunk tank for sure. “What the hell are you going on about?” you say.
Twilight pulls out a large tube. Uncapping it, she grabs the paper inside with her magic, pulling it out. As she floats it through the air, Pinkie starts limboing under it, because, you know, party. The ponies start cracking up, but you just want to fucking kick Pinkie through the window. It wouldn’t matter though. You’ve tried before, and it doesn’t even hurt her. Pisses the others off something fierce, though, and then there’s this extended friendship and understanding session that only ends when you’ve “learned” that violence isn’t the answer and that friendship is the bestest thing ever. Whatever. It’s rote at this point. You just run through the answers whenever it happens.
“See?” Twilight spreads the large paper out on the floor. “The whole town is having a Cutie Contest! We’re in bracket D!” Stepping aside, Twilight motions to the paper with a sweeping hoof. Yeah, it’s as dumb as it sounds. All the fucking ponies have divided themselves up and they’re vying for the title.
“Ugh,” you say, rubbing your temple. “Okay, whatever. It’s, um…” You look at the ponies. Whichever one you pick is going to leap into your arms, and both Applejack and Pinkie stink. That leaves Twilight, by default. At least she looks clean. “Uh, Twilight—oof!” You have the wind knocked out of you as the unicorn—sorry, alicorn—flies through the air, slamming into you and cuddling for all she's worth. Fucking ponies.
The worst thing is that Twilight kind of stinks, too. She smells like books, but not that nice book smell. That old, weird book smell that comes out of those nasty used book stores. The kind that old people shuffle into and then die in a corner when they can't remember where they are. The kind where no one notices for ages because the place only gets a single customer every three weeks or so, and they rarely go to the same sections.
So now you smell like sweat, manure, and mildewed paper, and you’re trying to juggle a jubilant, snuggly alicorn while still holding on to your fucking jazzercise tape. What the hell, Hubert? Just drop the tape! You really do fail at life, you know that?
“See?” Pinkie squeals while leaping for you. “I told you that you were the cute one, Twilight!”
Applejack coils her strong legs, making her move. “Yeah, I reckon I told you about nine hundred times that you’re one fine lookin’ filly, but you never listen.”
Still struggling with Twilight, you go down like a ton of bricks when Pinkie and Applejack hit you. Well, maybe not a ton of bricks. Maybe a ton of beanbags or a ton of water balloons. That’s what you get for eating at the Waffle House all the damn time, tubby. Maybe you should invest in some of that crystal meth. Sure you’d pick the skin off your arms, but at least then you’d be able to see your dick when you wanted to take a leak.
The ponies are all squealing and hugging. It’s inevitable what’s coming next, so you wiggle away as best you can. Clawing at the carpet, you drag yourself away from the writhing pastel ball.
Long, wet slurping sounds announce that the ponies have begun. Turning, you see that they are deep into a make-out session. This is probably the fastest yet, and that’s a good sign. This might be over with pretty quickly, unless they’ve gotten a copy of the Ponysutra or something. You wouldn’t put it past Twilight.
So you huddle up in a corner and let things play out. This is the tough part. There’s, like, tongues going everywhere. Applejack is licking Pinkie armpit for some fucking reason, and Twilight is sucking on Applejack’s tail. Pinkie has her hooves deep inside her friends’ asses, and looks like she’s trying to knead dough in there or something. She’s really working those shoulders and putting her back into it.
And you’re just over here with this confused boner and a sour stomach. The odors coming from these goddamned ponies are overpowering. Mixed with everything else, gaping pony rectum smells fucking bizarre, and ass juice is getting rubbed into the carpet. Spike probably spends whole afternoons sniffing that shit. Literal shit, ground into the carpet from their throes of ecstasy, just waiting for his widdle dwagon nose.
Now Twilight’s got her head under Applejack’s tail, licking and biting without restraint while Applejack twists Pinkie’s nipples. Pinkie’s screaming bloody murder, and you wonder if this is going to be one of those long ones where the whole town shows up. Using the VHS tape, you wack your throbbing penis a few times, trying to get it to calm down. This isn’t even particularly sexy, but the gasping and moaning are hard to deal with. You remind yourself that you spent eight dollars on this fucking tape, and your self-loathing takes at least some the edge off.
You’ve tried joining them in the past, but they just ignore you, and you hate yourself for even attempting it. That fucking hostess might be addicted to meth, but at least she’s a human. You’re trying to stick your dick into cartoon ponies, and that must mean something. You’ve wanted to tell your court-appointed psychologist for years, but you don’t want shock therapy again.
“Aren’t they wonderful?”
You scream. You scream like a little girl as the words are whispered into your ear. Jumping away, you try to scramble to your feet, but trip over that little end table that Twilight keeps for no reason. Nothing’s even on it. As you sprawl, tangled in the table’s legs, Celestia walks over to you. You try to get up, but she just pushes you back down with a hoof.
“No, just stay there,” she says with a bored expression. “It’s better that way. Welcome back, Hubert.”
Well, that seems pretty weird! One of these ponies finally remembers who you are. You open your mouth to say so when she cuts you off.
“Yeah, yeah,” she says, rolling her eyes. “Ponies never remember.” She points to the heaving, sweating ball of hormones rolling around by the front door. “They never remember.” Celestia leans down, smiling. “But I do.”
Your forehead crinkles as you try and work this out. “But, how do you know who I am? We’ve never actually met before,” you say, finally disentangling yourself from that end table. “I’ve only seen you on the show.”
“My little ponies aren’t the only ones who are forgetful,” she whispers into your ear as she places a restraining hoof onto your chest. It seems to weight hundreds of pounds. “You see, your race is among the longest lived in the multiverse, and mine is the shortest. Alicorns burn brightly, living but ten short, power-filled years once we ascend.”
“Wait, what?” you say. You’ve got a history of thinking dumb shit, so you’re looking for the obvious thing you must be missing here. “Alicorns, like, live forever, I thought.”
“We do now,” she says, smiling. “Each time one of you visits, we drain a little of your life, transferring it to ourselves. Luna and I have supervised thousands of these visits. Cadence just began last year.” Looking over to the lustball, Celestia smiles. “And we’ll be teaching Twilight shortly.”
“Hold on!” you say, your blood pressure sky-rocketing. “Wait, you’re going to take my life?!
“Just a year,” Celestia replies. “I’ll take another year next time. We leave you humans with at least five or six decades. That’s more than enough, I think. What are you really going to do with ten thousand years? Sit in the Waffle House?” Celestia rolls her eyes again. “But don’t worry, you won’t feel—or remember—a thing once our talk is over. You never do.”
You try to shy away as Celestia’s horn glows, but her hoof is far too heavy. The incandescence is blinding as she touches it to your forehead. “Why are telling me this?” you squeal.
Celestia smirks. “Well, because it’s funny. It’s funny every fucking time!”
The light building at the tip of her horn flares.
Back at the Waffle House, you turn the figurine over and over in your hands and wonder to yourself if this was the lamest one yet. They fucking needed someone to tell them which one the cute one was so that they could advance in their stupid bracket. You’ve been on some really bad adventures with those ponies, but now they're just getting ridiculously helpless. They didn’t even have to learn anything!
The wait staff is avoiding you now because you smell really, really bad. It doesn’t matter because you’re out of money, and they won’t trade you for the jazzercise tape. You do have this bottomless soda, but they won’t come back to refill it. You’d think they were dicks, but you really do smell like shit.
Oh, now the black and white rolls up, so it looks like the assistant manager called the cops on you again. You think about getting up and walking out, but last time you tried that, you chipped your tooth when the cops tackled you. Oh, well. You’ll just call Mark, and he’ll come pick you up from the drunk tank in the morning.
At least, he will if he’s not in fucking Equestria.
Again.
