Paul Blart munched on a large triple-decker cake with extra Mountain Dew and Doritos sprinkled on top, as him and the other two most relevant characters drove up the side of the mountain where Canterlot Castle stood.

Ramsay sat inside Paul’s fat stomach like a baby carrier, mumbling to himself as the crumbs from the cake fell into his hair. Pinkie was riding Blart piggy-back, playing loud, incoherent rap music from a boombox on her shoulder as they continued their climb.

“Okay everyone, you know the plan?” Blart asked as they neared the top.

“Plan?” Ramsay asked from his seat. “You never gave us a plan.”

Pinkie gave Ramsay a dirty look. “Hey man, just do some improv, alright? Don’t judge poor ‘ol Blarty Poo.”

Ramsay stared at Pinkie with a mix of shock and disgust. “Okay, first thing. If you say that ever again, I’ll throw you off this mountain myself and watch you fall. Two, we all met no more than, what, three minutes ago, what’s with the name calling?”

Pinkie shrugged, patting Ramsay on the head. “Shush little British-Hitler, you’ll get your nickname eventually.” Pinkie said in a sickeningly sweet tone.

Ramsay frowned and looked forward as the pony continued to pat his head, eventually evolving into messing with his hair. Since he really couldn’t do anything about it, he was at a loss.

“Hey, Paul? Can we please get rid of this pink prissy prick already? She’s annoying.”

Paul shook his head. “No Ramsay, she is an ally.”

Ramsay rolled his eyes. “How is she even remotely an ally? She has been following us for no reason other than being around you. That’s some grade A bullshit right there.” Ramsay grumbled, his left eye starting to twitch from Pinkie’s continued defilement of his glorious, blonde, British hair.

“We are nearing the top!” Blart bellowed, the vibrations of his fat nearly dislodging Ramsay from his seat. “Prepare yourselfs, comrades! We are storming the beaches of Normandy.”

“No we’re not, you bloody fucking wanker.” Ramsay hissed.

Blart cried many manly tears, the insult making a deep scratch in his delicate, diabetic soul. “Ramsay...I thought what we had was special!” Blart cried, his eyes watering uncontrollably.

Ramsay rolled his eyes, “Oh shut up you fat lard, we’ve reached the top.”

Blart immediately stopped crying. “We did?” Blart looked down, and sure enough, there sat beautiful solid ground. “Huh, Well then…”

Blart lifted Ramsay from his seat and set him on the ground, Pinkie jumping off his back and landing next to Ramsay.

“Alright soldiers!” Blart yelled, impersonating a drill sergeant to the best of his abilities.

“Oh no…” Ramsay sighed. “Listen, Blart, I know you want to play pretend right now, but this is not the bloody time. Can we just get this over with so we can go home? Please?”

Blart ignored his plea, “We are fighting an enemy we have never seen before! They may be dangerous, monstrous, and maybe even look-alikes of Steve Buscemi.” Paul shuddered. “Either way, do not fret! For we have superior firepower!” Blart removed a piece of ham from his gun holster. “Gaze upon it in all of it's majesty!”

Pinkie gawked at the piece of meat, Ramsay rolled his eyes, and Blart just stood there holding it like a trophy.

Ramsay sighed in frustration, and walked towards the castle. “When you two stop being complete and total morons, make sure to tell me. Or don’t. I don’t care.” Ramsay left the two, who were still worshipping the piece of cold pig meat like it was Jesus if he was reincarnated as ham.

***

After a whole ten minutes, Blart and Pinkie finally snapped out of their trance.

“And that’s why you should always get in the van.” Blart said, shoving the ham back in his pocket.

Pinkie clapped hysterically, tears in her eyes. “So educational! Ramsay, what did you think of-” she turned her head to the left, but to her surprise, no British-Hitler was there! “Ramsay is gone!” Pinkie yelled, screaming and running around in circles like a headless chicken on fire.

Blart grabbed Pinkie by the tail, and started dragging her towards the castle. “He is clearly being held captive by the antagonist, Evil Generic Villain Man! My long-lost mother-father-brother-sister-cousin from Uranus!”

In the distance, the great wizard M. Night Shamalamadingdong shouted “What a twist!”

MEANWHILE, AT THE OBLIGATORY VILLAIN HIDEOUT IN A SWAMP

Mecha-Hitler took a bite out of his Jew Burger, the tangy taste of zionist bringing thoughts of camps to his mind.

“I love the taste of new world orders in the morning.”

Hitler stirred his zionist coffee, the mixture of melted gold and corruption mixing perfectly with tin foil hats and banknotes.

Suddenly, as the plot demanded it, Generic Misanthropic Hero #315 crashed through the roof of his hideout.

It was a very poorly drawn red and black alicorn OC, hundreds of cut marks on his body from his abusive father in Chicago who was really mean and bad, and he also had no friends because he was weird and liked Nine Inch Nails, the band. “I am depressed, give me your sympathy, you horrible human monster.” he said, barely reaching a whisper. He brushed his emo hair out of his dazzling, beautiful monochrome eyes.

Mecha-Hitler, who was totally more beautiful than him, shrugged, taking a sip of his coffee, paying no attention to the self-insert faggot in front of him.

“You are paying no attention to me. You obviously support abuse and the Holocaust. Check your privilege you cis-gendered white Jew killer. Humanity is evil and bad.” The OC summoned a macbook painted with symbols of anarchy and Tumblr, and started typing furiously while breathing really heavily.

Hitler ignored him, continuing to sip his coffee. A thought suddenly entered his mind, his gaze setting finally upon the OC, who was still typing furiously.

“Hey, you want to invade a dimension filled with happiness, ponies, and probably so hyped up on LSD it would make Albert Hofmann and Snoop Dog cry?”

The edgy 12-year old looked up slowly from his laptop, glancing occasionally at his generic hentai porn. He quickly shut his laptop, saving his weeaboo fapping energy for later. “Fine! But it’s only because my mother died in a car accident and I had to grow up with wolves! I had a hard childhood and now I have PTSD!”

Hitler rolled his eyes, taking a final sip of his delicious tea. He gently set it down, knowing that it would probably be cold by the time he’d get back. He didn't like cold Zionist mix, tasted too American.

Author's Note

Why