Pedophilia Is Both Normal And Okay
It was another bright, beautiful day in Ponyville. The sun was shining, the grass was growing, the birds were singing, and the horrible parasite that lived in Sweetie Belle’s brain that hatched from the eggs in unfiltered tap water she drank on her family trip to Mexicolt continued to throb and grow, consuming more and more of the young unicorn’s scrumptious thought-meat.
But that’s a story for another time; now we divert our gaze to Sugarcube Corner, where a very special deal was taking place. The kind of deal that makes the symbiotic worms masquerading as thick, kinked hairs on my scrotum bristle in anticipation.
“Now, you’ll have them back by midnight, of course?” Mr. Cake asked Big Mac.
“Eeyup!™” Big Mac said, lying through his teeth, like he did whenever he said his trademarked saying. He hungrily eyed the two foals perched precariously on Mr. Cake’s back. “You needn’t worry none, Ah won’t do anythin’ unseemly with you kin.”
“Oh, I don’t give a shit about what you do with them,” Mr. Cake said, abandoning the flimsy pretext of care he had attempted to set up. “They’re not really my children; they’re the bastard spawn of some unknown stallions and my whore wife, whom I plan to kill in a murder-suicide in a few moments.”
Big Mac chuckled, knowing that Mr. Cake was one of the biggest pranksters in town. “Mighty fine joke, Mr. Cake.”
Mr. Cake stared at Big Mac, his horribly disproportionate eyes staring deeply into Big Mac’s own abominations of intelligent design. “I can assure you, this is no joke. I am stuck in a downward spiral of depression and homicidal thoughts in an attempt to validate my shattered and robbed masculinity in the the final moments of my life before I enter the great void.”
Big Mac bit his lip, trying to contain his laughter, but after but a few million microseconds, would find that it was simply impossible at that point. Snorting at first, spraying a fine mist of dust, hairs, and snot all over Mr. Cake’s face, his mouth opened as a hearty guffaw erupted from his laugh sacks.
“You really do split mah sides,” Big Mac said, with a chortle of mirth, wiping a single tear from his eye.
“I don’t know why you’re having this reaction,” Mr. Cake said, his brow furrowing in perplexment. “I’m not kidding; I’m honestly having a hard time not releasing my repressed homicidal rage into you right now, but I know that killing you would only diminish the ultimate release when I butcher my adulterous partner.”
Big Mac snortled and tiggled (an amalgamation of snorting and chortling and tittering and giggling, respectively), and scooped the tender twins up into his grasp with a swift sweep of his forelimb. He plopped them on to his back, and trotted out of Sugarcube Corner, whistling a jaunty southern tune as he went.
As Big Mac and the foals retreated from the building, horrible screams and various hacking, whacking, and slashing sounds echoing behind them.
“Glad to see they’re figurin’ out their differences by talking it all out; Openness and honesty is an important part of any relationship,” Big Mac said, addressing the audience of impressionable young children watching at home, or if they’re like me, through the window of their next door neighbor’s home, because my parents beat me whenever they found out I was watching My Little Pony. My father “didn’t raise no faggot horsefucker”, he’d shout, whipping my fragile flesh with a belt he modified with bamboo splinters and and metal studs, which he had dubbed “The Purifier”. My mother would just sit on the side, shaking her head and crying, distraught that I had pushed my father to such lengths with my sinful and wicked ways. The guilt of raising such a disobedient, filthy whelp such as I eventually pushed her to suicide. Some birthday that was.
Big Mac hardly had any time to care about the Cakes civilly working out their marital issues or the lacerations that have yet to heal on my fragile, young body, despite such wounds being inflicted years ago; he had but one goal to pursue, and that was taking Pound and Pumpkin on the hottest, sweatiest, most romantic, pulsating, throbbing, spermatozoa splattered, SFW date of their infant lives. He had even reserved a spot at the premier pedo pony eatery in town: The Gilded Irreversible Child Trauma.
Big Mac opened the doors to the haven of pedophile activities, and was instantly greeted by cheers and clapping. Big Mac was something of a celebrity in the Ponyville pedo community; there was hardly a foal one could name that he hadn’t defiled. He’d deflowered Apple Bloom; he’d stirred Silver Spoon; he’d worn Diamond Tiara; he’d shot his arrows into Archer; he’d towered over Pipsqueak; he’d rung Sweetie Belle; he’d rumbled in the jungle with Rumble; he’d pinched Berry Pinch; he’d snipped Snips; he’d salted Snails; he’d danced in the rain with Pina Colada; he’d dug around in the dirt for Truffle Shuffle; and he fucked the shit out of Scootaloo. And now, Big Mac was going to complete the set by baking both the Cake Twins, “baking” being used as a euphemism for “molesting” in this instance instead of its literal meaning of cooking food by dry heat without direct exposure to a flame, typically in an oven or on a hot surface.
There were all manners of foal fiddlers hanging out in The Gilded Irreversible Child Trauma that night, each one more foal-fiddly than the last. Indeed, it was one of the few places their ilk could gather; they were rightfully belittled and attacked for being the abominations of nature that they are anywhere else. Big Mac was only able to walk down the street without harassment because he was pardoned by Princess Twilight, who, while disgusted by Big Mac’s actions, took it out as a personal favor for Applejack, who had been molested as a foal by her brother so many times that she developed one of the most intense cases of Stockholm Syndrome ever witnessed. Indeed, she revered her brother as something of a god, come to purify her weak and unworthy flesh with his superior divine essence, and forcing her to sire many holy demigods as a result of their union.
The patrons of the restaurant ranged from those who, like Big Mac, took great pleasure in literal sex with foals, to merely those who enjoyed pornography of said foals, colloquially known as “foalcon”. Don’t be fooled; those who enjoy foalcon are just as bad as those who actually have sex with foals, even if the foalcon is something fictional, like a drawing or a story. They deserve just as harsh, if not harsher, punishment for their crimes against equinity.
But here they were, drinking, laughing, eating, and sharing tales of foals fucked, both real and imagined. God, it makes me sick just typing these words, thinking about how these nasty perverts have been able to spread their tendrils of evil and indecency to all corners of the earth. If it were up to me, we’d have another Holocaust, but with pedophiles instead of Jews. Oh, and Serbians. Fuck Serbians.
Big Mac set the Cake Twins down on his reserved table, and smiled at the waiter. “The usual, please,” Big Mac said. “And bring somethin’ nice for the foals, it’s their first night out.”
The waiter nodded, thousands of curses and spiteful remarks aimed towards Big Mac clambering and skittering around his brain much like the parasite in Sweetie Belle’s that you’ve probably forgotten about until now. The waiter hated pedos! The whole pedo season!
Now, please don't ask why. No one quite knows the reason. He only took this job because the Equestrian economy is so shit. But what else can we expect from a ~~black man in the white house~~ purple alicorn in the crystal tree?
Big Mac stared lustfully at the two foals sitting across from him in the booth. Pumpkin was sucking on her hoof lewdly in a manner infants tend to do, and Pound was definitely giving him the “fuck me” eyes. Oh, they’d have fun later.
The waiter returned with Big Mac’s regular serving of food, a single hayburger and a side of hay fries. He shot Big Mac a look of utter disgust, his blood boiling at the thought of the amount of foals Big Mac had fiddled. Why, there must have been at least forty fiddle foals! Forty! That’s as many as four tens! And that’s terrible.
For the foals, he delivered them two bottles of tit juice, freshly gathered from the North Equestrian Spotted Tit. Pumpkin and Pound took the bottles in their tiny hooves, and clumsily guided them to their mouths, sucking upon the rubber nipples like they had once sucked upon their mother’s fleshy ones, which they would no longer be doing considering that she was now in multiple pieces, being spread about a nearby lake.
Big Mac stared hungrily at the Cake Twins as they sucked the tit juice down into their gullets, salivating slightly as arousal coursed through his body. His mind was flooded with terrible images of debauchery that would soon follow their dining experience. He knew that if the Cake Twins were anything like the others foals, they would, much like my skin after my dad took an acetylene torch to my arm once he found out I had purchased a figurine of Twilight Sparkle from a local hobby shop, melt in his hooves.
His jaw unhinged in a serpentine manner, and he swallowed his meal whole, plate and all. That was going to hurt in a few hours, but Big Mac knew it was worth it. Nowhere else is there ceramic that tastes as good as the plates from The Gilded Irreversible Child Trauma.
Big Mac licked his lips, unable to contain his lust any longer. His forelimbs sprung up, his hoof-like hands grasping for the two foals seated across from him. In one fell swoop, he had them in his pedophillic grasp, and dragged them across the table just like the local authorities of Ponyville will have to drag a nearby lake for the body of their mother. His eyes wide, the fire of pure pedophilia lit within, he brought them to his lips, his fop moist with the sweat of anticipation.
And he tenderly kissed their bellies and snuggled them against his chest in a very SFW fashion. Go somewhere else for your child porn, you pedophillic freaks.
