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Day 1, Month 1, 1 AD (After Discord)
The new kid had guts, I’ll give him that. But it was my responsibility to make sure they stayed in his body. I body-checked him, slamming him to the ground, where he slid a foot along the gillygrass and stopped when his backpack jammed against a giant rotating petunia.
“What the hell, sarge!” he cried as he wiggled his four hooves in the air, trying to right himself.
“Had to stop you. You were about to step in another piemine.” I helped him up, backed off to a safe distance, and tossed a rock right where he'd been about to set his hoof down. There was a squorching noise and an eruption of sickly sweet and fermenting filling popped into the air, spattering the ground with a cherry red.
“That could have gotten all over you, soldier. Stay on guard.”
Most of us were hardened soldiers who had grown up in the worst of the Discordian era. Backpack mounted seltzer spritzers, chewing gum bazookas, we'd seen it all. Whole villages laid to waste with red-hot cinnamon napalm. Innocent ponies forced to flee, or to live a life of enforced slapstick under a goofy dictator.
There was a promise of change when the Princesses arose and came into their power. They had engaged him directly, using a top secret weapon that glowed with pretty colors and elicited a “Hoo-raw” from the onlooking troops. Sealed him into stone. and just like that, it was over.
Shyeah, right. Sure, he wasn’t generating any more broomstick soldiers or hundred-foot ants or jello trenches or Fightin’ Clowns. But that didn't mean life was easy street now. There was still the battle to retake the Candyland where no sane soldier could safely tread. The cleanup detail left for the mooks like us. Dodging the seltzer bottle traps, Spraymores, we called them, we made our way fitfully into the conquered territory, covering over the peppermint oil with regular dirt and grass.
I hauled the kid along as we made our way deeper past the candy floss barricade, threading through craters and past popped jack in the boxes, the residue of grounds that had been comedied out, too much slapstick grinding one's sense of humor down into a thin paste. Pastry shell shock that had claimed so many and left us with the bitter taste and that sneer on your lips when you heard the “Dulce et decorum...”
It was sweet and flitting, to pie for your country.
“What the hell, sarge!” he cried as he wiggled his four hooves in the air, trying to right himself.
“Had to stop you. You were about to step in another piemine.” I helped him up, backed off to a safe distance, and tossed a rock right where he'd been about to set his hoof down. There was a squorching noise and an eruption of sickly sweet and fermenting filling popped into the air, spattering the ground with a cherry red.
“That could have gotten all over you, soldier. Stay on guard.”
Most of us were hardened soldiers who had grown up in the worst of the Discordian era. Backpack mounted seltzer spritzers, chewing gum bazookas, we'd seen it all. Whole villages laid to waste with red-hot cinnamon napalm. Innocent ponies forced to flee, or to live a life of enforced slapstick under a goofy dictator.
There was a promise of change when the Princesses arose and came into their power. They had engaged him directly, using a top secret weapon that glowed with pretty colors and elicited a “Hoo-raw” from the onlooking troops. Sealed him into stone. and just like that, it was over.
Shyeah, right. Sure, he wasn’t generating any more broomstick soldiers or hundred-foot ants or jello trenches or Fightin’ Clowns. But that didn't mean life was easy street now. There was still the battle to retake the Candyland where no sane soldier could safely tread. The cleanup detail left for the mooks like us. Dodging the seltzer bottle traps, Spraymores, we called them, we made our way fitfully into the conquered territory, covering over the peppermint oil with regular dirt and grass.
I hauled the kid along as we made our way deeper past the candy floss barricade, threading through craters and past popped jack in the boxes, the residue of grounds that had been comedied out, too much slapstick grinding one's sense of humor down into a thin paste. Pastry shell shock that had claimed so many and left us with the bitter taste and that sneer on your lips when you heard the “Dulce et decorum...”
It was sweet and flitting, to pie for your country.
It seems that the closer you get to condensing narrative form, the closer you get to the essence of a joke. (I wonder if this would work in reverse--if something about a skeleton asking for a beer and a mop were extended, whether it would become a serious reflection on fate/destiny).
In any case, I enjoy this kind of wordplay which is not only clever but helps deliver a dry humorous tone. I commend your punchline. Also probably a wise move to structure it action--> background --> gag, rather than saving the piemine for later; makes it easier on the reader.
In any case, I enjoy this kind of wordplay which is not only clever but helps deliver a dry humorous tone. I commend your punchline. Also probably a wise move to structure it action--> background --> gag, rather than saving the piemine for later; makes it easier on the reader.