/FUND DIS

Pinkie’s Journal. October 12th, 1985:
 
Fruit pie in alley this morning, hoof print on burst contents. This town is afraid of me. I have seen its true face. The streets are extended gutters and the gutters are full of cider and when the drains finally clog all the vermin will have a party. The accumulated confetti and disposable cups of all their mundane partying will pile up around their waists and all the mares and stallions will look up and shout “Party with us!”…
 
…and I’ll look down and whisper “nokie dokie lokie.”
 
They had a choice, all of them. They could have followed in the hoofsteps of good ponies like Berry Punch or Chancellor Puddinhead. Decent ponies, who believed in a good night’s partying after a day’s work. Instead they followed the droppings of teetotalers and Calvinists and didn’t realize that the trail led over a precipice until too late. Don’t tell me they didn’t have a choice.
 
Now the whole world stands on the brink, staring down into an eternity of lame parties, all those pegasi and intellectuals and shy ponies… and all of a sudden, nopony can think of anything fun to do.