Curse these Fluffy Ponies, they drive me to drink: Part 1

>After six months, the Fluffy Pony Foal you found abandoned on your front lawn has been house-trained, can swim a little and is generally the only bright spot in your otherwise endless grind of a life.

>Found him the day after you gave up drinking. Took it as a sign from Above and called him 'Vodka'. A beautiful pure-white Earth-Fluffy Pony.

>Decide that, working 6 days a week, you really do need another pony or two to keep little Vodka happy during the day.

>Drive for three hours to find a nice adoption center. Most of the local ones make Guatanamo Bay look like Hawaii.

>Little Vodka is waving like the damn Pope to the other ponies.

>"Hewwo! Oh! So many Fwiends!"

>You asked the giant black man behind counter if you can adopt one or two ponies for Vodka as friends.

>Asked if ponies really do explode and/or die during sex and pregnancy.

>Giant Black Man said "Fucking internet. No, they don't." and laughed.

>Fucking Yes. Had nightmares of finding Vodka lying dead on the floor torturing you for weeks now.

>Buy three more Ponies, another male, and two females. All Earth Ponies, the Giant Black Man said they are the most robust and easiest to keep.

>A Light-Grey Male you called Gin, a Dark Red Female called Rum and a dull, pale yellow Female called Bourbon.

>Explained to the Giant Black Man when you were registering their names you had given up Alcohol.

>Fluffies names were as much a joke on that as well as making sure they had very specific names.

>You figure that when Spring rolls around, and breeding season starts, you'll just keep the females indoors for the two-three weeks it takes.

>On way home, Vodka is hugging the other male Fluffy, Gin, on the back seat, both babbling about 'Hugs' and 'Funnehs'.

>Females, Rum and Bourbon, are asleep in a pile.

>Life is fucking awesome. You were awash in hugs on the way to the car.

>Several days pass.

>Life is still fucking awesome, and your food bill hasn't gone up all that much either.

>You've also noticed that while all four Ponies play well together, Gin and Vodka are always hugging each other.

>Eh, fuck it, don't care, they're happy.

>Come home to find Rum and Bourbon playing with a ball. Ask where Vodka and Gin are.

>"Pwaying boy-game." Rum replies glumly. Bourbon nods sadly.

>"Boy .... game?" You ask, confused. First spend ten minutes playing with Rum and Bourbon and cheer them up. Remind them that Friday is All-They-Can-Eat Spaghetti Night.

>You are a God to them.

>Spend the next 10 minutes trying to find Vodka and Gin. Where the fuck are they?

>Eventually hear 'pomf'ing noises from your bedroom.

>Quietly stick your head around the door and look in.

>OHWADAFUQ?

>Boy-Game indeed!

>Now it all makes sense. Shortly after Vodka's fifth month in your house, he 'wuved' you. Took a few days to explain, and make the information stick, that dry-humping your face wasn't 'wuv'.

>Vodka and Gin are hugging face-to-face, humping each other tenderly on your pillow, going 'Eenf eenf eenf' and their fluff making that 'pomf' noise as they grind against each other.

>You wish your camera was working, this is like a train wreck.

>some minutes later, they finish.

>"Waaaaaah! No-no feels funneh!"

>"Waaaaaah! Sticky sticky!"

>Burn that fucking pillow ...

>Walk away to make dinner. Also get yourself some anti-acids.

>Have to come get Vodka and Gin as they were still hugging each other and are now cemented together.

>Look up at you with pleased, somewhat desperate expressions on their faces.

>"Daddy! No-no's no stawp huggies! How Fwuffies nu stick togetha?"

>Oh joy, dried pony fluids all over your bed. How can such little things produce so much junk?

>Pre-dinner bath for the boys to separate them. Try to hug each other in bath. See two pink horse-wieners waving underneath their bodies.

>Oh-no-you-fucking-don't!

>During dinner, try to figure out how to explain to ponies that they are supposed to do that with the girls, not each other.

>Decide it's not worth the headache.

>Fluffies are gobbling up the pasta with great gusto, sauce staining their whole heads and chests, noisily slurping up mouthfuls of spaghetti and all but crying tears of joys.

>"Sketti! Weaw sketti!" Rum is babbling happily, her belly almost bloating.

>"Suuuu nummies! Wuv Daddy!" Gin cheers, sitting on his haunches to wave his front legs at you, then burps so hard he falls over onto his back, forelegs windmilling franticly.

>Clean them up after dinner, wipe off spaghetti sauce and let them use litter tray one last time before being locked into their sleeping room.

>Go to bed.

>Forgot to change the pillow.

>Fuck.

>Wake up next morning, go out to find Vodka and Gin staring out the window, leaning on each other and going "Wah! Pwetty!" at the dawn.

>Ah who cares if they're gay, they're happy.

>Look around for Rum and Bourbon.

>See Push-Me Pull-Me Pony version wandering around, courtesy of a cucumber. Must have left it out after making your salad last night....

>"Daddy! taiw-wes'win' game funneh!" Bourbon and Rum cheer loudly as they shuffle across the carpet, squeaking and giggling.

>Epic Face-Palm.

>Fuck this.

>Go back to bed.

>Forgot to change the pillow. Again.

>Fuck.