Derpy Nurse

>Sick with stupid pony flu thanks to that freaking mail mare
>Whole body feels like shit and you hack things up worse than what Rarity's cat produces.
>Idiot mail mare insists on nursing you back to health.
>Try to object but she shoves a thermometer into your mouth shutting you up.
"Now you sit here and let the thermometer take your temperature while I cook you some soup."
>Grumble as she walks into the hallway
>Seconds later he head pokes back into the room.
"By the way, what does 'rectal' mean?"

---

>Return from bathroom after furiously scrubbing your tongue and burning your toothbrush afterward.
>Try to sneak out of the house but the damn mail mare's daughter is guarding the door.
>Soon the soup is done and she serves it to you on a metal tray with a glass of milk.
>Amazed that she doesn't spill any of it and burn you in the process.
"I hope you like it, I made it extra special for you."
>Hesitantly take a sip of the broth-only-soup. Its not too bad.
>Have some more and notice the taste seems a little off.
>Ask what she added.
"Well, there was this bottle that claimed, 'one teaspoon for fast acting relief!', so I just put in the whole bottle. That way you'll be better in no time!"
>Intestines start making sounds similar to the call of the blood beast of beguiling brutality.
>Rush to the bathroom at the speed of Kenyans.
>Remove pants and sit upon the throne.
>Unleash an unspeakable mix of sound and matter upon the porcelain alter that warps the very fabric of space and time.
>Exhausted and sore, you reach over for the toilet paper.
>You're out.
"Feeling better already?"
>You're going to kill this mare.

---

>Return from the bathroom yet again, only time with an anus more abused then Braeburn's.
>Your comic collection died in the line of duty of keeping you sanitary.
>Dumbass mail mare greets you with a smile and that annoyingly chipper tone.
"Well. you're looking a lot better than before, you even lost some weight."
>Ponder that you may have lost your liver and kidneys back there.
>Moronic mail mare helps you lay down on your couch.
"Now you just relax and I'll work out all those kinks in your body."
>Worried that the mare who has a habbit of destroying buildings is attempting massage therapy you start to object.
>Her hooves slam down on your back with the force of a great typhoon knocking the wind out of you.
>Gasping for air she moves to your arm and presses on it.
>You hear a pop.
"Oopsie, that's normal for humans...right?"
>Your arm bends the opposite direction, and you are not double jointed.
>You currency lack the oxygen to scream like a bitch.
>Idiotic mail mare attempts to fix your arm.
>Arm is now folded back like a butterfly knife.
>Third time is the charm and your arm returns to its normal positioning with a snap crackle and pop.
>Before you can run the brain dead mail mare presses on your lower back.
>Your spine is now in the shape of a contortionists wet dream and auto-fellatio is no longer a far off dream.
"Ah! I'm sorry, I didn't think I pushed 'that' hard."
>Feel what its like to have the bones in your body shifted back to normalcy manually.
>You are now the consistency of jello and cannot feel your anything.
>Stupid mail mare carries you up to your bed and throws you on it face down.
"Now you rest well, and no staying up late reading."
>You yell at her expletives that would curl the hair of the most experienced sailor.
>It comes out more like the soft mewling of a kitten.
>Half-witted mail mare bids you goodnight and shuts off the lights.
>Bitch forgot to roll up the covers.
>Her death will be slow.

---

>Wake up in the mornin'.
>Don't feel like P. Diddy.
"Wakey wakey sleepy head."
>Senseless mail mare bursts into your room with a mood that couldn't be achieved this early without copious amounts of coffee.
>She informs you that you're going to be getting a sponge bath as you smell like a pile of garbage.
>Nice to know you smell as good as your feel.
>Foolish mail mare brings you to your backyard, as the bathroom still holds the unholy stench from yesterday.
>Sit on a small wooden stool that has a sponge, the hose, and a bottle of some shampoo next to it.
>You hear the sound of the hose's tap being turned and are greeted by a blast of frigged water so cold your nipples become hard enough to cut diamonds.
"Oops. Sorry about that."
>Brainless mail mare lathers your hair, and parts of your body in the soapy substance from the bottle.
>Its by far the fruitiest thing you've ever smelled, and you once snorted crushed Jolly Ranchers.
>Your body is scrubbed with the intensity of a thousand suns and you think you've lost the top 3 layers of your skin in the process.
>You're blasted once again with the freezing cold water, your skin feels like its on fire.
"Uh oh."
>Good news, your skin is NOT on fire.
>Its purple.
"I'm sorry, I got Sparkler's coat dye mixed up with the shampoo. But it should only last for a week, so that's good right?"
>The urge to strangle the witless mail mare is rising.
>Unfortunately, you are currently outside.
>Too many witnesses.
>She lives, for now.

---

>Slowly drag your now purple ass into the kitchen.
>Hope that you can at least escape this simpleminded mail mare's 'help' with the most important meal of the day.
>You can't.
>She's already frying some breakfast on a skillet and flipping it with the grace of a beached whale.
>You watch her like a dreadhawk to be sure she doesn't add more 'special sauce' like last time.
>The doltish mail mare serves up two eggs and some hash-browns with toast and jam.
>How that all came from a single skillet is best left unanswered.
>You taste the contents hoping that she didn't somehow lace it with hemlock or arsenic.
>It tastes rather well, you compliment her on not fucking up something for once.
"Yay! I'm glad you like it! I've always been good with food. I can make almost anything taste good, just like THAT!"
>The inane mail mare slams her hoof for emphasis and sends one of the large kitchen knives sailing through the air.
>It lands right between your legs nearly separating you from big jim and the twins.
"Gah! Are you okay?!"
>You assure her that you are alright, though you now need to lay down.
>Preferably as far away from any pointy objects as possible.
>You gorge the rest of the meal and fly to your chair in the living room siting down.
>The dim mail mare follows you and asks if you'd like a story read to you to help you rest.
>You say you aren't tired, but she insists that the best naps are ones where you fall asleep listen to a story.
>You recant and she pulls out a large tome.
>You insist that you could stay awake through anything and that a story won't effect your perfect constitution in the least.
>The nonsensical mail mare starts reading about a princess and how she travels the land with a magical fairy and they-
>You're out at the second sentence.