You are a smarty. In your own opinion, the bestest and smartiest of the smarties, even if you are in a dummy hoomin munsta’s sorry box. Normally, you can understand what their stupid words are, but for some reason, it’s coming out all wrong. It’s not very nice in here; the other dummy fluffies have been making scaredy poopies whenever the box bumps, or one of the scary munstas grabs a baby. Sometimes they don’t come back, and the dummy mummas think it’s because they now have human daddies or mummas, but you know the munstas are making nummies out of your herd.
Even after they’ve taken chirpy and talkie babies, your herd is very big! You can’t really count very well, but you run out of hoofsies at least four times trying to count them all. That’s really good, especially when hoomin munstas normally give biggest hurties and sometimes make nummies out of fluffies. Silly, scary hoomin munstas. Fluffies aren’t nummies!
After at least four forevers (again, you know it’s a lot because you ran out of hoofsies), the sorry box opens. You have escaped the hoomin munstas, and are now looking at a huge field of lush green grassies! It looks like your threats of sorry poopies and biggest owwies have paid off.
Waddling out of the box you turn to talk at your huge herd. Puffing out your chest, you shout in your biggest voice, “Smawty haf bwinged 'ou to gwassies! Mummahs get nummies afta smawty and tuffies!” Grateful for the tender grassies, you begin to graze when you hear the hoomins!
They are still there, barking in words that don’t make sense! They don’t scare you, though, and you puff out your cheeks; your special friend said you looked so big when you did that, so they must be scared! “Dis smawty wand nao! Weave, give sketties, o’ get bigge-” you are interrupted by loud cracking noises, and your biggest tuffy exploding into fluff and boo-boo juice.
“Go! It yours! Just run dat way!” shouts one of the hoomin munstas, still sounding funny, but you can understand it at least. The ground spits up dirt with the cracking noisies that hurt your hear-places. Scaredy poopies leak out, but you begrudgingly waddle away.
It doesn’t matter though, because there are plenty of tender grassies anyway! Still, the meanie hoomins keep making cracking noises that make your tuffies explode into booboo juice whenever you stop for too long. Eventually, your herd manages to toddle away into tall grassies where you’ll be safe.
After such an exhausting march you take a little rest, eating the grassies and give special hugs to one of the exploded tuffy’s special friends. You had to give her owwies when she wouldn’t stop crying, but now she’s having nappies in her boo-boo juice and your sticky no-no juice.
All and all, it’s been a good day for you, but somehow the hoomin munstas are still giving your herd the worstest hurties! You see a soon-mumma roll along, and hear a barely audible click, and an even worse cracky noise turns her into tummy sketties and boo-boo juice!
With your scaredy poopies spraying out of your poopie-place, you waddle as fast as you can, away from the hoomin munstas and their dummy fences and metal munstas, but it isn’t working now! Everywhere your herd is being blown up, soaking the grassies red!
Eventually, you simply sit still, your earsies ringing as you peep for your mumma’s fluff. Maybe you aren’t the bestest smarty after all…
You are now Park Chan-Kim, a proud byung-jang in the Republic of Korea’s army. For the better part of a week, your job has been to baby-sit a batch of American toy monsters called ‘Fluffy Ponies.’ While initially charming (enough so that some of your subordinates had to be reprimanded for playing with them), their capacity for shitting, arrogant posturing, and boundless cowardice brought out the asshole in even your most compassionate of comrades.
Still, you had orders, and you followed them: Release them into the demilitarized zone, egg them on into the thickest patch of land mines, and watch the little rats pop. Gutless little things; you popped their leader’s biggest toadie, and you swore his terrified diarrhea produced jet propulsion. Just as planned, the little idiot led his day-glow mine sweepers into the metaphorical shit.
After hearing their little leader’s baby talk threats, you were disappointed to not see a puff of red and yellow burst in the field. You aren’t complaining though; along the trip, the mess officer discovered their foals are very tasty.
