Moron Ex Boxina
Also known as:
Inner Machinations
How Dumb Are Fluffies, Really?
I can already feel a disturbance in the force for having the gall to write the previous header in such a manner. Before any reader is inclined to contact the staff about me snubbing special mentions for whatever snowflake happens to reside amidst the snowdrift, be advised that I give absolutely no fucks.
By Convention;
Moronbox exists for a reason. This writer cannot point to any exact moment in the history of fluffy-dom where this flavor of content germinated, but if I had to make a conjecture, I would have to say from the very inception of fluffies. Consider the following: before the Has-Bio lore, the archetype fluffies existed in the realm of My Little Pony: Friendship is Magic.
No, don’t click away you fucker; I am going somewhere important with this.
These proto-typical 4chan stories juxtaposed fluffies against the typical pony characters of the show and often highlighted how retarded developmentally stunted they were against the usual cast. The proto-typical fluffies also tended to die in – fittingly enough – cartoonish incidents of critical survival failure.
‎ > Fluffy pony drowns, for instance.
Fluffy stupidity was expanded upon as the meta-divide between My Little Pony and the fluffy following itself increased. It was in this early separation, like cells splitting in the delicate process of life itself, that typical stupid shit-pig habits were codified.
To list a few in summary:
Bad memories - Who the fuck are you people!?
Lack of gestalt brain functions - Fluffies can be trapped inside two dimensional shapes and they will not think to step over the boundary. A flat square is equivalent to a three-dimensional container. A cube, or dare I say, a box, with a moron inside of it…
Lack of object permenance - Entities in the world only exist so long as a fluffy has line of sight with them. You don’t want to play peek-a-boo with a fluffy, doing so would probably make them projectile shit their assholes.
Crippling naïveté - Fluffies will walk up to the grinning stranger in a dingy outfit who is brandishing a knife with lethal intent without a second thought. Until the stranger puts the knife to use. Like the Americans who keep voting the same red/blue assholes into office so that they can continue to rape their Constitution.
Acute inability to distinguish a deceased fluffy from a sleeping one - If this seems oddly specific, that’s because it is. One does not need to go far in order to see examples of a fluffy demanding milk from a comically corpse-ified mother. Or demanding that a dead sibling wake up for playtime.
Windows - Fucking magic. Vilest sorcery. I don’t trust them either.
‎> Fluffy pony picks up a rock;
Or, “egads, this horse-homunculus has stumbled across tool-use!”
Oh, disregard. It was trying to eat the rock. “A” for effort.
But let us not let one rock-munching nimrod color our expectations for fluffy-kind too vividly. Trust that they come in much stupider varieties. Nevertheless, as the days went by let the water hold me down, fluffies tended to be alotted a few fractions of IQ points in their depictions. Those fractions of IQ points add up.
Fluffies dying to water was still a meme; that’s just a time honored tradition that even my ornery heart can appreciate, but now they had the propensity to avoid the water! It was a revolutionary breakthrough at the time. They would say – and I quote: “wawa am bad fo’ fwuffy!”, in a bid to articulate the dire threat to their well-being for the understanding of bystanders. At this point in time it did not matter if the subject being addressed spoke the language, or if it was even animate. In all honesty, I don’t think this has changed much even now.
Like a tubby person on a treadmill, fluffies continued to breathlessly waddle along until the first appearances of herd mentality in art and writing came about! Fluffies now understood hierarchical structures among their numbers, grasped the need for certain societal responsibilities, and even had the ability to cobble together crude hovels for themselves out of city refuse, or by digging dirt burrows in wilderness settings. This led to complex stories of herd rivalries and other such fluffy political intrigue.
With these new conventions in place, one could imagine the story of Cain and Abel unfolding, what with a fluffy picking up a rock – EGADS! That horse-homu – nevermind it’s trying to eat the rock like the other one.
Well, I’ve yet to see a biblical tale of the first fluffy that was a fluffy-murderer but I do remember a story where fluffies picked up sharp rocks and gave each other abortions. I think it was a chapter of Maroon, check it out if you haven’t already.
Disclaimer: if your fluffy political intrigue shifts from a rudimentary Game of Thrones complete with retarded incest to A Few Good Men, you took a wrong turn somewhere into weirdbox. That’s not necessarily a bad thing but I just thought I’d let you know <3 xoxo don’t forget your milk and cookies.
‎Doo Pwus Doo Am Foa, Weggy Maffs;
You ever write something that makes you want to punish yourself with ample amounts of bleach.
Moving on;
Fluffies have an interesting relationship with numerical concepts. As one can imagine, this relationship is often abusive. In that math is hard for fluffies. Not like, fluffies suffering brain liquefaction due to pondering mathematical expressions. That would be weirdbox in the same vein as a fluffy testifying in military court insisting that we can’t handle the truth.
Math would probably be difficult for you too, if you lacked individual digits, and you only had your four hooves at the end of your legs that barely cooperated with each other to have you waddle around. Wait, ah shit –
Footnote - Sometimes fluffies are shown to be uncoordinated sacks to emphasize their lacking brain-power. The most extreme case of this was a fluffy needing to consciously place each limb down in sequence to avoid tripping over their own legs. Hilarious stuff.
With any will, there is a way. Fluffies, like horses, can absolutely count.
Usually only up to four, though. After that they run out of hooves and they get scared by the numerical unknowns that model the certainty of atomic heat death across the cosmos, the era in which all stars go dark and leave behind their cold, metallic cores in the infinite tapestry of a universe stretched too vast, an empty bleakness –
Sometimes fluffies can be taught to count to ten. I don’t know how. Go write a story about a fluffy learning how to count to ten. I’d read it. [Happy Face Here]
‎Um, my fluffy is actually quite smart;
Good for you.
‎CONCLUSION
This is not an exhaustive description of traditional fluffy intelligence. Creative people in the past and current iterations of the following have invented new ways to illustrate the failings of fluffy intellect, and some have even used the dimness of a fluffy in a subversive way to give the little bastards an edge against their tormentors. For better or worse. For the fluffy, that is. If you are an aspiring creator, I encourage you to return to your toddler mindset when you ponder the ways a fluffy would try to understand the world. Toddler me got stuck behind the couch once and my mother just laughed at me. It built character and resilience.
Before I end this entry, I would like to spotlight the idea of fluffy-logic.
I could attempt to give this its own topic to explore, but fluffy-logic hinges on headcanon. It made more sense to me to establish the context of a standard fluffy’s intellect, rather than explain, “hur hur, fluffies come up with the most cray-ay-ay-azy ideas because they stoopid lol”.
If I did not, this subject would devolve into the innumerable ways that people interpret how fluffies think.
Given what was written in the previous paragraphs, try to imagine how something with these cognitive mechanisms would try to piece together its understanding of the world. Maybe it would then make some semblance of sense as to why a fluffy may throw its forelimbs around the crimson carnage of a slaughtered friend, in the vain hope that a hug may mend its horrific wounds. Or why a fluffy may beg a predator to cease with the consumption of its family – or even itself.
No, for the last time, I don’t give a fuck about your smart fluffy.
What the fuck do you mean it’s a robot too?