ham fisted theatrics

Let’s prance in a pastel field underneath a Neopolitan ice-cream sky.

Let’s drink butterscotch from a butterscotch stream and nuzzle kittens with our unicorn snouts.

Let’s prance over the cotton-candy hill and let the wind blow back our unicorn hair as we look down at the happy mushroom village.

And when the gnomes in the happy mushroom village bid us a scrumptious day, let’s flare our unicorn nostrils and charge. Let’s gore them with our horns. Let’s spear six or ten gnome-babies on those horns and roast them over the fires the gnomes usually use to make s’mores (s’mores are the gnomes’ currency). Let’s beat the mushrooms to the ground with our hooves.

Then let’s retreat to a particularly echo-y cave in the side of Ol’ Taffy Mountain and fuck for the whole valley to hear, because the sound of unicorn-fucking is where symphonies come from.

Let’s wash up in the butterscotch stream and then fuck again in full view of Miss Bluebird and her picnicking class of wide-eyed bunny-children.

Let’s do it, because it won’t be long until they catch us and put us on the cover of some little girl's binder, and if we’re going to spend the rest of eternity cute, cuddly, and perfectly fucking still, we might as well have some fun.

And I don’t mean fun like the Teddybear Care-ousel.

And I don’t mean fun like the Tea-cake Jamboree.