Mr Everett sat seething in his bed-sit. His chair was gently crumbling beneath 10 years of his large donkey weight. It had suffered in silence for a long time, but now saw fit to creak every time Everett placed his behind upon it. From his chair Everett could see only discarded cigarette packets, crumbs and beer cans and the odd burnt out joint. It was remarkable he could see at all given the state of his eyes which were adorned with bags which were like vast expanses of ash. He sighed and then wheezed with the effort of sighing. Beyond the wreckage of a long life of consumerism Everett could see his television which was showing scenes of a live action adaptation of ‘My Little Pony’ intermittently between bursts of static.
“Fucking pony cunts!” Yelled Everett before coughing at the exertion of shouting.
“Why…the fuck…should they be so fucking highly respected when…when…when fine fucking folk like myself are left to traipse Blackpool beach with fucking kids on our back?!” Everett raved at no one.
His neighbours were very much aware of his pony prejudice. This stemmed from what he saw as false stereotyping of equine animals – ponies are cute and lovable, donkeys are bumbling fools. Everett was convinced that this unfair image was perpetuated in pop culture even by programmes such as Winnie the Pooh in which Eeyore was a depressed loner.
The truth was, either way, the ponies were successful and Everett, having punished himself with toxins for years, was unfit even for the beaches of Blackpool.
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