Saddle up! It’s time for a Brony Smackdown!



We are living in the goddamned end times. I just know it. I’m not too religious, but the prophecies of the Book of Revelation are everywhere. The sun is scorching the Earth. Justin Bieber is the Antichrist. Miley Cyrus is the Whore of Babylon. But where are the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse, you ask? Well, sometimes things get lost in translation.

Because they’re really PONIES.

Can you sprinkle a turd with pixie dust and call it a movement? Bronies seem to think so. If you haven’t heard the term, get caught up.  But the quick and dirty is this: My Little Pony are toys made by Hasbro since the 1980’s. I had them. They were cute and they smelled like plastic birthday cake. In 2010, Hasbro introduced a new generation of the toys and as a handy marketing tie-in, a show called My Little Pony: Friendship is Magic. Hasbro has a long history of this. GI Joe. The Transformers. Jem and the Holograms. Insipid little cartoons that were basically 20 minute commercials for their products. But this show found an unlikely legion of fans: adult males in their early to mid-20s. Hence, Bronies.


This weekend I watched a documentary on Netflix, Bronies: The Extremely Unexpected Adult Fans of My Little Pony. The film is fan produced, so it’s very pro-Brony and total clopaganda. I augmented my findings with some online research. I’m now sure of two things.

One: I may never have sex again. These bronies have killed my lady boner. The more I learn, the more my vagina gets very sad. She is now in full mourning and will only wear black panties. Even looking at pictures of Ryan Gosling could not coax her out of hiding.

Two: This is not hipster irony. Or even your average creepily virginal fandom. This is, 100%, a religious movement that is growing at an alarming rate. We MUST corral this herd of idiots before it’s too late.

In an informal survey, as many as 12 million Americans identify as Bronies. To put that in perspective, there are only 10 million Scientologists WORLDWIDE. These ponyboys have a MASSIVE online presence, attend conventions, and spread their message of Magical Friendship. They even have their own lexicon. “Everybody” becomes “everypony”.  A fist bump is a Bro-hoof. And their tagline? I’m gonna tolerate and love the shit out of you.


Well, hay, Nicki, that doesn’t sound so bad, does it? I mean lots of parents and even psychologists think the Brony message is a good one. It’s better than all that violent video gaming isn’t it? Better than looking at porn all day?

Do not google My Little Pony Rule 34.

OK, are you back? After your eyeballs finish rupturing, let’s continue. It would behoof you to listen next time. Sure, the porny ponies make up a small part of the fandom, along with the furries and the boys who wear tails that don’t require glue. Psychologists are quick to point out that the vast majority of bronies are white, heterosexual, college-educated males. Some have gone so far as to praise the Bronies for ushering in a new era of masculinity. Some call it the New Sincerity Movement.

Is this supposed to make me feel better? Look, my dismay has nothing to do with worrying about pedophiles living in their parents’ basements. I am really fucking FREAKED OUT that the hope of our collective future is spending their time making cupcake memes and farting rainbows and deluding themselves into thinking that it’s somehow relevant. I’m not having a knee-jerk reaction to gender bending, I’m having a visceral reaction to the utter pointlessness of it all.

And this is not revolutionary gender-bending either. Shit, David Bowie did it 30 years ago with a lot more swagger. At least Ziggy Stardust got laid. And if we’re going to start relaxing gender roles, can we at least start somewhere more significant? Like maybe we can stop calling God “Him”?

And what about this universal love? Are you seriously trying to tell me that we should love everyone, no matter what? “Hey Hitler, are you going to BronyCon?” That’s a terrible message! That’s why the stupid show is marketed to kids in the first place. By the time we reach middle school, most of us realize that the world is filled with assholes and the last thing they deserve is a fucking hug. This is a vapid philosophy devoid of logic.

That’s my problem. This is not….ANYTHING. There is a vast whistling emptiness at the heart of youth culture today. Some say things like Bronyism are a natural response to post-911 America. Some have compared them to hippies during the Vietnam War.

Hand me a beer, ya’ll, because my head is going to explode.

Hippies were fighting against something. Hippies were pushing back against authority. Hippies were trying to build a less materialistic, more free and open culture. Who really benefits from the Brony movement?

Fucking HASBRO, that’s who.

Let’s take a look at this beneficent company, shall we? It’s the largest toy company in the world. Nearly all of their production has been outsourced to East Asia, in factories they neither control nor oversee. We all know how that goes. They decimated ancient Indonesian forests for their packaging until Greenpeace jumped their shit. The state of Rhode Island gave them 1.6 million dollars to create more jobs, and instead they cut 10% of salaried employees. Meanwhile, CEO Brian Goldner just renewed his contract for an obscene amount of cash.

I mean, c’mon. This is the company that thought lawn darts were a good idea. This is the company that still packages Easy Bake Ovens in pink boxes and markets them exclusively to girls.


So while these manchildren are spreading their message of friendship and inclusion, they are sacrificing their gifts on the altar of corporate greed, and urging consumer culture ever onward and upward. Blow me, Bronies.

This is the endgame of twenty years of drugging our kids with Ritalin and food additives. Search Bronies on Youtube. Look at their pasty, living-in-captivity faces. Their doughy, hyperactive bodies. Their vacant eyes. Their utter soullessness.

And nobody wants to say anything bad. Parents don’t want to be anything but accepting nowadays. Nobody wants the kids feeling bad about themselves. But guess what, feeling bad about yourself is not necessarily a bad thing if you are doing something profoundly stupid.

Trust me, I know. I felt bad about myself for twenty years, and then I grew up.

Grow up, Bronies.

Grow. The. Fuck. Up.

Go outside. Have sex with a girl, or a guy. Make some art that isn’t derivative. Read a fucking book. Eat a fucking vegetable.

But mostly, grow the fuck up. You’re not unique, or important. None of us are. We are all just warts on the asshole of the world. At least some of us know it.

I’ve sat through the cults of Christianity and CrossFit, but this is just too much. We are ripe for extinction. We are in fact, devolving.

Every generation has its moment when they pass the torch to the next generation. Not me. I’m hanging on to it until they prove they’re worthy. I’m not letting these dipshits play with fire.

Gobble Gobble



Confession: I have epic daydreams. If you’ve the slightest imagination, you’ve got a few. Well-worn fantasies you can shuffle like cards in moments of boredom or loneliness. But mine are ridiculous. I’m like Aladdin masturbating that lamp, jerking off all kinds of fantastical treasures.

Some are bombastic Hollywood blockbusters, others little foreign film vignettes drenched in color and beauty. Here’s a sample:

RYAN GOSLING SAVES ME FROM RUDE BAR CUSTOMER: It’s a busy Saturday night. Customer X is all blah blah blah while staring at my boobs. Suddenly he grabs my arm and twists it to see my tattoo. I’m seething. Suddenly, RyGo melts from the throng. “Hey man, that’s not cool,” he says, fixing him with that Christlike stare. The man bursts into flames. Ryan hands me a hazelnut latte. “I thought you could use this.” He leans in close, brushing back my flowing mermaid hair, and whispers: “It’s still not over.”

I know, right? But my all time favorite is a little number I call APOCALYPSE, WOW. It is the end days. Nuclear armageddon has ended much of life on Earth. But this isn’t some dystopian shit. Because miraculously, I was chosen to detonate the top secret bombs, which could limit their blast radius and only take out the people, places and species I chose. Bye bye, people of Walmart. See you later, fucking 17 year cicada. Adios, Newport. Joe, Sadie, and I are the leaders of the new tribe. A noble band of warriors who are eschewing the evils of the techno age and reimagining Eden. Here’s me, running through a field like a lady in a tampon commercial while my husband Joe flies overhead on a pegasus, the soft laughter of my daughter like so many fairy bells. Lots of soft, flattering light. We would live like….hmmm……

The motherfucking NATIVE AMERICANS. Remember them? You should. Remember learning about the first Thanksgiving at school? Looking at shit like this picture. First of all, the Pilgrims are creepy. What’s up with those shoes? The outfits look like they were styled by Michael Stipe. I just don’t trust those guys. Even in third grade I smelled a rat. And sure enough, soon enough they were burning bitches.


On the other hand, the Indians have this effortless boho chic thing going on, but I can’t look at this picture and not think “those poor chumps.” They had no idea. Thanksgiving, my ass.

Fast forward a few hundred years and you get this:


A bunch of white people in bad sweaters gloating over their kingdom. Like the pigs in Animal Farm, the grease shiny on their chins, their eyes beady with greed. “Bwaahaha. Eat drink and be merry for tomorrow is Black Friday.” It’s so gross. Don’t get me wrong, I love celebrations and I have a lot to be thankful for. But this whole, let’s arbitrarily celebrate the first harvest and completely ignore the genocide of an entire people, is so quintessentially American. Oh, that beloved hamster wheel of tradition! I am sensitive to the plight of the downtrodden, but for the most part we have so much more than we ever need. Thank God there’s no gift giving, at least. (Turkey Klaus? Pilgrim Baskets?) We could have learned a lot of lessons from the native people, and instead we’ve gotten so far from where we need to be. It gets me to musing again.

Quick, hop in my time machine!!! We’ll go back and tell them, we’ll warn them all! We’ll show them what the future holds! Even better, let’s just stay in pre-Colonial America. Let’s worship the Great Mother and dance in the firelight. My skill set is underutilized in this modern world anyway. I’d rather stab my dinner to death than wait in line at the DMV. I’d be a kickass savage. I’m a simple pleasures girl, I like mind altering substances, I’d look awesome in a loincloth.

But if I’m keeping it real, that’s such bullshit. I’m the last person who would want to camp out permanently. I’m a little bitch about a soft mattress and some thread count. And I would definitely need some spices, and some coffee, and some freakin’ Funyuns to round out all that maize. And speakers with some bass. A flute can only get you so far……I just find myself wanting something other and having only a vague idea of what that “other” is.

I’m a hot mess, a walking cliche. Clinging to my creature comforts while I shake my fist at the heavens. I just know that life was meant to be a little more magical than it is right now. So while I do give heartfelt thanks for my family, my health, my gorgeous face, and my giant brain- I do venture one wish:

This Thursday, after you feast on that factory farmed flesh, and before you slip into a narcotic doze, you will have a brief idyll of imagining with me.

A girl can dream.