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The Only Good Pony Is A Dead Pony August 29, 2012

Posted by J. in Genius, Sticks and String.
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I like to think of myself as a tolerant person. Live and let live, I always say. I have friends of many races and nationalities. I name as my friends confessors of every creed and keepers of every covenant you can imagine. But never, in my wildest imagination, did I think I’d live to see the day when I found my tolerance tested by a Brony.

For the uninitiated, a Brony is a grown man who likes My Little Pony. No…scratch that. He doesn’t like My Little Pony. He LOOOOOOOOOVES My Little Pony. His female counterpart is the Pegasister, and you’ll know if you have stumbled across one by their use of the words “cutie mark” in casual conversation. They may offer you a “brohoof”.

Whatever you do, don’t accept it.

They want to make you one of them.

We simply must resist. The ponies, you see, are evil and must die.

One day, I was cutie-marked a step too far. I’d see one too many pastel ponies come across my computer monitor and I admit it: I snapped under the torture. I had been forced to endure all the profile pictures and embedded videos, and I finally decided enough was enough. I would not give into my captors. I might have to see their insipid, smiling pony faces, but I don’t have to take it.


I have a crochet hook and a twisted sense of humor, and I set to work decimating the ponies one by one. The first to die was Pink Pony. She lost her head.

And with a decapitated pink pony, the Etsy shop Four Lights was born.

I have to admit, killing her felt good. Real good. Like leave-your-hands-shaking good. But not as good as seeing her sell almost as soon as I had her listed. I was not alone! Others like me needed to see ponies meet their doom! So I killed another one.

Click the picture to join the resistance and take the dopey disemboweled pony home with you.

God, it felt so good. Seeing the crocheted entrails spilling out on the ground. Sweet mother of Picard, it was good.  Too good, almost.

A friend took me aside. “Poops,” he said. “There are four lights.”

“I know, man. Always.”

“You know what I’d like to see?”

“What’s that?”

“I’d like to see one get her face eaten off by a cat.”

“Which one?” He smiled at me.

“The rainbow one,” we said in unison.

Click the picture to make her your own.

The resistance caught on. More requests. More ponies destined to die. The blood lust was going to my head and I hooked faster and faster, honing my skills as more ponies fell before me.

The picture takes you to her final resting place. Click it. You know you want to.

“Oh, my God. She’s just a baby.” The Bronies and Pegasisters were horrified. But I don’t see age. I don’t see color. I don’t see cutie marks. I see pure evil and I crush it like you would a nest of baby rats.

But not that horrified. I asked my small cadre, my band of resistance fighters how the next pony should die, and from the crowd, I heard, “Dismembered with a chainsaw.”

It was a Pegasister. I had to oblige.

The latest pony to join my shop. Click the picture to make all his parts your own.

I admit that the killing spree has gone to my head. I’ve ordered more yarn and roving. My favorite Brony friend wants to see a purple pony die in a pool of vomit from alcohol poisoning, and another member of the resistance force has come up with a pony whose death is so diabolical I can’t even begin to describe it.

Keep coming back. Keep fighting the good fight. Because the only good pony is a dead pony.


Hey, Jude! August 6, 2012

Posted by J. in Genius, Sticks and String.
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1 comment so far

I finally finished my Badass Saint for this month’s April’s Army Charity Shop. I’ll post links to it when the shop is life. Here’s St. Jude!

Of all the Saints, the Apostles are the twelve dudes who stand head and shoulders above the rest.

 Handpicked by Jesus, they were the most motley group of losers Christendom could have imagined. Jesus would tell them things about heaven and they’d sit there slack-jawed. They questioned him at every turn. They made him explain things over and over and over. He said, “Stay awake and pray with me,” and what did they all do? Fell asleep. It’s enough to make the Son of God facepalm.

 And as soon as the shit hit the fan, the twelve scattered and hid. “Jesus of Nazareth? Dude, never heard of him.”

 But then Jesus came back and this time, he brought the Holy Spirit with him. He came to them and gave them power. He gave them gifts. He gave them faith. He gave them fucking big brass balls. And armed with this new testicular fortitude, they went out and preached the Gospel message of Christ: love one another. Be kind to one another. Treat each other the way you want to be treated and you will bring about God’s kingdom on earth.

 It also got every one of them killed in spectacular fashion.

 Judas (“Seriously, man. Call me Jude.”) was a childhood friend of Jesus and was likely a relative of his, either a cousin or a brother. He walked with Jesus in life, and after his death traveled all over Persia and Mesopotamia driving out evil spirits, working miracles, healing the sick, and telling people about his Holy Homeboy. Not everyone took kindly to that, and as so often happens when you try to convert folks who don’t want to be converted, he met his untimely end by being clubbed senseless and having his head split open, because nothing says “bugger off” like the business end of a broad ax.

 To add insult to injury, St. Jude not only got a martyr’s death, but then after death he got ignored for a long time. See, his real name is Judas. Not Iscariot. St. Jude didn’t betray Jesus, but it’s kind of like going through life named Adolf. At some point you’re just going to ask people to call you Al. Or Scooter.

 St. Jude’s feast day is celebrated on October 28, and because so many miracles have been attributed to his intercession, he has become the patron Saint of desperate situations and lost causes. When all else fails, ask St. Jude. 


St. Jude has been meticulously rendered from his split skull to his sandals in 100% wool and stuffed with polyester fiberfill. He measures about 9 inches high without his removable felt broad ax. He wears a St. Jude medal around his neck which has been blessed by my Parish priest and may be removed and worn.

Badass Saints are OOAK art dolls and are not intended to be used as playthings.