I am Toni Lippi posted:

My daughter watches it, and I've seen every episode. I don't understand why grown rear end men like it. It's a kids show. Then I see pictures of the fan base and realize it's a bunch of emotionally stunted man babies.

krampster2 posted:

My findings were that it is crap and I don't like it.

Cardiovorax posted:

does anyone still care about this poo poo? p. sure they cancelled the show months ago, even.

Cardiovorax posted:

does anyone still care about this poo poo? p. sure they cancelled the show months ago, even.

Cardiovorax posted:

does anyone still care about this poo poo? p. sure they cancelled the show months ago, even.

Davincie posted:

ah my little pony, fertile new ground to make jokes about

Sidecrab posted:

Mature adult here. Love to dress up in my grey shirt and tie and whatch the news.

happyhippy posted:

The difference is that you dont masturbate to imagined situations or badly done drawings of the news casters.

Masturbate to car pile up reports and deaths, sure.

Windows 98 posted:

Roughly how many bronies in the farm land of the US have tried to gently caress their horses? Is there a stat on this?

Windows 98 posted:

Roughly how many bronies in the farm land of the US have tried to gently caress their horses? Is there a stat on this?

Cap0bvious posted:

I know this may sound like I'm an elitist gently caress, but I think a lot of the fetishes that develop from the Internet tend to have a degree of autism associated with it, but I guess that's just like everything in the Internet

But what would I know?

The Taint Reaper posted:

DreamWorks is making a My Little Pony movie. It's going to usurp Shrek.

Pththya-lyi posted:

On the contrary: the fifth season airs early next year and a movie is in the works with a planned 2017 release.

Beef Turret posted:

I want to tell you a story.

A story of a man who is not a man, but a little boy trapped in a world of adults. He is living in the end of history, in a world where childhood can be extended indefinitely. There was a time when thirteen year olds became accountants and ran empires. Now, we gone beyond the artificially constructed concept of the "teenager" -a phase of life that was essentially made up for marketing purposes- and pushed the threshold for maturity back into what used to be the very edge of middle age, comfortable adulthood. No one comes through this unscathed. Due to economic conditions, myself and 70% of men my age live with their parents; when he was my age, my father had been out of the navy for over six years, had a wife and child, and owned a house.

Into this world comes out protagonist. He has no name. He has no face. He is unknown, unloved, forgotten. His every step is haunted by the nagging fear that there is something of greater meaning, something he is supposed to do, but he is afraid to reach out for it because the world has been cruel to him, and through that cruelty he knows what it is. He was born to middle class white people and from first day he can remember, he knew there was an unspoken disappointment on his parents' part. They limped out of the wreckage of the cold war, the last children who remember the world under the shadow of the bomb. They are the 'me' generation and for them, this child's birth signaled the beginning of responsibility they never really wanted. They had a child as an accessory to their lives, because their was supposed to.

Our subject knows that.

From birth, he's subjected to a bizarre cultural construct of masculinity that's been tortured into obscene and twisted shapes by a world where it no longer fits. In older, crueller times not so remote from our own, his inadequacies would be hammered out by peer pressure, by parenting, by the trials of life. In our world, which kills through kindness, he is deprived of these terrible mercies. His interactions at home are rote and loveless. Both of his parents work at unfulfilling jobs that are the only escape they have from each other and from him, the tether that binds them together in their exurban hell.

One day daddy just has enough of mommy's poo poo. Our subject is still young. All he knows is that something is terribly wrong, and then one day daddy is gone. The cracks deepen and widen. His parents got a divorce and it isn't his fault, but he knows otherwise. As he grows older he becomes more and more of a liability. Mommy brings home other men, and when they see him, the look in their eyes is enough for her to know it is over and she knows why.

He has his first day of school. He tries to blend in and fails. There is no opening in the world in his shape. He is an appendix, a tumor, a bubble in the skin that forms when the world gets cold. He floats around the edges of friendly circles of children as his childhood goes on, never truly accepted. He is "that kid", the weirdo, the subject of idle rumors and speculation.

Then, one day, one special day, something magical happens. He is permitted to use a computer. Maybe his mother buys it for him so he'll demand less attention from her. He furtively discovers a strange, new world. An inviting world. He doesn't see it coming. He doesn't recognize the trap.

He's going through changes. Maybe it's genetics or maybe it's the excess estrogen produced by his copious body fat, but his voice isn't getting that much deeper, but it's happening. A growth spurt comes, and he begins to feel awkward. He is paying more attention to girl's chests and hips, he begins having erections. No one explains it to him. His mother is too busy, has too much work, his stepfather doesn't care. In school, all he's told is that if he has sex he'll get horrible diseases that will turn his crotch into a loaf of bread stuffed with hamburger. He's seen cartoon diagrams of penises and the internal structures of a woman's body but without a frame of reference he has very little idea how the anatomy actually works; it doesn't occur to him that sex is penetrative and he entertains the idea that girls have an elephant-like proboscis between their legs that sheathes the man's penis and coaxes out sperm, whatever that is.

In older times a stack of old copies of Penthouse found in the woods might inflame his loins and correct his misconceptions, but he lives in a glorious digital age. The Internet is here, and it has such sights to show him.

He goes to a search engine. He looks back and forth, gazes around the tiny room he lives in and wonders if someone will ask why the door is locked, not realizing no one cares. He types a word.

That word is "boobs". The journey begins.

He finds himself inaugurated into a new world too early. Google Images brings forth a cornucopia, a bounty beyond his wildest imaginings. His heart is pounding. Without quite grasping why, he plays with his penis in all manner of awkward ways, until through the right series of clicks he ends up downloading a video. A woman orders a pizza. She gets more than she bargains for. The illustration is enough. He fulfills his needs and ends up with his hand stuffed down his now soaked pants, cold with his own issue, curled around his laptop like a lover, the light of its screen a caress on his cheek.

In that moment, the monster is born.

He should be progressing towards adulthood but that progress stops. The real world frightens and hurts him, so he retreats. He flees from high school every day to internet porn. At first, simple sex is enough, but after hours and hours he becomes jaded far beyond his years. Through his on-line contacts, he branches out. He begins to experiment. Depending on which path he takes his road may lead to prison or a bizarre and embarassing arrest record. In the case of our present subject, he hears a single, simple word.

That word is hentai.

It is an astonishing discovery. Drawn women are subjected to things he cannot imagine a real person enduring. He sees a woman orgasming as she awaits her death by slow impalement on a rapidly growing bamboo shoot forced into her vagina. Grasping demons from the lowest hell drag screaming schoolgirls, teenage cunts like the ones who ignore him at school, drag them off into darkened halls and hurt them until they like it in a hundred ways he would never dare, violating their genitals and anuses with a profound and horrifying variety of appendages that arouse and inflame him in their creativity; multitudes of worm-like creatures, great rubber knobs.

Sometimes even hooks and blades.

The more he grows drawn into his inner world, his den of iniquity, the more insulated he becomes. He bumbles through a subculture of detached irony and takes it all seriously. He spends hours watching and re-watching Neon Genesis Evangelion; the small part of him that was once human cries out while he pores over endless images of the teenage pilot characters being raped.

His physical needs are always sated, but there is a deeper need left unfulfilled, the craving for comradeship and belonging that drives all men. He tries to fill it with discussion forums and chan boards but it won't work, because he and his fellows are all drawn together by their hatred of all things, including each other. It feels hollow to him. As he "matures" and moves on to a useless liberal arts degree that will condemn him to a life of slaving to pay perpetually piling debts, he floats into groups of real people, but even the anime club rejects him.

He lives a life of profound depravity and dreams of a hope he cannot name. Then, one day, on his journey through the seedy underbelly of the internet, he comes across an image of a pastel cartoon horse. Google is kind to him.

He learns that friendship is magic.

The lesson is delivered twenty years too late. For him, life is a masquerade, a game of playing pretend until he can get home, change into sweatpants, and soil them. The now tiny, shriveled husk of his humanity delights in the simple cartoon message about friendship and understanding, but it is too late, now, the monster grows too strong. The monster is hungry. It takes him over and forces him to the search engine. The beast nurtured inside him moves his fingers in tiny twitching movements. He types the words that will satisfy the hungry thing.

He sees Applejack.

He sees Big Mac.

He sees him mounting her.

He stares at the screen in grim silence. No ordinary person would see anything sexual in a cartoon horse mounting his younger sister; they would find only disgust. Our brony sees himself, and quietly begins jerking off, silent even though he no longer need fear discovery.

He does not cry.

I cry for him.

Beef Turret posted:

1gnoirents posted:

lol I dont know how true this is or not but I finally have some sort of insight for MLP. It was literally one of the very few things I couldn't come up with a single good answer for

Beef Turret posted:

I want to tell you a story.

A story of a man who is not a man, but a little boy trapped in a world of adults. He is living in the end of history, in a world where childhood can be extended indefinitely. There was a time when thirteen year olds became accountants and ran empires. Now, we gone beyond the artificially constructed concept of the "teenager" -a phase of life that was essentially made up for marketing purposes- and pushed the threshold for maturity back into what used to be the very edge of middle age, comfortable adulthood. No one comes through this unscathed. Due to economic conditions, myself and 70% of men my age live with their parents; when he was my age, my father had been out of the navy for over six years, had a wife and child, and owned a house.

Into this world comes out protagonist. He has no name. He has no face. He is unknown, unloved, forgotten. His every step is haunted by the nagging fear that there is something of greater meaning, something he is supposed to do, but he is afraid to reach out for it because the world has been cruel to him, and through that cruelty he knows what it is. He was born to middle class white people and from first day he can remember, he knew there was an unspoken disappointment on his parents' part. They limped out of the wreckage of the cold war, the last children who remember the world under the shadow of the bomb. They are the 'me' generation and for them, this child's birth signaled the beginning of responsibility they never really wanted. They had a child as an accessory to their lives, because their was supposed to.

Our subject knows that.

From birth, he's subjected to a bizarre cultural construct of masculinity that's been tortured into obscene and twisted shapes by a world where it no longer fits. In older, crueller times not so remote from our own, his inadequacies would be hammered out by peer pressure, by parenting, by the trials of life. In our world, which kills through kindness, he is deprived of these terrible mercies. His interactions at home are rote and loveless. Both of his parents work at unfulfilling jobs that are the only escape they have from each other and from him, the tether that binds them together in their exurban hell.

One day daddy just has enough of mommy's poo poo. Our subject is still young. All he knows is that something is terribly wrong, and then one day daddy is gone. The cracks deepen and widen. His parents got a divorce and it isn't his fault, but he knows otherwise. As he grows older he becomes more and more of a liability. Mommy brings home other men, and when they see him, the look in their eyes is enough for her to know it is over and she knows why.

He has his first day of school. He tries to blend in and fails. There is no opening in the world in his shape. He is an appendix, a tumor, a bubble in the skin that forms when the world gets cold. He floats around the edges of friendly circles of children as his childhood goes on, never truly accepted. He is "that kid", the weirdo, the subject of idle rumors and speculation.

Then, one day, one special day, something magical happens. He is permitted to use a computer. Maybe his mother buys it for him so he'll demand less attention from her. He furtively discovers a strange, new world. An inviting world. He doesn't see it coming. He doesn't recognize the trap.

He's going through changes. Maybe it's genetics or maybe it's the excess estrogen produced by his copious body fat, but his voice isn't getting that much deeper, but it's happening. A growth spurt comes, and he begins to feel awkward. He is paying more attention to girl's chests and hips, he begins having erections. No one explains it to him. His mother is too busy, has too much work, his stepfather doesn't care. In school, all he's told is that if he has sex he'll get horrible diseases that will turn his crotch into a loaf of bread stuffed with hamburger. He's seen cartoon diagrams of penises and the internal structures of a woman's body but without a frame of reference he has very little idea how the anatomy actually works; it doesn't occur to him that sex is penetrative and he entertains the idea that girls have an elephant-like proboscis between their legs that sheathes the man's penis and coaxes out sperm, whatever that is.

In older times a stack of old copies of Penthouse found in the woods might inflame his loins and correct his misconceptions, but he lives in a glorious digital age. The Internet is here, and it has such sights to show him.

He goes to a search engine. He looks back and forth, gazes around the tiny room he lives in and wonders if someone will ask why the door is locked, not realizing no one cares. He types a word.

That word is "boobs". The journey begins.

He finds himself inaugurated into a new world too early. Google Images brings forth a cornucopia, a bounty beyond his wildest imaginings. His heart is pounding. Without quite grasping why, he plays with his penis in all manner of awkward ways, until through the right series of clicks he ends up downloading a video. A woman orders a pizza. She gets more than she bargains for. The illustration is enough. He fulfills his needs and ends up with his hand stuffed down his now soaked pants, cold with his own issue, curled around his laptop like a lover, the light of its screen a caress on his cheek.

In that moment, the monster is born.

He should be progressing towards adulthood but that progress stops. The real world frightens and hurts him, so he retreats. He flees from high school every day to internet porn. At first, simple sex is enough, but after hours and hours he becomes jaded far beyond his years. Through his on-line contacts, he branches out. He begins to experiment. Depending on which path he takes his road may lead to prison or a bizarre and embarassing arrest record. In the case of our present subject, he hears a single, simple word.

That word is hentai.

It is an astonishing discovery. Drawn women are subjected to things he cannot imagine a real person enduring. He sees a woman orgasming as she awaits her death by slow impalement on a rapidly growing bamboo shoot forced into her vagina. Grasping demons from the lowest hell drag screaming schoolgirls, teenage cunts like the ones who ignore him at school, drag them off into darkened halls and hurt them until they like it in a hundred ways he would never dare, violating their genitals and anuses with a profound and horrifying variety of appendages that arouse and inflame him in their creativity; multitudes of worm-like creatures, great rubber knobs.

Sometimes even hooks and blades.

The more he grows drawn into his inner world, his den of iniquity, the more insulated he becomes. He bumbles through a subculture of detached irony and takes it all seriously. He spends hours watching and re-watching Neon Genesis Evangelion; the small part of him that was once human cries out while he pores over endless images of the teenage pilot characters being raped.

His physical needs are always sated, but there is a deeper need left unfulfilled, the craving for comradeship and belonging that drives all men. He tries to fill it with discussion forums and chan boards but it won't work, because he and his fellows are all drawn together by their hatred of all things, including each other. It feels hollow to him. As he "matures" and moves on to a useless liberal arts degree that will condemn him to a life of slaving to pay perpetually piling debts, he floats into groups of real people, but even the anime club rejects him.

He lives a life of profound depravity and dreams of a hope he cannot name. Then, one day, on his journey through the seedy underbelly of the internet, he comes across an image of a pastel cartoon horse. Google is kind to him.

He learns that friendship is magic.

The lesson is delivered twenty years too late. For him, life is a masquerade, a game of playing pretend until he can get home, change into sweatpants, and soil them. The now tiny, shriveled husk of his humanity delights in the simple cartoon message about friendship and understanding, but it is too late, now, the monster grows too strong. The monster is hungry. It takes him over and forces him to the search engine. The beast nurtured inside him moves his fingers in tiny twitching movements. He types the words that will satisfy the hungry thing.

He sees Applejack.

He sees Big Mac.

He sees him mounting her.

He stares at the screen in grim silence. No ordinary person would see anything sexual in a cartoon horse mounting his younger sister; they would find only disgust. Our brony sees himself, and quietly begins jerking off, silent even though he no longer need fear discovery.

He does not cry.

I cry for him.

Beef Turret posted:

I want to tell you a story.

A story of a man who is not a man, but a little boy trapped in a world of adults. He is living in the end of history, in a world where childhood can be extended indefinitely. There was a time when thirteen year olds became accountants and ran empires. Now, we gone beyond the artificially constructed concept of the "teenager" -a phase of life that was essentially made up for marketing purposes- and pushed the threshold for maturity back into what used to be the very edge of middle age, comfortable adulthood. No one comes through this unscathed. Due to economic conditions, myself and 70% of men my age live with their parents; when he was my age, my father had been out of the navy for over six years, had a wife and child, and owned a house.

...

He does not cry.

I cry for him.

Beef Turret posted:

I want to tell you a story.

A story of a man who is not a man, but a little boy trapped in a world of adults. He is living in the end of history, in a world where childhood can be extended indefinitely. There was a time when thirteen year olds became accountants and ran empires. Now, we gone beyond the artificially constructed concept of the "teenager" -a phase of life that was essentially made up for marketing purposes- and pushed the threshold for maturity back into what used to be the very edge of middle age, comfortable adulthood. No one comes through this unscathed. Due to economic conditions, myself and 70% of men my age live with their parents; when he was my age, my father had been out of the navy for over six years, had a wife and child, and owned a house.

Into this world comes out protagonist. He has no name. He has no face. He is unknown, unloved, forgotten. His every step is haunted by the nagging fear that there is something of greater meaning, something he is supposed to do, but he is afraid to reach out for it because the world has been cruel to him, and through that cruelty he knows what it is. He was born to middle class white people and from first day he can remember, he knew there was an unspoken disappointment on his parents' part. They limped out of the wreckage of the cold war, the last children who remember the world under the shadow of the bomb. They are the 'me' generation and for them, this child's birth signaled the beginning of responsibility they never really wanted. They had a child as an accessory to their lives, because their was supposed to.

Our subject knows that.

From birth, he's subjected to a bizarre cultural construct of masculinity that's been tortured into obscene and twisted shapes by a world where it no longer fits. In older, crueller times not so remote from our own, his inadequacies would be hammered out by peer pressure, by parenting, by the trials of life. In our world, which kills through kindness, he is deprived of these terrible mercies. His interactions at home are rote and loveless. Both of his parents work at unfulfilling jobs that are the only escape they have from each other and from him, the tether that binds them together in their exurban hell.

One day daddy just has enough of mommy's poo poo. Our subject is still young. All he knows is that something is terribly wrong, and then one day daddy is gone. The cracks deepen and widen. His parents got a divorce and it isn't his fault, but he knows otherwise. As he grows older he becomes more and more of a liability. Mommy brings home other men, and when they see him, the look in their eyes is enough for her to know it is over and she knows why.

He has his first day of school. He tries to blend in and fails. There is no opening in the world in his shape. He is an appendix, a tumor, a bubble in the skin that forms when the world gets cold. He floats around the edges of friendly circles of children as his childhood goes on, never truly accepted. He is "that kid", the weirdo, the subject of idle rumors and speculation.

Then, one day, one special day, something magical happens. He is permitted to use a computer. Maybe his mother buys it for him so he'll demand less attention from her. He furtively discovers a strange, new world. An inviting world. He doesn't see it coming. He doesn't recognize the trap.

He's going through changes. Maybe it's genetics or maybe it's the excess estrogen produced by his copious body fat, but his voice isn't getting that much deeper, but it's happening. A growth spurt comes, and he begins to feel awkward. He is paying more attention to girl's chests and hips, he begins having erections. No one explains it to him. His mother is too busy, has too much work, his stepfather doesn't care. In school, all he's told is that if he has sex he'll get horrible diseases that will turn his crotch into a loaf of bread stuffed with hamburger. He's seen cartoon diagrams of penises and the internal structures of a woman's body but without a frame of reference he has very little idea how the anatomy actually works; it doesn't occur to him that sex is penetrative and he entertains the idea that girls have an elephant-like proboscis between their legs that sheathes the man's penis and coaxes out sperm, whatever that is.

In older times a stack of old copies of Penthouse found in the woods might inflame his loins and correct his misconceptions, but he lives in a glorious digital age. The Internet is here, and it has such sights to show him.

He goes to a search engine. He looks back and forth, gazes around the tiny room he lives in and wonders if someone will ask why the door is locked, not realizing no one cares. He types a word.

That word is "boobs". The journey begins.

He finds himself inaugurated into a new world too early. Google Images brings forth a cornucopia, a bounty beyond his wildest imaginings. His heart is pounding. Without quite grasping why, he plays with his penis in all manner of awkward ways, until through the right series of clicks he ends up downloading a video. A woman orders a pizza. She gets more than she bargains for. The illustration is enough. He fulfills his needs and ends up with his hand stuffed down his now soaked pants, cold with his own issue, curled around his laptop like a lover, the light of its screen a caress on his cheek.

In that moment, the monster is born.

He should be progressing towards adulthood but that progress stops. The real world frightens and hurts him, so he retreats. He flees from high school every day to internet porn. At first, simple sex is enough, but after hours and hours he becomes jaded far beyond his years. Through his on-line contacts, he branches out. He begins to experiment. Depending on which path he takes his road may lead to prison or a bizarre and embarassing arrest record. In the case of our present subject, he hears a single, simple word.

That word is hentai.

It is an astonishing discovery. Drawn women are subjected to things he cannot imagine a real person enduring. He sees a woman orgasming as she awaits her death by slow impalement on a rapidly growing bamboo shoot forced into her vagina. Grasping demons from the lowest hell drag screaming schoolgirls, teenage cunts like the ones who ignore him at school, drag them off into darkened halls and hurt them until they like it in a hundred ways he would never dare, violating their genitals and anuses with a profound and horrifying variety of appendages that arouse and inflame him in their creativity; multitudes of worm-like creatures, great rubber knobs.

Sometimes even hooks and blades.

The more he grows drawn into his inner world, his den of iniquity, the more insulated he becomes. He bumbles through a subculture of detached irony and takes it all seriously. He spends hours watching and re-watching Neon Genesis Evangelion; the small part of him that was once human cries out while he pores over endless images of the teenage pilot characters being raped.

His physical needs are always sated, but there is a deeper need left unfulfilled, the craving for comradeship and belonging that drives all men. He tries to fill it with discussion forums and chan boards but it won't work, because he and his fellows are all drawn together by their hatred of all things, including each other. It feels hollow to him. As he "matures" and moves on to a useless liberal arts degree that will condemn him to a life of slaving to pay perpetually piling debts, he floats into groups of real people, but even the anime club rejects him.

He lives a life of profound depravity and dreams of a hope he cannot name. Then, one day, on his journey through the seedy underbelly of the internet, he comes across an image of a pastel cartoon horse. Google is kind to him.

He learns that friendship is magic.

The lesson is delivered twenty years too late. For him, life is a masquerade, a game of playing pretend until he can get home, change into sweatpants, and soil them. The now tiny, shriveled husk of his humanity delights in the simple cartoon message about friendship and understanding, but it is too late, now, the monster grows too strong. The monster is hungry. It takes him over and forces him to the search engine. The beast nurtured inside him moves his fingers in tiny twitching movements. He types the words that will satisfy the hungry thing.

He sees Applejack.

He sees Big Mac.

He sees him mounting her.

He stares at the screen in grim silence. No ordinary person would see anything sexual in a cartoon horse mounting his younger sister; they would find only disgust. Our brony sees himself, and quietly begins jerking off, silent even though he no longer need fear discovery.

He does not cry.

I cry for him.