Title: Derpy Nurse Author: Zinny Pastebin link: http://pastebin.com/auFs2ifG First Edit: Monday 5th of August 2013 09:41:42 PM CDT Last Edit: Monday 5th of August 2013 09:41:42 PM CDT >Sick with stupid pony flu thanks to that freaking mail mare >Whole body feels like shit and you hack things up worse than what Rarity's cat produces. >Idiot mail mare insists on nursing you back to health. >Try to object but she shoves a thermometer into your mouth shutting you up. "Now you sit here and let the thermometer take your temperature while I cook you some soup." >Grumble as she walks into the hallway >Seconds later he head pokes back into the room. "By the way, what does 'rectal' mean?"   ---   >Return from bathroom after furiously scrubbing your tongue and burning your toothbrush afterward. >Try to sneak out of the house but the damn mail mare's daughter is guarding the door. >Soon the soup is done and she serves it to you on a metal tray with a glass of milk. >Amazed that she doesn't spill any of it and burn you in the process. "I hope you like it, I made it extra special for you." >Hesitantly take a sip of the broth-only-soup. Its not too bad. >Have some more and notice the taste seems a little off. >Ask what she added. "Well, there was this bottle that claimed, 'one teaspoon for fast acting relief!', so I just put in the whole bottle. That way you'll be better in no time!" >Intestines start making sounds similar to the call of the blood beast of beguiling brutality. >Rush to the bathroom at the speed of Kenyans. >Remove pants and sit upon the throne. >Unleash an unspeakable mix of sound and matter upon the porcelain alter that warps the very fabric of space and time. >Exhausted and sore, you reach over for the toilet paper. >You're out. "Feeling better already?" >You're going to kill this mare.   ---   >Return from the bathroom yet again, only time with an anus more abused then Braeburn's. >Your comic collection died in the line of duty of keeping you sanitary. >Dumbass mail mare greets you with a smile and that annoyingly chipper tone. "Well. you're looking a lot better than before, you even lost some weight." >Ponder that you may have lost your liver and kidneys back there. >Moronic mail mare helps you lay down on your couch. "Now you just relax and I'll work out all those kinks in your body." >Worried that the mare who has a habbit of destroying buildings is attempting massage therapy you start to object. >Her hooves slam down on your back with the force of a great typhoon knocking the wind out of you. >Gasping for air she moves to your arm and presses on it. >You hear a pop. "Oopsie, that's normal for humans...right?" >Your arm bends the opposite direction, and you are not double jointed. >You currency lack the oxygen to scream like a bitch. >Idiotic mail mare attempts to fix your arm. >Arm is now folded back like a butterfly knife. >Third time is the charm and your arm returns to its normal positioning with a snap crackle and pop. >Before you can run the brain dead mail mare presses on your lower back. >Your spine is now in the shape of a contortionists wet dream and auto-fellatio is no longer a far off dream. "Ah! I'm sorry, I didn't think I pushed 'that' hard." >Feel what its like to have the bones in your body shifted back to normalcy manually. >You are now the consistency of jello and cannot feel your anything. >Stupid mail mare carries you up to your bed and throws you on it face down. "Now you rest well, and no staying up late reading." >You yell at her expletives that would curl the hair of the most experienced sailor. >It comes out more like the soft mewling of a kitten. >Half-witted mail mare bids you goodnight and shuts off the lights. >Bitch forgot to roll up the covers. >Her death will be slow.   ---   >Wake up in the mornin'. >Don't feel like P. Diddy. "Wakey wakey sleepy head." >Senseless mail mare bursts into your room with a mood that couldn't be achieved this early without copious amounts of coffee. >She informs you that you're going to be getting a sponge bath as you smell like a pile of garbage. >Nice to know you smell as good as your feel. >Foolish mail mare brings you to your backyard, as the bathroom still holds the unholy stench from yesterday. >Sit on a small wooden stool that has a sponge, the hose, and a bottle of some shampoo next to it. >You hear the sound of the hose's tap being turned and are greeted by a blast of frigged water so cold your nipples become hard enough to cut diamonds. "Oops. Sorry about that." >Brainless mail mare lathers your hair, and parts of your body in the soapy substance from the bottle. >Its by far the fruitiest thing you've ever smelled, and you once snorted crushed Jolly Ranchers. >Your body is scrubbed with the intensity of a thousand suns and you think you've lost the top 3 layers of your skin in the process. >You're blasted once again with the freezing cold water, your skin feels like its on fire. "Uh oh." >Good news, your skin is NOT on fire. >Its purple. "I'm sorry, I got Sparkler's coat dye mixed up with the shampoo. But it should only last for a week, so that's good right?" >The urge to strangle the witless mail mare is rising. >Unfortunately, you are currently outside. >Too many witnesses. >She lives, for now.   ---   >Slowly drag your now purple ass into the kitchen. >Hope that you can at least escape this simpleminded mail mare's 'help' with the most important meal of the day. >You can't. >She's already frying some breakfast on a skillet and flipping it with the grace of a beached whale. >You watch her like a dreadhawk to be sure she doesn't add more 'special sauce' like last time. >The doltish mail mare serves up two eggs and some hash-browns with toast and jam. >How that all came from a single skillet is best left unanswered. >You taste the contents hoping that she didn't somehow lace it with hemlock or arsenic. >It tastes rather well, you compliment her on not fucking up something for once. "Yay! I'm glad you like it! I've always been good with food. I can make almost anything taste good, just like THAT!" >The inane mail mare slams her hoof for emphasis and sends one of the large kitchen knives sailing through the air. >It lands right between your legs nearly separating you from big jim and the twins. "Gah! Are you okay?!" >You assure her that you are alright, though you now need to lay down. >Preferably as far away from any pointy objects as possible. >You gorge the rest of the meal and fly to your chair in the living room siting down. >The dim mail mare follows you and asks if you'd like a story read to you to help you rest. >You say you aren't tired, but she insists that the best naps are ones where you fall asleep listen to a story. >You recant and she pulls out a large tome. >You insist that you could stay awake through anything and that a story won't effect your perfect constitution in the least. >The nonsensical mail mare starts reading about a princess and how she travels the land with a magical fairy and they- >You're out at the second sentence.