Psychedelica – Pastel Ponies
A pony story by Joseph Raszagal
As inspired by stuff best kept away from children
Intermission (Chapter Chapter) – Epic Jeremy Time: Punctuating Pancakes for Emphasis, Bitch!

This intermission is not even remotely in canon with the rest of the story. All of the other ones so far have seemed kind of dubious, but surprise surprise, they've all still been canon too.

But not this one, this one is just for fun. Because fun kicks ass. Also, I just wanted to screw with everyone by releasing an intermission out of the established six chapter order.

Chef Jeremy's Epic Fucking Drinking Game Goddammit:

Every time Jeremy takes a drink, take a drink yourself.

Hardcore Mode: Every time anyone takes a drink, take a fucking drink too!

Hardestcore Mode: Every time anyone takes a drink and every time Jeremy curses, get alcohol poisoning!

Mythbusters "You Really Shouldn't Try This at Home" Mode: Every time anything happens, anything at all, drink an entire bottle of imported Absinthe!

God Mode: Just drink. Drink the entire time despite anything that is going on in the chapter. If you run out of beer, move on to whiskey. If you run out of whiskey, move on to unleaded gasoline (or leaded gasoline if you're me, but you aren't). It worked for Jackie Chan in "Legend of the Drunken Master". Should be safe.

“Welcome to Epic Meal Time, all you beautiful bitches out there, this is Jeremy Robin and the rest of the Epic Meal Crew!” I shouted at the camera, taking a mighty tractor pull of whiskey between sentences. “Today we're going to be making pancakes, waffles, cinnamon rolls, french toast, and then we're gonna pile all that shit together to make a stack that Mount Everest would shit its pants over!”

“Mount Everest?” Twilight piqued. “What and where is that?”

“Irrelevant!” I replied, guzzling another drink straight from the bottle. “It's really tall and this is gonna be taller, because tall things are tasty!”

“That doesn't even make any sens~

“Making sense is for pussies!” I interrupted, turning to face a griffin and her badass pair of sunglasses. “Alright, Muscles Feathers, let's get this party started right! Pass out the shots, there's no way we're cooking a goddamn thing if we're not shithammered already!”

“This is sounding like one bad idea after another,” Twilight groaned.

“Of course it does!” I replied as Muscles approached with a tray of assorted shots. “Now which of these bad boys is the strongest? I have a problem, a drinking problem, and I intend to make it worse!”

Rolling her eyes, the purple unicorn asked, “Do you have to yell?”

“I'm excited and yelling is exciting! You're the one with the brains, you do the math!”

“For the love of~ That's it,” Twilight growled, levitating three shots off of the tray and knocking each back, one by one. “If I'm going to get through this without beating you unconscious, I guess I'm going to have to do it your way.”

“There was never any other way to begin with, now let's get cooking!”

After we finished our shots, we hit the kitchen like it owed us money. Muscles got started on the first layer of our breakfast abomination, the pancakes. They say you can't make an omelet without breaking a few eggs, but we ain't making omelets, we're making a double-bypass heart transplant stack of sugar and fat, motherfuckers. And we broke every egg anyway. All of 'em.

Mixing up some batter with her claws, or talons, or whatever the fuck they are, Muscles then added the two bottles of rum required by our contract before spreading out three giant circles in three separate pans.

“Shot break!” I announced with a glass smashed against the wall, thereby summoning Pinkie Pie from whatever dimension she was in before I'd worked my magic. In her hooves was another tray full of beautiful, multi-colored liver-demolition.

With a wide smile, she grabbed one, downed it, and exclaimed, “I brought everything, including all the alcohols that don't even exist!”

“Those are my favorites!” I screamed, my eyes crossing involuntarily.

Reaching for a glass full of something bright green that smelled like kerosene, I scratched a strike anywhere match across my cheek, lit the drink on fire, and knocked it back. It burned more than taking a bubble bath inside the mouth of an active volcano.

In other words, exactly how I liked it.

“Back to business!”

With the pancakes already practically done, we moved on to the next step and wheeled out a titanium waffle iron made to survive a direct nuclear strike. Pouring in enough alcoholic batter to feed an entire African village for 30 straight Happy Hours, Pinkie licked clean what was left in the mixing bowl and then broke it in half over her knee. Not to be outdone, I took the two halves and broke them in half over my own knee. At some point we ended up with a thousand tiny pieces of plastic, which the pink pony then stuffed into her party cannon and launched into space. I think I heard someone scream in the distance, but I didn't care.

There were more drinks to drink and I was a man on a mission.

“Second shot break!” someone announced, reading my goddamn mind.

Turning around, I watched a tipsy Twilight as she filled a long line of glass soldiers all the way up to their rims.

“That's the spirit!” I yelled, marveling at how I somehow hadn't lost my voice yet.

“I just came to the conclusion that I'd like to forget everything that's going on today, everything,” she replied, inhaling two of the shots in record-breaking time. “So I'm doing exactly that.”

Which brought us to Step 3, cinnamon rolls, baby! Materializing a new mixing bowl from the place between spaces, Pinkie Pie threw in some eggs, flour, yeast, water, vegetable oil, 121 proof rum, a whole bag of sugar, and began stirring it by beating the ever-loving shit out of it with a wooden mallet.

“Stop right there!” commanded our surprise guest star.

Stepping into the kitchen, a white unicorn turned her head slowly, silently judging all of us with a sneer that spoke volumes of intense and unending hatred.

Wordlessly, Vinyl Scratch tore the bowl from Pinkie's hooves and placed it inside the bass drum of a drum kit that I hadn't even noticed up until just now.

“I th-thought you were a DJ, not a drummer,” hiccuped Twilight in between pulls off of a bottle of straight vodka.

“Yeah, you play electronic music,” agreed Muscles Feathers, gracing the universe with a seldom-heard voice that gave Morgan Freeman a fucking run for his money.

“I don't play any kind of music,” Vinyl said as she sat down behind her bitchin' kit. “I am music.” Lifting her own pair of shades long enough to blind everyone else in the room with the light of an exploding star, she returned them before we were all incinerated and added, “I am everything. Now if I were you, I'd plug my ears. I don't want a repeat performance of what happened the last time I lifted a pair of sticks... Or do I?”

Tilting her head, Twilight tossed her emptied bottle off to the side and questioned, “What happened?”

“There were no survivors.”

Vinyl then proceeded to launch into the solo from Rush's live performance of “YYZ”, thereby embarrassing every other drummer alive and mixing the batter simul-fucking-taneously.

A week later we would all learn that a hundred mares within a radius of five miles had become pregnant as a result.

Five stallions too.

But that's a story for another day. We had a ballin' breakfast battlement to build.

Once Thor's musical thunder died down and that sweet cinnamon shit was thoroughly blended, Vinyl stood from her seat and calmly stated, “If you ever ask me to help you cook something again, I will travel forward in time and kill your firstborn. Goodbye.”

A nanosecond later, a streak of crimson lightning flashed through the kitchen and revealed an empty space where the white unicorn had only moments ago been standing. Too drunk to really question anything at all though, I just turned to face my fellow culinary comrades.

“Let's pour and roll these bitches, BITCHES!”

“Not before another shot break,” Twilight cut in, wobbling from side to side as she raided the fridge and returned with a bottle of Absinthe. “Is this stuff strong?”

“It's brewed by the freaking Faerie Queen of the Fair Folk, Hell yes it is!” I responded. “And anyone who needs to melt a sugar cube for theirs shall henceforth be beaten with a golf club every half hour!”

Following that, everyone having decided not to take their shots like a bunch of little pigtail-sporting girl scouts, the dough hit the table and the additional cinnamon hit the dough. With a rolling pin, I steamrolled that shit flat, then began the process of drinking a cup of mouthwash while someone else fucking rolled it.

What, do they expect me to do all the goddamn work? Fuck that.

More mouthwash.

“Pinkie, bake those bastards!” I shouted, my surrounding starting to taste blue all of a sudden.

“Consider them baked!” she replied, throwing open the oven door and placing the delicious sons-a-bitches inside.

Breaking a whiskey bottle over the side of my head for no apparent reason, I turned to Muscles and hollered, “Now where the fuck are Rainbow Dash and Rarity with our motherfucking powdered sugar?!”

“We're here, we're here!” answered a blood covered pegasus as she and an equally red unicorn dragged ten bags of the shit inside.

“Whoa, w-what the... what in Equestria happened to you two?” slurred a now thoroughly wasted Twilight in between giggles and additional drinks.

“The authorities arrived shortly after we absconded the grocer's with these,” Rarity replied like the classy bitch that she is, pointing at their sweet cargo.

“Sucks to be them!” I laughed.

“Sucked to be them,” Rainbow corrected. “They're pretty past tense now.”

“Awesome, then that we can get the fuck back to making this Leaning Tower of Diabetes without worry of being interrupted by anyone other than ourselves!”

Cocking an eyebrow, Rarity inquired, “Why, pray tell, would we interrupt ourselves?”

“Bitch, if you were drunk, I wouldn't have to answer to that question!”

“Is that a challenge, good sir?” the fashionista sneered.

“All day, every day, here at Jeremy's Island Resort and Vodka Spa!”

And so the cooking resumed~

While RD and Rarity handled the french toast, I dragged a shitfaced librarian over to my side of the counter and got to work on a batch of syrup that promised to put every pony on the planet under the proverbial tavern's table.

“I don't even know where I am anymore!” Twilight cheered as she snapped off the necks from two bottles of rum and poured their contents in the general direction of her mouth.

“Then that makes five of us!” I concurred, squeezing four bottles of syrup into a huge pot. “Now gimme the rest of that rum before you finish drinking and/or showering in it, because if this shit doesn't put down an entire pride of lions, it's not strong enough!”

Clamping a lid onto the heavy pot, I moonwalked my way to the other side of the kitchen and threw the whole thing into a centrifuge that the Equestrian Aeronautics Space Administration had been kind enough not to notice was missing. Switching the machine on, I watched it spin around on a Z axis for a few minutes until my fucking face hit the floor.

“You dizzy bitch,” Muscles commented.

Sticking a hoof up into the air, I replied, “Dizziness is next to godliness, now pick me up, motherfucker!”

“Whatever.”

After being helped up, I returned my attention to the centrifuge, shutting it off and removing its contents. Slamming the pot down on the counter alongside all of the other finished dishes, I turned around just in time to come face-to-face with a very frantic looking Rainbow Dash.

“Jeremy, we've got trouble!” she cried. “Everything's starting to cool down! By the time the french toast is done, everything else is going to be as good as frozen!”

“Not on my watch!” I shouted, putting on my war face. “Pinkie Pie, get me my flamethrower!”

“Yay, I was wondering when you'd ask! Lucky for you that I have a few stashed nearby just in case of flamethrower emergencies!”

“What exactly entails a flamethrower emergency, dear?” Rarity questioned, taking a cautious step away from the energetic pink mare.

Stumbling over to Ponyville's premier fashion icon and throwing a foreleg over her shoulders, Twilight rambled, “Y-you never know when... when you'll need to s-set fire to somepony...”

Jumping in for the sole purpose of complicating Rarity's reaction to that statement, Rainbow Dash grinned and asked, “Yeah, what if somepony decided to match one of your new dresses with some accessories from last year's catalog?”

The blood-spattered unicorn's left eye twitched uncontrollably for several silent seconds.

“Kill them... kill them with fire... Kill them all with fire...” she muttered quietly, her pupils shrunken to the size of pinpricks.

Nodding, Twilight fell over sideways and giggled, “Exactly!”

“Everyone, shut up, I'm about to be stupid!” I yelled, hefting the large weapon that Pinkie Pie had somehow pulled out of an empty can of beans 20 times too small.

Lowering a welder's mask to protect my eyes, I clicked off the safety and primed the gasoline pump. After a sufficient amount of pressure built up, I lit the ignition flame and took aim at the still uncooked french toast.

“There's no kill like overkill!” I screamed, releasing a momentary blast of flame for every bit of half a second, tossing the hefty device down immediately thereafter and lighting a cigarette as though nothing had happened.

…

'Cause, c'mon, drunk or not even I knew anything longer than that would burn the shit.

And y'all fuckers had no faith in me. For shame.

“Alright, with that out of the way we should now be ready to~ BACK THE FUN BUS THE FUCK UP, ASSHOLES, IS THAT FUCKING WINE?!” I exclaimed as upon turning to face my team I locked eyes on Rarity's drink, a great feeling of utter betrayal turning my blood to ice. “Get the fuck out of my kitchen, you are not going to be America's next top model!”

“It's my seventh bottle,” she countered simply, grinning.

“I don't care if it's your eleventeenth bott~

Wait, how much time had passed since she and Dash came back with the sugar? 12 minutes max, maybe?

…

…

…

Holy fuck. Is that technically even possible?

“Oh,” I said, the one and only time my thunderous volume escaped me. “That's actually... pretty badass.”

“Well, ya did challenge her, remember?” Rainbow reminded me.

“Indeed, and for future reference you would all do well to remember, you don't become a metropolitan socialite without attending several thousand cocktail parties and wine tastings.”

“Aren't you supposed to spit out the wine?” asked Pinkie Pie as she teleported in another tray of various liver killers without even being prompted.

Nodding, Rarity smirked, “What you're supposed to do and what you actually do oftentimes end up being two entirely different things, darling.”

“F-for example, Carl Sagan, I'm probably supposed to be at th-the... the hospital right now,” Twilight sputtered as she held herself up with the refrigerator’s door handle, “but instead I'm here collecting s-stamps.”

“Jeremy, is she going to be alright?” Rainbow questioned nervously.

“Of course she is!” I replied, taking the tray of french toast and placing it on the counter. “None of this shit is even canon, so by tomorrow she'll be as fine as wine in the summertime!”

Adjusting her shades, Muscles asked, “What the fuck does that mean?”

“I don't even remember what I said, so who cares, you decide! And in the meantime, the rest of us will get this bad motherfucker built! Gentlemen, to your battle stations!”

“You don't want to take another shot break first?” Pinkie inquired, still holding the tray of drinks.

Placing the three pancakes on the main plate, I hastily shouted, “Dammit, Jim, there's no time! I'm a chef, not a doctor! Just splash a few of them at my face and I'll try to catch it!”

“Rodger, Captain, initiating protocol 'Make it Rain',” my pink soldier replied.

Over the course next few minutes, I deftly reversed-dodged streams of solvent-smelling alcohol whilst the rest of my team (and I!) fucking got shit done. On top of the first layer of three pancakes we drizzled a sticky coating of randomly-high-number proof syrup, then on top of that a series of six pieces of quickly melting butter and a blizzard of powdered sugar. After that, onward and upward to the next level, we took our waffles and made another triple layer, coating the top of it in the same drunken diabetic coating as the layer beneath it.

“Muscles, you better have greased the pans more than necessary!” I yelled just as a shot of bourbon missed its mark and hit me in the cheek. “And dammit, Pinkie, I've seen better aim from a little league pitcher!”

“A brick of lard for each pan,” the griffin stoically replied.

Slamming a hoof down on the counter, I roared, “Enough to give me a heart attack?!”

“Enough to give your next of kin a heart attack through blood association alone.”

Good.

Satisfied, I moving on to the cinnamon section and covered the surface of the sugar-saturated waffles with twelve of the little rolls. On top of that dozen, I placed another dozen, and on top of that dozen, yet another. 36 of the motherfuckers, motherfucker! Then came the butter, syrup, and powdered sugar again, an almost gelatinous crust guaranteed to send anyone brave enough to sample it running off in search of their emergency insulin rations.

Well, anyone except for Pinkie Pie.

Finally, nearing the end stretch, we came to the topmost portion of our project, the french fucking toast. Stacking another three layers consisting of four pieces each, we then doused them in syrup, butter, sugar, and another layer of syrup and sugar just to be sure.

Then we all took a step back and stared, wide-eyed at our creation...

My arteries clogged at the mere thought of tasting it.

“So, who gets to eat it?” asked Pinkie Pie, her blue eyes shimmering with pride as she continued to stare.

Grinning, I pulled a walkie-talkie out of a nearby cupboard, clicked the talk button, and triumphantly declared, “Project Pastry Pile has been completed! Release the hounds and report back to base, Agent Apple!”

Off in the distance, a loud “WHAT?!” resounded with the explosive force of three metric tons of dynamite. Seconds later, a hole in the shape of a unicorn was punched straight through the kitchen's wooden door, revealing a wild and twitchy mint green mare.

“HUMAN FOOD!” Lyra shrieked, drooling uncontrollably. “I HEARD THAT THERE'S FOOD MADE BY A HUMAN HERE! SHOW ME WHERE IT IS AND NOPONY GETS HURT!”

Catching on, Rarity feigned shock and swooned backwards into Rainbow Dash's awaiting forelegs, melodramatically crying, “Oh no, please don't eat our beloved breakfast tower! Our human friend finished it for us only seconds ago! Please, have you no heart? Have you no pity?”

“MY HEART IS AS BLACK AND COLD AS THE FAR REACHES OF SPACE, YOU WHORE!” the green unicorn answered, diving face-first into the giant stack that was absolutely certain to kill her 50 times over.

“This has been Epic Meal Time, bitches!” I laughed hysterically, doubling over as I poured whiskey all over my head. Some of it managed to find my mouth.

With her eyes rolling back in her head, Twilight hiccuped again and babbled before blacking out, “Next time, we eat the sun.”

To be continued in our regularly-scheduled programming, Psychedelica – Pastel Ponies...

Jeremy: Joey, you're stupid. Very, very stupid.

Joey: Stupid like a fox.

Jeremy: Gah, dammit, stop it! You reference things more often than I do!

Joey: I didn't reference anything at all throughout this entire intermission.

Jeremy: Wha~ No, that can't~ That doesn't make any sen~ Ugh! Did you... did you stop taking your meds or something?

Joey: I've never taken them. I flush them down the toilet every time I get back from the pharmacy.

Jeremy: That explains a whole lot. You're fucking crazy, dude.

Joey: Crazy like a stupid fox!

Jeremy: *Facehoofs* You frustrate me.

Joey: Sucks when the tables are turned, doesn't it?

Jeremy: This is more like the entire kitchen being turned. Upside down. At a slight angle. Outside. During day and night at the same time.

Joey: Fuck yeah!

Jeremy: *Groans* Someone please kill me...

Joey: Oh, hey, wanna see something neat before that?

Jeremy: What? Are you going to be even more annoying or something? How could you possibly be any more annoying than you're being right now?

Joey: Hehe, watch. *Starts typing*

*Drunk Twilight stumbles into the scene*

Twilight: *Wrapping a hoof around Jeremy's neck, grinning at him* Heeeeeeeeey there, handsome~

Jeremy: Oh God, oh God, no no no! This is cheating, Joey, this is fucking cheating!

Joey: What are you talking about, neither of you are even in a relationship yet. How can it be cheating?

Jeremy: YOU KNOW WHAT I MEAN, GODDAMMIT!

Twilight: C'mon, cutie, let's just ignore him and head back to the library. I'll show you the private section that nopony under the age of 18 is allowed to browse.

Joey: You do that, hun, I'll just leave you two little lovebirds alone.

Jeremy: I'LL KILL YOU! I'LL KILL YOU WITH MY BARE HANDS AND PISS ON YOUR GRAVE! DO YOU HEAR ME?! I AM NOT YOUR COSMIC SHIP-TEASE TOY!

*Twilight drags a flailing Jeremy off with her telekinesis*

Joey: Oh yes you are. Hehe.

Author's Notes:

You have absolutely no idea how much tequila went into this one. Now back to the actual story.

That is all.

Edit!: Except that's not all!

Apparently, I've received enough PM's to question my sobriety while writing this... uh... stuff? Honestly, attaching a greater word than "stuff" to an intermission like this would be so wrong that not even I could forgive myself without the help of a rimshot and a cartoony sound effect. So, the link added in the beginning is me, Joseph Raszagal, being drunk and stupid to a song about being drunk and stupid.

I hope you're happy.

The song is "Drinking Hymn of the Republic", by Matt Wixson. If any of you reading this happen to live in Michigan, be sure to tell him that he used to be fat but got skinnier. I'm sure he'll appreciate it. Also, listen to his music. It's pretty cool.

https://myspace.com/mattwixson

http://mattwixson.tumblr.com

mattwixsonsflyingcircus.bandcamp.com/

He's a pretty cool dude doing some pretty cool stuff. Also, I hit on him once really, really awkwardly in New Orleans. Because I'm awkward. Still, the fact remains, he's a bro.