“I just want you to know that if I could move my forelegs, they’d be giving you a very, very tight hug around your neck right now, just for that pun alone.”
“Aw, what’s the matter, Angel? Feeling a little deflated?”
“…are you trying to get a forty-millimeter ball of P-235 to the face? Because I’ll gladly oblige that.”
“Snrk, yeah, sure. Come on Angel, let’s get you back into shape…”
It’d seem that Night Strike had another one of her famous flat-crash landings sans the Stork, and (un)luckily for her Parchment Bleach just happened to be trotting by on the way back to his house. I get the feeling he may come to regret all those puns.
In other news, pablote bit the bullet and finally got himself a ponysona. He will not remain unabused for long if I have any say in it.