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My Loathsome Little Pony

I am about to reveal something not quite cool about me, but....

There is a limit to the amount of time I can sit on the floor with The Rabbit and play with her Little Ponies. And we're not talking one hour here. After about 8 minutes, my need to take deep breaths increases rapidly, and after about 12 minutes I start to fantasize about how great a cappucino would taste while sitting and watching some CNN.

I never had any Little Ponies when I was a kid. Somehow they passed by my childhood just like Count Chocula cereal -- which I heard was a euphoric experience for many people.

But these plastic ponies, with the jewels, and hair clips and brushes, with names like Sparkleworks and Love Wishes were surely invented on a pot binge.

The Rabbit now counts 31 in her possession, including the series of fake ones her grandmother bestowed on her for Christmas. These are even worse -- even uglier, like someone thought the Little Ponies needed bulking up. They look like minature Clydesdale ponies dipped in stale paint. Truthfully, when forced to play My Little Pony (how The Rabbit refers to any game that includes them) I insist at least on one of the real ones. I know. I'm a label snob.

My biggest fear is that the My Little Pony obsession means something, well, terrible about The Rabbit and her future..... Sure I played with Barbies. Sure I ate Twinkies. See what I mean?

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