With all the fake news swirling around these days, there is one perilous lie that must be put permanently to rest: I’m talking, of course, about the universally accepted amazeballsness of unicorns. I have spent my entire life on a unicorn farm, and those filth-laden rainbow rats aren’t half as majestic as they’re hyped up to be.
For starters, do you have any idea how much those spikey-skulled jerkoffs shit? Shoveling all that enchanted ass-glitter day in and day out is no easy task. Sparkling fecal flakes wind up all over everything, no matter what you do. And all glimmer and shimmer properties aside, that colorful crap doesn’t smell one bit prettier than what falls out of a flat-foreheaded horse’s ass.
Then there’s horn maintenance. You have to keep those bastards sanded down to a dull nub or the bumbling beasts will impale each other as they frolic flamboyantly through the meadow. They’d be less apt to collide if they’d watch where they were fucking going for once, instead of whipping their manes around as though they’re starring in a shitty shampoo commercial, but I guess they’d rather accidentally puncture their buddy’s lung than be caught looking anything less than fabulous.
And your beloved dildo-domed donkeys won’t blissfully graze on grass like regular, non-douchey horses. Unicorns’ diets consist primarily of lollipops and sprinkled donuts, which is expensive (as well as inconvenient) for most farmers to attain. But when not properly hopped up on sugar and artificial sweeteners the creatures can turn hostile, and will gleefully trample anyone that dares try to appease their appetite with a lousy apple or carrot.
And you can forget about straw or hay. Unijerks require freshly laid beds of baby swan feathers, and their stalls must be decorated daily with fresh flowers. And if the blooms do not meet the unicorns’ ever-changing colorfulness quota, they will eat and then vomit the petals in a dramatic display of displeasure. Unicorns also piss whenever and wherever they feel like it, and the sweet, syrupy puddles attract a plague-level infestation of butterflies– the thick, gyrating larvae of which the unicorns also do not deem to be aesthetically pleasing.
Worst of all, though, is the flatulence.
Unicorns don’t just fart; they poof clouds of poisonous gas that could wipe out a small village. The stench is like nothing else on Earth. Imagine a field of burning hair next to a manure factory built atop a landfill of rotten eggs, with a hint of baking bread scent to emanate just enough pleasantness to encourage deep breathing.
Forget about meteors; unicorn flatulence brought about the extinction of the dinosaurs. Legend has it that a lactose intolerant unicorn went on an ice cream binge, then let one rip directly into a dragon’s spewed flame. The mushroom cloud that ensued fossilized the mammoth beasts, and plunged the planet into dark, cold chaos. Oh, and that pesky hole in the ozone layer? It was caused by emissions, all right– just not the ones from factories and motor vehicles. That, my friends, is the raw, putrid power of the unicorn fart.
You may be wondering why, if they’re so unpleasant, would anyone choose to make their living farming these foul beings? I asked that a lot growing up here; I couldn’t wait to leave. I would’ve made a wonderful lawyer or supermarket greeter, but I guess you could say I got saddled with the family business. (That isn’t a pun, because unicorns flat out refuse to be ridden. Except by leprechauns.)
Folks in town still like to yack about how delightfully progressive it was of my parents to pass over my two older brothers and hand down control of the family farm to their firstborn female child, but Hans and Henrietta Horschboner weren’t exactly patriarchy-blasting social justice warriors; they had simply declared years earlier that the first of their offspring to grow a respectable beard would be the heir to the rainbow throne. They certainly had no way of knowing they’d be signing the deed over to their daughter on the day of her thirteenth birthday.
It may not be an ideal life, but there are a few benefits to breeding and catering to every whim of these phallus-faced jerks.
For starters, unicorn semen is extremely marketable. While not the most enjoyable commodity to obtain, at least not for the farmer, sports stadiums worldwide demand a substantial supply of snow cone syrup, which is simply organic unicorn jizz. Yankee Stadium alone accounts for 30% of annual unicorn spunk consumption, and everyone knows that franchise is willing to overpay for pretty much anything.
Lucrative lust juices aside, perhaps the most motivating factor for unicorn farming is population control; if left to their own libidos these horny bastards would procreate at a rate that would make cockroaches weep. But with regular sperm secretion the males are less likely to go to the trouble of impressing a mate, and females are generally content with abstinence if provided an adequate supply of chocolate.
While snow cone deprivation may not sound so dire next to the threat of worldwide extinction via unregulated rectal tremors of mythological mammals, there is currently a campaign to relieve the bothersome beings of the burden of captivity. And by campaign, I of course mean a petition on the internet. Please, whatever you do, do not sign. Not only will you be contributing to the possible destruction of the planet by noxious ass gasses, the hosting website also makes you enter your email address, and your inbox will be spammed with surveys and other assorted junk mail every single day for the rest of your life. There is no cause on Earth worthy of enduring such inconvenience.
I’m also hopeful that by writing this I will draw attention to the potential dangers of encountering a unicorn in the wild. If you ever find yourself near one of these animals, please take these precautions. Never, under any circumstances, inhale deeply in the animal’s presence. Do not position yourself in front of the horn. And while it is relatively safe to jerk the creature off, if you’re so inclined, be sure to serve the freshly harvested ejaculate over ice, or you’ll likely suffer an excruciating stomachache.
Kimmy Dee is a humour writer who can be found at https://kimmydee-pitchabitch.blogspot.com