Certain flavors of banter and wit seem to go well with the ponies. These would seem to include Harry Dresdin, Jack O'Neill, and certain flavors of post grail war Shiro Emiya. It would also seem to include Will Rogers, Winston Churchill, and Samuel Clemons. I would also argue that Rudyard Kipling belongs on the list, because he is just that good. Also, consider the following.
American Notes, Defenceless Coasts
Behold now the glorious condition of this Republic which has no fear. There is ransom and loot past the counting of man on her seaboard alone—plunder that would enrich a nation—and she has neither a navy nor half a dozen first-class ports to guard the whole. No man catches a snake by the tail, because the creature will sting; but you can build a fire around a snake that will make it squirm.
The country is supposed to be building a navy now. When the ships are completed her alliance will be worth having—if the alliance of any republic can be relied upon. For the next three years she can be hurt, and badly hurt. Pity it is that she is of our own blood, looking at the matter from a Pindarris point of view. Dog cannot eat dog.
I—But you talk about interviewing people whether they like it or not. Have you no bounds beyond which even your indecent curiosity must not go?
HE—I haven’t struck ’em yet. What do you think of interviewing a widow two hours after her husband’s death, to get her version of his life?
I—I think that is the work of a ghoul. Must the people have no privacy?
HE—There is no domestic privacy in America. If there was, what the deuce would the papers do? See here. Some time ago I had an assignment to write up the floral tributes when a prominent citizen had died.
I—Translate, please; I do not understand your pagan rites and ceremonies.
HE—I was ordered by the office to describe the flowers, and wreaths, and so on, that had been sent to a dead man’s funeral. Well, I went to the house. There was no one there to stop me, so I yanked the tinkler—pulled the bell—and drifted into the room where the corpse lay all among the roses and smilax. I whipped out my note-book and pawed around among the floral tributes, turning up the tickets on the wreaths and seeing who had sent them. In the middle of this I heard some one saying: “Please, oh, please!” behind me, and there stood the daughter of the house, just bathed in tears—
I—You unmitigated brute!
HE—Pretty much what I felt myself. “I’m very sorry, miss,” I said, “to intrude on the privacy of your grief. Trust me, I shall make it as little painful as possible.”
I—But by what conceivable right did you outrage—
HE—Hold your horses. I’m telling you. Well, she didn’t want me in the house at all, and between her sobs fairly waved me away. I had half the tributes described, though, and the balance I did partly on the steps when the stiff ‘un came out, and partly in the church. The preacher gave the sermon. That wasn’t my assignment. I skipped about among the floral tributes while he was talking. I could have made no excuse if I had gone back to the office and said that a pretty girl’s sobs had stopped me obeying orders. I had to do it. What do you think of it all?
I (slowly)—Do you want to know?
HE (with his note-book ready)—Of course. How do you regard it?
I—It makes me regard your interesting nation with the same shuddering curiosity that I should bestow on a Pappan cannibal chewing the scalp off his mother’s skull. Does that convey any idea to your mind? It makes me regard the whole pack of you as heathens—real heathens—not the sort you send missions to—creatures of another flesh and blood. You ought to have been shot, not dead, but through the stomach, for your share in the scandalous business, and the thing you call your newspaper ought to have been sacked by the mob, and the managing proprietor hanged.
My link to Kipling stuff, when I'm in the mood:
http://www.telelib.com/authors/K/KiplingRudyard/
Note that American Notes is the first link, and Defenseless Coasts the last section from that.
I think that a Kipling/Pony cross will never be done to my satisfaction, sadly.
A) Kipling is dead
B) There is no evidence of Kipling having any contact with the My Little Pony franchise
C) Therefore, Kipling probably won't be writing any My Little Pony fanfic
1. There never has been, and never will be a writer whose writing in English can match Kipling's.
2. It would seem to require some fairly substantial worldbuilding on the My Little Pony end to match Kipling's other work.
3. The knowledge of 19th century India may no longer be extant to the required degree.
American Notes, Defenceless Coasts
Behold now the glorious condition of this Republic which has no fear. There is ransom and loot past the counting of man on her seaboard alone—plunder that would enrich a nation—and she has neither a navy nor half a dozen first-class ports to guard the whole. No man catches a snake by the tail, because the creature will sting; but you can build a fire around a snake that will make it squirm.
The country is supposed to be building a navy now. When the ships are completed her alliance will be worth having—if the alliance of any republic can be relied upon. For the next three years she can be hurt, and badly hurt. Pity it is that she is of our own blood, looking at the matter from a Pindarris point of view. Dog cannot eat dog.
I—But you talk about interviewing people whether they like it or not. Have you no bounds beyond which even your indecent curiosity must not go?
HE—I haven’t struck ’em yet. What do you think of interviewing a widow two hours after her husband’s death, to get her version of his life?
I—I think that is the work of a ghoul. Must the people have no privacy?
HE—There is no domestic privacy in America. If there was, what the deuce would the papers do? See here. Some time ago I had an assignment to write up the floral tributes when a prominent citizen had died.
I—Translate, please; I do not understand your pagan rites and ceremonies.
HE—I was ordered by the office to describe the flowers, and wreaths, and so on, that had been sent to a dead man’s funeral. Well, I went to the house. There was no one there to stop me, so I yanked the tinkler—pulled the bell—and drifted into the room where the corpse lay all among the roses and smilax. I whipped out my note-book and pawed around among the floral tributes, turning up the tickets on the wreaths and seeing who had sent them. In the middle of this I heard some one saying: “Please, oh, please!” behind me, and there stood the daughter of the house, just bathed in tears—
I—You unmitigated brute!
HE—Pretty much what I felt myself. “I’m very sorry, miss,” I said, “to intrude on the privacy of your grief. Trust me, I shall make it as little painful as possible.”
I—But by what conceivable right did you outrage—
HE—Hold your horses. I’m telling you. Well, she didn’t want me in the house at all, and between her sobs fairly waved me away. I had half the tributes described, though, and the balance I did partly on the steps when the stiff ‘un came out, and partly in the church. The preacher gave the sermon. That wasn’t my assignment. I skipped about among the floral tributes while he was talking. I could have made no excuse if I had gone back to the office and said that a pretty girl’s sobs had stopped me obeying orders. I had to do it. What do you think of it all?
I (slowly)—Do you want to know?
HE (with his note-book ready)—Of course. How do you regard it?
I—It makes me regard your interesting nation with the same shuddering curiosity that I should bestow on a Pappan cannibal chewing the scalp off his mother’s skull. Does that convey any idea to your mind? It makes me regard the whole pack of you as heathens—real heathens—not the sort you send missions to—creatures of another flesh and blood. You ought to have been shot, not dead, but through the stomach, for your share in the scandalous business, and the thing you call your newspaper ought to have been sacked by the mob, and the managing proprietor hanged.
My link to Kipling stuff, when I'm in the mood:
http://www.telelib.com/authors/K/KiplingRudyard/
Note that American Notes is the first link, and Defenseless Coasts the last section from that.
I think that a Kipling/Pony cross will never be done to my satisfaction, sadly.
A) Kipling is dead
B) There is no evidence of Kipling having any contact with the My Little Pony franchise
C) Therefore, Kipling probably won't be writing any My Little Pony fanfic
1. There never has been, and never will be a writer whose writing in English can match Kipling's.
2. It would seem to require some fairly substantial worldbuilding on the My Little Pony end to match Kipling's other work.
3. The knowledge of 19th century India may no longer be extant to the required degree.