Turbine, 2003

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There was always something a bit wanton about My Little Ponies. Their curvy plastic bodies, the colour of vibrators and slut flavoured eye shadow, ‘midnight mauve’, ‘blow job blue’, and ‘you know you want to cherry red’. They had painted on doe eyes and glitter stuck to their cheap behinds, and fountains of tails that you could run your fingers through for hours. A pack of synthetic strippers, unleashed somewhere on the gold coast, running wild, taming the fathers with the magic trick of taking off all their fluorescent g-strings at once. Their brave young legs and silicon souls ready for anything that doesn’t look like love, in the empty ashtray hour of the morning, My Little Ponies are the kind of toys that will go for a ride with just about anyone …