He was a Greek waiter, she was an English

He was a Greek waiter, she was an English tourist on the mythical isle of Lesbos. They communicated in broken German and the International Language of Love. Georgios pulled his

polka-dot speedos up, grunted "Danke schoen" and stared deeply into Libby's eyes. Georgios was surprised when Libby came on to him here on the Isle of Lesbos, but he wasn't complai

ning. The big German girls all liked how his dark ringlets cascaded down his shoulders. Libby opened another button of Gergios white shirt revealing a lyre tatoo. "Was ist das?"

"It's my chest." "No, dat ting dere." "Oh. A tattoo." "Yes, but vat ist dis tattoo." "I dunno." He rolled his massive head and his majestic hair seemed to take on a separate life.

"THIS IS YOUR CHEST HAIR SPEAKING. I AM NOW ASSUMING DIRECT CONTROL."

He had shaved his head and therefore most of his eight sense with electrical clippers, but his chest hair grew wild and communed with all that was written on the wind. It led him t

o water but he wouldn't drink. His fingers and toes fused together into hooves. His chest hair became a mane. His face stretched into a horse. He was a werehorse.

Now that he was a werehorse, there was only one thing he could do, one place he could go where he would be accepted. "Welcome to ponyville!" Pinkie pie said, as she hugged him

as they met at the town's entrance. "This is the heaven on earth, for horses" - she added. You'll have everything you need here, except for one thing. "Which one?" - he asked. Then

an army of 7 year old Call of Duty players appeared. "Your sanity".