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Mario Kart Wii review (part 1)
17 years ago
The night started off normally. Online Mario Kart Wii - a game of racing, cunning resource management, a true dissertation in the failings of left-leaning economic theories. But this is a tale of vengeance had on a fellow most-deserving.
"Chubbs Dixx" was his name.
That fuck.
He even picked Donkey Kong. God-damn Donkey Kong, a phallocephalic gorilla to match his penis-shaped avatar. A shining example of what the online gaming community has wrought and will be offering to the world in seven, short, painfully short years, whenever he joins the workforce. That fiend. He dogged my every move, trailing me, that fucking simian. "Just keep it together," I winced at the screen, remote and nun-chuk raised like forks in an Ethiopian all-you-can-buffet. The gold number one, blazed yet upon the bottom corner of my window to this virtual lovefest of diesel engines and tortoise shells. "You're almost at the end."
I shook my remote - the mushroom rockets me into the air and I know that between the banana peels, those little vampire mushrooms lurk, biting and looking for their next victim to infect. Drastic measures were afoot. I would have to be sly if I were to take this, these next five seconds on the third lap, in this mushroom-infested valley of unrealized dreams of first place.
"Just a moment more." I dodge the first fanged beast, whizzing past his befuddled demonic, gasping maw. I narrowly dodge the yellow peel that I'd left there a lap earlier for my nemesis. I could feel it. Victory was at hand. I would be the champion. But then I heard that god-damned twitter as my motorcycle received the world's fastest green shell enema.
It was at this point that God extended His Divine Middle Finger to me, as I heard the deathnote gasp of the approaching flying blue shell. I look up only to experience what I'd just received from behind, up front, tenfold.
"Miyamoto, that god-damned communist," I McCarthy. "Always the one to defend the fat children from the older, more physically-able bodied and ready for football, this fiend, this enabler, has taken the one thing that is sanctimonious - the desire to be number one - from video games and defiled it with his unholy blue flying shells. Who's going to win the home team game? Who's going to fuck the prom queen?"
These coked-up little pariahs, that's who.
"Chubbs Dixx" was his name.
That fuck.
He even picked Donkey Kong. God-damn Donkey Kong, a phallocephalic gorilla to match his penis-shaped avatar. A shining example of what the online gaming community has wrought and will be offering to the world in seven, short, painfully short years, whenever he joins the workforce. That fiend. He dogged my every move, trailing me, that fucking simian. "Just keep it together," I winced at the screen, remote and nun-chuk raised like forks in an Ethiopian all-you-can-buffet. The gold number one, blazed yet upon the bottom corner of my window to this virtual lovefest of diesel engines and tortoise shells. "You're almost at the end."
I shook my remote - the mushroom rockets me into the air and I know that between the banana peels, those little vampire mushrooms lurk, biting and looking for their next victim to infect. Drastic measures were afoot. I would have to be sly if I were to take this, these next five seconds on the third lap, in this mushroom-infested valley of unrealized dreams of first place.
"Just a moment more." I dodge the first fanged beast, whizzing past his befuddled demonic, gasping maw. I narrowly dodge the yellow peel that I'd left there a lap earlier for my nemesis. I could feel it. Victory was at hand. I would be the champion. But then I heard that god-damned twitter as my motorcycle received the world's fastest green shell enema.
It was at this point that God extended His Divine Middle Finger to me, as I heard the deathnote gasp of the approaching flying blue shell. I look up only to experience what I'd just received from behind, up front, tenfold.
"Miyamoto, that god-damned communist," I McCarthy. "Always the one to defend the fat children from the older, more physically-able bodied and ready for football, this fiend, this enabler, has taken the one thing that is sanctimonious - the desire to be number one - from video games and defiled it with his unholy blue flying shells. Who's going to win the home team game? Who's going to fuck the prom queen?"
These coked-up little pariahs, that's who.
NinjaPuppy
~ninjapuppy
I seriously need to narrate your journals one day. I felt like I was reading a sequel to beowulf this was so epically told.
Mysfit
~mysfit
OP
Dude, go for it! I'd love to hear it. =D
