What If Mario (Or this Author) Smoked Meth?

A Guest post this weekend from KGB newcomer Woodie Woodrow. We're sorry.

“You’ve never played Mario!!1?” I was bewildered how my self-proclaimed nerd of a brother could never have played Mario. So I grabbed him by the arm and dragged him from the living room to my car. “This isn’t possible.” I ran my sweaty fingers through my hair, turned on the ignition and raced to Best Buy (because let’s face it, Gamestop is a bunch of ass).

After scraping a small child from the underbelly of my sedan, we raced into the store. I grabbed all the copies of Mario Galaxy 2 I could hold and burst out the front of the store. The police gave chase, but they were no match for my 1337 driving skills. I rear ended (tee-hee, rear end) the police van in front of us. It lost control, swerved onto a conveniently placed ramp and exploded in midair like the bladder of a pregnant woman on steroids.

Dramatization

Oh Lord, I had just killed a police officer! What had I done? What if he had a wife and children? How would that poor child be guided through the rigors of life, who would lead them to be a better person and human being? “Oh God” I whispered under my breath. I moved my right foot to the brake and slowed the car to a crawl, then a halt. I remember the sun. The light rays reflecting through the windshield in my eyes. The sweat covering my hands.

Then the police came. With their guns drawn, they surrounded my car. The door popped open. My glasses shattered as my face slammed against the scorching pavement.

Haha, just kidding, explosions are awesome! Then I shot more heroin into my ar--

[Rock and Chris interrupt]

“What the actual fuck?! You can’t put that on our blog!” exclaimed Chris. “It’s sick, twisted and has almost nothing to do with videogames!”

“Hey, you guys just said 'no rants'” I replied.

“Within reason, you sick fuck!” Rock communicated through his robot face.

“And the headline is inflammatory!” Chris retorted.

“But Fox News does these kind of inflammatory headlines all the time. Look how successful they are. Besides, I thought you guys wanted more than 4 readers.”





[reluctant stamp of approval]

Woodie Woodrow is locked in his cell, playing his 
panflute of destiny to an audience of no one.