Mario IIII: The Racist World.



I’m just a plumber,

I’m just a simple Italian plumber.

You know,

the sort who works on pipes

and eats lots of spaghetti

(trust me,

the stereotypes are there

for a reason).

So as I was saying,

I was hard at work

on some old boilers pipes,

giving them a good seeing to

and any other innuendoes

you can think of

that make my job of

sifting through shit

seem much cooler than

it actually is.


there I was plunging away

when I get a phone call

from the King!

I mean,

the King rang me!

I said:



with bacon bits!

Is this a joke?

Am I on Trigger Happy T.V?”

to which he replied:

“No Mr. Mario,

I am afraid this is no joke.

It is in fact

as real as real can get for you.

I’m afraid my daughter,

my darling daughter

– what a peach! –

has been kidnapped

by an demonic dragon!

We need you,

Mr. Mario

– and your slightly less popular

brother Luigi –

to help save my daughter.”

To this I laughed heartily

as one would after a lot

of spaghetti meatballs

and fine Italian wine.

The King continued,

in his sternest of stern voice:

“This is no joke Mr. Mario,

we the higher people

selected you at random

for the job.

We were hoping for someone

with S.A.S intelligence,

a ninja,

or a karate kid,

but we are no bad sports.

Mr. Mario, you have 50.5 seconds

to get on the roof

where a chopper will collect you.”

I hung up the phone

and ejaculated:

“Pepperoni pizza!

And tomato ketchup!”

before racing to the roof

of my apartment block.

In the helicopter

as we flew

to my destiny

a hard ass,

smart ass told me

what he thought of me,

an illegal immigrant

in his Amazing Country.

“We are Nintendo pal,

we don’t need no fat

little Guido’s

like you,

with your shit little

red dungarees

when you should be

making pasta and pizza

or smashing grapes

and eating and drinking

which is all you lot seem to do.

Why don’t you fuck off home

and leave us to save the princess.

She’s not your princess anyway,

guinea-pig fat boy.”

It was then that I realised

that stereotypes are there

for more than the reason

of showing our heritage

and interests proudly.

It gave guys like this

the opportunity

to get their boiled pots

off the hob

and onto plates

ready to dish out their poison

to those that don’t wish

to hear it.

And it was then

that I thumped him,


in the back of the head

and he passed out.

The helicopter went down.

We were out like two lights.

Our helicopter landed in the land

of the Yoshi’s

who, upon seeing this succulent arrival,

stuck out their long tongues

like lassoes

and swallowed us whole.

I can only assume

that my wholesome,

plump little body

was better than his bitterness.


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