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An Open Letter To Nintendo, From The Actual Charlton Heston


Hey, gang. Look, I'll level with y'all, this is going to be controversial. Like, really controversial. We're going to be touching on a hot-button issue today, and, disclaimer for the faint of heart, my opinion on this specific matter has gotten me banned from no less than fourty-nine separate Walmart locations that I used to be able to preach in front of.

Princess Peach owes me the sex.

You god damn tease

Look, how many times do I need to save her in order for us to get intimately acquainted? If we count how many times I've saved her in Super Mario World alone, I'm owed, like, at least 11 sexings on my penis. Clearly, she could not save herself. Clearly, I'm the only one qualified to do so. I am a man. She is a woman. Our genitals are compatible, according to my mom.

This was all for you! Love me!

Peach, I implore you — beg you, even — to take some of my sexing. It is a good sex. Maybe not the best, I'll grant you, but my sex is some stand-up sex, and it's right here, waiting for you.

All of this could be yours, if you could only see me for the treasure that I am

Look, I'm not expecting to "put a ring on it," as the kids say, usually while I'm chasing them off of my lawn with a novelty lightsaber. All I want is for you to see me for what I am: your repeat savior, your short and musky champion; the man who won't stop writing Nintendo highly lurid letters demanding that which is rightly owed to me: to wit, that you finally lift your restraining order against me, answer my calls, and go out with me for Thai food on Friday.

And that you also do a sex on me. I don't think that's too much to ask. My balls are as blue as every last water world that has ever been in a Mario game. I've fallen in to lava for this woman. I've murdered dinosaurs, turtles, scores of some kind of bipedal mushroom thing that honestly, didn't pose an actual threat to me, I just enjoyed crushing them. I've collected pieces of actual stars for you. I had to carry that shit around the entire time, by the way, and I have the 6th degree burns to prove it. All for a kiss on the cheek? Is that the reward for my labors, for the countless numbers I have slaughtered? A shameful erection that I have no choice but to take care of myself? I'm dying inside, Peach.

Sure, one could make the point that Peach doesn't owe me a damned thing, and that the reason I did all of the things I did was because of my noble, heroic spirit. But that's bullshit, man. I did it so that I could do sex. That was the endgame. It wasn't to see the credits roll, it wasn't to free Yoshis or some nonsense like that. I was lonely, and she was the peach at the end of a stick.

If you eat the stick, the peach will have nowhere to hide, and it'll still be deep-fried and ready for you

Maybe this comes off as the ramblings of a desperate, bitter man. I don't know. Maybe I just, for once, wanted to reap the peaches of my labors: to know her touch, her taste, her scent. To run my fingers over the contours of her supple pink dress. To feel like all of that effort was worth it, for once. Ignore that I enjoy playing these games; at the end of the day, I just want what every man wants: that a woman who is in no way real and could therefore not possibly be attracted to me done does the sex with me and my genitals.

These are The United States of America, god damn it. Let's start acting like it. Even if you don't live here, please do me a solid and agree with me, I'm starting to go through a second puberty over here because of this.

I love you, and this is for your own good

- From my cold, dead hands.

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About The Actual Charlton Hestonone of us since 6:46 AM on 12.24.2017

I'm actually Charlton Heston. What, were you expecting some purple prose? An overwrought introduction? Get off of my property, you filthy God damn hippie.