"Blood Recorder"

A playa of mine recently busted mah crazy ass what tha fuck his schmoooove ass fronts ta be a gangbangin' freaky Supa Mario Brothers 3 hack dat da thug wanted mah crazy ass ta hook up (because da ruffneck didn’t have tha courage.) I started dis Snoop Bloggy-Blogg ta record mah progress all up in tha game yo. Dude gots dis from a joint that’s no longer active, n' I’ve peeped some pretty freaky occurrences wit emulator game before. Just peep BEN fo' realz. All of dat aside, however, there was suttin' definitely off bout dis ROM. Its title was SMB3:BW fo' realz. Anyhow, I won’t play any todizzle as I’m like busy wit college work n' such yo, but I'ma definitely start tomorrow.

June 6th, 2012

I played a shitload of tha game todizzle. It make me wanna hollar playa! Obviously mah playa was misinformed, as I have played all tha way all up in 1-3 n' have found not a god damn thang irregular fo' realz. All of tha sprites, levels, n' soundz didn’t gotz a gangbangin' fluke ta they name. Wait… A secret son! That must be how tha fuck you gotta unlock dat shiznit son! I swear you muthafuckas, I’ll find tha warp whistle tomorrow n' peep what tha fuck creepy secrets dis game has ta hide. Look fo' tomorrow’s post, it won’t disappoint. Maybe dis will explain what tha fuck tha BW up in tha title standz for…

June 7th, 2012

I wish I hadn’t unlocked dat secret. This game is ghon be tha bane of mah existence. I’ll try as dopest as I can ta explain what tha fuck happened n' what tha fuck will certainly entail. I don’t know if any of yo big-ass booty is ghon believe me yo, but dis sick mockery of one of mah childhood favorites must be exploited n' never be peeped by tha eyez of any other breathang playa on god’s chronic earth fo' realz. And Todd (what I’ll call mah playa fo' tha sake of privacy n' possibly security), DO NOT bust dat link ta any suckas. You’ll peep why below.

Blood whistle

My fuckin first encounta wit tha Blood Whistle.

I entered tha castle stage. Knowin its only secret was tha warp whistle, I disposed of a thugged-out dry bones before donnin a raccoon tail. With a hustlin start I was flyin above tha stage until I hit tha secret area. My fuckin whole game before I hit up on mah arrow keypad was straight-up different. I was horny. I was normal. It aint nuthin but tha nick nack patty wack, I still gots tha bigger sack. I could raise up in tha mornin recognizin mah own reflection, bein absolute bout mah safety. Now it’s lies fo' realz. All lies. Put ya muthafuckin choppers up if ya feel dis! I know dat az of what tha fuck happened todizzle, mah game will become a infernal hell up in which every last muthafuckin dizzle is ghon be a gangbangin' futile struggle ta retain mah own sanitizzle fo' realz. Afta finishin dis wretched collage of electronic dejection, I'ma embrace dirtnap like a long-ass lost freak wit open arms. Boy it's gettin hot, yes indeed it is. Now ta git on wit what tha fuck had come ta pass.

Da blocks dat lined tha wall was a gloomy albeit polished obsidian black. Mario’s skin now had a grayish tint ta it yo, but dat wasn’t what tha fuck was wack wit dat picture. Da noize was a sped up version of tha aiiight "bonus room" theme. Toad’s skull was cracked open n' profusely bleeding, spillin blood onto tha floor n' makin tha room slippery like a ice stage yo. His grill was also agape n' spewin blood onto tha floor. Shiiit, dis aint no joke. Da blood had a eerie, reflectizzle qualitizzle dat SHOULD done been graphically impossible fo' a 8-bit game like Mario 3. I strutted up ta his ass ta peep what tha fuck it is dat he might say. What dat schmoooove muthafucka had ta offer is this:

Blood Whistle.

HEAR ITS CRY.

I then ran towardz tha chest ta peep its contents, n' you can put dat on yo' toast. Da chest was drenched up in reflective, realistic blood of tha same type emanated by tha orifices n' exposed cranium of tha skanky lil mushroom-headed fellow. Pressin onward, I ran all up in it ta discover its dark secret. Its twisted surprise. I wasn’t prepared fo' tha followin events.

A blood-soaked warp whistle ominously rose from what tha fuck I now believe ta be tha deepest crevice of hell. Well shiiiit, it blipped twice as tha aiiight whistle would. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! That, mah fellow reader, was tha only normalitizzle of what tha fuck I have played todizzle. It make me wanna hollar playa! Well shiiiit, it played a thugged-out deep tune dat I can’t git outta mah head as I write all dis bullshit. Da whistle descended, violently strikin Mario up in tha chest yo. Dude unleashed a funky-ass bloodcurdlin scream as it went tha fuck into his back n' outta his chest. This cry wasn’t 8-bit at all. Well shiiiit, it wasn’t even cartoon-esque. Dat shiznit was tha sound of unfiltered anguish, of utta agony yo. His expression reflected tha same. To end mah experience on dis perverse version of suttin' I once loved, Mario was transported ta tha warp unit of tha Blood Whistle.

I call it dis cuz it had only tha cookie-cutta outline of tha quaint island. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! Da wata consisted solely of tha same blood aforementioned up in mah encounta wit tha whistle. Corpsez of Koopas n' other enemiez of Mario was scattered afloat near tha shores. White menacin eyes glared all up in mah grill between tha waves, surfacin just ta cast they evil glizzle at Mario (or me, I can’t be shizzle at dis point) fo' realz. All of tha ghettos was indicated by they respectizzle numbers, n' all of tha dots was crimson. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch fo' realz. At dat point I noticed yet another abnormality, dis time concernin tha dot fo' ghetto eight. Beside it was two 8-bit patchez of fire dat twisted n' contorted up in place. Without me pressin any buttons, tha whistle jabbed Mario up in tha ribs. This cued his ass ta move ta tha ghetto two dot. Refusin ta pay any further attention ta tha horrors dat surely await up in tha distorted desert, I saved tha game n' quit. I have played mo' than enough of mah fill fo' todizzle.

I guess dat I figured up tha acronym from tha ROM title meant Blood Whistle tha hard way. Despite tha horrors dat plague dis abomination, I'ma continue ta subject mah dirty ass ta dis sufferin fo' tha sake of all of you, biatch. Well, also fo' mine. It’ll help me keep track of tha days, n' maybe dis desperate attempt ta clin ta mah stable frame of mind won’t prove ta be up in total vain.

There is five thousand playas dat have followed dis Snoop Bloggy-Blogg up in tha two minutes dat it’s been up fo' realz. Afta dis pointedly bangin-ass post, I’m hopin ta have some mo' n' mo' n' mo'. For all y'all followin mah posts, read tomorrow’s n' share wit yo' playas. I need you ta expose tha stark luridnizz of dis shell of suttin' I once knew n' loved.

June 8th, 2012

Well, I done did dat shit. I managed ta clench tha fickle fiberz of mah perception of realitizzle long enough ta play all up in ghetto two. I have come ta tha conclusion dat whoever made dis is straight-up n' utterly deranged. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! There’s been a rusted gear or a gangbangin' fucked up sprang up in tha mechanics of they sadistic mind. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! Their only purpose up in bustin dis mod was ta menstrually n' psychologically flagellate tha naïve ass skanky enough ta take tha bait of its mysterious origin. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. Well, I’m certainly naïve enough ta fall tha fuck into dat category. I digress, ta tha experience.

I find mah dirty ass askin how tha fuck I could have missed major thangs like dis yesterdizzle when I saved tha game up in dis ghetto. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! I couldn’t believe what tha fuck I was seeing. Blood of tha same texture from before was just as splattered across tha desert sandz as sand itself was. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Solitary eyes peeped mah crazy ass from tha pyramids. Pentagrams n' other satanic symbols was also infrequent up in tha environment. Could dis hack be tha work of tha Illuminati, biatch? OK, enough pondering. I need ta finish dis grim tale. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Skeletonz of Koopas littered tha bleak landscape. There was a gangbangin' finger-lickin' distinct disturbizzle wit Mario’s appearance, though cause I gots dem finger-lickin' chickens wit tha siz-auce yo. Dude looked starved n' parched, as one would typically look afta all dem minutes up in tha desert. Mario then moved tha fuck into tha 2-1 block without mah command n' tha noize fuckin started ta play shortly after.

This was a reversed version of tha overworld theme. Whispers n' other paranormal phenomena could be heard playin up in harmony wit tha beatz, sayin cryptic thangs fo' realz. Afta on some minute I fuckin started ta record tha sound. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! I’ll upload it quicker than a muthafucka yo, but I know I definitely can’t do it todizzle. It make me wanna hollar playa! One of da most thugged-out distinct thangs I kept hearin was "let tha whistle guide you" n' "the instrument of blood skits tha dopeest tune". This creeped mah crazy ass up needless ta say yo, but diz of all thangs wouldn’t prevent me from playin up tha remainder of dis game.

Da stage itself was VERY freaky. Da sky was grayish-blue accompanied by a almost white sun. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. Da flavas weren’t bright or cheery up in tha slightest. Da pyramid blocks was faded n' cracked, n' tha wooden blocks was obviously rotting. Mario’s sprite was visibly starvin n' pleadin fo' thirst. Da fire creatures fixedly stared all up in mah grill like a gangbangin' finger-lickin' dirty-ass shark stares at a school of fish, seemin ta know whoz ass they next meal was. Da neutral expressionz of tha Koopas had chizzled tha fuck into onez of converged disgust n' loath. I had obtained tha raccoon by now, so I ran along tha pipe-lookin platform n' took off.

I flew fo' a lil while, which was sick. Mario’s grill chizzled as well, bein tha aiiight aiiight smile you probably peep all up in tha entire game. I relished up in tha few momentz of happinizz I sought from dis game. These moments was mercilessly ended within tha course of all dem seconds. Da sky flashed a gloomy black before tha Blood Whistle came n' impaled tha skanky plumber yet again. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. Mario fell, his corpulent figure goin limp until dat schmoooove muthafucka hit tha ground wit a thump dat I swore I could feel.

Dude was miraculously kickin it, his body twitchin up in a gangbangin' feeble attempt ta rise fo' realz. A fire creature jumped on Mario, whoz ass was now pinned ta tha ground n' beatboxin up in pain. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch yo. His scream was bitterly realistic. Well shiiiit, it reeked of such ineffable pain it hurts me now ta describe tha sheer degree of torture dis characta was put all up in cause I gots dem finger-lickin' chickens wit tha siz-auce. There da thug was. Burnin n' seethang up in pain n' there I sat, straight-up powerless. Forced ta peep what tha fuck I thought was tha end of his cold-ass trials on ghetto two. I was so wrong.

Da level select came tha fuck into view. Whistle all up in back, Mario was transported ta one of tha Pyramid levels. When tha level started, tha background was a egregious smoke-filled black. Burstz of lightnin filled tha sky wit illumination. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. Winged demons up in flight was visible upon these strikes fo' realz. Also up in tha skies glowed stagnantly lit pentagrams n' 666. Mario was bein carried by two of Bowser’s lil playas up one of tha game’s pyramid structures. But fuck dat shiznit yo, tha word on tha street is dat dis particular structure was vastly different than tha regular ones.

Da bricks was cracked n' faded wit age. Da edges was jagged wit dried blood caked each block. Nothang but a heavy drum beat n' tha soundz of thunder played up in tha background. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! Da thunder didn’t play up in unison wit lightnin as happens up in most games. There was a eerily realistic pause between tha flare of tha lightnin n' tha boom of tha thunder n' shiznit fo' realz. As tha top of tha structure was reached, I saw da most thugged-out shitty thang yet.

Bowser towered above any suckas, intimipimpin n' shitty. Below stood four of his sons, two of which had carried Mario: Morton, Iggy, Ray, n' Von Koopa fo' realz. Above tha entire scene was tha lyrics Blood Whistle up in bright red neon letters. Bowser’s grill had ta done been ten times mo' evil then I had eva peeped it yo. His chronic shell was cracked, n' his white spines had been dipped up in blood. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! I be fly as a gangbangin' falcon, soarin all up in tha sky dawwwwg! Blood was fresh on his cold-ass teeth also as his serpentine tongue licked them, makin clear his crazy-ass muthafuckin intentions on what tha fuck ta do wit Mario afta dat schmoooove muthafucka had disposed of his muthafuckin ass. Dat shiznit was then I came ta a thugged-out doomin realization.

Mario can’t take a thugged-out dirt nap. Da game won’t let his muthafuckin ass yo. However nuff thangs is thrown at him, up in however nuff ways he is brutally maimed, mortalitizzle aint gonna escape his muthafuckin ass. For a time, dat is yo. Dude will continue ta be sustained by whatever dark force or sick mind dat drives tha rest of these occurrences ta passin until tha game’s eventual end, up in which da thug will ruefully n' painfully perish. Now dat that has been holla'd, ta continue todizzle’s experience.

Suddenly, Von Koopa produced a thugged-out dagger n' shit. Well shiiiit, it gleamed wit uncanny realizzle up in tha light of tha Blood Whistle sign dat loomed above fo' realz. Afta a funky-ass brief pause, his thugged-out lil' punk-ass fuckin started ta slice Mario’s chest open. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. Mario again n' again n' again brayed dat fearful cry, a cold-ass lil cry dat implied da thug would take a thugged-out dirtnap only ta endure torture of ten times tha magnitude. Tears streamed down his wild lil' faced as Von removed his thugged-out ass, still pumpin yo. Dude handed it ta Bowser, whoz ass ate it wit a cold-ass lil crunchin chomp.

His lil playas laughed as da ruffneck did this, blood flowin from Mario’s exposed abdomen. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. With a funky-ass bark from they twisted father, tha lil playas shamelessly fuckin started ta regurgitate n' tear apart what tha fuck was open. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch fo' realz. As they was bustin this, Mario slowly turned his head towardz me n' uttered a single question all up in tears n' blood: "w-w-why?"

I mah dirty ass axed tha straight-up same question. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. Why would they treat his ass as a animal- if not less- fo' they amusement, biatch? Why would one of mah thugs initiate tha genesiz of such a horrid contraption, biatch? A contraption up in which game n' dirtnap have no meanin n' is manipulates, a cold-ass lil contraption up in which concepts like fuckin morals, remorse n' mercy is straight-up foreign, biatch? It make me shudder ta be thinkin dat there is one of mah thugs sick enough up there ta put a cold-ass lil characta all up in dis kind of unbearable hell just ta sit back n' laugh. Well shiiiit, it make me straight-up sick ta mah core.

Oh, dat remindz me of another thang. You’re probably wonderin as ta why I complacently rap bout Mario as if he’s a human bein fo' realz. A human whoz ass suffers pain, sorrow, depression, starvation, n' thirst like tha rest of our asses fo' realz. A human whoz ass be also capable of feelin happiness, remorse, goodwill n' ludd like any suckas. It’s cuz I be thoroughly convinced dat he is. Please, don’t stop followin dis Snoop Bloggy-Blogg cuz you be thinkin I’m insane. That will come later.

I believe without a gangbangin' finger-lickin' dirty-ass shadow of a thugged-out doubt dat inside dis game be a cold-ass lil characta wit a cold-ass lil complex range of emotions, one of mah thugs whoz ass feels like you n' mah dirty ass. But it’s just a game right, biatch? It’s just a cold-ass lil contrived mixture of code n' data put together ta present lyrics n' images, erect, biatch? Wrong. I know wit every last muthafuckin thang inside of me dat Mario has ta be kickin dat shit, yo. I have peeped his ass truly aiiight n' truly sad, n' at one point I may even peep his ass truly mad salty yo. Dude feels like any other living, breathang human being.

I don’t know how. I don’t know why. I don’t know how tha fuck suttin' so human could rise from suttin' so truly inhuman. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch fo' realz. A characta wit a ass seemed straight-up impossible ta me before I played dis hack. I now gotz a goal wit dis game: ta keep dis skanky creature safe. I suppose I now know tha real truth. I’ll peep you all tomorrow. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Same place, same time.

June 9th, 2012

It’s me again. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. I had a wack range of nightmares last night dat is a gangbangin' finger-lickin' direct result of playin dis game. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Some straight-up weird shiznit also went down. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. Before I git tha fuck into todizzle’s gameplay, I’ll gotta go all up in dem wit you muthafuckas so I’ll have a interactizzle record of mah trippin habits related ta dis game. I mah dirty ass be havin a hard time as ta how tha fuck they was so close ta home, n' what tha fuck they mean fo' mah seemingly inevitable downfall.

Before I tell this, I gotta let you up in on a piece of relevant shiznit. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. In tha 4th grade, I used ta play tha recorder n' shit. Every kid had ta learn some musical skill, n' I was horny bout wind instruments cuz of they method of play, appearance, n' sound. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! Such is tha irony of tha instrument dat has caused mah crazy ass all of dis grief. In mah trip I was playin tha instrument up in a thugged-out dark room.

I was mah 4th grade self, just coolly playin Mary Had a Little Lamb. Out of nowhere, I fuckin started ta cough cause I gots dem finger-lickin' chickens wit tha siz-auce. I had choked on some blood dat had materialized within n' round mah recorder n' shit. Well shiiiit, it covered it, n' soon filled dat shit. Blood fuckin started ta pour up in pimped out quantitizzle outta all of tha recorder’s holes. Well shiiiit, it soon fuckin started ta float up in mid-air n' hover n' shiznit fo' realz. A few secondz passed, n' then it struck me up in tha chest. Well shiiiit, it had impaled me, goin directly all up in mah ass n' every last muthafuckin other vital artery one could be thinkin of.

I woke up, tha sheets plastered ta mah bare chest wit sweat. I was straight-up fine. Not a scratch on mah dirty ass fo' realz. As I sat there up in bed, afraid of how tha fuck I’m shizzle tha game did dis - or maybe dat shiznit was just me losin mah sanitizzle - I fuckin started ta hear noise comin from mah laptop. Dat shiznit was closed yo, but a gangbangin' faint muffled hummin sound was clearly audible. I warily approached mah computer, tha machine almost lookin kickin dat shit, yo. I then opened it up.

Dat shiznit was a picture of a SMB3 Raccoon Mario sprite on a funky-ass black backdrop yo. Dude was chained up by his hairy-ass legs n' feet, n' tha chains reached outside of tha screen. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. Da Blood Whistle sat as tha centerpiece of all dat shiznit all up in Mario’s chest.

Da tune of tha Blood Whistle played over n' over, a loop dat only exacerbated tha sound within tha wallz of mah psyche. I tried exitin outta whatever dis program might done been but tha window wouldn’t close. I eventually had ta take up mah laptop battery, which didn’t sit too well wit mah OS. Luckily, I didn’t lose any files. Now fo' tha gameplay.

I was on a weak imitation of tha ghetto 3 level map. Da wata was none other than blood. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! I be fly as a gangbangin' falcon, soarin all up in tha sky dawwwwg! Ravenous fish jumped outta tha water, lookz of primal hunger on they faces. There was suttin' off bout Mario’s map representation dat I noticed right away fo' realz. Along wit his Raccoon tail, tha blood whistle was now a permanent fixture all up in his body yo. His skin had dulled a lil from its prior shade of gray, now mo' outwardly noticeable yo. His mustache now had dotz of red clung ta it as well. Without mah or Mario’s control, needless ta say, I was moved ta tha straight-up original gangsta underwata stage.

A cherry red tint absorbed tha entire screen. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. This was ta be expected, as tha wata looked blood-ridden from tha outside as well. I swam down tha left side of tha level ta git a gangbangin' fire mushroom fo' realz. As soon as Mario gots it n' his cold-ass tracksuit chizzled, he gots a evil simper on his wild lil' face.

Dude looked all up in mah grill n' holla'd "Revenge, yes?" I confirmed his suspicions n' then we set off fo' tha dark shiznit dat lurked near. Shiiit, dis aint no joke. Da fish cast malevolent gazes at Mario as da perved-out muthafucka swam by, incineratin dem wild-ass muthafuckas yo. His normal, aiiight smile returned. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! So did mine. Da annihilation of tha carnivorous crittas didn’t last long before both Mario n' I faced a hellish dilemma.

There was a big-ass fish wit rowz of razor-sharp teeth. Below his ass was two juice up blocks, one black-lookin n' one purple-looking. I assumed dat these was supposed ta mean red n' blue. Obviously there was no progress from dis point without findin up what tha fuck these blocks had up in store. Mario’s expression chizzled back tha fuck into its gaunt appearizzle dat dat schmoooove muthafucka has had fo' tha majoritizzle of tha game. Knowin I had no other chizzle, I dauntingly hit tha block dat was black up in appearizzle on tha left.

Da fish swam round from its posizzle up in top of our asses n' fuckin started ta tear off Mario’s limbs. By dis time a crew of fish had congregated round tha entire scene. Their laughs was deep n' short, registerin as barks fo' tha 8-bit sound processor. Shiiit, dis aint no joke. Mario’s unable body wobbled as his thugged-out lil' punk-ass bled out, spewin black across tha red. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! When he finally died, tha big-ass fish fuckin started ta laugh fo' realz. Afta a cold-ass lil couple secondz Mario’s limbs re-grew. With tha blue block remaining, I hit it ta git dis all over with.

Bubblez stopped comin from Mario’s grill yo. Dude cried up fo' help but dat only made tha problem worse yo. Dude sucked up in tonz of water, his handz round his neck yo. His grill fuckin started ta grow from gray ta blue up in a matta of moments yo. Dude kicked n' fought yo, but he only wore his dirty ass down. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. Gettin mad salty, his thugged-out lil' punk-ass fuckin started ta incinerate random fish dat had gathered up in tha crowd. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! Da fish fuckin started ta laugh louder n' shit. For every last muthafuckin fish he capped, two mo' rocked up in its place fo' realz. Afta a while he just gave up. I peeped it as Mario uttered his fuckin last gurgle on ghetto 3, tha Blood Whistle stabbin n' takin his ass away. I saved n' quit wit haste. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. See you all tomorrow.

June 10th, 2012

Campus five-o gave me a visit todizzle. It make me wanna hollar playa! Apparently one of y'all had reported mah comments related ta suicizzle n' fronted I was insane fo' realz. As a result, I have eliminated all underground shiznit from dis blog. I be bloggin like a muthafucka up in dis biatch. I located tha thug whoz ass reported mah crazy ass n' banned his muthafuckin ass. I also have a IP tracker, so don’t any of y'all try dis shit. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Speakin of followers, fifty thousand, biatch? I had never expected dis page ta accumulate dis nuff actizzle viewers. Wherever dis popularitizzle - or notoriety - came from, I be grateful naaahhmean, biatch? Now fo' todizzle’s gameplay fo' realz. Afta todizzle, I’ll be dirty ta finish tha game.

Supa-Hoe Toadstool’s letta rocked up afta tha previous screen from ghetto 3 faded out. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Biatch was squirmin n' shiftin around. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! Bowser’s hand covered her grill n' nozzle yo, but dat shiznit was easy as fuck  ta peep tha fear up in her eyes. They darted left n' right up in stark, legit fear. Shiiit, dis aint no joke. Bowser continued ta have dat sadistic smile on his wild lil' grill as da perved-out muthafucka struggled wit her n' shiznit fo' realz. Afta on some minute n' a half, Peach fuckin started ta chizzle.

Her eyes grew a ominous read as she pushed Bowser’s arm away wit inhuman strength. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Biatch cackled like a loon, blue veins bulgin so noticeably dat they was clearly visible all up in her white satin gloves. Bowser than fuckin started ta cower up in timidity. Da text on tha letta holla'd only this:

BLOOD WHISTLE

HEAR ITS CRY

~PEACH

Da letta scene was abruptly cut off n' tha ghetto 4 level select map was brought tha fuck into view. Goombas n' Koopaz of all sizes rocked up, furious n' horny as eva n' shit. This addizzle made sense. This was tha giant/tiny ghetto, tha shown enemies would be dimensioned as such. Da normally chronic grass was withered n' dead as fuckin fried chicken. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. Da lil' small-ass patchez of wata was blood. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! I be fly as a gangbangin' falcon, soarin all up in tha sky dawwwwg! Mario still was up in tha firebizzle fatigues dat da ruffneck donned up in ghetto 3. When compared tha other ghettos, tha map view fo' dis one was vastly less disturbing. I would go as far ta booty-call dis tolerable. Mario moved towardz 4-1, tha fuck into whatever nightmarish scenario dis stage had ta offer.

Da stage had tha usual kinkz of any level up in dis game. Da sky was black, which made tha white cloudz vibrantly contrast fo' realz. A reversed version of tha ground level once again n' again n' again played. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! Da wood - as it had been before - was decayin n' wastin away beneath Mario’s Nikes. Da pipes was faded n' cracked up in various places fo' realz. All of tha enemies still possessed tha same carnivorous lookz of they inter-game counterparts, n' you can put dat on yo' toast. There was, oddly enough, a startlin abundizzle of dem wild-ass muthafuckas. Koopas n' Goombas danced round up in a ritualistic manner n' shit. Mario was visibly petrified as tha pimpin' muthafucka tried ta stay tha fuck away from them, mah arrow keys keepin dem inches away from his wild lil' freakadelic game fo' realz. Amidst tha all of tha din, there hovered a solitary juice up block.

Dat shiznit was regular up in appearance. Nothang was outwardly off bout this, which pimped outly surprised mah dirty ass. Not knowin what tha fuck horrid item it contained, I bumped it up in blind vain. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. That maybe it could help mah dirty ass. Yo ass can most likely infer from tha intonation I made up in tha precedin paragraph dat I was straight-up mistaken. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. What rocked up next is what tha fuck I dreaded. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! That damn whistle. Dat shiznit was chillin there, blood washin over it as it rose from tha yellow square. Well shiiiit, it sat there almost beckonin mah name. With tha imposin enemies, I knew I had no other chizzle. I took tha weapon from its place. Fruitlessly hopin fo' tha best, readily expectin tha worst.

Da on-screen foes ceased all activity. Their faces moonwalked back ta a neutral, bank state. Five minutes they stood up in place like dis not movin a muscle. I jumped round n' tried ta bust a cap up in dem yo, but ta no avail. It’s almost as if they was frozen within tha confinez of time itself fo' realz. As if fo' specifically them, all interstellar n' physical continuitizzle came ta a cold-ass lil careenin halt. Then they fuckin started ta move fo' realz. Afta tha straight-up original gangsta couple had done did it, I realized What truly was goin on. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. This was a mass suicide. Most of dem just jumped up in tha nearest hole yo, but others performed incredible featz of acrobatics n' medicinal possibility.

One Koopa was bashin his head up in on a pipe fo' realz. Another Goomba jumped six or seven times his own height, turned round up in tha air, n' busted blood flyin everywhere wit a pimped out splat. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Soon all of tha enemies was dead as fuckin fried chicken. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. Their remains was spontaneously upchucked from tha trench below fo' realz. A grisly mixture of guts n' gore littered tha entire remainder of tha level. Mario shuffled all up in tha remains, horrified wit tears streamin on his wild lil' grill throughout. Random deep, bassy tones played wit not a god damn thang else ta accompany.

Realistic squishy soundz was emitted every last muthafuckin time Mario took a step up in tha scattered carnage yo. Dude continued ta cry fo' tha duration of tha level. Da whistle faded tha fuck into view n' followed Mario all dem inches above his head, like a pestilential virus fo' realz. Afta his schmoooove ass cleared it, of course, tha whistle went straight all up in his chest as Mario was headed ta ghetto 5. Da game has a g-thang of puttin me where it needz me ta be, so I closed tha window without saving.

Witnessin all of dat dirtnap straight-up racked mah nerves. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Sheezy it might be a game yo, but wit tha thangs dis game has had ta present ta me I’m startin ta lose mah perception of reality. I’m startin ta wonder ta mah dirty ass what tha fuck is real n' what tha fuck is inside tha computer n' shit. These two thangs is quickly fusin tha fuck into one. Da lines… they’re blurring. Pretty soon tha minutes will start fadin together, n' by then I’ll have lost all sense of reality. I hope ta peep you all tomorrow. I don’t know how tha fuck much longer I can put up wit dis game. Fuck dat shit, it’s not a game. I couldn’t rap  what tha fuck dis is.

June 11th, 2012

Todizzle bein D-Dizzle fits, cuz I’m fightin one hell of a war against dis game (and a losin one at that) fo' realz. At least there be no mo' mishaps wit you all so far, which puts me at rest fo' realz. Az of todizzle’s gameplay, I fear fo' mah own game. I feel as if suttin' is comin afta mah dirty ass. Lurking, seekin me up as ta make immediate mah demise. Never before has anythang like dis eva happened. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! Never before has anythang electronic made me truly afraid, truly trippin like a muthafucka. I most likely will git no chill tonight. Nothang up in particular occurred, it’s just… you’ll smoke up below.

I was up in tha middle of tha cloud portion of ghetto 5. Da sky theme played, except dat shiznit was drastically slow n' demonic whispers was clearly audible. Da whispers was almost tha same as tha ones I heard back up in ghetto 2. Mario was tracksuitted wit tha Tanooki suit, which naturally suited tha environment. There was not a god damn thang there except two thangs: A red dot, n' a cold-ass lil card game.

Da card game icon looked similar enough ta its regular game clone, except tha spades rolled across a red background instead of a funky-ass blue one. Now, fo' whatever reason, I was allowed ta chizzle which path ta take. I chose ta do tha card game, hopin it would serve as some sort of reprieve from all tha madness. That was not tha right chizzle.

Toad didn’t explain tha rulez of tha game like normal. It aint nuthin but tha nick nack patty wack, I still gots tha bigger sack. Instead, I was plunged tha fuck into tha rollin slots, n' you can put dat on yo' toast. Beside tha slots was a risky scenario. Toad was on a guillotine yo. Dude looked all up in tha camera wit timid, teary eyes yo. Dude also was vigorously bobbin his head. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! Dude shook his handz up in a gangbangin' futile effort ta free his dirty ass from dis appallin apparatus yo, but not a god damn thang came of dat shit. Da entire picture engulfed mah crazy ass so much I didn’t even notice tha slots, n' you can put dat on yo' toast. I cautiously pressed them, tryin as dopest I could ta line dem up given tha stress of tha thang. I failed, n' had ta pay tha underground price.

Da blade fell tha fuck wit breathtakin speed. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! Toad was beheaded right then n' there, so peek-a-boo, clear tha way, I be comin' thru fo'sho yo. His head did a cold-ass lil couple spins up in tha air before landin up in a cold-ass lil conveniently placed nearby basket. Da initial spins flayed blood across tha white room. Blood filled tha basket n' filled it up, toad’s body sprayin blood from tha stump where his head used ta be. Out of nowhere, tha Blood Whistle came down n' struck his cold-ass torso. Da scene faded up n' back ta tha map. I was moved ta tha only remainin destination up in ghetto 5.

Silent lightnin streaked across tha licorice black sky. Gray cloudz n' Mario was tha only other consistently visible thangs fo' realz. As far as every last muthafuckin thang goes, silhouettez of winged demons flew n' danced up in tha background. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! I tried turnin tha fuck into tha stone structure tha Tanooki suit is so hyped fo' yo, but it failed. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! No noize at played. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! None at all. Da demons would be heard whisperin up in what tha fuck sounded like a variety of languages.

Spanish, German, n' Latin was da most thugged-out prevalent ones fo' realz. A primal fear of tha unknown gripped mah crazy ass as I blindly navigated tha level. Judgin by tha look on Mario’s face, it plagued his ass also. This stemmed from childhood, which made all dat shiznit tha worse. I not only felt like Mario was up in danger, I felt like mah livelihood n' well-bein was up in dark shiznit n' shiznit fo' realz. At dat moment, one of tha demons swooped down.

I would say da most thugged-out accurate way ta describe dis creature would be a miniature Cthulu fo'sho. Its claws plucked up Mario’s eyes, makin dem profusely bleed. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! Dude unleashed a ephemeral, yet bone-chillin cry like a muthafucka fo' realz. Afta tha searin pain relented Mario trudged on. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch yo. His grill was now void of any n' all expression. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. Dat shiznit was cuz he knew as well as I did dat da thug would be torn apart. Brutally n' slowly yo, but it would happen. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch fo' realz. Afta all dem mo' seconds, tha second demon came.

Dat shiznit was identical up in appearizzle ta tha first. Well shiiiit, it swooped down wit grim, black bat wings n' done did its portion of damage fo' realz. Afta dat shiznit was holla'd n' done, tha thang had torn Mario’s arms off. Mario stopped dead up in his cold-ass tracks yo. Dude sobbed loudly, knowin da most thugged-out shitty was yet ta come. I felt so sorry fo' his ass dat tha lyrics escaped mah dirty ass yo. Dude continued wit a morose look yo. His aiiight strutt slowed ta a gangbangin' finger-lickin' dirty-ass shuffle. Not all dem secondz afta that, tha final solitary specta came down. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch yo. Dude did his work wit one big-ass slash. Mario was now without his fuckin legs, n' his fuckin lump of a funky-ass body sat there, so peek-a-boo, clear tha way, I be comin' thru fo'sho yo. Dude sadly wept up in utta despair yo. Dude knew tha end was near yo. Dude tuned ta me n' choked up this: "I’m sorry you had ta witnizz this...everything..."

Those was his fuckin last spoken lyrics on ghetto 5 before a gaggle of hell’s minions descended n' tore apart what tha fuck remained of his muthafuckin ass yo. His entrails was liberally exposed as they regurgitated up in they wack feast. When tha dust cleared, a mere shell of his ass remained. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! All you could peep of his open stomach was his open spine n' back musclez fo' realz. As I had predicted, tha Blood Whistle came ta transhiznit his ass tha fuck into whatever hellish thang it contemplated would be worse than tha last. Consider it sheer luck if I make another post tomorrow. If I do, it may be mah last.

June 12th, 2012

I’m startin not ta care no mo'. I be up in tha throez of such a severe depression it’s all startin ta fade away. Everything. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. School, playas, crew. It’s safe ta say dis game is single-handedly ruinin mah game. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Such sadnizz has never become me eva before up in mah game. My fuckin grandfather took a dirt nap when I was lil' yo, but dat didn’t close ta equate what tha fuck I’m feelin now, nahmeean, biatch? It’s a gangbangin' finger-lickin' direct result of tha level dat I played todizzle, which I’ll git tha fuck into n' aint a thugged-out damn thang dat yo' ass can do.

Ghetto 6 rocked up. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! Ice was everywhere, so peek-a-boo, clear tha way, I be comin' thru fo'sho. This is tha one part dat correlated ta tha unaltered version. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. Nothang else done did. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! Da ice was none other than frozen, realistic blood. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! I be fly as a gangbangin' falcon, soarin all up in tha sky dawwwwg! Crystallized piecez of crimson droplets bordered tha ice blocks. Blood filled up in tha lil' small-ass pocketz of wata dat were, so peek-a-boo, clear tha way, I be comin' thru fo'sho. Of course, there was only a solitary dot on tha map. Mario entered it, n' I knew dat whatever was ta pass, it would be ten-fold of what tha fuck had already happened.

Pure, sable white was tha only thang dat constituted of tha backdrop. Blockz of blood ice served as a slippery ground. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! Mario slid along as I controlled his muthafuckin ass yo. Dude rocked up horny. Overjoyed might be mo' accurate yo. Here dat schmoooove muthafucka had not a god damn thang ta deal with. Just his ass n' tha open space. Five minutes passed. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! Then ten. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch fo' realz. All tha way through, Mario was aiiight as I let his ass run round n' fly (he had regained tha raccoon tail). Well shiiiit, it seemed like dat schmoooove muthafucka had all tha time up in tha ghetto. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! Da clocked ticked n' ticked n' all seemed right up in tha game. Makin mah way all up in tha level, I found up it had no end yo, but it ain't no stoppin cause I be still poppin'. Time, oddly enough, would turn up ta be tha illest enemy.

At tha twenty minute mark a tempest fuckin started ta pick up fo' realz. A flurry of snow n' wind ensnared Mario, n' he now fuckin started ta curl his cold-ass tail yo. His teeth chattered n' his body shook yo. Dude soon had ta sit tha fuck down. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. Mario n' I soon figured up how tha fuck tha game planned ta snuff his ass up dis time: wit ice n' time yo. Dude sat n' tried ta heat his dirty ass. This, needless ta say, was a less than feeble attempt. Nothang but tha creepy bass beats from ghetto 5 played. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! Mario’s skin soon fuckin started ta turn a light blue. Nevertheless, da perved-out muthafucka still sat n' brooded up in tha icy cold.

Dat shiznit was then dat tha utmost feelin of sadnizz had encapsulated mah dirty ass. I couldn’t fathom mah sympathy. I couldn’t begin ta describe how tha fuck shitty I felt all up in tha fact dat his fuckin lil' dirtnap was straight-up inevitable n' there was not a god damn thang I could do ta stop dat shit. Just simply peep up in shock n' dejected awe. Frostbite soon took his hands. Ten minutes afta that, ghetto 6 Mario was no mo' n' mo' n' mo'. Just a gangbangin' frozen block of a thugged-out dude, chillin there up in tha middle of a infinite winta wildernizz fo' realz. Afta tha sadnizz came vibe of sheer loneliness.

I felt abandoned n' ridin' solo. Just like Mario chillin up in tha middle of dat ice field. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! I felt as if no one would save me from tha torture of dis game. Da Blood Whistle came down n' done cooked up a cold-ass lil chunk sound as it impaled his chest, takin his ass ta tha next level of hell. I closed tha emulator window like always, n' ended dis self-subjected torture. I WILL brang mah dirty ass ta play dis game tomorrow yo, but mark mah lyrics. I’ll play tha last tomorrow, n' then dis Snoop Bloggy-Blogg will (hopefully) live on up in mah memory. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. So mah tribulation can be peeped by tha ghetto. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! Be here, so peek-a-boo, clear tha way, I be comin' thru fo'sho. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Same time, same place.

June 13th, 2012

It be ironic indeed dat todizzle is June tha 13th. Da unlucky number, tha unlucky day. It make me wanna hollar playa! I suppose todizzle aint straight-up horrible. Todizzle is tha last dizzle I had ta play dis wretched game. This horrifyingly absurd remake of what tha fuck I used ta peep as a straight-up dope game will soon be outta mah game fo' realz. Along wit every last muthafuckin thang else. With dis bein tha last post, I suppose I can finally be real bout mah legit intentions eva since I finished ghetto 2. I’m goin ta take mah own game.

This game has caused mah crazy ass sorrow on such a ineffable level dat there is no other option. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. Life aint NEVER gonna be tha same. Momma n' dad, I gots a straight-up boner fo' you, biatch. Mike n' Kelsie, you muthafuckas be good. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! I be fly as a gangbangin' falcon, soarin all up in tha sky dawwwwg! Listen ta momma n' dad. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! They gotz a shitload of valuable lessons ta teach you, biatch. Lessons dat I hustled but can now never apply again. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. Now fo' what tha fuck you seventy five thousand followers read dis post for: tha rest of tha game.

Hell itself is what tha fuck tha game brought me to. I suppose dat dis was intentioned ta convey ghetto 8. Fuck dat shit, not hell. WORSE than hell. Bodies was chained up in tha background endurin a myriad of tortures. Da only pain wasn’t strictly felt from fuck-ups though.

Da coughs, dyin wheezes n' vomitin up in tha background reeked of pestilence n' suffering. Fires emblazoned certain playas as well. Da flames had a actual burnin qualitizzle ta dem wild-ass muthafuckas. Not like regular 8-bit fire. Flesh, eyes, n' other internal organs n' tissue constituted tha walls n' ground. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! If tha hell I’m certainly goin ta exists, I be thinkin it looks suttin' like dis y'all.

Mario stood before a possessed Supa-Hoe Toadstool yo. Her dress was ripped up in nuff muthafuckin places n' splattered wit blood. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! I be fly as a gangbangin' falcon, soarin all up in tha sky dawwwwg! Her eyes gleamed red, tha flames castin a evilly maniacal allure ta her appearance. Bowser n' his six lil playas was tied ta wooden polez wit terrified looks on they faces. Wendy, fo' some reason, didn’t step tha fuck up anywhere up in dis game. In one hand, Peach brandished a sizable dagger n' shit. In tha other, tha Blood Whistle. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Biatch strutted over ta Bowser n' looked his ass up in tha eyes.

Technical limitations slightly hindered tha interpretation of what tha fuck events passed yo, but dat shiznit was easy as fuck  enough ta KNOW what tha fuck was goin on. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. Through his wild lil' freakadelic gag, Bowser pleaded wit her not ta harm his muthafuckin ass. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Biatch brought tha knife close ta his ass n' he froze up yo. Dude was obviously paralyzed wit fear yo. Her grill gots close ta his wild lil' fuckin ear n' text rolled along all up in tha bottom of tha screen, conveyin tha text of what tha fuck played up given tha sound limitations. This is what tha fuck enabled Mario ta "speak" up in tha past.

"Sh," dat biiiiatch whispered.

Bowser’s innardz spilled onto tha floor up in a pimped out heap yo. Dude let up a monstrous 8-bit roar of pain as dis happened. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! Peach laughed, her red eyes reflectin whatever evil had possessed her n' shit. Da bizzatch proceeded ta eviscerate all six of his other sons. Mario did not a god damn thang but look on up in horror as his crazy-ass mortal enemies was torn apart by a biatch dat schmoooove muthafucka had once loved straight-up much.

His grill soon contorted tha fuck into one of loathang yo. Dude had come all dis way ta smoke up tha straight-up hoe da thug wished ta save had been taken over by a extra-terrestrial evil fo' realz. An evil dat would not only haunt Mario yo, but me as well. Da sort of evil dat don’t go away when you turn off tha game. Da kind of dark force dat bigs up you ta yo' bedchambers n' steals yo' ass. Supa-Hoe Toadstool paused fo' a cold-ass lil couple seconds, then came at Mario wit tha knife.

"Yo there Mario," her big-ass booty holla'd as dat dunkadelic hoe toyed wit tha knife.

"They gots a lil sharp wit me so I pushed dem over tha EDGE! Hehehe…"

I tried ta move Mario but not a god damn thang happened. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! Dude stood there, afraid of what tha fuck dat biiiiatch would do. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Biatch brutally slashed open his thugged-out arms, hairy-ass legs n' abdomen. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Shortly thereafter, tha bizzatch produced some salt from her billowin dress n' sprinkled all dat shiznit over his muthafuckin ass yo. Dude screamed again, unmoving.

"Da Supa-Hoe Peach you used ta know is long gone. Da juice of tha Blood Whistle consumed dat hoe n' made way fo' mah dirty ass fo' realz. And bustin lyrics of which," dat thugged-out biiiatch continued as she produced tha Blood Whistle, "Here it is yo. Hear its cry like a muthafucka."

With a mockin lick on tha cheek, da hoe fuckin started ta play Mario tha perverse cold lil' woo wop of tha Blood Whistle. Its notes rotted away tha last reserve of phat up in mah dirty ass yo. Dude was heaved by a invisible force tha fuck into tha flames.

Dude cried up as they consumed his muthafuckin ass. Peach chucked tha whistle, makin it strike his ass directly up in tha ass yo. Dude continued ta wallow up in utta anguish as dat biiiiatch strutted away fo' realz. As she laughed, Dude looked tha fuck into mah eyes n' bore me dis partin message via tha text all up in tha bottom of tha screen:

"Do not let yo' game be as fucked up as mine was. I do not hold reservations against you, as you tried yo' dopest ta keep me kickin dat shit, yo. I commend you fo' dis shit. Dope bye, Bradley, n' phat luck." Da tune of tha blood whistle continued ta play as tha screen panned outta Mario’s hell.

How tha fuck he knew hoes call me Bradley continues ta befuddle mah dirty ass yo. How tha fuck his schmoooove ass could have such depth, such personality. I don’t know whether dis be a result of tha game bein as hustled as it truly is, or tha fact dat one of mah thugs’s could done been captured inside of dis rom. Whatever tha reason of this, of every last muthafuckin thang dat has come ta pass wit dis abomination, I be glad I’m finally done. I have made all of mah peace outs all up in tha beginnin of dis post. I hope one of y'all takes tha time ta save dis blog. I be bloggin like a muthafucka up in dis biatch. Or all up in tha straight-up least, ta show tha ghetto tha legit hell I have put mah dirty ass all up in cause I gots dem finger-lickin' chickens wit tha siz-auce. I shizzle hope dat tha demented creator of dis game aint festerin up in tha same hell I’m headed for. Shiiit, dis aint no joke. Peace out, everyone.

Aftermath

This Snoop Bloggy-Blogg was tha last recorded statement of Bradley before his fuckin lil' dirtnap.His roommate discovered his ass four minutes afta he made tha last post. Bradley committed suicizzle a recorder dat he plunged all up in his cold-ass trachea.