Mario Kart Quotes

We weren't Sherlock Holmes and John Watson. I was ok with that, I thought. We had things they didn't, too. Like electricity, and refrigerators. And Mario Kart.

Persephone smiled. "Caleb and I play Super MArio Kart every day at one, and when he cancelled on me I knew something was up." I looked at Caleb slowly.

You remind me more of Princess Peach.” I looked down at my shorts and tank top, and caught the ends of my multicolored brown hair courtesy of careful instruction to Ginny. “Because of my beautiful pink gown and blonde hair?” Dallas’s mouth went flat. “She’s surrounded by men, but she’s still herself, and she’s got her shit together on Mario Kart.

An interesting fact about the goddess of knowledge is that she knows everything that anyone in this world knows, including me. Which means she knows a bunch of Mario Kart shortcuts, which is kind of awesome.

Did you learn to drive—by playing Mario Kart—” “I’ve never put a Mario in a cart and I never will.

All you need to know about racing you can learn from Super Mario Kart.

Bye, Arlo! If you don't call me tonight, I'll just assume you've been murdered, shear off all my hair in mourning, and write lengthy poetry immortalizing that one time you beat me at Mario Kart.

You don’t always get the waterfall shortcut in Mario Kart. That’s life.

He had his DS balanced on his blue-jeaned knees and was poking away at it industriously with the stylus. “Score,” he said as she came up the steps. “I’m kicking butt at Mario Kart.” Clary

It's one of the things I love about motorsports - you're always learning, always having to adapt. It's not like tennis, where the rackets might change a bit but everything else stays the same. If you're in motorsport, the formulas are always changing. The regulations, the tyres, the power, the type of engine. It keeps you excited.

It's one of the things I love about motorsports - you're always learning, always having to adapt and develop. It's not like tennis, where the rackets might change a bit but everything else stays the same. If you're in motorsport, the formulas are always changing. The regulations, the tyres, the power, the type of engine. It keeps you excited.

The sound of that V10, a rich growl that reached right into my soul.

At our annual March Madness Mario Kart Tournament---along with the twins and Javy, Maggie and Juliet---when Lou's Toadette nearly upset the top-seeded Yoshi in the second round but got blasted by a blue shell right before the finish line, and Lou started swearing and couldn't stop. Farfar couldn't stop grinning, his hands folded behind his head, the rest of us crying from laughter. (I was in seventh grade when I realized March Madness had anything do with basketball.)

I left Patrick coloring in his room and darted to the living room, but then I stopped short. Because William and Sean weren’t alone. “Bryan,” I said on a gasp, drawing three sets of eyes to me. “What are you doing here?” He didn’t answer right away. His eyes were wide and surprised as he took in my appearance, trailing over my high heels, bare legs, and form-fitting silk dress. Self-consciously, I glanced at myself again, tugging on the hem. Bryan’s voice was distracted; as though he were talking to himself, he began, “Holy sh—” “You look great.” William stepped in front of his teammate and gave me a warm, if sedate, smile. I frowned at William, then at Bryan—or what I could see of him behind William—then at Sean, who was inspecting my ceiling. My frown deepened. “What’s going on?” “Oh,” Sean chirped, imbuing his tone with forced lightness, “I just thought since you were going out, Patrick, Bryan, and I could have a men’s night in. You know, go through the latest Dolce & Gabbana catalogue, play a friendly game of Mario Kart, teach Patrick how to hook in a scrum. The usual.

WHEN YOU CROW UP IN KANSAS WEARING VERY LARGE SHORTS, thinking not very much of yourself, thinking mainly of your knees, looking mainly at your knees, your face a frisbee that cant fly, your teeth buck, your eyebrows rectangles, your forehead more than half of your face, your shirts shapeless, your shape shapeless, your Kansas shapeless, your lust absent, your legs bowed, your arches flat, your chest flat, your ears your only curves, your ears never pierced, your denim never dazzled, your sneakers white, your socks white, your teeth turquoise with rubber bands, your cheese orange, your milk whole, your bread wonder, your luxury a tuna casserole, your pale a neon pale, your fantasy to race a Mario Kart over the desert and into the final oasis, your earthly oasis a salted pretzel, your solitude total, your urges not even visible to you on the clearest days at the farthest horizons, your blank magnificent, your inertia wild and authentic, your nothing your preference, and then into it somebody walks, a Joan, this sudden hero can really take control. You’re susceptible first to idolatry, then to study, to apprenticeship, and finally to a kind of patient love that makes fun of itself and believes in itself without limit. Imagine being a pudding cup of a person and encountering a confident, elegant, powerful scholar who knows what to do with her shoulders. Imagine encountering you.

Sex is a lot like Mario Kart. You go really fast, you throw some bananas, Wario is there.

He hoped his new-found mate hadn’t heard that, but the kid was engrossed in Mario Kart. No violent games allowed.

You don’t see adult gamers being accused of an inability to discern when one is a human driving a real car and when one is a yellow dinosaur driving a Mario Kart, but romance readers hear about their unrealistic expectations of men almost constantly.

Unless your game is a just-for-fun simulation such as Super Mario Kart or Beetle Adventure Racing!, vehicle simulation is the most technologically oriented of games, so the core mechanics of the game are almost entirely about physics.

Fine. Call me when you get home?” “So clingy. We need to find you a significant other. Or a cat.” “I do like cats. I’d also like you to call me.” “Oh, look, there’s my dad,” said Arlo with some exaggeration. She waved at an oncoming car as it slowed to a stop bedside them. Bye, Cel. Thanks for walking me from school.” “Bye, Arlo! If you don't call me tonight, I'll just assume you've been murdered, shear off all my hair in mourning, and write lengthy poetry immortalizing that one time you beat me at Mario Kart.

Okay, Gubben, this time you have to pick your least-favorite character with your least-favorite vehicle." I picked Peach, to which he raised his eyebrows. "You hate Peach, Gubben? Seems a little...misogynistic." "What are you talking about? Princess Peach is a horrible representation of women---how many times does she wait for Mario to save her?" I realized I sounded a little like Lou. You know, if Lou's rants ever extended into classic Nintendo characters. Farfar picked Toad. "Seems a little... mycogynistic, doesn't it?" He just chuckled. "Stupid mushrooms." I picked the Super Blooper for Peach, Farfar picked the Booster Seat for Toad, and we spent the next hour laughing and yelling disparaging things at the screen.

What is the Wii U, Gubben?" Farfar said, unable to keep the grin off his face as he balled the wrapping paper in his hands and stared at the box in his lap. "Don't we already have a Wii?" Then, more concerned, "How much did you spend on this?" "Not too much," I said, grinning back. "It's refurbished." "And old," Jorge added helpfully. "And old. Nintendo's already moved on to newer systems. Plus," I said, tossing a second present onto Farfar's lap and picking up his blue Wii remote from the coffee table, strumming the rubber bands holding the battery cover in place with my thumb. "This system's backward compatible." I watched Farfar peel back the paper one his unauthorized second present and nod to himself. He let out a sound like a deeply satisfied bear. "Oh, god," Maggie said, laughing. "Let's hook it up, Gubben." "They released a deluxe edition for the newer system," I explained, leading to our lengthy, highly technical discussion of Mario Kart 8 for Wii U vs. 8 Deluxe for the Switch, while I hooked up the new system to the TV

Farfar had the Wii already fired up when I stepped out of the bathroom from my shower, the menu music from Mario Kart blaring from the living room TV. Koopa---the cat, not the character---was curled up on Farfar's lap in his spot at the end of the couch. One hand held his beer on top of his stomach, the other ran through Koopa's gray fur, both of their eyes closed in bliss. I sank into the other end of the couch and grabbed my controller. "All cleaned up and ready for your whooping?" he asked, pronouncing it, like always, with long OOs, like the crane. He raised his beer to his lips with his eyes still closed. This was probably number two already. "Not tonight, old man. I'm in the zone, and you're looking tired." His eyes were open then, a smirk on his face, and he produced his special blue remote---the best Lillajul gifts I'd ever gotten him---from the cushion beside him. "Do you need to ease in with Mushroom Gorge, or are you ready to play for real?" "I'm ready for any course you want," I said, smirking back. He just chuckled---without the jollity he gave the guys outside C of C, I noticed---went straight to Rainbow Road, and promptly destroyed me. Afterward, sinking back into the couch with a third beer and a number of victories under his belt, he let out a long sigh. "You did good today, Gubben." I smiled. "I'm picking a new character.

I wonder if maybe Farfar's heaven would be steering his own kart, inside the game, his gray ponytail slowly flapping in the lessened gravity of Rainbow Road, cackling as a smiling puff-cloud fishes him out of the abyss after he goes sailing over the guardrails. I'd wave as I pass, careful as always, decelerating my standard kart around the sharp turns, just waiting for him to come barreling past me yet again.

Have we discussed the birds and the bees, Gubben?" Farfar said, just as we started our third lap on Wario's Gold Mine, the one track I hated almost as much as Rainbow Road. "Uh... I'm pretty sure that was covered in online health." I launched my red shell, which he deftly blocked with the banana peel he'd been holding on to. I finished fourth after getting hit by a stupid ricocheting green shell, Farfar's Yoshi already halfway through its victory lap.

Do you know how to drive a car?!” Jackson gave me a look like I was so lame. “I play Mario Kart.

Noora zips through the streets of Mount Shasta. Her driving is a cross between Mario Kart and Grand Theft Auto.

If I can get first place in Mario Kart, then I’m PRETTY SURE I’ll be fine driving to school.

...all of the answers to this thing we call life can be found in a game where a banana is your worst enemy... If you're in first place, people will be mad about it. Being in first place in Mario Kart makes you pretty vulnerable to attacks. People want to take your spot, and they'll do anything to get there.

Q tries to demonstrate how it works, but seeing as it requires the lightest of touches to operate it and he has a pair of spam mountains for hands, his attempt doesn’t go very well, so Bond takes over and is immediately able to drive it perfectly, like my kids playing Mario Kart.

He cheated,” Plato mused, trying to lighten the mood. “That’s what he does, that scummy Mario Kart item spammer.” “You’re just jealous of my turtle swagger,” Basil replied.

And I bet he was the kind of guy who took hate fucking to a whole new level. A level I wouldn’t have minded Mario Karting my way to and parking up to let him put his Luigi in my Peach.

Formula One drivers were like gods to me, growing up.

A wing on a Formula One car operates like the wing on an aero-plane except in reverse. So whereas the aircraft wing generates life, the wing on a car does the opposite, pushing the car down to the surface.

Mario Kart

To put a finer point on the Mario Kart Theory of Talent: every vehicle has a chance of winning the race, as long as you operate the vehicle according to its jagged profile.

air will remunerate you with heaps of focuses. The more you remain noticeable all around when coasting, the more focuses will go into the bank. Likewise,

I have a home again. It’s not Ilmari’s bungalow. It’s the man sharing it with me. The sweet, twenty-two-year-old man who plays hockey and loves Mario Kart and can never answer a single text message. The man who always puts the oven on the wrong setting even though you tell him three times. The man who needs a haircut and fucks me like a god. The man who makes me laugh and listens when I speak and holds me when I cry. The man who’s been showing me every day since the day we met how he intends to put me first. Ryan Langley. My Ryan. My home.