handle him going all Jabba the Hut on me in bed. I’m down with role-playing, but I have my limits. A big gargling tub of poo with a domination complex is where I draw the line. Yeah, I know; my bar is set pretty low.
I’m feeling quite terribly about the fact that my post today was an ode to a post I wrote and then deleted. I feel like you’ve been robbed of a post. I know I do. So allow me to repost an oldie, but a goodie, from back in the days before my 365 Project, when I simply updated when I felt I had something to talk about. And the day Mark Hammill came to my school definitely qualified. Disclaimer: I was a little more… shall I say…liberal with my word choice back then. Enjoy.
I met Luke Skywalker today.
Yeah, Luke Skywalker. Not even Mark Hamill. It was just straight-up Luke Skywalker all like “Hey, Jackie; I’m Luke Skywalker. Let me impregnate you.”
Let’s get something straight. I wouldn’t do Luke Skywalker. One, I don’t go for blondes. Two, I’d be self-conscious of my inability to rock his world in bed since I don’t have this whole “force” thing down. Lord only knows what the man could accomplish with his mind. I can’t compete with that and quite frankly, I have no interest for the toll it would take on my mental health to know that I had a chance to go at it with a Jedi and he was ultimately displeased.
Not to mention he’d probably make me wear his sister’s golden bikini and dog collar accessories and I simply couldn’t
Nonetheless, I will admit; when I was standing not 15 feet away from the man who saved the galaxy, I wondered if I could overcome all this if it meant I would give birth to a metachlorian-charged Jedi baby.
I thought of all the benefits my Jedi baby could bring to the family: quick cooking, easy clean-up, direct access to Yoda and Samuel L. Jackson, and the ability to let me know when all is not well with the force. Because sometimes I wonder, you know?
Then he started to talk about his kids. Turns out Luke Skywalker has babies. Three of them. Except they don’t sound like Jedis at all. One buys a lot of clothes and only votes so she stays in Luke’s will, one is a comic book artist, and the other, um, I spaced out for. Cuz I was thinking of his metachlorian-charged sperm.
Then I realized; maybe he married the wrong woman. Is it possible that Luke Skywalker wasted his incredible Jedi jizz on a female counterpart who is unable to supply him with Jedi babies?
It became alarmingly apparent that I had to save the Jedi race. Yes, it was up to me.
Unfortunately, I was unwilling to submit to his roleplaying necessities or to the fact that he’s a blonde. I don’t care if he’s the New Hope; I have a type and I stick to it. End of story. So there was only one thing to do; steal Luke Skywalker’s sperm.
As I was devising some sort of Dr. Evil-esque way to steal Skywalker’s mojo, I began to tune back into reality. Suddenly, it became apparent to me that the man in front of me was not Luke Skywalker at all. It was Mark Hamill. I know this because Mark Hamill mistook an X-wing for a tie fighter, Cloud City for the Death Star, and kept referring to his stage weaponry as a “gatling gun.” Plus, he didn’t move anything with his mind. Not once.
So here I am, working out the details of Operation: Jedi Baby and he’s fumbling over the most rudimentary chapters of the Star Wars Nerd Encyclopedia.
I guess somewhere underneath it all I expected him to be a nerd, too. I mean, if I know all about Luke Skywalker, shouldn’t Luke Skywalker know all about Luke Skywalker?
I’ve waited my whole life to get a hold of some metachlorian sperm and the moment it’s within my grasp, it all falls apart. All I wanted was a Jedi Baby. Was that really too much to ask? I wouldn’t have even made him pay child support.♣