neverbeencool

Kiala made it pretty clear that she totally kicks my ass in the Whedon arena when she trumped our Buffy and Angel DVD sets with her PDX Browncoats membership card. Touche, Kiala. Touche.

Made me question my nerdliness in general. Made me cry. Which made me drink. And, as usual, that led to another night of burying prostitutes in the back yard. I’m sure you all can relate.

Anyway, after I finished burning my clothes and tossing yet another shovel into the Columbia, I started thinking about the old Star Wars action figures I had when I was a wee lad. Didn’t have a lot (we were, after all, The Poor), but they were My Preciouses.

One day, my mom ditched my brother and me over at her friend’s house for the afternoon. The friend had a son about my age with a Millennium Falcon. I couldn’t stand the spoiled little fucker, but the chance to behold the Falcon made his spoiled brattiness that much more tolerable.

In some sort of tantrum or another, he’d lost/broken/melted/inserted-up-his-ass his own Luke and Chewie action figures, so he asked (told) me to bring mine when I came over. Being a timid little bastard (and wanting a bargaining chip to get me some time with the Falcon), I complied.

After we played for a few hours, mom came back for us. I gathered my coat. I put on my shoes. And then I shat myself. Luke and Chewie were gone.

I ripped apart his room, looked all around the outside of the house. Nothing. Pretty sure I accused that little fucker of stealing them, too. After a little while, the search was called off, the Wookiee and Tatooine farmboy gone for good.

So here’s the “memory’s a funny thing” part.

Ok, so I’m going to assume that you’re probably nothing like me and haven’t seen Star Wars (I refuse to call it “A New Hope” or “Episode IV,” by the way) 80 million times. Not bragging or anything, just a fact.

Anyway, so in Star Wars, there’s a scene in which the Millennium Falcon is tractor beamed on board the Death Star and, in order to avoid capture, the Scooby Skywalker gang hides out in a secret compartment Han has built under the deck that he normally uses to smuggle shit (probably not necessary… I’m thinking Chewie could swallow a fuck ton of spice-filled condoms). The toy version of the ship had a similar compartment, a little plastic piece that popped off so you could stick your action figures and reenact that scene.

Fast forward about fifteen years and gallons of years later, I woke up in the middle of a beer/pot-induced sleep and finally realized what the fuck happened to Luke and Chewie: I left them hiding in the secret compartment of that little bastard’s Millennium fucking Falcon.

So, Clinton, if you’re reading this, I know you found my Luke and my Chewie in your god damn Falcon about twenty-six years ago. I’m totally telling.

Update: Just to clarify, the “Clinton” above is the douche bag who kept my Luke and Chewie, not that senator running for president or her husband.  I will, however, forget the whole matter if either Bill or Hillary decides to settle things on his behalf.  Just in case he happens to see this while he’s in town today…