Monday, July 13, 2009

Eff. Cee. You. K. It all to heck.

As a kid in 1977, Star Wars (before A New Hope) was the greatest thing ever invented.
A lightsaber stashed in the Christmas tree is one of my favorite childhood memories (prolly Christmas 1978.) The frosted white plastic blade on the fugly orange Everready flashlight, with a simple black circular handguard, made my year. Screen accurate? Nope. But I think it topped anythign I got for my entire childhood.

Being a recovering SW nerd, (as I imagine it was with many boys of my generation,) it would have been ideal to grow up and become a Jedi Knight.

In the really real world, though, nobody gets to carry a sword, and if they do, they certainly won't get any respect. Without cool-assed Force abilities, there was not much point in even fantasizing about it. The closest an American kid could hope to get is to grow up to be all snarky, cool, and good with a blaster like Han Solo.

If you look at my previous post, you see a picture of me, holding my kid, desperately needing a haircut.

As I jammed out to the 80's tunes on the radio the other morning, about 3:30 ish, wrenching away on a bike, thinking about my Boy, I had a grin cross my face. All the fun we were having playing, about how proud I am as a poppa, and about all the silly nicknames I call him.

Like Lumpy.

Lumpy. Hmmm. Wasn't that Chewie's kid's name? Lumpawaroo, or some damn stupid Holiday Special thing like that?

Then I got distracted by busting my knuckles. And let out a bit of a holler.
Like a Wookie.

It hit me.

I will NEVER be Luke Skywalker.
I will never be Han Solo.
Because I am f^&*ing Chewbaccca.

(Presumed Copyright Lucasfilm Limited.)

No wonder I feel like pulling people's arms off, on most days. Damn.
I can't wait until S-Mart is behind me. Clock is ticking, my time is short there, and I have about all the stock I want in that place now (literally, purchased at an employee discount of 15%.)

As a side note, those big flat panels that play REALLY annoying commercials non-stop at S-mart? You can turn them off. All it takes is a TV-B-Gone. Ask me how I know.
(I'm sure they are still trying to find the remote for the breakroom monitor.)

Now I can't wait to shop at OTHER "S-MArt" locations on my days off.
Plus, I will never have to watch NASCAR again while we are out to eat.

(Insert Wookie laugh here.)

I have to ship off my bowcaster, er, I mean Saiga-12 Wednesday for a super-secret project. I'm kinda bummed, but at least I know it will be in good hands.

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