Chris Jones

I just hate 'em too much

Chris Jones — Sun, 25 Dec 2005 06:11:00 GMT

With two weeks left in the NFL season, a Broncos fan turns on his TV and runs into a repugnant dilemma: Rams vs. 49ers on Fox and Chargers vs. Chiefs on CBS. On one hand, two AFC West teams he loves to hate, and on the other hand, a game that means absolutely nothing to anybody EVER. The real quandary here lies in the fact that I (the Broncos fan about whom I write) hate the Chiefs with all the passion of a Denver fan and yet find myself having to root for them, because San Diego is closer to us in the playoff race. And so my afternoon of ambivalence begins.

My first problem is rooting for Dante Hall, the veritable David Spade of the NFL. By that I mean half the stature and twice the ego. I have the image of him a couple weeks ago catching a touchdown pass against Denver, nary a defensive back within twenty yards of him, and then flashing his "X" symbol in the end zone as if he'd done something that required talent. I simply can't cheer for this man.

Secondly, within the first few minutes of the game, Drew Brees throws a pass into quadruple coverage for a completion. Can't say I'm used to rooting for this type of defense.

Larry Johnson then scores a touchdown by running through three or four Chargers who, I'm convinced, can't have even wanted to tackle him. He then weilds some hand symbol that I guess must represent "LJ," and the crowd starts to chant, "Lar-ee, Lar-ee, Lar-ee!" A couple things: 1) Larry Johnson is not a running back for the Chiefs. He was a forward for the New York Knicks, and yes, much scarier and harder to tackle than Kansas City Larry. 2) One does not chant the name "Larry" unless present at the Boston Garden circa 1986.

On a related note, how does a professional football player, paid a b'zillion dollars a year, forget how to tackle? It's a basic skill, for Pete's sake. Could a black belt forget how to punch? And if you heckled him for it, wouldn't he have to just tackle you or something?

At some point during the game, my wife asks me, "How many pints in a quart?" I say, "I have no idea." She responds with a curt, "Thanks," and after deciding next time I'd just make something up, I see the Chiefs make a first down. "Nice play," I say. "I hate you," I say.

Incidentally, if you're a sportscaster who's too lazy or half-educated to even say the name "Tomlinson," please quit your job. "L.T." wore number 56 for the New York Giants. That's it.

Long story short, by the end of the game I rooted vociferously for the Chargers, playoffs notwithstanding. Ad hoc, no doubt, but the only option for a true lover of the Orange & Blue.

For the Love of God, Buy a Metronome

Chris Jones — Tue, 22 Nov 2005 01:00:00 GMT

The White Stripes have certainly earned their share of accolades for their tenuous brand of bluesy whatnot, and many, many people appreciate the fact that no computers or breakfast cereals are ever used in the recording of their albums. What most people don't realize is that they recently won perhaps their most prestigious award, The Of-All-People-In-The-World-I-Know-Of-Who-Get-Paid-To-Play-Drums-You're-Absolutely-The-Worst Award.

Only Looney Himself will Laugh

Chris Jones — Sat, 12 Nov 2005 16:00:00 GMT

As I drove up behind a couple of cars this morning (at a light that had just turned green), I was frustrated at my having to stomp the brakes when they didn't move forward at all. I asked out loud, "Who needs green when you've got red?"

Serendipitting

Chris Jones — Sat, 10 Sep 2005 21:30:00 GMT

I once worked with a woman whose mother's dog was named Serendipity, which she said meant, "Extreme happiness." I replied with all the chagrin I could muster, "No it doesn't." She was a good sport, so we bet lunch on it. Turned out I was right. I guess the irony is that her mom wasn't expecting to "find out" what her dog's name meant.

Planned Parenthood

Chris Jones — Tue, 16 Aug 2005 22:15:00 GMT

Birth Control and Fetal Death.

Sure.

I'm thinking about starting a Fast-Food chain called "All-Healthy-Food," where we serve, quite exclusively, "Ebola-Burgers." Thanks to "Planned Parenthood," it "makes sense."

Parenthood.

Why I watch Pro Wrestling

Chris Jones — Tue, 16 Aug 2005 22:00:00 GMT

Gratuitous violence; heavy metal blaring; [real] blood; sheer affected rage; Hulk Hogan; women exactly like the men except for make-up and fake boobies; hollering; Rocky Balboa? (NO!); third-grade-educated audiences; spiral perms; Speedos; people smacked by folding chairs...

Okay I don't really watch it

Tightwad, etc.

Chris Jones — Tue, 12 Jul 2005 20:45:00 GMT

There's a small town in Missouri called "Tightwad." They have one bank there: United Missouri Bank. This is just to say, "Tightwad Bank" would've been better.

I thought to myself

Chris Jones — Tue, 12 Jul 2005 20:45:00 GMT

These are the two ways one thinks: "to one's self" and "out loud." But it seems to me like thinking "out loud" is just "talking," so why can't we simply say either "thinking" or "talking?"

Redneck Computers

Chris Jones — Mon, 20 Jun 2005 13:00:00 GMT

On the highway the other day, I was passed by a truck whose back window displayed an advertisement for a company called Redneck Computers. I instantly imagined the following:

An obese, sweaty man with a mostache and a John Deere cap sitting between an oscillating fan and an abacus. The name Gus is embroidered on his shirt. After furrowing his brow at the abacus for a moment, he looks up and says, "Seven. That'll be five bucks."

Space, Time, and Drivel

Chris Jones — Mon, 30 May 2005 15:30:00 GMT

Hey, we Americans need to reco'nize that our system of measurement is no more logical than King George's turds. The metric system is fantastic. Do you understand? Tens, hundreds, thousands... what could be simpler?

Thus, Americans are gravely wrong in our arbitrary assignments of quantity, and just as entrenched as we are wrong. Even a foot, which seems like it could be a good idea, is twelve inches. Why? The only thing I can dig is that somebody said, "If we stack up five thousand two hundred and eighty of these twelve-inch feet, there's Mile-High Stadium, so we should just call five thousand two hundred and eighty feet 'one mile.'"

But there's another illogical measurement to which the entire world subscribes: sixty seconds a minute, sixty minutes an hour, twenty-four hours a day. You can't convince me that it is beyond human enginuity to come up with one hundred seconds a minute, one hundred minutes an hour, ten hours AM, ten hours PM. When a hundred-yard (that's three hundred twelve-inch feet) dash is won or lost, it's by tenths, hundredths, and thousandths of a second, not, "Wow, he lost that heat by only seven-sixtieths!" We could even have ten months a year if we wanted. Obviously, the actual "time passage" of days and years is dictated by our solar system, but the specific lengths of things (e.g. seconds, minutes, etc.) was decided by us. It hurts.

Thank you, good night.

Return of the (Whiner) Jedi

Chris Jones — Mon, 30 May 2005 15:00:00 GMT

Well, if you’ve been keeping up with these Star Wars posts, you’re doing a better job than I. My untimeliness is astounding, but now that Episode III is released, the pressure’s off. So here are some thoughts on Episode IV, Return of the Jedi.

Finding out that Luke and Leia are brother and sister is like getting kicked in the balls. My wife mentioned that she always wanted them to end up together, only to feel dirty when she learned the truth about them. She also blames George Lucas for her adolescent affinity for “bad boys” (i.e. Han Solo). I blame the inconsistent discipline of her childhood.

On Tatooine—in the lair of Jabba the Hut—Han hangs, an ornament in carbonite. Jabba mentions his unwillingness to relinquish his favorite “decoration,” but the whole reason he wanted Han to begin with was to get the money he was owed. How the crap is he going to get money from a chunk of carbonite?

Again, C-3PO finds himself in a room with the McDonald’s-trash-can-with-legs. This time, said trash can is being branded by one of Jabba’s torturous devices, and yells, “No! No! Noooo!” which leads me to believe droids can feel, and all those times C-3PO was dismembered, he was in dire pain. And speaking of droids, Princess Leia comes to rescue Han posing as some sort of cyborg bounty hunter whose only phoneme is apparently, “Yato.” Isn’t it convenient that English is the one language that everyone in the universe understands?

Subsequently, Leia frees Han from the carbonite, and instead of catching him as he falls from it, simply lets him careen face-first onto the floor. Thanks, Leia. But she makes up for it with that string bikini. Indeed, for me it was a taste of what puberty would be like.

In Empire, Darth tricks Luke into falling into the carbon freezing chamber, and by the power of the Force, Luke leaps immediately up out of the chamber to safety. When he falls through Jabba’s trap door, however, he forgets about the Force, opting to battle a carnivore ten times his size. Seems right.

When our protagonists are eventually brought before Jabba for “sentencing,” C-3PO is instructed to tell them that they’ll be dropped into some being in the desert who will show them a new definition of “pain and suffering” as it digests them slowly over the next thousand years. Man, I think I’d rather starve to death and rot. Oh, wait…

My wife refers to R2-D2 as a “glorified Swiss Army knife.” Her comment is precipitated by another act of Deus ex D2—his brandishing a circular saw to cut them from a trap set by the wily Ewoks. And after Luke finally rescues them from the furry little guys by using the Force to levitate 3PO, Han says, “Now I owe you one.” Not true. Luke owed Han TWO—one for the DEATH STAR battle and one for Hoth. So what Han should have said is, “Now you owe me less than two.”

The rest of this movie digresses into things like: people and Troopers looking around from side to side while traveling at hundreds of miles per hour on speeder bikes, thus dying by explosion; rebels taking gilded droids (i.e. C-3PO) with them onto Endor, the forest planet (camouflage be damned); Leia admitting, “I know. Somehow I’ve always known,” about Luke being her brother, as we remember their three-second kiss; Luke telling Vader, “That’s why you won’t take me to your Emperor now,” as though the old Jedi mind trick is going to work on the very LORD OF THE SITH; an airborne rock is capable of killing a Stormtrooper; Chewie swinging on a vine while doing a Wookie Tarzan yell; et cetera et cetera et cetera…

The more I write on these movies, the more I realize they’re crap. Why, oh why, didn’t I take the blue pill?

Official “I’ve got a bad feeling about this” tally: Han says it once. I think that’s four occurrences in the “first” trilogy.

Okay bye

The Legend gets two mentions

Chris Jones — Thu, 26 May 2005 18:30:00 GMT

Peter Griffin, a.k.a. The Family Guy, in an attempt to prove to himself that he was still more dominant than his offspring, challenged his son to a game of one-on-one basketball. During this game, he referred to himself as "the white Larry Bird."

Ben Affleck was interviewed on ESPN at some point in the past, and when asked who the greatest basketball player of all time was, he went unequivocally with Larry. They asked him why. "I'll tell you why. Because he made the players around him better." (The fact that ol' Ben is from that Boston area was not a factor.) Two reasons why his statement is ludicrous: 1) every great player, every great leader, every great person has this effect on the people around them. Is he really saying guys like Bill Russell and Magic and Michael didn't make the players around them better? 2) It proceeded from the mouth of Ben Affleck.

An NBA list

Chris Jones — Fri, 20 May 2005 20:00:00 GMT

Again, I love the NBA, and I thought it would be good fun to compose a list of the five starters I would choose for the All-Time Whiners' Team. My problem is, I can't shake the image of Kareem and his big bottom lip protruding as he fails to hustle back on defense. So my list of starters on the All-Time Whiners' Team are: at center, Kareem Abdul-Jabaar. Also at center, Lew Alcindor THE END

Two quotes from the niece

Chris Jones — Tue, 17 May 2005 21:00:00 GMT

I had the opportunity to hang out some with my niece, Lexi, last weekend. She'll be 4 years old in December. She determined she couldn't finish her ice cream cone one day, so she made it dance around and say, "I quit this job. I'm going to jail."

As we parted ways with the inlaws for the weekend, Lexi prepared to get into the car with her grandparents (my wife's parents). My wife asked her Dad if he was awake enough to drive (he's somewhat famous in the family for sleeping while driving) and he told her not to worry, that he planned on catching a good nap on the way home. "That sounds about right," she replied. Then Lexi added, "That sounds about rrreally dangerous."

An NBA fan in Missouri

Chris Jones — Wed, 11 May 2005 02:00:00 GMT

I'm a huge fan of the NBA, but I don't have any sort of cable or satellite television. So, if I'm to know anything of what's going on, I have to either visit an establishment that's showing the games or check the local news or internet to get scores and highlights. Tonight, it's the local news.

So I'm sitting on the couch with my wife--occasionally flatulating on her blanket, much to her chagrin--waiting for some basketball highlights, and this is the way the sports on our local news goes, in exactly this order:

Exhaustive highlights of the St. Louis Cardinals game
Scores and commentary on the local minor league baseball team
Southwest Missouri State University Women's Fast-Pitch Softball highlights (including one highlight of a foul ball)
Local high school baseball insight
A kid from Kickapoo High School wins an award for being a great student, so I get to watch him shoot a few three pointers

So far, no pro basketball.

Understand, people--we're down to Conference Semis. Only eight teams left, battling toward the NBA Finals. Nary a hockey playoff to even contend with. And yet, the NBA is of so little importance that after all this other drivel (including highlights) I have to sift through to get to some information of actual import to the sports world, sportscaster Dan Lucy puts up a screen of the two pertinent NBA scores for about five seconds. The same five seconds that my wife decides to gripe at me and to struggle to get her blanket out from under me so it won't smell like my flatulence. ALAS, I MANAGE TO NOT EVEN CATCH THE SCORES. So now I'm as mad at the missus as I am at the ridiculous sports broadcast that features ZERO highlights from the NBA playoffs.

So thank you, Mrs. Jones. And thank you, Dan Lucy, for highlights of everything else but your dog taking a crap.

Fun at Work

Chris Jones — Fri, 06 May 2005 20:00:00 GMT

I work at a store that buys, sells, and trades used stuff (but I PROMISE it's not a pawn shop). As such, many interesting people come in, including an overweight, friendly little guy named Frank. He's a quiet, awkward (but somewhat funny) twelve-year-old. The other day, he came in wearing a shirt that said, "Sarcasm... just one of the services I offer." When he was standing at the cash register, I couldn't really make out anything at first but the "sarcasm" part, so I asked him what his shirt said. Frank replied, "Sarcasm... just one of the many services I offer" (italics mine). When I realized the discrepancy between what his shirt said and what his mouth said, I laughed, thinking he had no idea what unique brand of sarcasm he was really offering.
The store sells sports cards, and being in Missouri, many Kansas City Chiefs fans come in. I often banter with them about how the Mighty Denver Broncos are better. The other day, one of the Chiefs fans mentioned how they didn't trust Broncos fans. Sometimes I don't think before responding. "Why, because they're smarter than you?" I asked. I think the reply trailed off and involved some cursing...
A kid came in recently with some stuff to trade. He told us, "Yeah, I'm real bummed cuz I traded in like my three favorite games of all time a couple weeks ago. I'm gonna try and trade to get 'em back." My co-worker, Ross, asked, "Which games were they?" to which the kid responded, "Uhh, I don't remember." Favorite games of all time, he said. Don't remember, he said. This time I was quite deliberate in saying, "Makes sense."
The other morning I called home from work, and my two-year-old (Coen) answered with a sheepish, "Hell-o." He doesn't usually answer the phone, so I said, "Hey, Coen. It's Daddy!" He said, "Yes," and hung up.

Re: Scott Hastings

Chris Jones — Wed, 04 May 2005 19:00:00 GMT

If you don't know who this guy is, good. Please, read no further.

What bothers me the most about him is that some people could think, "Man, that Hastings is just such a character! Great guy." No, no, no! Understand--- this guy, in a recent interview with (The Greatest Quarterback Ever) John Elway, made at least two jokes at his expense! Dude, if you interview Elway and you're not nervous, you're too dumb to even realize who you're interviewing. Hastings likes the sound of his own voice far too much to be asking questions. But I'm not bitter.

Or did I mean lucky drummer?

Chris Jones — Tue, 03 May 2005 23:00:00 GMT

Today I saw an old used copy of the Beatles' "I Saw Her Standing There" on 45. In careful, female cursive there was one word written next to each of the Beatles' heads on the cover. Next to George and John was written, "cute." Next to Paul was written, "cutest." And next to Ringo was written, with the same care, "homely." Oh, well; at least he was a great drummer.

Farting. As in: Farting

Chris Jones — Mon, 02 May 2005 21:45:00 GMT

I say it's God's comedy, so it's time we quit pretending we're too refined to have fun with it. We all do it. What's the big deal? Is laughter not worth a few seconds of olfactory discomfort? Even the BEST BAPTIST IN THE WORLD will let out a little toot from time to time when they bend over to take the biscuits out of the oven. Furthermore, I have found it impossible to teach my two-year-old that farting is anything but high comedy. I'll concede there are times when farting might not be the best idea (e.g. funerals, business negotiations, prostate exams, etc.), but you'd be surprised, even in those instances, how a long, greasy fart can really lighten the mood!

The Empire Strikes Back, indeed

Chris Jones — Tue, 26 Apr 2005 01:30:00 GMT

Upon my most recent viewing of Episode V, The Empire Strikes Back, a chronology of otherwise random blasts of insight…

Watched this one in widescreen format; it was ineffably better. I was even able to read the exposition at the beginning. One problem, though. It said, “Although the DEATH STAR has been destroyed, Imperial troops have driven the Rebel forces from their hidden base and pursued them across the galaxy.” I think what Lucas meant to say was, “extremely well-hidden base.” So well-hidden, in fact, that the Empire was able not only to find the Rebels, but to pursue them across the galaxy. From hidden base to hidden base.

I hate it that “Empire” and “Imperial” don’t start with the same letter.

The various “regal” monikers that Han uses to address Leia are endlessly entertaining. “Your Worshipfulness” is my favorite from Star Wars. My favorite from this episode is, “Your Highnessness.”

When Luke fails to make it back to the Rebel base before dusk, Han decides to go out and look for him. (Sub-zero temperatures on Hoth keep the Rebels from being able to use speeders or go outside after dark, and extreme meteoric activity keeps them from being able to spot approaching ships. Why not Hoth?) The Rebels’ inability to adapt their speeders to the cold leaves Han only one alternative in his search for Luke: a tauntaun. (“Tauntaun” is short for “Kangaroo-camel-with-tusks-that-says-‘rubble-rubble.’”) “But your tauntaun will freeze before you reach the first marker,” somebody says. “Then I’ll see you in hell! Hyah!” Han yells, and he’s off on his tauntaun. I saw this movie at the theater as a child, and I remember thinking to myself, “I thought good guys went to Heaven.”

Meanwhile, Luke is averting the throes of a carnivorous snow-monster by using the force to obtain his lightsabre, cut himself free, chop the arm off the snow-monster (and yes, this is yet another instantly cauterized lightsabre avulsion), flee the cave into an apparent blizzard (why not?), and crawl through the snow toward the visage of Ben Kenobi, who’s telling him to go to Dagobah and train with a “Yoda.” Luke’s lying there babbling when Han shows up on a tauntaun that subsequently dies, and I’ve got to think he wants to ask Luke, “Kid, why d’you keep calling me Ben Dagobah?”

After Han’s dramatic rescue of Luke, our protagonists reconvene to tell Luke how healthy he looks and to hear Leia offer a couple of jokes at Han’s expense. She then tells Han that he hasn’t quite completely figured out women. “One-Mississippi, Two-Mississippi, Three-Mississippi.” I just started counting the instant Leia’s lips were pressed against Luke’s. What’s a three-second kiss between siblings? It’s freaken me out, that’s what.

Alas, the Imperial Walkers cometh. But their armor’s too strong for blasters! The fighter pilots have to use their harpoons and tow cables to take them down. But guess what—it appears that once you’ve taken a Walker down with your harpoons and tow cables, their armor is no longer too strong for blasters! A Rebel pilot flies by and blows the downed Walker to smithereens. Seems right.

Here’s Darth Vader, striding through the Rebel base. And now, a line of iambic pentameter to commemorate this event: How stark the dark of Darth against the ice!

As our protagonists endeavor to escape Hoth on the Millennium Falcon, Imperial forces blast away in vain at the ship. For whatever reason, Leia says to Han, “Someday you’re gonna be wrong and I just hope I’m there to see it.” No you don’t! You’d be dead if it weren’t for him! So I was happy later, in the asteroid field, when she recanted that statement.

Not only was my viewing of this movie in widescreen format, it was also on DVD, so I was able to watch the movie with subtitles. A few noteworthy observations regarding said subtitles: 1) When a sub-aquatic beast on Dagobah swallows R2–D2 and then vomits him several yards through the air, our droid sounds remarkably human by squealing, “Wooooooow!” The subtitle reads, “Beeeeeeeep!” 2) Han and Lando both refer to “their” ship as the “Fulcon,” and the subtitle reads “Falcon.” 3) No matter what growling-moaning-gurgleton comes out of Chewie, the subtitle reads exactly, “Gahhh!”

Once quasi-situated on Dagobah, Luke tells R2, “Now I’ve gotta find this Yoda. If he even exists.” What? You’re gonna heed the “apparition” of Obi-Wan, fly all that way, crash land your ship, and then wonder if Yoda’s even real?! Shut up.

Then this Yoda (who really does exist!), veteran of countless battles over the centuries, Jedi master, legendary warrior, former weilder of the powerfully elegant lightsabre, is so fascinated with a little flashlight that he beats R2 with his cane to get it from him. “Mine, mine, mine, mine!” he says.

The Imperial fleet once again manages to lose track of the Millennium Falcon. Captain Needa has the brilliant idea of accepting full responsibility for losing them, and decides he will apologize to Lord Vader. As he crumples to the floor, choked to death by the Force, Vader utters, “Apology accepted, Captain Needa.” This has been the Darth Vader Sarcastic Eulogy of the Day.

Han, Leia, Chewie and 3PO enter Cloud City, where Leia has to endure ol’ randy Lando. “Hello, what have we here?” he says with blatant seduction. “Welcome. I’m Lando Calrissian, I’m the administrator of this facility. And who might you be?” And he continues to look at her with eyes of rape until Han punches him in the mouth.

So Luke is training with Yoda on Dagobah when the Force reveals to him that Han and Leia are in trouble. He decides he needs to leave so he can help them. Yoda and the spirit of Obi-Wan Kenobi then conspire to direct him otherwise. They say the following things: “If you leave now, help them you could, but you will destroy all for which they have fought and suffered,” and, “You must complete the training,” and, “You must not go,” and, “This is a dangerous time for you, when you will be tempted by the dark side of the Force,” and, “If you choose the quick and easy path, as Vader did, you will become an agent of evil.” And Luke decides to say, “Screw you guys. I’m goin’!!”

Incidentally, when R2 plugged his appendage into the Cloud City’s central computer, it told him the Falcon’s hyperdrive had been disabled, but R2 didn’t feel this was pertinent information until they had a fleet of Star Destroyers chasing them. Brilliant! This would be an example of the opposite of Deus ex D2.

*The official, “I’ve got a bad feeling about this,” tally—Leia says it once. That’s three total for the first two movies. And right now, I’m so burnt out on Star Wars, I can’t guarantee any more commentary. But I’ll take a break and we’ll see what happens…

Regarding the stinking Mogwai

Chris Jones — Fri, 22 Apr 2005 21:30:00 GMT

"No matter what you do, never, ever feed them after midnight," says the cover of the movie Gremlins. As far as I can calculate, this means one must feed his Mogwai at exactly the instant of midnight. Or, go ahead--name a time that isn't after midnight.

Love,
Post Meridiem Syndrome

But no Nutters

Chris Jones — Wed, 20 Apr 2005 00:30:00 GMT

Over the weekend, I saw several highlight clips of NBA teams sporting "throwback" uniforms from the 70's and 80's. The problem is (in spite of the vintage color schemes, lettering, etc.) the way the uniforms fit the players; despite the throwback feel, the uniforms still fit like loose, sleeveless shirts and oversized quasi-knickers rather than the wife-beaters and one-inch-inseam-boxer-shorts of yore. Does somebody have a problem with Magic Johnson's basketball uniform?! Would it kill Ben Wallace to dress like Isaiah Thomas one night?!

Steak 'n' Shake, what the...

Chris Jones — Thu, 14 Apr 2005 19:00:00 GMT

As I drove past a Steak 'n' Shake recently, I noticed three messages posted around the building for all to see. The first, "Famous for Steakburgers," made sense to me. The second said, "Genuine Chili," and I do appreciate that, considering all the times I've had to send fake chili back to a restaurant's kitchen for a full refund. The last message said, "Tru-Flavor Shakes." They couldn't use "genuine" because they'd already used it, I suppose. Plus, this way all they have to get right is the "flavor." The shake itself can still be as artificial as, say, the HAL 9000 computer.

Preparing for Star Wars III

Chris Jones — Mon, 11 Apr 2005 20:30:00 GMT

I’ve got a bad feeling about this.*

In an attempt to be ready for May’s impending Star Wars “finale,” I decided to watch all five heretofore released movies (in order). I was recently able to watch Episode IV, A New Hope, Star Wars, what have you.

These are the blasts of insight I offer.

First of all, one should never view Star Wars in full screen format. At the very beginning, by the time the letters were far enough up for me to read a full line, they were so stinken small I could make nothing of them. So instead I would read the middle two letters of the lines at the bottom, then go back up and try to piece together the lines whose middles I’d previously read, to no avail.

Stormtroopers must disintegrate when they die.

There was but one entrance to the rebel ship, a door the Stormtroopers blasted open so they could get in.
The rebels musta shot fifty of ‘em.
And they just kept coming in, like no military force in the universe could simply direct all their laserpower toward this little opening in their ship (through which the enemy must pass in order to get on the ship) and keep them from getting through the door alive. All of them.

So, Stormtroopers must disintegrate when they die because the dead plastic bodies didn’t block the door, Darth didn’t have to kick them angrily out of the way as he strode in, etc. Where else could they have gone? The rebels musta shot fifty of ‘em. But then, it may be equally likely to think they were just shooting the same poor Stormtrooper over and over.

Apparently, Jawas are vertically challenged creatures with headlights and brown cloaks who hide behind rocks in the middle of the desert and wait for droids to go by so they can zap them and bring them back to their big-ass transport. Now, we know the desert isn’t the place for droids. C-3PO got to where he could barely move. (So it would make the most sense for Jawas to be lurking there in wait for them.) However, these fellas seem to have a wicked lucrative trade going; their whole transport is full of droids, one of which I know is a McDonald’s trash can with legs.

If it weren’t for the force, Luke Skywalker would be the biggest sissy in the universe. Imagine the whiniest voice of all times: “But I was going to pick up some power converters,” he said. “If there’s a bright center to the universe, you’re on the planet that it’s farthest from,” he said.

Man, the Empire’s just not even trying to hide the fact that they’re pure evil, are they? “Let’s call it the DEATH STAR,” they said.

Incidentally, I believe this picture could have benefited much from Rip Torn playing Uncle Owen.

Mos Eisley, the infamous space port where Skywalker and Kenobi hook up with Han and Chewie, is as interesting as any locale featured in the films. For example, in the pub there, they’ve got guys who look like the Coneheads; white, furry beasts that squawk their crude languages through what look like Vienna Sausages protruding from their faces; anteater looking folk; gourd-headed clarinet players; they’ve even got a guy who has a big ol’ pink baboon’s butt for a chin. Then R2 and 3PO come in (nary wanting to be there). “Hey!” the bartender (who also should have been played by one Rip Torn!) says with a sneer, “We don’t serve their kind here…Your droids—they’ll have to wait outside. We don’t want them here!” Seems right.

Also at Mos Eisley, I believe we see the only lightsabre avulsion that isn’t instantly cauterized (as best I can remember). I just know Luke doesn’t bleed to death when Darth chops him later on. And doesn’t Anakin get chopped in Episode II? No blood then either, you say.

Later in the movie, Vader tells Kenobi, “Your powers are weak, old man,” and during his negotiation with Han and Chewie at Mos Eisley, you can tell they are. I reckon the smugglers aren’t quite as weak-minded as the gullible Stormtroopers who didn’t “need to see his identification.” Han tells them the ship’s fast enough, and then asks, “What’s the cargo?”

“Only passengers—myself, the boy, two droids, and no questions asked.” So how does Han respond? “What is it, some kind of local trouble?” Yes, it’s a question. And does Kenobi shut him down, tell him, “Ah, ah, ah, I said, ‘No questions asked,’ remember?” Oh, no. He decides to tell him they’re fleeing the very Empire, and costs them so much extra that Luke’s ready to buy his own stinken ship. Then, the Jedi master offers nearly double the exorbitant amount Han requests. I guess he was thinking, “Well, I’ll probably just let ol’ Darth slice me into the spirit realm; it’s not gonna cost me anything.”

As Han then prepares to leave Mos Eisley, he runs into Jabba the Hut, to whom he owes a sum of money. After striking a spoken agreement, he tells him, “Jabba, you’re a wonderful human being.” No need to change the dialogue when you change Jabba from a male actor to a computer-generated slug, although, “Jabba, you’re a wonderful computer-generated slug,” doesn’t quite roll as well off the tongue.

And now, one of my favorite lines of all the Star Wars films: Han snapping at Luke, “Traveling through hyperspace ain’t like dustin’ crops, boy!” That is all.

What I like is when Luke, Han (in Stormtrooper getup), and Chewie break into the detention level on the DEATH STAR (with blasters blasting!) and Luke goes in to get Leia and she says, “Aren’t you a little short for a Stormtrooper?” and he says, “Oh, the uniform.” Oh, the uniform. Do you expect me to believe Luke Skywalker forgot he was wearing ten pounds of plastic and the most sight-constricting helmet ever designed? I mean, they look cooler than crap, but come on!

Deus ex machina is a Latin phrase, which when literally translated, means, “God out of the machine.” It was a convention of Greek tragedy whereby the gods would intervene and save the day when it seemed all hope was lost. The pervasive element of this convention in the Star Wars films takes the form of our little buddy, R2-D2, who (in this episode) brandishes an appendage that enables our protagonists to view and control some crucial inner-workings of the very DEATH STAR (e.g. finding where the Princess is being held, shutting down “all the garbage smashers on the detention level,” etc.) This is certainly not the last time I’ll be addressing what I refer to as, “Deus ex-D2.” Oh, no; without that little droid, they’d all be dead.

When I’m about to die from being squished in a trash compactor or falling off a ledge into a bottomless shaft, I like to wax witty. I say things like, “One thing’s for sure—we’re all gonna be a lot thinner,” or, “I think we took a wrong turn.” Bottom line: never mind impendingdeath. Don’t think, just say something that will lighten the mood.

If Stormtroopers swam to the bottom of the ocean, they’d have trouble hitting water with their blasters.

Just moments before Luke fires the proton torpedoes that cause the DEATH STAR to explode, he hears the voice of Kenobi encouraging him to use the Force. At this point, rather than depending on a computer to help him, he trusts the Force completely. Someone then asks from the rebel base: “Luke, you switched off your targeting computer—what’s wrong?” Luke replies, “Nothing. I’m all right.” Oh—oh, good. No problem, I just thought you’d turned off your TARGETING COMPUTER! But I guess rather than being cynical, the rebels must have just thought, “Wow, this Skywalker’s a real cowboy! So what if we’re all gonna die in a minute?!”

Alas, the Force is more powerful than any targeting computer.

*The official “I’ve got a bad feeling about this” tally for episode IV: Luke and Han each say it once.

Stay tuned for commentary on The Empire Strikes Back…

Let's put an S on it all

Chris Jones — Wed, 30 Mar 2005 19:15:00 GMT

I work across the street from a large Mall that features a Ruby Tuesday restaurant. Today, they brought us some menus and offered free delivery. Much to my amazement, the menus said "Ruby Tuesday." You'll notice no letter "s" at the end. Here's the thing: I've heard a great many people mention this restaurant and never, EVER have I heard it said without an "s" on the end. I guess people just figure there's some woman named Ruby Tuesday out there who started the restaurant and lent her recipes as such, or whatever. Let's give her credit by putting the old apostrophe-"s" on her. Or maybe (JUST maybe) people in the Ozarks are so grammatically stunted as not to have the ability of uttering a store name without putting the "s" on it for whatever reason. Are they all trying to let each other know that they're aware other stores of the same name exist (e.g. Targets, Barnes & Nobles) or do they just want to give credit where it's due (e.g. Target's, Barnes' & Noble's)?