I DID A THING, NEW SCARY THING!

Giving Vlogging a try.  Seems holocron-y to me...Quite suspect.  It's dumb and unpolished as my helmet.  Hopefully it will become as polished as my other helmet...

https://youtu.be/Imbo3MmJkFk

What do you hear Starbucks? Nothing but the Clang!

     Clone Trooper Clyde went to get a new Landcruiser license this past week because he relocated to a different sector of Coruscant and despite the fact that the planet is technically one singular city, the different districts apparently feel the collective need to achieve maximum bureaucratic ass to stick saturation and each have their own licensing requirements that upon a close inspection, are all fucking identical.  

     I would like to point out that I am aware that Ass to Stick implies that there are multiple asses per stick and you would think that I am misusing that particular colloquialism.  You are in fact wrong and know nothing about bureaucracy.  Why would you waste valuable state resources (Sticks in this case), to irritate one ass, when you can attempt to fit multiple asses on one stick, the logistics of which have been scientifically proven to be more rectally irritating than the simplicity of jamming what your English would call a faggot, square up the sphincter of the recipient.  For once, I didn’t go for the softball gay joke.  I went for the complicated anal penetration joke.  If you knew me you’d have seen that coming. Clyde doesn’t disparage the LGBT community.  Generally its because gender is a nebulous concept in the wider universe.  Mostly its because Clyde likes to wear dresses.  #Clonescanruninheels.

     While sitting in the Coruscant Department of Hovering Vehicles contemplating what possible proofs of address I might have to meet their requirements in a paperless society (you see where I’m going with this so I’ll move on), I took the time to read Boba Chef’s latest blog update and he got me thinking about mental health in the Clone/Galactic Civl War veteran community.  Sometimes we all just need our stories told, sometimes we just want to share some weird shit that happened.  Bollocks the sentiment, sometimes it helps.

     On Vacation I went to your “Cincinnati”.  It’s a lot like lower levels of Coruscant except you can see the sun and the waste water flows out in the open instead of massive drainage pipes.  So, your Saint Louis.  I went there because my good friend Qui-Gon Baca was having his yearly “Super Secret Jedi Training” Workshop out there.  Yes, I did just give away his hiding spot, but lets be honest folks, nobody from my galaxy comes to yours because they want to.  He doesn’t Really train Jedi either, its mostly just a camp for kids where they learn to play Jedi.  Your human kids love that shit.  Easily entertained they are.  In the Far Far Away, humans abandon their kids on desert planets to forage for survival until they’re 18.  It might not make them less whiny, but they sure as Gungan shit aren’t weak.  

     Every day during this thing we have to show up around 7am to be ready for the itsy rats.  It’s not super early, but its early enough for Clyde and company to need some fucking Coffee.  The easiest access to which is one of your horrible, awful, no good, really bad Starbucks.  We are somewhat late at this point, not by much, but enough that it is becoming a concern, so we roll up to the drive thru.  Qui-Gon’s girlfriend, yes, girlfriend (You might ask him “what about Jedi celibacy and their proscriptions agains love”?  You know what he says?  “Who cares, They’re all fucking dead”.  You know what?  I agree with him.) is very particular about her coffee.  Besides all the things she likes to have put in it, the most important thing of all is its size.  She has one opportunity for coffee this morning, and she is going to need all of it.  You know what?  I agree with her.  She orders it in the size i think is called Trenta, although I’m not sure because the words extra and large exist, so I’m already lost.  The Barista at the window informs us that she is unable to serve trenta sized portions through the drive thru because the potential for personal injury is “quite grievous”.  

     There are two things you should never say to a veteran of the clone wars.  One of them is Grievous.

     Before you can say “awesome at backflips”, Qui-gon has force leapt through the window of the car, through the drive thru, activated his lightsaber, and on his feet on the other side.  Lady Baca and I, having seen this before were already out of the car and headed to the front door the moment we heard “Grievous”.  We get inside and the poor barista who had been helping us is now in a couple different places with her personal Chai spread in the spaces between.  Everyone else in the joint looks justifiably terrified.  

     “Show yourself Dooku, We KNOW you are Here!”  He screamed out theatrically, hoping for a response from the shadows, you know, where Sith lords always hide before their dramatic reveals.  Also, yes, we went from Grievous to Dooku in less than a second, but seriously, Dooku is fucking always there, and we always just miss him.  It got to be a habit after awhile.  One of the trembling day shifters was dumb enough to speak up.

     “There’s no Dooku here, sir.”  Qui-Gin slashed his saber through a nearby dish cart before leveling it at the offending worker.

     “Separatist LIES”!  He screamed at her, his eyes bulging in rage.  Lady Baca took that as her cue to get involved.  

     “Sweetie, calm down, Dooku is dead, remember?  The war is over, you’re on earth, you're safe.  Just slow down and think for a second, okay?”  This did not work.  He turned to me, I was in full armor, you know, for the kiddies. 

     “Trooper, take these prisoners to my shuttle for interrogation.  Contact the fleet and tell them to send reinforcements, Dooku is here!”  There was a poorly timed clatter from the back room at this moment and Qui-Gon snapped to attention.  “There is no time Trooper, go, I shall deal with him myself!”  He started traipsing off when Lady Baca leaned into me.

     “Blast him”.  She said.  I unholstered my blaster pistol and set it to stun.  After this, I have no idea what happened.  Lady B told me that at that moment a toaster went off and the next thing I said wast “the clankers!  They’ve got us surrounded!”.  Qui-Gin doesn't remember a thing either.  Turns out Qui is an old Coruscanti word meaning far.  On that day, he certainly was Far Gone.  Rimshot!

     We somehow made it to the workshop on time.  Lady Baca had her coffee, Qui-Gon was his usual, smiley self despite being covered in a surprising amount of blood I have no idea how we explained away, and I got a new mug.  I assume there is a moral here or something, but all I can come up with is: good women are worth their weight in bacta, give them coffee. 

If it Goes "Bip", Don't Take it's Shit.

     Clone Trooper Clyde had a story to tell you about the time, one of the times? a time? he stole a small Imperial shuttle, but then I got sidetracked by a little thought that has always bothered me about life in our (my) galaxy.  You see, when you have to book it in what clever scientists call a “quick fastin’ hurry”, the usually careful, nuanced, and research necessitating process of ship shopping is distilled into is basest necessities.  These necessities are survivability (armor, firepower, life support), and of course, the quick fastin’ hurry part.  Awesome drugs never hurt either.  Don’t death stick and fly kids, drink booze.  Space is big enough for booze.  

I am not a credible source.

     Hyperdrive! That’s what I’m getting at on getting to.  If you gotta run, sublight is great in a pinch, but if Star Destroyers are closing in, you need a good hyperdrive.  Even Handles himself Solo knows that, as does the rest of the Compensator, I mean Skywalker clan.  When it comes to the shit you find in any given Imperial hangar, your choices are exactly that, shit.  Being reliant on clones, from birth conscripts, and whatever other fucked up ways people come into the fold, soldier safety features tend to fall into the “none” category.  The expansive nature of the imperium and the uncertain nature of a perpetual war economy doesn’t help the reliability of the tech much either. TIE fighters are the gods damned doctoral thesis on this exact concept.  Safe bet, Lambda shuttles.  There is always one, so get there first, and despite her looks and slug like performance, an X-wing can literally shoot at her for ten fucking minutes before she tanks.  I know, I’ve tried.  I’ll tell you later.

I could have binged a whole season of Gilmore Girls instead.

     The traitors though, they’ve got options.  If you find yourself deep in the bowels of those flying fish tanks they call capital ships, you can be in any amount of hurry you like, anything you stumble upon will have a hyperdrive.  Tuning fork?  Hyperdrive.  Penis-Letter plane? Hyperdrive.  Wedgie thing?  Hyperdrive.  Its a damn shame.  Obviously there are myriad tactical benefits to this technological proliferation that justify the cost, but Clyde’s nerd has begun to show and he only shows his dick!  

Eeenie, Meenie, Miney, fap, fap, fap.

     I just get all misty eyed when I think about what might have been. My flight evaluation is a thing of beauty:  “ST-058's behavior behind the stick leaves nothing but death.  A swath of carnage and suffering that any man or clone who had survived the Clone Wars or witnessed the genocidal campaigns of the early Empire would still find themselves shocked by and loathe to revisit.  ST-058  is a danger to his fellow troopers on and off the field, giving him access to the gross firepower of a cutting edge war machine would do naught but expose the inadequacy of such words as negligent and irresponsible.”  I broke words.  It’s glorious.

Nailed it.

     Take a closer look at the wedge thingy.  Not to be confused with Wedge’s thingy.  Not a bad piece by the way.  But!  Also, BUTT!  Look at it, what makes it different?  What stands out?  And not the fact that its just a bubble with some big fuckoff engines attached to it?  Now that I think about it, that is all a Y-Wing is, so why is it a dumpy slug where the A-wing hauls so much sex ass?  Actually, do look at the fact that it is just a bubble with engines.  You know what there isn’t room for? Whip-Woot-weep-woot-Whew!  You win the mother fucking prize!  There is no slot for an Astromech Droid. Why?  How?  Jumping through hyperspace ain’t like crop dusting kids, and only slightly less rewarding.  It takes an advanced computer doing millions of calculations with countless variables to…oh, did I say computer?  Yeah.  It has a fucking computer.  Just. A. Computer.  A computer?  A COMPUTER!?  I CAN JUST HAVE A FUCKING COMPUTER?!  Then WHY in Poppa Palpatine’s Wide FUCKING butt SU-uh-cking galaxy are we putting up with all these gods damnned lippy ass robots! 

This, was a nightmare.

     Aren’t they though?  I mean, all Astromech droids do is shit the bed with their mouths all the fucking time.  If you don’t speak beep-boop, it’s just annoying, and if you do, well, have you seen the face of someone fluent in it?  It’s the most shit eating smirk you’ve ever seen.  Miserable.  Do not even get me started on those Fuck Turd piece of shit protocol droids.  I hate talking to them, I hate seeing them, I hate getting stuck behind them in crowded or narrow walkways. Why can’t I have a simple Universal Translator?  And protocol, really?  If you can’t function in society without a droid, you have bigger problems. You people here on this planet have A.I.’s yourself.  Those Siri’s or whatever?  Don’t think I haven’t noticed how none of you use them.  So why haven’t my people ditched the “bitch in the machine”?  

BACKHAND!

     Well, I’m glad you asked.  Since I’m a long way from home, I’ve taken it upon myself to fix these little problems.  As a veteran of the Clone Wars, I will admit I have a naturally acquired hatred for droid kind.  Which, is why I cope by brutally enslaving them.  My Clone brothel on Coruscant currently employs two droids of my…own design.  A modified protocol droid to handle The day in day out business and the in and out business.  His name is I-CU-Touch Yourself, Human/Cyborg Masturbations.  The clanker started out life as a basic battle droid.  I Found him on Utapau, crawling up their main highway.  He wasn’t crawling so much as shoving himself along with his feet, the dumb nob.  Some trooper had blown his arms off but failed to finish the job.  I was inclined to grease him as that highway had cost a lot of good troopers, but then I thought, perhaps I could help him atone for all the suffering he’s caused in this world?  Before you could say “Roger, roger” (which is now only one of three things he is capable of saying), I’d bolted some protocol droid arms onto him in a permanent “grip”, and gave his little beak mouth a fleshy modification.  Now, he can only “Roger”, as well as say “Beejer, beejer” (and I hope I don’t have to explain that), and cry.  Mostly, he just cries.

Picture Pending...

     The other member of my driod army is my good Assdestruct droid, A2-M2.  I modified him from an astromech droid for the sole purpose of breaking in recalcitrant additions to my brothel.  This isn’t to say he hasn’t found a place helping with the client workload, some folks even ask for him now.  Point is, I think the little fucker likes his job.  He comes with a load of modifications, most of the internal doodads and various and sundry probes have been replaced with, well, probes more apt to his current position.  The taser and periscope remain, however, for obvious reasons.  I could say more about him, but one look is usually enough to horrify the words right out of you.  Just think “Sexually aggressive backhoe”.  

No, not at all like that.

     Alright, gods that was wordy.  But educational, yes?  Point is, boys and girls, don't take shit from robots!

Grappling Clonexistential Dread

     Clyde hasn’t felt like writing much lately, but he has to because his therapists tell him its good for his chronic depression.  Which in Clyde’s opinion is bullshit because how can you write when you think everything you spew is garbage and you hate yourself?  Also, yes, Clyde has therapists, plural.  One for each neuroses.  Clyde don’t half ass crazy, you got to commit to that shit.  Hell, half the reason Clyde sees therapists is just to have it on the record that he is in fact mynock shit balls cray-cray.  Certified.  Clyde also has to write because of these damn publishers and if he doesn’t write every day, they take his Moneycumasaurus away.  You’ll mother fucking see depressed then.  Probably the violent kind.  MONEUCUMASAURUS NOOOOOO!!!!  Something like that anyway.  Moneycumasaurus.  I cannot say or express that enough.

     It’s not easy being a clone.  I mean, it’s easy in the physical necessity sense.  You come into the world with a general purpose, you get housing, food, “friends” and “family” pretty much  on lock straight outta the tube.  To any rando norm, that would seem to solve all of life's problems.  There is no “what is my purpose in life” bullcrap, that purpose is murder and good for you, you're hella good at it.  To any creature with a fraction of higher brain function however, you can see the issue.  “What happens when the killing is done”?  That is the main issue.  It’s not all of it, I mean, I’m generalizing, but its where we can start talking.

     There is a great clone author who wrote books on clonexistentialism.  That’s pronounced Clone-zi-stentialism, by the way, not clone-exi-stentialism, you ass, don’t be a prick.  Well, there are two, because Clonez Cloneka is popular as well, but I could never relate to being turned into a Quosit. Now a Corellian wine-bee on the other hand…  There is this book from Clonemus called the Cloneger (also yes, all clones insert clone into damn near everything because what the fuck else do we have?  And I’m sad again.)  In the story, a clone goes to Space Algeria, or is it Space Morocco? And he shoots a Gungan and feels generally indifferent about it and nobody cares.  Point is, they exist and they are very similar and have an equal number of Gungan Ex-pats on them because once again, fuck Naboo.  

This is going to hurt you more than it hurts me because I feel nothing.

     On the surface, you can sit there and think “yeah, and?”  Because pretty much everyone can relate to killing a gungan and feeling nothing because we all hate them, have probably secretly murdered a few, and in the end, a shrug was all that was called for.  But think about it from a clone’s perspective.  Here you are, a retired clone, all alone on some outer rim world that more than likely, you have razed at some point in your career. Your days of genocide and jackboots are well behind you.  Your account is full of credits and your boudoir full of fly Alderaanian ladies eager to experiment, but your blood calls out to you.  Your one true purpose in life, what you were bred for, is no longer a skill the galaxy or your empire need from you.  Life is emptiness.  Writhing in endless pleasures becomes rote to the point of tedium.  Walking on a beach, the city beside you begging to be set ablaze, you see a Gungan.  The thought starts slowly.  An old enemy.  Joy came from his demise.  You see his idiotic walk, you think, perhaps, just once more, I can feel that joy, a fleeting moment of life.  A change, no matter how small to break the cycle.  

     You hear his voice as he draws near and addresses you:  

     “Hisa der friendo, Messa..” You don’t even notice yourself do it.  It is pure muscle memory.  Your blaster pistol, that you still carry out of habit is in his ribs and discharged.  The slimy, big ears are spread across the sands, unhearing.  Nothing.  You search for a twinge, a stirring, anything to give you hope.  You find only more questions, uncertainty. 

     You are a clone.  Bred for war.  What is even yours?  Is your desire a product of your upbringing?  Or are these thoughts deeper, the longings of the father, the twin you never knew, is this his head you wear?  Are you even the only clone who feels this?  Can you live your own life?  Had your life ended the moment the war did?  Was that even a life?  Do you remember it? Or are these too, the memories of a progenitor, part of the program you dreamt in the tube?  Perhaps you are simply the program.  This life, begins and ends at the same point, never changing, doomed to repetition across a thousand galaxies, a thousand wars and a million battlefields.  The Space slug burrow opens up before you and you must know how deep it goes, down the path where madness lies.

And is this all I am?

Matilda.

     Once again, I have decided not to travel back to the beginning of my story because its my story and fuck you.  Besides, this is much more interesting.  Well, not interesting so much as what I’m going to write about anyway.  So once again, fuck you.  Yes, I have begun antagonizing you again and I don’t care.  Make me repeat myself a third time why dontcha?!

     Today’s Story is about the Battle of Felucia.  Let me set the scene for you if I may.  This is how your “Wookiepedia” describes the planet…no, first, let me ask: Seriously, Wookiepedia?  All the creativity, technology, and knowledge your people have and Wookiepedia is the best you can come up with?  Ya’ll are dumber than a holocron library.  This begs another question as well, did you miss something somewhere?  You managed to discover all of our stories, there have been a handful of us hiding here for ages, and you managed to miss all of our tech?  I mean, I get not having lightsabers, that is probably for the best, but I can’t find a blaster or blue milk anywhere?  What the ever loving fuck?  Considering the amount of money you people spend on weapons tech, it is down right embarrassing.  

This fucking thing.  Does it need to do that?

     To the point!  Wookiepenia says, Felucia: a colorful, humid jungle planet located in the Felucia system of the Outer Rim.  This statement is two things to me.  First, that people who name things in both our galaxies are lazy.  Second, Felucia is abso-cloning-lutely none of those things.  Colorful?  Sure, I guess beige green is a color.  Humid?  Yeah, if your definition of humid is a penis that suddenly developed the ability to excrete fluids on it exterior in a fashion similar to that of the interior of a vagina and that penis is also jammed in the taint space while strapped into a thick pair of armoried skivvies on a cold day on Mustafar.  For those of you who are uneducated, Mustafar is covered in lava.  All the days.  My point is, Felucia being called humid is of par for understatement of all time next to “Anakin Skywalker is a whiny lil bitch”.

Boo fucking you.

     If you know your history, and having followed the level of your people’s political discourse, I assume you do not, my part in the Battle of Felucia began when the 182nd Legion disappeared and the 501st was called in to find them and or carry out their mission.  Now there is a famous quote by an unidentified Clone Trooper made during the battle that said the 501st got the best and worst of the war.  The statement, though true, is arguably incorrect as far as Felucia is concerned.  Sure, it sucked.  But mostly it was just uncomfortable.  I hate plenty of places more.  Utapau, horrible highway system.  Polis Massa, too many weird baby scoops, like everywhere, its disconcerting. Naboo?  Shit, the place my not look it, but Naboo was one of the worst.  The architecture, the women, the fashion, the Gungans, all terrible.  None of that was the problem.  It was that damn capital city.  Theed.  Fuck Theed.  The damn Seps loved invading that place so fucking much, I swear the main courtyard is just all solidified blood and droid parts now.  We ended up stationing an entire fleet over the damn place just so we could stop liberating the fucking place every other week.  I’d rather be naked on Hoth with an aroused Tauntaun.

Who has time to undress this?

     Right, so we got down to the planet, Terrence kindly dropping us off in a Lartie and running back up to the ship like a shitbird, and start marching around like a we go nothing better to do in the known universe than invite jungle shaped pestilence upon ourselves.  The objective was vague.  Find the 182nd starting with their last known position.  A place that, once on the ground, was simply referred to as “that way”.  Resistance was overall light though persistent, which is one of only two ways to really describe clanker combat tactics, the other being heavy and insistent.  It cost us some time and clones, but seeing as we had just lost an entire legion on this crotch rot of a planet, I'm sure no one upstairs gave a banta fart.  To be be fair, it is a sizable amount of fart.  

     Eventually we come to a shallow river that cut across a gentle, unbubbletreed plain.  Please, do not get me started on the fucking bubble trees.  They are the Clone definition of “Just can’t even”.

Shut it down.

     Suddenly there is the loudest, dick-flacciding crescendo of screeches that coincided with an abrupt pause in blaster fire from the harassing clankers.  I assume for effect.  This effect worked.  Out of the forrest poured a skin crawling mass of Acklay.  Don’t know what an acklay is?  Good for you.  And pouring is only slightly figurative.  it was like watching the floor when you turn on the lights and your earth roaches skitter off into the darkness, but instead of darkness, they’re skittering towards fleshy clones.  Four legged green tooth monsters descended upon us as the droids resumed their fire, their metal bodies impervious to the mouthlust of the Acklay.  I could hear Boba ready his blaster rifle as he muttered something I recall as “I shall survive to savor your flesh”.  Me, I did the only logical thing I could.  I found the nearest Clone with a rocket launcher, relieved him of it, and kicked him into the maw of an approaching deathsteacean to buy myself some aiming time.  I loosed the rocket, the result of which was reported in the sound of Boba screaming “Wiiiiiiiiiifff!” at me, the rocket impacting harmlessly on a fungal tree on the opposite bank.  Here, it looked like the untimely desiccation of yours truly.

No, not at all like that.

     The world darkened and everything became silence.  Fortunately, the darkness was caused by my visor being covered with bug entrails and the silence was me going deaf from a massive explosion mere feet from my Cloneself.  And yes, the Far, Far Away uses imperial measurements, surprised?  I wipe the guts off of my visor after realizing they were there not because I was inside of them to see a big, fuck off AT-TE sauntering lazily through the mess, splattering Acklay across its line of sight like a truck through a locust swarm.  Oddly, the ass of the walker had a picture of a clone helmet on it with the name Matilda written underneath it in cursive.  I assume that was the name of the walker, as there are unfortunately no clone women.  I wish there were, however.  I’d find me a sweet little Clone Trooper Caroline or something and we’d make some really weird Cloneoraphic films.  Or not.  There are a lot of Clorno’s out there and most of them are pretty damn weird.  I don’t think even I and my limitless talents could top their professionalism…Haha, Top.

And you think our armor is impractical.

     Matilda did a once around, clearing the river valley for us.  As it did, we pumped our fists to the sky, letting out a grand Clone Cry of appreciation.  Matilda reciprocated, its forward guns waggling at us in a silly approximation, looking much like a bug herself with the gesture, before walking onward into the jungle to continue giving the Seps hell.  So, in summation, Thank you Matilda, wherever you are, for saving this clones life.  And Boba’s, I guess.

     Tip your clone drivers kids, it pays back in the end.

Clone Crew Roll Call!

     Now that I’m done chewing y’all asses about your dumb Republic, it’s high time I got on with the history lesson. Yes, I am well aware that the events surrounding Order 66, the Galactic Civil Wars, and you going to fuck yourselves, are all history, but I’m talking about mine.  This particular story for these Quarren fish folkers that I am being paid a literal money shot’s worth of credits to write.  Chances are that I blew my particular wad with that last bit since I’m pretty sure that was the only part of my trek down history lane that any of you cared about.  It’s certainly one of my favorite moments, if only because I got to do a lot of non-discriminate killing that day.  But there are plenty of other wonderful things besides killing, like whoring, drinking, arson, boy do I love arson, so please stick around.  I know you love these things as much as I do, or you wouldn’t be here, you garbage monster of a fucking person.

You fat turd.

     No story of my exploits would be possible without mentioning some of the players involved.  My Clone Running Crew, if you will, and I want to introduce them to you now before anything else goes down.  Yes, there is probably a more organic way to go about this, but they’re my homies damnit, and if there is one good thing about being a clone, besides the cripplingly larger blaster (my clone dong to the dense among you) that I have to carry, is rolling hella deep.  LAAT?  30 deep.  Tour buses?  40 deep.  Star destroyers?  Hell. A. Deep.  Clone Trooper Clyde and the Rolling Clones, not that I’m sure that’s what we called ourselves? Five deep. Sure, It’s not hella deep, but combined we are like the mad illinest group of galactic badasses you ever accidentally pissed on the shoes of.

This Fucking Guy.

     Boba Chef, you know, you love, and you love his cooking.  The man can disintegrate a rebel or lightly pan sear a tuna steak with the exact same effortless flick of the wrist.  I mean, it helps that he has flame throwers on said wrists, but its still impressive, especially when compared to my sloppy, heavy-handed accident of an ass.

T-Dizzle, T-Dawg, T-do-Baggins.

     After Boba, we’ve got my man, TIE pilot Terrence.  Terrence wasn’t originally TIE Pilot Terrence, he used to be Clone Pilot Terrence, because we didn’t used to have TIE fighters you shit heads, we had ARC-170’s.  Terrence and I met during the battle of Kashyyyk when the 501st was pressed into service as starfighter pilots in an attempt to break the Sep blockade.  I hadn’t driven a speeder bike before that day, much less a starfighter, and we didn’t even have the troopers to fully man the 170’s, which are normally three man fighters.  One clone per bird, and I had the good fortune to have Terrence as my wingman.  More accurately, I was his wingman because I am dangerous, man.  I fell in love with it.  Even though I was a rookie, the skies over Kashyyyk were such a target rich environment that I became a quintuple ace that day.  27 droid kills and only four friendlies.  Missiles are dumb and usually three clones control one of those things, I take no responsibility.  Also, the wide open space of…space, made me wrecking my shit all over the cosmos fairly easy to avoid.  Unfortunately, after the battle my application to the starfighter corps was rejected due to myself being classified as “irresponsibly destructive” and “improbably accident prone”.  These qualities also kept my careers as a flame trooper, dark trooper, and AT-AT driver relatively short.  I did get to drive a speeder eventually.  Exploded six before I gracefully bowed out.  Point is, Terrence and I became fast friends.  Boba, Terrence, and I are the original Clone core of the crew.

Fucking Steve, Steve is such a stupid name, like Luke.

     Stormtrooper Steve is one of the younger and…gag…natural born members of our squad.  He came in after the clones were decommissioned from being the bulk of the Imperial Army.  Boba and I met him before the Battle of Yavin during his later training years.  Boba and I had been working as instructors for the new “natural born” units and this little buggaboo was a straight up tool.  He followed us everywhere, even took to emulating me of all role models.  Not sure why, we probably ruined that poor boys life, but it was fun to ruin one of the Empires new “finest”, and we felt it was our responsibility to keep the small tradition of train wreck troopers going on into the future.  He may not be one of us, but he one of us.

Not pictured, Qui-Gon Baca.

     Lastly, there is a Jedi by the name of Qui-Gon Baca.  Yes, he’s a Jedi and we all have great animosity to those pompous tools, but we didn't meet until I came to this stink hole of a planet somehow rife with humans despite being so remote from my galaxy, and there is apparently a point at which animosity has to clone by the wayside.  That point, it turns out, is being a banillion light years away from everything you know.  I asked him what he was doing here when we first met.  After a brief attempt at killing each other, of course.  It was in the parking lot of a Chili’s, a restaurant we both turned out to hate quite a lot.  We were waiting in a line that was inexplicably out the door when we bumped into each other.  We both turned around to apologize when we recognized each other.  I’d seen him in a few holocrons after 66 about jedi that were still on the loose.  He recognized me because, duh, all clones look a fucking like.  I pulled a blaster, he force pushed me, I rolled a thermal detonator at his feet, he threw a car at me, the Chili’s exploded, aw man it was awesome.  we bonded over a bottle of whisky in the parking lot as we watched that Chili’s fucking burn.  He told me the reason he was here was because it was “Far, far away”. Obviously.  

     There you have it, my running crew.  Don’t forget kids, friends make the world go ‘round, because life’s not all about girls and cars, getting fucked up in fucked up bars.  MC Chris said that.  Look him up.  Smart man. Next week, Felucia, or Kashyyyk, something.  Dark memories there I didn’t feel like exploring just yet so I appreciate you letting me talk about something simple.  I’m not crying…CLONE TROOPER CLYDE!

Afterthoughts on 66

     Clyde can hear y'all bitching in the background.  “But you didn’t explain why Clyde?  How could you kill all the Jedi?  Don’t you know your actions helped bring about the dark times?  The EMPIRE!?  You didn’t even like Vader!”  To that, Clyde thinks y'all fuckers look at history through taint colored glasses.  Just in case you're confused, I don’t mean to say that the lenses on your glasses are tainted, like smudged or shit.  I’m saying that the skin between your ball’gina and butthole has been removed and draped over your eyes.  Just, wrapped, right around your head.  Stretched beyond its bodily constraints so it can stretch about your bantha testicle sized head and fasten in a knot, but still thick enough to cover your gaze.  The remnants of your Dagobah ass from your daily jog seeping behind your sockets, clouding your minds ability to view historical events objectively.  I hope my metaphor cleared that shit up for you.

                                            You’re basically this guy.

     Let me break this down all academical like.  Thesis: The Republic sucked ass, was terrible, and also blew.  Let get that sad sack of an idea out of the way.  “Oh, Clyde, but it was a more civilized age, with more elegant weapons, and Jedi!  Oh, the Jedi were great, and you killed them!”  Uh….Huh.  Really?  First off, I’m not going to get into the whole “Jedi are a bunch of weird child kidnapping pederasts” thing.  Better academics and basement dwelling man children have paved that road a million times.  You know what proves that the republic sucks ass more than any kind of economic or quality of life study ever could?  I’ll tell you.  Imagine I’m sing-shouting this in the worst falsetto you’ve ever heard.  “No-Huh-ah-one would ah-Fi HIIIIIIGHT for AhhITTTT”!  

     No one would fight for it. Not even the jedi.  Don’t believe me?  Then go ask the mother fucking dishes.

     Seriously, nobody cared about The Republic.  Before Emperor Palpatine, before the clones and the first Galactic Civil War, The Republic was already dead and the “Seps were the only people who knew it.  I mean, the money wasn’t good anywhere, racial stereotypes had taken form and were walking around unslaughtered, and basic trust had just disappeared.  Do you remember what started all this?  The blockade of Naboo.  See, I knew you didn’t remember, because it was dumb.  Queen Pandabear says “Hey, I’m blockaded”, everyones like “Are you sure?”  They send jedi, who are almost murdered, come back and say “yup”, then people are still all like “Are you sure you’re sure?  Let’s talk about this”.  The Naboobans (you know what, I’m not gonna giggle and boob, you don’t deserve it) deal with it themselves, and everyone is pissed about something and a war breaks out because it can’t be proven that the Trade Federation, which is somehow its own federation and a part of The Republic, wasn’t attacked while casually minding its own business in orbit around Naboo.  Filthy Naboo.  

This.  Do you remember this?  No one could prove this.  That you are looking at.

     When the walls came crumbling down, the you know who they called?  The jedi.  You know what the jedi said?  “Nope”.  What did they do?  They found us.  Why?  Better question, we had to be found.  Yes, not a question.  WE, the Clones.  The A’s through the ZZZ’s  When The cohesion of The Republic was threatened, not a single citizen stood up to defend it.  Not even that, they weren’t even asked because the politicians and the Jedi knew that not a soul would offer.  That sucks.  So what in the ever loving fuck were my brothers and I even fighting for?  Who were we fighting for?  We were flesh, fighting an army of deathbots.  Sure they were shitty death bots, but there were seriously a fuckshitfuckton of them.  There was no high minded ideal, not creed or cause.  There wasn’t even anyone back home to fight for.  

     The Jedi?  Sure, the Jedi were okay.  Oh, wait, no they weren’t.  Sure, Obi-Wan cared, Anakin was when he shut his mouth and focused anywhere but on his dumb wife, Ayla Secura was great.  You can’t survive swarms of rampaging Acklay without bonding with anyone who helped with that insanity.  In fact, it’s where Boba came up with his recipe for Acklay Stew, sweet, sweet revengey stew.  Most of the Jedi, however, were content to just let us die by the thousands.  You can always grow more.

     Lastly, Palpatine.  Through those taint colored glasses of yours, you see the man who destroyed the free and diverse Republic.  The man who killed the Jedi.  The man who brought about the great and dark empire of the Sith.  Sure.  He did all these things.  He did worse.  Yes, his regime was racist, intolerant, brutal, generally horrible.  You deserved it.  The Republic, all these beautiful things you claim to love and cherish, was just an old toy that you broke and left on the floor to scream at when you later hurt your foot on it.  All Papa Palpatine did was take your toy and put it away.  It was a toy you were all too immature to have and you have the arrogance to blame him for it.  Fuck you.

     Do you see what I’m getting at?  The wonderful toy that you abused, do you know who really loved it?  Who played with it and appreciated it?  We did.  Clones.  We were born to love it.  We fought and died for it.  We were it’s true and only Citizens  We sacrificed and bled and when Palpatine took it away, he kept us, made us part of the Empire because we helped build it.  It was ours.  It was hard and brutish because we didn’t want you to take it away and ruin it just like you did the last time.  

                                            Patriotism.  Clones have it.

     And now it’s over.  I hope you learned your lessons, because the First Order is a bunch of petulant whiney babies.  So far it doesn’t seem like you have.  The Senate is dead again.  Good job.  Fuck.  Ass.

     Clyde mad.  I didn’t want to get all emotional.  Pedantic and shit.  But yeah.  Clone Life!  I’m going to go fuck now and think about you.  Think about me next time you pick up a blaster and what it can mean. GAAAAAAAH!  Boba!  Dinner! Tip-Yip me Brah!  Oh, and check out his Blog/Cookbook, bobachef.blogspot.com  Clyde ain’t afraid to shamelessly shill.