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.
