I don’t want to sound like a nerd, but I wish Star Wars was real. Not the characters or the insufferable dialogue, or the mountains of product tie-ins. No, I’m sitting in the coldest weather of my life and all I want is one Tauntaun and a light saber. Drastic temperatures mean drastic actions. There’s a time for dumb little space heaters and then sometimes you have to go to the extreme and warm yourself Skywalker Style. If this polar vortex means Hoth-like temperatures, then I deserve Hoth-like amenities.
I’m normally humane. I take insects outside instead of squishing them. I buy the expensive free range eggs and I get weepy during Sarah McLachlan animal commercials, but if I had the chance I’d slice open the first Tauntaun I see and climb inside like a kangaroo. Moist? Stinky? You think I care? It’s -30 here. I don’t have the blood flow for emotions right now. Hell, even if it was my favorite pet and I named it Biscuit, I’d wear that Tauntaun’s humid carcass around like a pajama onesie if it meant I’d stop shivering. How little do I care? If I had little Tauntaun puppies, I’d open them up too and wear them around like house slippers.
I don’t know the breaking point temperature that makes me want to reenact a scene from The Emperor Strikes Back, but I’m typing this in gloves and the thought of wrapping myself up with the still warm intestines of a dying animal seems appealing. It’s like a Corona commercial directed by Jeffrey Dahmer.
I think that’s alright. We’re in the middle of a freaking polar vortex. That sounds like some bullshit George Lucas would come up with anyway. So let me imagine what it would be like living inside of Biscuit, my imaginary pet Tauntaun. Let me imagine that it’s warm and isn’t miserable. Let me imagine that my urine won’t freeze before hitting the toilet. And please, let Han Solo be there when I wake up.
We're not going to solve gun massacres with bad manners, people.
The guns are gone. Now what happens to all those paper targets? Don't tell me you forgot about the paper targets. The ones hanging from little clips on fancy clotheslines at shooting ranges. With no guns to destroy these legions of paper bastards, they go unchecked.
A sign proclaiming "BACTA: DA FUTURE" marks the town's medical clinic
1998: I upload dave.pcx, and change the course of history
Set goals for yourself, and fulfill them. Absurd! Only in video games!
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