‘Star Wars: The Last Jedi’ Circle Jerk: Your Hopes, Dreams, Fears, and Potential Cinematic Bowel Movements
Quickly, quickly now. The vapors are hitting me as I walk down this long hallway. I don’t have much time, much time until they reach me. You know them, the ones with the grease-slicked pincers. You know them, the ones with the hollow eyes and bloated bellies. Oh, they won’t let me talk once they find me.
And today, friends, I have to talk to you about something incredibly important. The Last Jedi.
Why, why must I talk? For, as the date nears, as the dawns burn into evenings burn into fallen pages off a calendar, the reality has begun to set-in.
What, what reality do I speak of?
That goddamn next week, friends, freaks, fanboys, and fatuous bastards, a new Star Wars movie is arriving. Oh, and with that comes the typical churning of the mind, of the belly, of the sweat glands.
Anxiety about whether or not the movie will be good. Oh, we know it’ll make a shit load of money (estimated at around $555m). But that ain’t enough for us fans.
A bubbling gut about whether or not Luke is going to die. Dear god, my groin, my bowels, my soul needs the old Farmer Boy to pull through.
Sweat! Oh, how I sweat just thinking about it. I sweat in general, friends. By the time I arrive in my darkened room in front of my Televisors, by the time an hour has passed after my cleansing, oh, do I smell. Do I sweat. So imagine, close your eyes, open your mind, empower your olfactory glands, and imagine just how sweaty my balls already are! They can’t, oh they can’t handle more sweating.
All of this is to say, I’m mentally ill.
But all of this is also to say, I need to talk about The Last Jedi with all of you.
I, I need to know. And I need to know quickly, they’re coming. The grease-slicked ones. Giblets in their beards, malicious-intent in their hearts. We must discuss this before I have to go into hiding. I must vent, oh, I must vent. These glands. They’ll get coarsened if I don’t vent with you.
So tell, me, friends:
What are your most optimistic expectations for The Last Jedi. Not what you hope in your heart of hearts will appear on the screen. That’s childish. That’s a robust vomiting of buffoonery. Nay, nay. Rather, what is the best case scenario for this movie? Within our own Earth, Earth-Ver.9.
Me? You need to know, you need to know what I expect, realistically? A gorgeous pseudo-remix of Empire Strikes Back. Oh, I know that The Force Awakens was a shameless remixing of A New Hope. But that was done by Abrams, who wields nostalgia like a glistening dildo to foist into our assholes. And, well! As much as I like nostalgia, and having dildos foisted into my ass, I must say the nostalgia was okay, and the dildo didn’t have my preferred ribbings.
Verdict: fun, acceptable, but I didn’t throw hard ropes.
This time, though, we’re privy to Rian Johnson’s interpretations. And, well! He’s gone out of his way to speak on the difficulty of adhering to the previously established mythos (Empire Strikes Back is, after all, the greatest WarStars movie of all time) while cutting his own path.
If I’m being frank: sometimes I jerk off and I don’t even clean it up, I just sort of mash my underwear into it, and then fall asleep.
If I’m being frank: Rian Johnson and his crew are just flat-out more talented, and so I worry less.
What do you think, oh tell me, what do you think? What do you see, friends, when you don your rose-tinted glasses?
On the contrary, friends. On the contrary, tell me.
What are your deepest fears when it comes to The Last Jedi. Again, don’t babble, don’t bile up something unrealistic. That’s puerile, and we are folks of intellectual discipline. Clearly, obviously, we must respect these robes.
Me? You need to know, you need to know what I fear, realistically? Banality. Banality, writ larger! Turd-soaked paintbrushes rolling over any remaining novelty in a world that since its inception has been nothing more than the sound of cash registers singing! I know, okay, I know, that this franchise has always been a cash cow. With its sad mooing, its teats mournfully tittering as they’re milked once again.
But, I have to believe, oh do I have to believe, that there are ways to find hope and intrigue within these much milked walls of turd-soaked paintbru…okay, this analogy got away from me. This figurative language failed me. But, let’s me honest, let’s be truthful: reality is nothing more than figurative language, and it fails us all! Right?
Oh, they’re close friends. I can hear the gnashing of their teeth! I can hear the deep baritone cackle as they sharpen their claws against their own tit-crystals.
I must yank the transmission-beams out of my skull, and throw them into the river that doesn’t exist. I must comport myself as a man of respectability, for that’s what I am. They can’t know we’re talking. But, fear not, I’ll know. For when they leave, once again will go the transmission-beams into my skull. For when they leave, I’ll discern your own feedback out of the miasma.
I have skills.
I have talents.
So tell me, leave me an ethereal message, friends. What are your realistic expectations for The Last Jedi? On the contrary, what are your darkest fears for the movie? Let me know! When they’re gone, when their tit-crystals have been honed, when their blood has been cleansed, I’ll return.
I’ll have cake then, and a smile.
I hope you’ll have left me comments then, with your own.