“Luke I am your father, .....ahhh fuck.”
After the Chewie-Vader love triangle emerged late last year, Luke Skywalker's actual father was thrown up for debate again. Was it the postman who rogered his mother? Did she get in recently "used" bathwater? Was it a robot sent from the future back to the past in order to save his mother from a contraception?
A nationwide manhunt was conducted, blood tests were taken, underwear was sniffed and a lot of porn was found in Luke's cupboard. And I mean a lot, it's amazing how R2D2 could find time for so many pictures between
filming fighting the empire. They searched far and wide, when the male population yielded no results they checked any suspectly butch females, failing that the local farmyard was given a call. After 4 weeks they had all but given up, everyone, and I mean everyone, from Snow White to Luke himself had been tested. Nothing. It was like Luke had been conceived by magic, and since Gandalf was gay, Dumbledore long dead, and Merlin impotent, they were at a loss for what to do. As they sat there, wiling the night away in a depressed mastabatory haze, a coca cola advert came on.
"Pah, I bet those aren't even real polar bears." Chief gene hunter Copsé remarked, the tone of resigned frustration failing to escape his voice.
"I'm with you on this one Cops, what they may have in convincing polar bear looks, they lack in the fact that they're actually giant depictions of germs. Dude, this is a Mr.Muscle commercial." replied his co worker Valto.
"Dude." reasoned Copsé, to be fair he made a point.
"You know, if you want this conversation to get off the ground, you're going to make more of an effort." replied Valto, quickly assuming both the logical highground.
They ran upstairs, onto the roof and into the Biocopter.
"There you go, now, please, I dislike talking and I don't really like you, but since you're my ownly friend and I need your physical prescence to prevent people silently judging me I have to hang round with you, slowly waiting for you to choke on your tongue and die, so that I can pick up hot grieving babes at your funeral. That aside, can we please resume our awkward state of semi-silence, I've got the conversation "off the ground", ba dum tish, so I don't really see why we can't just get to the point of this article, revel in a moment of brief humouressness, and then fade away into the pages of internet obscurity? 'Cos it sounds like a freaking awesome plan to me." devestated Copsé.
"Yeah. Now read the damm script."
"..buh buh buh, but I thought we were best friends. We've always done everything together, school, work, your mum."
"Yes, and they were all good times that I reflect, and sometimes crack one out over from time to time, but I just don't like you in that way, I only see you as an enemy. Our relationships not yet progressed to the friendship, or even acquaintanceship stage."
Valto began to cry.
"Look, it's not you, it's me. I just have an inate hatred for happy clappy n00bs that try to string out an article where the main focal point is the revelation that Santa fathered Luke Skywalker, a faded actor that saved the galaxy once back some time. Nobody cares how big a "present" he gave that funky queen/princess character I forget the name of."
what he said.