Thursday, August 25, 2005

Yoda: Just Hanging Around I Am

Gathered at the start line, all of our swoop bikes were. A mechanic there was by each of our swoop bikes. A little eccentric, my mechanic seemed:

Bossy, he was too.

"You're not 007," he said.

"No. Yoda, my name is. A Jedi Master and member of the Jedi Counc..."

"Yes, yes, let's get on with it. Now, I've made a number of special modifications to your vehicle, but I don't want you to use any of them. Understand? Good."

"For what, this big red button is?"

"Since you won't be using it, there's really no need for you to know, is there? Oh, here, you should take this pen."

"Need to write something will I?"

"Of course not! That pen isn't for writing. In fact, it's not an ordinary pen."

"For what it is?"

"Never mind. Just don't point it at any Tusken Raiders, if you can at all avoid it. All right, up you go, I haven't got all day. You shouldn't be standing here jibbering on so, anyway. You have a race to run. Get on with it. And please try to take care of this equipment."

"For what this box is?"

"Don't touch that! That's my lunch!"

Finally, on my bike I got. And the race we started. In the middle of the pack I was. Maybe as good at this as Young Skywalker and Captain Solo I was not, but going to be behind Jar Jar or Dooku, I was not!

First, the Sarlaac Breeding Grounds. Staring up at me from their pits, Sarlaacs were. A loogy at one I hawked.

Next, the Steaming Pits of Death. Whoa, stink it did! Like old socks it smelled. Down I looked. Sure enough, piled in the pits millions and millions of old socks were. Then, to me it occured, where all those socks go that in the dryer get lost, this is! Passed out from the smell, anyone else would have. But with Kenobi I live. Nothing this was.

Then, Ronto Plateau. There, to slow down our bikes we had to. Many Rontos migrating there were. Fortunately, ticklish Rontos are. So, when get in my way or threaten me, one would, just reach up I would, and "Coochie, choochie, coo!"

Finally, Assassin's Arch. Last obstacle before the final stretch through Beggar's Canyon, it was. But as close to it I got, shooting at me Tuskens started! To throw something at them I wanted. But nothing on me I had. In my pocket I reached. My pen I felt. Out I took it and about to throw it, I was. Accidentally, I clicked it. Suddenly, shooting the Tuskens stopped! Together they all stood up, and singing show tunes they started!

Stand show tunes I can not. Even worse, apparently tone-deaf Tuskens are. Very off-key they were. As past the last of them I whizzed, finishing Oklahoma! they were. Butchered it, they had. No wonder it is that supposed to point that pen at Tuskens you are not.

At last, Beggar's Canyon. Still in the middle of the pack, I was. Profusely I was sweating. Making the seat slippery it was. To balance myself I tried, but forward I slipped. On to the big red button I fell. Uh oh.

Whoosh! Like a rocket, my bike took off! Hanging on to the handle bars for dear life I was! Up in the air behind me, my legs were. Off of me, my clothes flew. Down to my underwear I was. Everyone ahead of me, I passed. A blur, they were.

Coming up on the finish line, I was. But slow down the bike I could not! Working, the brakes were not! Past the finish line I flew. Won, had I? Way behind me the finish line was now. To turn the bike around I tried, but instead, up it went. Very tiny, the people on the ground were. Getting to me, the altitude was. Light-headed I was feeling. The last thing I remember that was. The next thing I know, hanging from a rocky cliff by a parachute, I was. Even know the bike had a parachute, I did not.

Uh, get me down, can someone?


Post a Comment

<< Home