Right now my right hand is holding a blue plastic light saber. I’m Anakin, Luke is Obe-wan Kenobi. Battling like this makes for difficult typinggggggggggggggg.
Okay, Obe-wan is letting me take a break. But this is his favorite pastime. Every morning when I settle into my swivel chair to write a post, he tosses me a light saber and asks me to fight. I can’t resist.
He makes the “whaaa, whoaaaa” noises the sabers make when they slash through the air and the “cushhhh, cusch” echoes of contact. Then he musters up his most baritone of voices and cries, “you were the chosen one! I loved you! Chancellor Palpatine is evil!” If I hesitate, he feeds me my line. “Mom, now you say, ‘from my point of view, the Jedi are evil.” I deliver my dialogue with the furrowed brow of a sith. Once I’m in my dark lord mode, the material come more easily.
“You underestimate my power! I will bring peace to the Republic” I bellow.
“Then you are lost!” he laments. Then we clash and clang with our plastic swords until he whacks my hand and I drop my weapon.
“Owww! That really hurt!
It’s no wonder Star Wars characters are always loosing their hands. But since there is no droid to patch me up with a new bionic limb, we take a break until I forget about the pain.
Meanwhile, he slips on his jacket, puts the hood up and practices his moves. He tosses his light saber to the middle of the room, somersaults over to it and grabs it. I’ve even seen him with his arm stretched out trying to summon his saber using nothing but the force. When that doesn’t work, he finds his galactic hero action figures and plays. He does all the voices.
His mitachlorian count is off the chart.