– they’ve finally discovered the best way to move a robot around the desert: glue it to a beach ball
– every single film made in this day and age must feature a sequence that takes place in the rear of a cargo plane; if you don’t like it, move to Siberia
– yo, that girl is driving a giant stick of deodorant
– yo, that lightsaber has a mustache
– YOU WANTED THE BEST YOU GOT THE BEST THE HOTTEST SPACESHIP IN THE GALAXY THE MILLENNIUM FALCON [guitar solo]
– can America accept a Millennium Falcon with a square satellite dish?
– no shot of C-3PO clasping hands w/ Chewbacca a la Predator?
– this entire movie might take place in one afternoon on the last day of school (excuse me, the last day of space school)
– overall these table scraps make Star Wars 7 look reasonably exciting; guess I should start working on the Bib Fortuna costume I will wear when I camp out for opening night
– on the other hand, if I find out Max Rebo isn’t in this I’m switching to Battlestar Galactica (the original, with Dirk Benedict)
A: Same place where I am with Ghostbusters 3. It’s possible Star Wars 7 will crush it Rocky Balboa-style…and yet I accept there’s a chance we’re looking down the barrel of Phantom Menace 2: This Pod Is Still So Wizard. Who knows? It’s a crapshoot. Disney’s gonna churn out a few more Star Warses either way, because those two words are a license to print money. Thus, if J.J. Abrams decides to give Chewbacca a pair of very prominent nipples we’re gonna hafta live with it for six or seven years.
I accept a job that entails crafting a Washington, D.C. travel guide for a Scandinavian tourism company. They assure me they can pay in U.S. dollars but I still fear receiving coupons for shrimp redeemable only in Stockholm. My birthday is spent in the company of good friends, delicious cake, and my roommate’s demon bitch cat who communicates not with its eyes or mouth but with its razor-sharp hell claws.
The Phantom Menace is released in 3-D and I come dangerously close to trying to interview Jake Lloyd about it; at the last minute I decide to wait until Jingle All The Way gets the 3-D treatment so we have a little more to talk about. I sign the contracts for my book deal with my Lego Darth Vader pen (I will fight adulthood until my goddamn dying breath).
An attempt to make enchiladas goes horribly awry and becomes the year’s one food-related incident I refuse to ever speak of in detail again. ScyFy airs a Leprechaun marathon that proves the beloved series peaked with Leprechaun 4: Lep In Space.
I immerse myself in Canada for the first time and discover Montreal can serve up a serious plate of nachos (the cheese, it covered all the chips!). Titanic is released in 3-D; although the temptation to shell out twelve bucks to watch Billy Zane’s big stupid head pop out at me is great, I avoid it just the same.
The travel guide job finally ends. I am not paid in fish or coupons for fish. I rejoice. “Desperate Housewives” goes off the air, reminding me that Marcia Cross exists.
Rodney King dies, suspiciously around the same time tortured chanteuse Fiona Apple reappears on the music scene. Conspiracy freaks have a hard time connecting the dots on this one, probably because they were too busy arguing about Prometheus’s status as an Alien prequel.
A visit is paid to my parents in Florida. We watch the Olympics together, during which my father reveals his lust for the people’s princess Kate Middleton. I am so disgusted by the sight of Mr. Bean during the open ceremonies I eat an entire pint of Ben & Jerry’s Phish Food in one sitting.
The button breaks on my only pair of shorts but I refuse to purchase a new pair because I am a big stupid man. I watch a bunch of Scott Baio movies and realize this bozo’s probably got more money than me.
The Great Billie Joe Armstrong Meltdown of 2012 occurs, but it seems a bit rehearsed, so no one really buys into it. I buy The Baddest of George Thorogood, not ironically, the same day I buy the second Old Skull record. I am wearing a tuxedo suit at the time.
I turn in my completed book manuscript. Hurricane Sandy makes a media darling out of Chris Christie, much to the chagrin of Cory Booker fans. Disney buys the rights to Star Wars and finally gives us Max Rebo die-hards something to talk about. For Halloween, I am the Alternative Lifestyle Lone Ranger (i.e. a dork in a cowboy shirt with a pink bandana around his neck).
The guitarist from Gluecifer gives me a copy of their second album on blue vinyl, bringing my colored vinyl collection up to one. I visit Connecticut and am reminded it is illegal on FM airwaves in that state to go more than five minutes without playing a Rolling Stones song.
I finish proofreading my book manuscript and decide to interview cartoon voice legend Joe Alaskey for shits and giggles. A Christmas miracle occurs when my family decides to get barbecue for Jesus Day dinner. I spend New Year’s Eve in airports, fending off screechy children and looking for a bottle of soda under three dollars. I end the year with a $2.49 Mello Yello.