“Hey Kent.” Yoda floats over and claps me on the shoulder. “Good to see you as a fellow Force Ghost. How was the transition? Not too rough?” Obi Wan and Qui-Gon float up behind him.
“Nope. It was damn near perfect. I was jerking it to myfriendshotmom dot com. Right before I bust, I see this bright white light—”
“Jesus.” Yoda holds up a hand. “Please—I don’t need to hear the unsavory details.”
Meanwhile, Obi-Wan chuckles and nudges Qui-Gon. “See? Told you. Noble death my ass—guy was destined to croak with his dick in his hand.” Qui-Gon waves him off and grumbles discontentedly under his breath.
“Your speech…why are you talking like a regular person?” I peer at Yoda. “Everything cool?”
“Oh that.” He stacks his hands on his staff, chuckles, and shakes his head. “The voice you know isn’t organic. Had to practice it for decades on end.”
“Why?”
“Luke’s a moron. If I didn’t talk like a blithering idiot, he wouldn’t have trained—he would have fingered his butthole and stared at the wall. I mean you saw it, right? He kissed his own sister, then turned into a bitter old fuck who lived off alien titty milk.”
“I don’t know…” I venture. “He was pretty badass in Jabba’s palace, when he dressed all in black and rescued Han.”
“We had hope for him then,” Obi-Wan remarks. “But what did he do afterwards? He ditches the black, shits the bed on reconstructing the New Republic, and holes up on some godforsaken island where he cries himself to sleep while tugging his minuscule penis. Even his voice took a turn for the worse—he went from whiny brat to legitimate badass, then declined into a whiny old fuckhole who gulps alien fucking titties.”
“Hey guys!” Force Ghost Luke comes zipping over. “Wanna play some games? Let’s see who can count the most Womp Rats! Or defective vapor generators on Tattooine moisture farms!”
“No, you bumpkin,” Qui-Gon scoffs. “You think we’re interested in tallying rocks or trees or whatever the fuck you’re into? Gross-ass sister-kisser.”
“Hey!” Luke brays. “I didn’t know, OKAY??? That wasn’t my fau—”
Kenobi storms forward and levels a finger at his face. “What about the alien titty milk? WHAT ABOUT THE GODDAMN ALIEN FUCKING TITTY MILK???”
Luke hangs his head and stares at the ground. His lip quivers as a single tear slips down his cheek.
“That’s what I thought,” Obi-Wan mutters, sticking his hands back in his voluminous sleeves. “Fucking degenerate.”
Suddenly, Luke’s head snaps up. “Oh no! He’s back!”
Yoda’s brow crinkles with puzzlement. “Who?”
“The guy who made me kiss Leia before I knew she was—HURRRK!” He clutches his throat in sudden pain.
We zero in on the source of the attack. While we were talking, a Sith-hooded figure ambled up beneath us. He’s extending his hand in a Dark Side grip, choking the shit out of Force Ghost Luke.
“Yes…” he hisses. “Embrace your degeneracy. It is…your DESTINY.”
“No,” Luke begs. “PLEASE!”
There’s something familiar about this guy’s voice…as he pulls back his hood, it all becomes clear.
George fucking Lucas.
The other Jedi peace out and vanish. Meanwhile, Lucas strides closer, tightening his grip on Luke’s ghostly body. “Your foul kiss inspired George R.R. Martin—it channeled his incel-powered creativity into Game of Thrones. That opened the way for the blatant perversion of mainstream porn.”
“Holy shit,” I whisper, “YOU’RE the reason I have to scroll past a bunch of step-sibling porn? Ever since the 2010s…”
“Indeed,” he rasps. “Martin was but the student—LUCAS is the master. And now…this desert yokel shall once again trigger a new wave of filth. Once I bend him to my will, he will drag mainstream porn into unheralded depths. You will never again be able to enjoy your favorite site, myfriendshotmom dot com, EVER AGAI—”
“OH FUCK NO!” I open my eReader to a Kent Wayne novel, activating its mind-bending reality distortion powers. Magic flash.
Scenes from the three shitty prequels stream into Lucas’s mind. He stumbles around, clutching his head, wailing and shrieking like he’s being drawn and quartered. “NO!” he bellows. “AH GOD MAKE IT STOP!” He yanks his robe open, drops to his knees, and pulls a dagger out of a belt-sheath.
Before he can commit seppuku, I snatch it out of his hands. “Nah, fucker. Reap the fruits of your crimes against humanity.”
Just like Vader at the end of the third abysmally horrible prequel, he clutches the air and screams, “NOOOOOOOO!” and vanishes from existence.
Luke wipes his eyes, then sniffs up his gross runny boogers. “Thanks. Hey, you wanna go check out the Jawa scrapyard? I hear you can put together some pretty cool droids with the stuff they’re—”
I fix him with a dead-eyed glare. “Go back to your alien titty-milk.”
He drops his head and stares at the ground.
That’s right, dick for brains. You failed us all after you ditched the black outfit.
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Dirty Sci-Fi Buddha 