29 September, 2005

Cleaning Sux0rz

You know, when we, like, came here to live with Ben, I thought that it would be like the old times. Me and Obi-Wan watching some Scoob, eating some brownies, and like, meditating together. I was, like, way wrong.
Obi can't even see me, so needless to say, all that sappy 'good old times' stuff, like, never happened. It's been more of all-night wrestling on the holovid, while eating cheetos and drinking beer. The worst thing is that, like, Ben has taken a shining to JawaJuice. He's become Ben's 'Beer Buddy,' meaning JJ has to get Ben beer when he asks, but he entitles JJ to as much beer as he can chug. After a few nights, instead of JJ helping me communicate with my former Padawan, he was sitting beside Obi, on the couch, Cheetos in one hand, a beer in the other, rooting for Rowdy Rodian Piper.
After about a week of staying there, Ben had been called away on 'Official Jedi Business,' which was helping with the Initiates. Usually this meant Obi would spend his time as one of the Initiates, doing arts and crafts of his own (and often getting in trouble for eating the paste, glue, crayons, construction paper, macaroni, and scented markers), recess period (where he would own at dodge-ball and 'kick-the-can'), and nap time (though he would usually have to be moved to another room because of the snoring, kicking, and night-terrors).
JJ had started to get over his hang-over and vowed to never watch wresting again. See, have you ever seen a Jawa not wearing their cloak? Have you ever seen a Jawa in a skin-tight wresting leotard? No? Pray that day never comes. I love JJ. I really do, but, like, wow, get some Nair and bathe in it, or something.
With Obi away and JJ not unconscious in a Jumbo bag of Cheetos, I knew what it was time for.
I started in the main room just picking up fallen Cheetos, while JJ tackled the 'fresher (brave little guy). After three 55 gallon tubs were filled and had been carted away by the Coruscanti Environmental Security Systems (CESS), I started working on the sea of beer cans. By sea, I mean, knee-deep, wading, 'how can he still have a liver?,' 'that's a lot of cans,' cans. There were the standard Ol' Mos Eisley, Budwookie, Busch-Pilot, Endors (its Ewok for beer), Sir Guinness, Twi'lek Blue, Little Binks, Reactor Coors, Heinanakin, Elsinore, Samuel Jackson, Padme's Blue Ribbon, and Colt 45. Even some specialties, like Red 5 Tick Beer, Duff, Brew of Dooku, and Dagobah's famous Green Grog. After Force-Crushing all but one of each kind of can, which still left me about ankle deep (if I had tangable ankles), I sent off the crates and crates of metal to be melted down and made into more beer cans, or speeders, or lava lamps.
I set up the single cans and made this righteous mural of abstract swirls and colours and if you, like, stood back and looked, you'd find peace. Or have a seizure. One of the two.
With the floors cleared of freaky funk, I worked on the cleaning off the surfaces of everything. The countertops, tabletops, desktops, pillow-tops, stove-tops, couches, chairs, holo-vid trays, hampers, shrines, racks, shelves, fold-and-go storage, dressers, divans, hassocks, milk crates, cable spools, billiards tables, Sabacc tables, turntables, cinder blocks, safety deposit boxes, giant glass bottles of spare credits, toasters, microwaves, Cappuchino makers, tin openers, tyres, and Obi's collection of Opera records.
With everything sparking in several rooms, but muck on the floor so nasty that I stuck to it, it was, like, obvious what was next. I got out Ben's hoover. It was this shiny new little thing, called Mr. Sux0rz. The name was written on the front of it. Happy eyes and a big smile. "The most nauseatingly cute innovation in sucking up sludge."
I turned it on and set the nozzle down on a spot of orange and yellow funk.
There was a quick *poof* and a whiff of ozone, as the power flickered. Mr. Sux0rz stopped. I leaned down and looked him over. Like, his little bright eyes were replaced with black crosses and his happy smile was the, like, slacked jaw of a dead little vacuum.
Poor Mr. Sux0rz.
But then, there was a buzz. Suddenly, he went from sux0rz to bl0z0rz! I (meaning my non-ethereal poncho) was covered in stinky, sticky, septic slop, man! Not just me, he ralphed on the floor and walls, and the worst thing was that you couldn't see the difference.
After I hucked my poncho in the laundry chute, I went after the big guns. The legendary sucker. When you think suck, you think one of these. It sucked hardcore back when I was a Padawan. That's right. The DAL-3K.
They are droids with the capabilities to suck up small green riddle monkeys in mere seconds. They can pull the rust of the Millennium Falcon. And it scales, guts, and grinds bass in moments. It's just that simple.
See, like, there is always a down side to, like, everything. DAL-3Ks have an issue. They are inherently evil. Dag nasty evil, man. They have voice simulation modules and one catch phrase. They can only say 'exterminate' in this really nasal robotic voice.
Oh, yeah, and like, they have this appendage that discharges cinnamon death rays. Seriously. You die, but, like, your corpse smells like cinnamon. Forever.
The Lords of Suck.
But, like, digress for way too long.
So yeah, revved up the DAL-3K I got from the bowels of the janitorial closet / Tunnel of Doom. I turned around to snag a stray Cheeto, and well, I'll have to explain to Ben that all frogs go to heaven. Now there was crunchy frog on the walls with the Sux0rz spew and the beer and Cheeto dust.
You have to be firm with DAL-3Ks or they just keep coming back to haunt you, driving you mad with their repetitive one-liner and their lack of respect for multi-coloured frocks or long scarves.
"Whoa, Mr. DAL-3K, man, you need to just, like, chill out, okay? Blasting living things is, like, uncool and heavy."
"Yeah, like, cool down. Don't freak out. You are all about negative vibes, man. Just mellow."
I don't know what I did. But uh, JJ, man, can you set this thing on reverse? I can't seem to hit the button from the inside of it.

Meanwhile, on the other side of the Jungan wastes that is the piteous dwelling of Obi-Wan Kenobi, a Jawa waged a war against an army.
Jawajuice, voted number one in Coruscant's Sexiest Jawa poll in Coruscant Courier, had trapped the lot in the dilapidated 'fresher. He wore a gas mask, covering his small face, but his yellow eyes shown through. In his hands was a large chemical weapon.
He chuckled to himself, as the small forces huddled before him, cowering.

"I'm sending you all on a permanent vacation. To the fanciest Roach Motel you can find." He aimed his weapon at the shuddering insects, all unable to scurry away to hide.
"Live and let die," he said, menacingly and pushed down the end of the canister he held.
A great cloud of white dust filled the air.
The weapon fell to the floor.
In mere seconds, the roaches swarmed the young Jawa, covering his body. They wrenched at his fingers, loosening his grip and dropping the dust applicator. Reinforcements came from every crack and crevice, from the vents, the 'fresher, the sink, tub drain, behind the shower curtain, from the tube of tooth paste, in the rubbish pail, in the towels, and under the door. The cabinet under the sink opened and thousands and thousands foamed out. The floor was a living, writhing sea of cockroaches. The skittering drowned out the Jawa crying out for help.
JawaJuice found himself upside-down, hanging from the ceiling by a length of used dental floss. His gas mask and robe were gone. He had been gagged by a roll of still plastic wrapped toilet paper and small hands were bound behind his back by a rope of drain fuzz.
Through the black and brown swarm on the floor, there was a flash of white. JJ looked and saw a large albino cockroach, three times the size of an average Coruscanti roach. He wasn't sure if he could trust his eyes, but he thought he saw it wearing a tiny monocle.

"So," the white roach began, speaking in a husky voice over the clicking of roaches. The other cockroaches slowed and the sea was stilled. Their bodies arched upward around the speaker, the sea thinning at the edges but rising the white roach in the air.
"JawaJuice, you thought it was quite clever to try and kill us with your dust. As you can see, my friend, we are immune to such pathetic methods While you slept in the sink, we changed out the canister with a container of talcum powder. It smells much fresher in here, don't you agree?"
JJ struggled against his bonds, to no avail.
"Oh, I don't believe that you friend can hear you. He has been swallowed whole by the DAL-3K, an agent of Evil. He works for us. Now, my lovely Jawa, you shall meet your Doom!"

To Be Continued in JawaJuice Jump Up!


At 12:30 pm, Blogger Chancellor Palpatine said...

Wow, I own all the beer companies you listed. Glad to see that the Jedi order is contributing to the profits of Sith, Inc.

My favorite is Elsinore...

Take Off, eh...

No, you take off eh...

At 2:40 pm, Blogger Qui-Gon Jinn said...

You hoser!
Ben will turn to the Dark Side for, like, sure now!
FYI, your Red 5 Tick Beer needs more dog.

At 9:18 pm, Blogger Anakin Skywalker said...

Hey Palpazizzle - you own Palp's Wicked Brew? That shizzy's off the hook!

At 6:46 pm, Blogger Jon the Intergalactic Gladiator said...

I hate them DAL-3K's. Always rolling around in circles yelling "De-germinate! De-germinate!"

At 7:12 pm, Blogger Master Yoda said...

Been recalled have not all DAL-3K's?

Switch to the more benevolent MST-3K you should.

At 8:23 pm, Blogger Qui-Gon Jinn said...

Oh, like, Yoda, man, maybe you should have told me that, like, before the DAL-3K sucked me in here.
Why are you all, like, throwing out comments and not, like, helping me!

At 1:40 am, Blogger ki adi mundi said...

hmm, you seem to have missed out on Stellar Artoo and Moff Beer. And not to mention other spirits (pun intended!)

At 5:40 am, Blogger jedisiri said...


At 9:31 pm, Blogger Leia said...

Red 5 Tick Beer's the best. There's something about it I can't quite put my finger on.

At 11:16 pm, Blogger Shira Brie said...



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