Justin Atkinson // in rural southern Ohio // stay-at-home father of two // spends a lot of time playing video games // pedestrian multimedia creator // aspiring deadbeat // rational centrist // don't drink don't smoke // knows too many big words // golden-rule deist // probably better than you at some things and much much worse at others // likes to cook // trying to make you feel good
Hello, troopers. Look at these droids, now back to me, now back to the droids, now back to me. Sadly, these aren’t the droids you are looking for. But if they stopped using lady-scented oilbath and switched to Old Ben, they could SMELL like they’re the droids you’re looking for. Look down. Back up. Where are you? You’re on the Millennium Falcon with the man these droids could smell like. What’s in your hand?, back at me. I have it. It’s a lightsaber and two passes to that small moon. Look again - that’s no moon, it’s a space station! Anything is possible when these droids smell like Old Ben and not a lady. I’m a ghost now.
Hello, Leia. Does your man look scruffy? No. Does he smell like a nerf herder? Yes. Should he be encased in carbonite? I don’t know - do you have a thermal detonator? Do you want a man who can fight a bounty hunter with a jetpack on a sail barge while blind? Hyperdrive! into the best night of your life. So, Leia… should your man smell like a nerf herder? You tell me.
