Who knew that buyin' and sellin' Susan Powter lazerdiscs was illegal in this sector. I mean, come on! Anyone who has a video tape called "Trailer Park Yoga" and a book called "The Politics of Stupid" is just beggin' to be sold on Tatooine. But there they were, the local authorities, swooping in to make a bust not five minutes after I delivered the discs to Jabba. They came in, handcuffed me and the boys, confiscated the credits we got from the sale and impounded our sandcrawler. When I asked them why they don't go into Jabba's home and arrest him, they told me that it's not illegal to own the discs...just trafficking them. (quickly followed by a swift exchange of credits between Jabba's lanky doorman and one of the officers.)
Next thing you know, I'm sharring a cell with five Tusken Raiders, two Rodian body piercing artists and a dewback molester named Bob. Needless to say, I had a hard time falling asleep that night.
Later that night, they finally came to fingerprint me, take my picture and fill out the paper work. "What's your name, they asked me.
"You wouldn't be able to pronounce it," I had to tell them.
After a couple of whacks to the ribs with a tire iron (stormtroopers are not known for their subtlety) they asked me again. I had to convince them that it rhymes with Hog-eclair-gazebo-smelt-obstetric-silverfish-bung-wombat. The officer then just wrote in Bob.
So here I sit. Stuck in the Anchorhead Minimum Security Detention Facility sharing a cell with some alien that kinda resembles a tuna-fish sandwich on steiroids and waiting for my crazy Uncle E'etooi to come bail me out. Thank the scrap heap above that they had a running Commidor 64 in the rec room or else I wouldn't have been able to blog this.
Oh why didn't I listen to my mother and become a Wamprat Rancher?
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