Once upon a time, Katy and I were hanging out at our favorite sandwich spot in lieu of attending high school. On this fateful spring day, we sat facing the window, so we could better gaze upon in wonder and mercilessly mock the unwitting passersby.When, lo, what should be behold, but none other than that furry, brazen destroyer of childhoods: George Lucas himself. (Or at least a super uncanny likeness. Seriosuly, TWINS.)
We watched in rapt fascination, my cold veggie and cheese and Katy's tuna melt forgotten in favor of gazing upon this bleak picture of solitude. George the Destroyer dined alone, taking refuge in the comforting darkness of a crooked, outdoor patio-table umbrella. He seemed oblivious to the world around him, so engrossed he was in the consumption of his sandwich. He needed no distraction, no book, no newspaper, not even a napkin to wipe the pale yellow pustules of mayonnaise-soaked protein from his beard. Indeed, it was as if, with each bite he took, he was eating away every bit of his sadness, shame, regret, and ultimately, failure.In nearly the decade that's followed this pivotal moment in both of our lives, Katy and I frequently and fondly remember this private moment of pain in George the Destroyer's life we were both so lucky to have witnessed. And then, we lulz so hard we nearly pee ourselves.
So, dear reader, if you're ever curious to know what failure tastes like, think about Jar-Jar nailing Jake Lloyd in the rear-end as he delightedly shrieks, "YIPPPEEEE!", all while snarfing down an egg salad sandwich. (No, really, try it.)
FIN.
