Somewhere in the universe George Lucas is having sex in a bed under red sheets and a polka dot comforter. His forehead is sweaty — hot like the inside of a taunton with all the smells this image conjures. His red lightsaber is fully extended. It’s meeting a squishy, warm fate, being compelled by a tractor beam as it were. His Kunda stones are warm. Underneath his pastel turtleneck sweater his nipples are chaffing. Hard.
“Oh!” yells George, in his passion. “Someone, cut off my arm!”
His lover, submissive, money in her eyes, at his command makes a sword swinging motion at his arm after a moment’s pause.
“No. Good. No, make the lightsaber sound.”
She did, and he squealed like an Ewok.
“Tell me you’re my father!” George screamed.
“Noooooo!” moaned Mr. Lucas as he climaxed.