First of all, screw George Lucas. Seriously, right in the ear. Hey, George, how do you sleep at night? “Why, on a mountain of $100,000 bills,” he replies, “and pillows made extra-fluffy by stuffing them with the charred remains of millions of childhood fantasies. The smoky smell, you get used to it. Why do you ask?” GOD, what an asshole. First, dicking around with the original movies. (Han Solo shot first, goddamn it! He's crazy like that!) Then the entire prequel trilogy. Feh. An affront to the billions of hours a generation of kids spent leaping around their back yards, using sawed-off mop handles as lightsabers, imagining how cool the Jedi must have been in their heyday—and then they just . . . weren't. Not even a little bit. Not even Samuel L. Jackson. The New Yorker's Anthony Lane summed these films up best: “Break me a fucking give.” And now the pinche Clone Wars. Not satisfied with us, George Cloney is coming for our children! And yet, the Star Tours simulator ride at Disneyland remains blissfully stuck in the '80s. (Hoth, Endor, Yavin—no tour stops at Naboo, yet.) Yes, The Star Trader store at the exit is infected with lots of Clone crap these days. But it also offers THE EXTRA-SHAGGY CHEWBACCA BACKPACK. Have it, we must.
