George Lucas Awareness Partial Month

Happy Labor Day, BLAGficionados. An odd name for a day off, as its name indicates the total opposite of what actually happens. I propose renaming it “Day Drinking Day,” or “Martin Luther King Jr. Day 2.” Other holidays that have names that in no way indicate the day’s goings on:

Boxing Day – December 26, the day after Jesus’ fake birthday, in which the Commonwealth of Nations celebrate … I don’t know what. But there’s no boxing.

Memorial Day – An excuse to drink and, among many other things, forget all about honoring the nation’s war dead (but only the ones from the Civil War onward … primarily because, prior to killing southerners, the Union was mostly good at killing Native Americans and brown people (still really good at the latter), and it’d be silly to remember all that).

Today, aside from labor, BLAG is raising awareness about two important things: George Lucas and breast cancer.

Both must be stopped. So, in the lead up to October, which is Breast Cancer Awareness Month, I propose that September 5-30 be henceforward known as George Lucas Awareness Partial Month.

Why start on Labor Day? Well, for one, it ensures safety from swift and brutal retaliation from Lucas’ army of plastic-clad storm troopers. You can’t wear white after Labor Day, even George Lucas knows that. We’ll be safe until Memorial Day.

So why should we be aware of George Lucas (most of) this month? Because he’s goddamn ruining Star Wars again. I won’t get into all the details here because it fucking hurts too much. But here’s one of many Internet articles that sums it up pretty well. The son of a bitch won’t even re-release the original cuts.

Lucas laughing

George Lucas laughing, because he just ate your unborn child's dreams and is keeping them in a pouch in his neck.

A man, who was once a hero to me, sort of, is more CGI now than man. Twisted and evil. If I’m being melodramatic and concerned about segue, Lucas is like a malignant tumor on the loving breast that was the original trilogy. At first, he began as a healthy blastocyst: Star Wars: A New Hope. Then, he multiplied gloriously into the incredible rack that was The Empire Strikes Back. Nothing overblown, but organic and emotional. Bittersweet, even, as all such beautiful things truly are, life being transient. Now it is but a memory of what I so cherished, what I learned to love with age, but which also serves as a reminder of how a great thing can so easily fall apart. An intricate and carefully constructed house of cards; an elaborate sandcastle; an expensive candle. These things exist singularly, in one time and place, and in some respects that’s what makes them special. Also, it had Boba Fett, which was tits, to reign the metaphor back in. Then Star Wars got implants with Return of the Jedi. Cheapened, yes, but in that moment it was still attractive in a superficial kind of way. Plus, we had history.

Then came the Special Edition rereleases in the 90s. Star Wars went Rihanna and got some tasteless tattoos on its neck and shit, then some weird piercings and finally a boggling tear drop face tattoo and it just all got trashy and distracting. As a result of poor judgment and careless augmentation, Star Wars contracted hepatitis. Complications eventually led to the creative cancer that is George Lucas going fucking buckwild since then. It metastasized and we got The Phantom Menace and the other prequels. With modern medicine, Star Wars survived the disease, but was marred for life. Now in fragile remission, Lucas has returned to tattooing the hell out of Star Wars’ mangled body. What the fuck.

So, while it may be too late for Star Wars (and Indiana Jones), it’s important to keep its story at the forefront of our minds. Other beloved intellectual properties: get yourselves checked out. Directors and producers: keep talented and creative people on staff who aren’t afraid to tell you that you’re completely compromising an American classic in order to push Blu Ray SKUs. Millions of potential fans for future generations will never know the unfucked with versions of the Star Wars trilogy. This, coming from the last generation of preadolescent boys who still had access to the untouched VHS tapes of the originals, which we watched over and over, made new friends with, and continue to enjoy the memories of today. It’s something that kids now just won’t get from the experience. A marred opus. Eat shit, Lucas.

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