Aight y’all, I’m going to go ahead and say it. Though I
respect every opponent at the behest of Our Dark Lord, I honestly don’t really
see a way for Mississippi State to do what so many of their superiors have been
unable to do before them, namely beat Alabama. Seriously, maybe I’m looking
ahead, maybe my mind is not right. Regardless, I must say, I just don’t see it
happening. There, I said it.
Now that I have that out in the open, I will reiterate that
the football gods do not debate the worthiness of an opponent before casting
their lot. No, if Football Loki conspires against thee, then a loss thee will
take, whether playing some Tiger or another, or the Alabama School for the Deaf
and Blind.
Hence my HooDoo this week. I’m still saving a little
sumpin-sumpin back for the Boogs, and of course, the SECCG and potential BCSNCG
after that. Therefore I will unleash on you this week a HooDoo tale from the
early years of the OWB saga, when our young hero was but a wandering tiny-mite,
knee-high to a grasshopper if you will. Without further ado, let us HooDoo…
You all know my utter infatuation with all things Star Wars.
I am a student of the canon, a geek in the most primal mode possible. And I
really don’t care what anybody thinks about that, I let my geek flag fly for
all to see, unabashed. Anyone who doesn’t like it can sit on a lightsaber or
arm-wrassel a Wookiee (always wise to let the Wookiee win…jus sayin’)…enough
said. This tale with which I am about to regale you is one that recounts my very
beginnings as a Sith apprentice…the day I was tapped into the Order by none
other than Lord Vader himself.
My fancy of all things galactic is not a mere trend in the
wanton adulthood of a man who seeks to stay a child in some way. No, it is
deep-rooted, as is my affiliation with the Dark Side. You see, I’ve been a Sith
from the word go despite my soft-spoken nature as a child. That rare
combination of power, ruthlessness, relentlessness and just boiled-down
super-distilled badassery offered by Dark Side followers has always gotten me
fired up. Plus I like primary colors, you know the red/ white/ black color
palette just speaks to my feminine side or something like that. Add to it that
my true surname, which is undoubtedly not Britches, translates in the ancient
Celtic as “dark man,” and in the same tongue, my true first name (no, not
Whistle, people…you’re educated folks for the most part, please try to keep up)
translates to “warrior.” At least that’s what I read in the baby name book in
the checkout line once, so I’m going to go with it because it supports my
premise that I was destined to become the Sith Lord that I am today. (The
surname is documented, we were black-haired, blue-eyed Norman invaders of
Ireland, we were…the lion in my family crest has red tongue and claws, if you
know what I mean…my clan was not to be fkd with, not to be fkd with…) But as
often is the case, I digress…
So imagine my joy as a child, age four, when my mother
Secant showed me an ad folded neatly into the interior of the old Mobile Press.
Back then, Mobile had two editions, the Mobile Press in the afternoon and the
Mobile Register in the morning. Eventually they merged into the Press-Register,
which was the paper of repute (sometimes ill) for most of my life before it
morphed into the current zombie format of its previous incarnation, a mere
shell of a paper that frequently finds more use as a litter box liner than as
an actual journalistic periodical.
As Secant placed this ad before my youthful eyes, I lit up.
“MEET THE REAL DARTH VADER!!!” the ad screamed. Happy happy, joy joy! Moms was
cool, and I didn’t even have to ask if we could go. She simply told me would be
heading out to the event the following Saturday, with a young baby B-Rad in
tow. For me, meeting Darth Vader was akin to meeting Santa Claus and Jesus all
at the same mall kiosk. Come to think of it, what would those cats do if they
worked at the mall? I’d assume Claus would be doing the obvious during the
holiday season, maybe serving as janitor during the rest of the year. He does
have the homeless beard common among many janitors, so that could probably
work. And he seems infatuated with kids too, come to think of it…maybe that
joker should be on a state list or something. The whole thing is a little
bizarre, wearing red velvet and making kids sit on his lap, giving them candy
and making promises about what he’ll do if they’re naughty or nice…all he needs
is an Econoline and some Twizzlers…Wait, what? What were we talking about?. ..please
pardon my meanderings, let us continue…
Now you may ask yourself, how does OWB remember stuff from
when he was like, four years old? First of all, cardinal rule, never doubt OWB.
The penalty is worse than death. Secondly, this is one of the few memories I
have of the time before my parents divorced, when my father still lived in the
house before leaving us when I was five. That was a watershed event in the
legend of OWB and was likely the propellant to most of the tomfoolery leveled
by the same in his younger years. But this one recollection is still crystalline,
a pure moment of memory to which I cling the way a man lost at seas clings to
the broken hull of his sinking craft.
Now my pops, he wasn’t much for participating in anything
that he didn’t explicitly want to do. Not really what we’d call a “team player,”
to say the least. But to my surprise, he agreed to make the trip with us. The
event was to be held at Mobile’s now somewhat-defunct Springdale Mall, which
was the “dirt” mall of Mobile’s cross-street duo of retail powers. They had a
few good stores, including the Toys-R-Us, but it just never drew the traffic of
Bel Air Mall across Airport Blvd. The Darth Vader visit, thusly, was a huge
coup for that mall, and the venue was packed accordingly on the morning that
Lord Vader would make his appearance.
A stage had been erected in the mall’s eastern wing, and by
the time we arrived, there was quite the crowd. I was about to piss my pants in
excitement, seriously. I had consumed a thermos of sippy juice in the metallic
urine-colored ’70 Nova on the drive over, and now I felt it weighing heavily
upon my bladder. But alas, I couldn’t worry about teetee-fication, I had a Dark
Lord to meet. So I soldiered on.
I wondered what I’d do with the rest of my life, having met
my hero at such a nubile age. I had packed my pockets with the appropriate totems,
action figures representative of the Empire: a Vader, a Stormtrooper, TIE
fighter pilot, of course. Just wanted to make sure my Dark Side mojo was
properly amped to meet up with The Dark Lord himself (no, not Our Dark Lord,
The Dark Lord…stay with me here, people).
The moment of truth arrived…a puff of white fog ruptured
forth from a smoke machine, concealing the stage and backdrop briefly. The
entry was a replication of the opening Vader scene in A New Hope, when the
Troopers blast through the lock of the Republic transport, emerging in a flurry
of red laser blasts and spotless white Stormtrooper armor…just so fkn awesome I
can hardly stand it. Dammit, now I’m fired up, I’ll be back in a second….need
to do a lap around the building to run off this hype, hold on…
Okay, I’m back. Whew. Anyway, where was I? Oh yes, Stormtroopers
through the door, fog machine…and then Vader emerged from the fog in all of his
shiny black glory, complete with the sounds of his respirator playing over the
intercom. So. Fkn. Awesome. I could hardly stand it, couldn’t believe I was
going to meet the real Vader. Now keep in mind, though I was advanced in my
knowledge of The ‘Wars at the age of four, I knew a fraction of what I now know
about the canon. I didn’t fully understand the hierarchy of Vaders utilized in
the films. If I remember correctly, there were three Vaders: James Earl Jones
was the voice of course, then there was a stunt man who was involved in many of
the fight scenes, don’t remember his name. But the guy who I’d be meeting was
David Prowse, the actor who was the man in the Vader suit through most of the
movies. You never hear his voice in the original film, but the guy was huge,
probably 6’5” or so, bigger than my dad.
Prowse in the Vader suit was intimidating, to say the least.
Even to a kid who wanted desperately to meet him, I must admit, there was a
flutter in my stomach that was not entirely excitement-based. This summitch was
scary. Probably scared some of the adults too. Standing there, pillared on
either side by Stormtroopers…I must say it was a little overwhelming. Vader did
his spiel, flailed a lightsaber a little for demonstration purposes, and quoted
a few lines from the movie. Of course, Prowse was not talking, but there was a
James Earl Jones track being piped over the PA. Once he was done with his routine,
an emcee announced that anyone who was interested could line up for a chance to
get a picture autographed by Vader himself!
In retrospect, it was probably a little hokie, but I was
enthralled despite my relative fear. I guess everyone was a little scurd of
making the trip on stage, fearing the worst, a Force-choke of some kind. Speaking
of Force-chokes, I often wonder… if I could Force-choke someone, could I also
Force-choke the groin? Think of that for a moment…that’s real power, people. As
a wielder of the Dark Side of the Force, no appendages should be off-limits for
any Force-based manipulation, and I’m sure the only thing that would get as
much attention as Force-choking a brotha’s throat would be putting the Force on
his coinpurse. Ouch. Enough of that, hurts thinking about it.
But alas, seeing that few kids were lining up for the honor
of meeting the Dark Lord of the Sith, I darted to the front of the line. I
wasn’t the first kid, but I was in the first 10. An attendant came down the
line, handing out 8x10 black-and-white glossies of Vader to everyone awaiting
His Excellency. I was so stoked, could barely contain myself. The line wasn’t
moving fast enough for my liking, but slowly, I made my way to the front. I
would be next…so excited!
It was finally my turn. I buried the fear in the pit of my
stomach and bravely walked up the resonating hollow steps and onto the stage. I
stood face to face with him (well, face to belt buckle), the Scourge of the
Jedi, the fallen Chosen One. For a moment he was quiet, I stuck the photo out
towards him. I was shocked by the next turn of events.
“Your name?” he asked.
First of all, the voice that emanated from beneath the
helmet was not the one to which I was accustomed. It was of a higher pitch…and
all…like, British and stuff. WTF? I immediately began to question the validity
of this Vader. Was I being punked? Was this some scalawaggery being perpetrated
against the fine Star Wars-loving people of Mobile, AL? I had to know…
“Are you the real Darth Vader?” I asked innocently. He
nodded without speaking. “Cuz you don’t sound like Darth Vader.”
A laugh burst from beneath the dark helmet. Now I knew this
couldn’t be Vader…Vader would never laugh. I was on to this imposter’s ruse,
and I was not at all amused.
“You’re not real,” I said to him, dejected. He took the
photo from my hand and pulled out a Sharpie to sign it. He shoved it back
towards me, staring down at me through amber-black lenses, sizing up my fanhood
like a surveillance droid. I began to walk off of the stage.
“Wait,” he said, stopping me, placing a black, gauntleted
hand on my shoulder. I turned to him, and he simply said the following…
“You…you look like you need something, young apprentice…” I
was getting nervous, as my knowledge of the Force indicated to me there was a
disturbance. I was puzzled, what did he think I needed?
“Oh yes, yes, I have it…” and with a flourish of the Sharpie
not unlike Vader’s preferred Makashi fighting style, this dark-hearted summitch
whipped that marker across the skin above my lip, drawing an old-timey
pencil-thin mustache on my four year old face!
I was petrified, couldn’t say a damn thing while Vader stood
there laughing like a madman. I turned to look at my mom and dad for comfort,
for a life-preserver, for some soothing of my bruised feelings. Much to my
dismay, I turned to find both of them laughing, along with the remainder of the
large crowd amassed behind me. Even Baby B-Rad, not yet two, was grinning like
the proverbial Chezzycat.
I was ashamed and ran off the stage. Tripped and almost fell
down the final four stairs in my haste to get away. Apparently, Vader was
trying to diffuse the situation for those who thought he was too intense, and I
was just a pawn in his elaborate and Sith-like plan. Damn him!
I ran towards my parents…then ran right past them as they
laughed along with everyone else. I was still mustachioed with indelible ink. I
was really upset, as my hero had defiled me in front of the entire known world!
What happened next added insult to injury. Usually I was a
paragon of four year old bladder control…I mean, I could hold my water like a
long-haul trucker, rarely had to use the old mayonnaise jar on the four hour
Thanksgiving pilgrimage between Mobile and Vance. But as I ran away from my
parents, distraught and worried what the world thought of me, I felt that
familiar warmth trickling down from my crotch, running down the leg of my
corduroys and making my Chuck Taylors squishy in the sole. Knowing the inevitable
was going to occur, I surrendered, let my water break, releasing a yellow,
fetid tsunami onto the semi-shag carpet adored by the designers of Springdale
Mall.
I ran into the bathroom, parents running behind me, still
enjoying themselves far too much for my liking. I had already peed myself…that
ship had sailed, so my first stop was the mirror to see for myself Vader’s
artwork. Sure enough, I looked like the four year old villain from a
black-and-white Old West talkie. Like I should be tying some bodiced
damsel-in-distress to a dang ole railroad track. Ridiculous. I felt my anger,
nay, my hatred, flare. I was ashamed and enflamed all at the same time, unable
to control my rage but so determined to stay hidden from public view that I was
paralyzed…and that, my friends, is how I came to discover the very nexus of
what it is to be a Sith. Revenge, hate, anger, these are the tools of a Sith’s
trade, and it is this gift that Vader himself bestowed upon me in the first
person.
My mom evidently crow-barred pops into coming in the
restroom to check on me, but by that time, I was a new man, fired and hammered
in the kiln of public embarrassment by none other than The Dark Lord himself.
While at the time I hated him for it, I’ve since come to embrace those emotions,
honing them into an efficient weapon of constant malevolence and domination.
Quite honestly, my apprenticeship to the Dark Side began on that day, and it
grew from that seed of hatred planted by the black thumb of Lord Vader.
I also found out on that day that public restroom pump soap
does not remove Sharpie ink. I scrubbed my upper limp red with industrial paper
towels and pump soap, but to no avail. I was a marked man, forever tainted,
forever corrupted. The soap did take off the pee stank though, so that was a
positive. Wet corduroys…not so positive.
Moral of the Story: Never trust the Sith. Learn to parry before
becoming engaged in Sharpie combat with a Dark Lord. And above all, always pack
an extra set of britches…never know when that will come in handy, know what I
mean?
I pray for your eternal souls, Bulldoggies…I pray that the
Good Lord has mercy on you, for the Crimson Tide most certainly will not.
RTR, party people!
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