Freaks, Geeks, and Party Crashers

Well, I suppose everyone’s anxiously awaiting an update on the Halloween dance this last Friday. Or as I like to call it, the night from H-E-double-hockey-sticks.

Vader insists it wasn’t all that bad. Sure, he can say that, it was his idea…

But I’m getting ahead of myself. Let’s start at the beginning.

The evening starts off nicely enough when I shut my skirt in the door of my car. And since the driver’s side door doesn’t open from the inside and the window refuses to cooperate, I’m stuck here… unless I can convince my friend in black to give me a hand. Which at the moment seems about likely as Darth Maul being chosen as the next Pope.

“I have you in quite the bargaining position, don’t I?” he says, his voice straining as he tries not to laugh. “What can I get out of this…”

“No, you can’t drive my car!” I snap. “Now go open the door for me! Please!”

“Hold on,” he replies. “Let me see how I can work this to my advantage…”

At that moment, Dylan Rodgers walks over and opens the door for me. “Let me give you a hand there, Kenya.”

“Thanks,” I reply. “Hey Dylan, where’s your costume?” Dylan’s a crackup around Halloween. Last year he showed up in a nun’s habit, so seeing him in street clothes at a Halloween function is rather strange.

“Oh, this isn’t exactly a Halloween dance,” he explains. “Just a barn dance. But you look good.”

Oh great. So Darth and I are the only ones in costume here. Unless you count the five or six cowboys out there, which doesn’t count because this is Idaho and you can’t spit without hitting a cowboy.

“This is humiliating,” Vader complains. After perusing all the responses to the last blog entry, he and I finally decided on a Death costume. He’s actually quite forbidding-looking in the hooded robe, and the dusting of white over his mask to make it look like a skull is a nice touch.

“It could be worse,” I tell him. “You could be in a Cinderella costume.”

He shudders.

So it’s just me, in black sorceress regalia, and Darth Death at my side, walking around bales of straw and barrel fires amidst a sea of people in street clothes who are giving us the weirdest looks. Oddly enough, people seem to be seeing Vader just fine. Maybe it’s the costume. Or maybe it’s just that strange things happen on Halloween. Whatever the reason, he’s getting plenty of comments – “That’s clever, two costumes in one.” “I didn’t think Kenya had a steady boyfriend.” “Maybe it’s that cousin of hers.”

I’m finally debating whether I should go home and change when someone points at a set of headlights streaking up the road as if the driver has dropped a brick on the gas pedal.

“Who’s that?”

“Maybe some latecomers.”

“Hey, isn’t that the Keller’s van? I thought they were out of town…”

The huge white van tears into the parking lot where the dance is being held and screeches to a halt. Its doors pop open to disgorge over a dozen people in costume.

“What the HECK!” I shriek.

Vader laughs heartily. “Finally, some decent company.”

“You INVITED them?!”

“Why not? You have your friends at this gala. Let me have mine.”

I turn back to the vehicle, which has now been emptied of Vader’s guests. There’s General Grievous, draped in a white sheet that makes him look more like a piece of drop-cloth-covered furniture than a ghost (you’re supposed to cut holes in it, doofus). There’s Fett – at least, I assume that’s who’s in the knight’s armor with a blaster hanging where the sword should be. There’s Admiral Piett, who actually makes a dashing Phantom of the Opera, and there’s Grand Admiral Thrawn, regal as ever in the vampire outfit. There’s Veers in a toga (!), Mara Jade in an admittedly stunning devil costume, Jerjerrod in a convincing zombie costume, and three ladies in witch, Supergirl, and Sailor Moon outfits whom I assume are the wives of Piett, Veers, and Jerjerrod.

And smack in the center of the rat pack, looking like he’s having way too much fun for his own good, is Emperor Palpatine in a Freddy Krueger costume.

“You’re dead, Vader,” I snarl.

The Emperor looks around with a smile. “Well, where are the rest of the costumes? I thought this was a dress-up occasion.”

“Costumes are perfectly welcome,” Bishop Tyler tells him, reaching out to shake his hand.

“Um… this is a young adult activity, Bishop,” I tells him. “Emphasis on YOUNG!”

“Let them stay,” Vader tells him. “They will behave themselves.”

“Sure, what’s the harm?”

Thanks, Bishop. See if I accept any new callings in the future.

So the party crashers make themselves perfectly at home, helping themselves to chili, apple cider, and donuts and dancing their hearts out as Shania Twain, Michael Jackson’s “Thriller,” the Macarena, “Devil Went Down to Georgia,” and Ryan Shupe and the Rubberband play. Everyone else seems to be perfectly okay with the situation, even asking for autographs and teaching them how to line dance, swing dance, and do the Robot (which Grievous finds hilarious). And as much as I dislike the Emperor, I’m pleasantly surprised to see that he remains on his good behavior the whole night.

I drive like a maniac the whole way home.

“Come on, it wasn’t that bad,” Vader protests.

“You’re the one talking about how you don’t want the press swarming all over you, pal. And then you go and pull a stupid stunt like that. Don’t think people aren’t going to talk.”

“Four words,” he replies. “Mass Jedi Mind Trick.”

I roll my eyes. “It was still a crazy idea. What if Fett had freaked and set something on fire, or if the Emperor lost his temper with someone and electrocuted them?”

“You worry too much.”

“Someone’s gotta worry for the both of us, pal.”

Memo to myself next Halloween: lock the Dark Lord in the house when I go to a party.

What Do You Mean, No Masks Allowed?

The daughter of my bishop, Rachel*, says that she dislikes celebrating Halloween. Reason being? She believes it’s Satan’s birthday. Okayyyyyyy…

Actually, the Mormon church has no official stance regarding Halloween. The only restriction I know of regarding celebrating the holiday is that masks aren’t allowed at church Halloween parties – which is a safety issue, not a religious issue. Other than that, it’s free game. Break out the donuts and homemade root beer, man. Any excuse to get together and eat will do for us.

Halloween is already scheduled for me – a Trunk or Treat this Wednesday (that only the kids can participate in, unfortunately, adults just pass out the loot), a Barn Dance for the young single adults this Friday (and Vader plans to show up, despite the “no masks” rule), helping Brandon with his school’s Halloween party the 31st, and working the evening shift at the bookstore dressed like Winter from the fantasy book series “Leven Thumps.” Hey, a little shameless promotion never killed anybody.

To tell the truth, I’m not terribly thrilled about any of the above. Not that I hate the holiday – on the contrary, it gives me an excuse to flaunt my weird fashion sense. But I wish I could go back in time and celebrate Halloween the way I used to. Let’s face it, twenty-year-olds are strongly discouraged from going door to door begging for candy, dressed as clowns, monsters, and television characters. And back then, any kind of costume could fly. But the older you get, it seems, the more emphasis is placed on the creepier aspects of the holiday – spook alleys, haunted houses, horror movies, disgusting costumes, etc.

But at least I can use my imagination. I can’t wear a mask and I refuse to resort to a gross-out corpse or industrial-accident-victim costume, but I can still have some twisted fun with a costume.

“How do I look?” I ask Vader, entering the living room with a flourish.

He puts down the Popular Mechanics magazine and just stares. “Words fail me.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment,” I reply. “Like it? I’m a dark sorceress.”

“A witch.”

“No, a dark sorceress. There’s a difference.”

“Name it.”

“Do you see a broom or a pointy hat?”

“Dathomir witches have neither.”

“Shut up.”

I think I look pretty good, actually – black velvet dress, chain belt, black cape, gothic jewelry, and black hood. Come the actual event, I plan to put some black makeup around my eyes to complete the ensemble. Halloween is about the only time I let the stuff touch me.

“And you are going to work like that?” he asks.

“Of course not! When I get to work on Halloween, I plan on changing my clothes and going as a book character.”

“I see.” He shakes his head. “And what is the purpose of this?”

“C’mon, it’s fun! Don’t tell me you never wore a costume!”

“As a matter of fact, I haven’t.”

I feel a demonic smile crossing my lips. “Oh, you poor deprived soul. We’re going to have to fix that. Let’s see… what kind of costume will fit over your mask and armor…”

“Touch me and die, Kenya.”

“Like I’m scared, pal.”

Anyone have any ideas on how to prepare Vader for Halloween? Costume suggestions? Shoot me a line. Darth and I can probably use all the help we can get on this matter. On a side note, does anyone know how to get cat hair off of black velvet?

*Name changed

Luke Skywalker's Rescue Mission

Mom’s at class, Brandon’s at school, and I have a few hours to kill before I have to get ready for the evening shift at the store. Thus, I’ve taken some time to engage Vader in a duel. Not THAT kind of duel, of course. I wouldn’t last ten seconds in a saber fight. Besides, we’d destroy the house and/or freak out the neighbors. And Vader’s made it perfectly clear that he doesn’t want the whole planet knowing he’s here – nothing would interrupt his mission quite like having a mob of paparazzi banging down the door would.

Vader and I are playing Stratego with my Star-Wars themed set and board. And both of us are cheating horrendously. I’m positive Vader’s using the Force to discern the ranks of my pieces before deciding on his moves, and unbeknownst to him (or else he just elects to ignore it), I have an entire extra set of pieces concealed in my lap and am slipping them one at a time onto the board while he’s not looking.

“That is most odd,” Vader muses. “I thought I had already defeated your 9th-ranking piece. Twice before, in fact.”

“Eh, we all make mistakes,” I reply casually, discreetly dropping an extra bomb on the board.

The door opens, and we both start in surprise. Did Brandon have an unscheduled half-day of school today for some reason? Surely the school would have called first. Or is Mom home from class early? I reach out to quickly whip the board off the table. Technically I’m supposed to be cleaning the kitchen, not playing board games…

“It is not your mother,” Vader tells me.

“Brandon?”

“No.”

Before I can inquire further, a young, blond-haired, blue-eyed, black-clad man burst into the kitchen, lightsaber in his hands but not yet ignited. And despite my most brutal efforts to stop it, my heart gives a fangirlish flutter. People go on and on about how handsome Harrison Ford was in his early Han-Solo days, and Hayden Christiansen and Ewan McGregor are cute in a teeny-bopper, boy-toy kind of way, but in my mind, they’re all no match for a young Mark Hamill… good grief, I’m gushing! Argh!

“We meet again, Skywalker,” Vader rumbles, rising to his feet.

“Ugh,” I groan. It must be after ESB, then. “If you two are going to have a father-son chat, do it outside. Don’t chop up the kitchen.”

Luke looks at me, startled. I don’t know what he was expecting, but my guess is it wasn’t anyone who looked like me. “Somehow I pictured Ms. Starflight to be a little… older.”

I don’t know whether to take that as a compliment or an insult.

“What do you want with her?” Vader demands.

“I’m here to rescue her,” Luke replies. “The Alliance got word that a fanfiction author is being held captive by you…”

“Captive?” I repeat, stunned. “Where’d you get that stupid idea?”

“C’mon, Ms. Starflight, you’ve admitted it yourself. It’s in your blog…”

“WHAT?!” Okay, I’ve griped about the big guy being at my house a few times, but I had no idea someone would interpret it THAT way.

“Very untrue, Skywalker,” Vader replies. “I am her guest for the time being.”

Luke gives him a skeptical look.

“Believe it, farmboy,” I tell him. “Whatever the Alliance has gotten out of my blog, it’s wrong. They’re just looking for an excuse to send someone here to kick the stuffing out of Darth – or give it a noble try, I guess.” Something occurs to me. “Come to think of it, wasn’t it the Alliance that sent IG-88?”

“How did you know about that?” Luke asks, surprised.

“Because he wrecked my workplace in the process,” I replied. “And who do you think took the blame?”

“Kenya Starflight is NOT my captive,” Vader adds firmly. “Now leave. Unless you want a repeat of our encounter on Bespin…”

Luke shakes his head. “I’m under strict orders not to come back without Starflight. If the Empire has anyone on this planet in their custody, then they must be important…”

“I’m not in his custody, I’m not a captive, and I’m NOT going with you!” I tell him. “And if you’re under orders not to go back without me, you’re not going back for awhile, bucko.”

Luke puts his saber away and sighs. “You’re not going to make this easy, are you?”

“Nope,” I grin. “Darth, it’s your move.”

Vader turns back to the board and advances a space. “Attacking.”

“Bomb,” I reply sweetly.

He chuckles. “Droid. Your bomb is disarmed.”

“Will you quit using the friggin’ Force?” I snap.

“When you stop adding extra pieces to the board,” he counters.

Luke just shakes his head. “You two really are friends, then.”

“In a sense,” Vader replies.

“Whaddaya mean ‘in a sense?’” I demand. “You want to sleep with the goat from now on?”

At least Luke has the ability to laugh at himself, a good sign. “Well, I guess I’ll have to tell Lady Mothma the rescue mission won’t be necessary. Good luck, Ms. Starflight.” He nods and turns to go.

I lean over the board to whisper at Vader. “You’re not going to stop him?”

“Why should I?”

“Doesn’t your boss want him?” I nod at Luke as he departs. “Aren’t you under orders to capture him or something?”

“What Palpatine does not know will not hurt us,” Vader replies. A pause. Then, “Luke let the cat out while he was leaving.”

“ARGH!” Tiger’s not allowed outside – too many chances of him getting hurt, between the road and the feral cats and dogs that roam our neighborhood. And the stupid cat has made a game of escaping and leading us on a merry chase about the property, preferably through the tallest and prickliest weeds and bushes he can find. “Pause the game, I’ll be right back.”

“Gladly.”

It is my sincere hope that the Alliance doesn’t show its face on our property again. They may be the good guys and the salvation of the galaxy, but one cannot deny that the villains are by far cooler. Besides, Luke’s X-wing freaked the goats and chickens out and knocked part of the barn roof off on the way out.

I already have one Skywalker to deal with on a regular basis; I don’t need another to complicate things.

Fanfic Ripped From the Headlines

When my sister was in high school, a teacher asked several students to estimate how many books they had in their household. As far as I’ve heard and pieced together, the exchange between the teacher and my sister went something like this:

Cecilia: How many books I own, or how many books my family owns?

Teacher: Your family owns.

Cecilia: Uh… what if we can’t guess?

Teacher: It’s okay if your family has no books…

Cecilia: No, it’s not that. Our family has probably over a thousand books…

Teacher: WHAT?

Yeah, we’re kind of bibliophiles at our house. There’s a bookshelf downstairs, a bookshelf upstairs, and a bookshelf in my mom’s room, and they’re all stuffed to bursting. Then there’s the books piled in my bedroom, Brandon’s bedroom, on Mom’s nightstand, in Mom’s closet, on coffee tables, in the pantry (cookbooks, mostly), boxed up in the barn… What can I say? Our family loves to read.

Mom enjoys mysteries, especially J.A. Jance and “The Cat Who…” series, when she’s not hitting the textbooks for nursing school. My brother is a voracious reader who’ll bury his nose in just about anything but prefers fantasy, or as he puts it, “anything with magic in the title or on the cover somewhere.” Me, I like fantasy and sci-fi best, though I enjoy the occasional biography and non-fictional title.

Quite in contrast, our family watches little television. My mom once took a survey over the phone, which went something like this:

Surveyor: How many hours of television does your family watch in a week?

Mom: Five or six.

Surveyor: No, not how many hours in a day, in a week.

Mom: That’s it.

Surveyor: You’re kidding.

She kids you not, lady. I don’t know what the latest numbers are for how may hours of TV the average American family logs, but we’re definitely not the average American family. We watch General Conference twice a year, the Olympics, the occasional TV special (especially around Christmas), and ice-skating competitions. My brother also watches cartoons on Saturday morning, I catch “Judge Judy” on my rare days off, and Mom and I enjoy an occasional episode of “The Tonight Show” and Sunday night reruns of “Hogan’s Heroes.” That’s about it.

Part of the blame for that low number is the fact that we read so much, but most of it lies in the sorry fact that there’s very little worth watching on TV. I’m sorry, but that’s the sad truth. A few shows are worth your time, but the rest are worse than a waste – they insult your intelligence. People ask why our family doesn’t get cable. The answer is that we’d rather not burn our money on the chance that two shows out of the millions you have to pay for are worthwhile.

I’m sorry to say, however, that I’m addicted to two shows in particular. No, not “Star Trek” or anything else sci-fi-ish. I’m hooked on “Law and Order” and “Law and Order: Special Victims Unit.” My mom got me addicted to them, and I’m sorry to say that every Tuesday and Wednesday night, my time is devoted to the screen. But if I had to choose, “Law and Order SVU” is probably the better of the two in my mind.

Heck, I even dream “Law and Order.” No kidding. A few weeks ago I had a dream I was watching “Law and Order,” and it turned out to be an episode I’d never seen before – an episode where two missionaries go to a gospel investigator’s apartment and find him dead. Sadly, I woke up before I got to see anything else. My co-worker says I should write the rest of the episode and see of the producers of the show will take it. I highly doubt it.

Why did I bring up this whole long rant? Ask the Dark Lord.

“Why in the galaxy would anyone write a ‘Law and Order’ fanfic?” he demands.

“Why in the galaxy would anyone make Jar Jar Binks a senator?” I retort.

“And not just a ‘Law and Order’ fanfic,” Vader continues incredulously, ignoring my comment. “A Star Wars/Law and Order crossover!”

“It’s not a crossover, Darth,” is my defense. “It’s a case involving a murder at a science fiction convention.”

“With me as the assailant!”

“No, the killer’s only dressed like you. That doesn’t make him you, you know. I dress like you, and that doesn’t make me you.”

“Thank the Force.”

“Hey!”

Okay, so I’m obsessed with a certain TV show and movie series. And I obviously have way too much time on my hands and a twisted imagination. But hey, I’ve seen a lot of “Law and Order” episodes and have a feel for how the series works. I think I could write a pretty good script for a show. But since the producers of the show probably hire their own writers and would rather not accept a manuscript from some Jane Doe in Hicktown, Idaho, I’ll probably just post it online and see what people think.

“They will think you are insane.”

”They already think that, what’s so new about that?”

“Why not devote your time to writing something original and publishable?”

“I DO write publishable stuff! This is what I do for fun. And quit nagging, you sound like my sister.” Lately my sister has gotten it into her head that she’s my mother – and Mom’s mother – and sees fit to nag us about everything and anything, including my fanfic writing.

Vader shakes his head. “Fine, I will let it slide. Just leave Detective Fontana out of it.”

“Why, you don’t like him either?” I liked Detective Briscoe on the original “Law and Order,” but I’m not too fond of his replacement. He’s not nearly as funny and likeable.

“He looks like Admiral Ozzel,” is Vader’s retort. “And Ozzel was an idiot.”

In that case, maybe I’ll add Fontana to the fic just to bug Darth… or go one better than leaving him out and kill him off. Who knows? Maybe I’ll let the Vader impersonator snuff him…

BTW, don’t look for the L&O fanfic on Fanfiction.net anytime soon. I have to finish “Catacombs” and “Heir to the Ring” first. Then we’ll see about it.

The Best Two Years

I’m thinking of my brother today. Not Brandon, though goodness knows he’s in my thoughts often enough, especially when he’s arguing Star Wars with Vader or playing the “yippieyuk” game with me (long story there, don’t ask, though if you’ve read Shel Silverstein you’ll figure it out). I’m thinking of Kevin.

There are four of us kids – me, my older sister Cecilia, and my two younger brothers Kevin and Brandon. Kevin is only a year and a half my junior, and due to his size (6 feet to my 5 ½) people mistake him for my older brother a lot. He’s a musician, able to play drums, saxophone, clarinet, oboe, bassoon, a little accordion, and who knows what else. And like me, he’s a fan of Star Wars and fantasy, especially the works of Robert Jordan and Terry Goodkind.

Why am I thinking of him? Mainly because I haven’t seen him in over a year. Like many young Mormon men, he’s serving a two-year religious mission. For the past year, he has been spreading the gospel in French Polynesia, thousands of miles away.

Kevin has always had a goofy sense of humor, and his letters home show that his humor hasn’t dimmed much. We all have a good laugh as he shares stories about the Church members in the islands – my favorite story is how he left his care package from home at the church, and the children discovered the box, found the candy my sister had mailed, and proceeded to share it with the entire ward. And his explanation of why he needs more pants shipped to him – “My washing machine thinks it has better fashion sense than I do, and now all my pants look like they came off the set of ‘The Lion King’ – is equally hilarious.

But I miss having him around. We were pretty close. It’s too bad he wasn’t with me to see “Revenge of the Sith” in the theaters, or to accompany me to Fandemonium. He would have had a blast both places.

Vader’s never had a brother – at least, not that’s mentioned in the films – but he’s sympathetic.

“He will return,” he assures me as I finish up my latest letter and tuck it into the care package we’re preparing. “Be thankful he is on a mission and not serving in the Armed Forces.”

“I am thankful.” I close the box. “I just miss him.”

“Can you call him? Perhaps if you hear his voice again…”

“It’s against the rules. Missionaries can only call home on Mother’s Day and Christmas, unless it’s an emergency. And families can’t call the missionaries.”

“I see.”

I sigh and start taping the box shut. New pants, deodorant, some Halloween candy, letters and pictures from everyone, some religious music… if it all makes it past customs, Kevin should be happy with this box from home.

“All Hallow’s Eve is in three weeks,” Vader notes. “Why are you sending Halloween candy?”

“Believe me, pal, it’s late to be sending Halloween candy to French Polynesia. He’ll probably get it around Thanksgiving.”

“The postal system is that slow, is it?”

“Yeah, why?”

“Perhaps my men can deliver it. It will reach him within forty-eight hours…”

“Oh no, pal. I’m not letting stormies get their paws on this. Not after some of the stories Fett and Piett told me…”

“It will be safer in their hands than in the hands of customs officials.”

I have to agree with him there. Families of missionaries (or, for that matter, families of anyone overseas) have learned that just because an item makes it into the box, it doesn’t mean it makes it to the recipient. Officials in some countries have been known to help themselves to the contents of care packages. One woman in my mom’s ward said that she shipped three batches of brownies to her son in South America, and none of them made it to him. She solved the problem by baking an entire package of Ex-Lax into the fourth shipment of brownies to go down there.

That batch didn’t make it to the missionary, but needless to say, the next one did.

“Don’t let them raid the box,” I request, handing it over.

“They will face my wrath if they do,” Vader promises, and he sweeps out.

***

Later in the evening, a letter appears in the mailbox.

“That’s weird, mail never comes on Sunday,” Brandon notes. “Hey, it’s from Kevin!”

“Already?” Mom asks. “We just got one on Tuesday.”

I rip open the letter and read it aloud. Most of it is the same old stuff, but the first couple of sentences catch our attention.

“Thanks for the box, especially the new pants. Zebra stripes are definitely out of style – sorry, Kenya. And thanks for the music. It’s nice to listen to something other than my companion’s snoring.”

“Wow, that box got to him quick.” Mom gives me a funny look. “How much did it cost you to overnight it?”

“I didn’t,” I protest. “Maybe it got stuck on the wrong plane.”

Vader, who’s in the next room reading the paper, snorts.

When I go into the living room to check my e-mail, Vader slips me a note. “From Kevin,” he tells me.

I unfold the paper and read:

“Kenya, why didn’t you tell me Vader was staying with you? I would have said something to him in my letters! Thanks for sending him my way. It was nice to get a little taste of home. Can you believe none of the theaters here are playing Episode III yet? Not that it makes much difference, the mission president wouldn’t let us see it anyway… anyhow, love you, sis, and MTFBWY.”

I smile. “Thanks, Vader. I guess I owe you one now.”

“Call it even,” he replies. “I owe you for that… IG-88 incident.”

“And the Xizor incident, and covering your butt for all the missing food, and letting you drive my car, and…”

“I get the point.”

General Conference and Belch Wars

I get the house to myself this weekend! WHOO HOO!

Well, not entirely. I still have my little brother to look after. And Vader’s still around. And the cat, goats, and chickens if you want to get technical. It’s just my mom that’s taking a little vacation this weekend, but that means I’m in charge while she’s gone.

Think Mom’s insane for leaving the farm in my care? Nah. This is a geek we’re talking about. The chances of me packing the house with my friends and having a window-busting party are pretty low. The most she can probably expect is not being able to call home because someone’s online all day. True, the house will be a mess when she gets home, but it won’t be the after-effects of an all-nighter, just the results of neglected housework.

As I type this, my brother and I are watching our church’s General Conference. For those of you who are unfamiliar with the specifics of Mormon culture, General Conference is a bi-annual event during which the leaders of our church address the members and anyone else who cares to tune in and listen. Where I live, we’re lucky enough to have a local TV station broadcast it, though several people I know have instead opted to travel to Salt Lake City and listen to the speakers in person. No thanks. I like to hear what our leaders have to say, but it’s hard for me to listen when I’m packed like a sardine in an overcrowded conference center.

Our family normally watches conference together, but this year it’s just Brandon and me. Oh, and Vader, who for some bizarre reason has seen fit to invite a few friends.

“Stop coughing,” Brandon snaps. “I can’t hear this guy talk.”

“I don’t order you to stop breathing, do I?” snarls Grievous, ending the sentence with another bout of hacking.

“You two knock it off,” I tell them.

Four men are packed onto the couch – Darth Vader, Boba Fett, General Grievous, and Admiral Piett. Vader’s visitors dropped by last night for a showing of “Robots” and a dinner of chicken nuggets and ice cream, and I suppose they were expecting a repeat of it today. Tough beans, pals. You weren’t invited, and I’m not changing my plans.

“Which member of the Council is this?” asks Vader.

“It’s called the Quorum of the Twelve, not the Council,” I reply. “The Jedi have Councils, we have Quorums. And that’s James E. Faust, Second Counselor of the First Presidency.”

“I thought you just got through saying it wasn’t a Council,” Fett points out.

“No, ‘Counselor’ as in ‘assistant’ or ‘second-in-command.’”

“So if he is the Second Counselor, and someone else is the First Counselor, does that make this man the second-in-command of the First Counselor?” asks Vader.

“No, he’s…”

BBRRRUUUPPP!

“Brandon!” I shout.

“Excuse me,” he says with a proud grin.

“That was disgusting! Are you sure something didn’t come up with it…”

BBBRRRAAAPPPP!

“Brandon!”

“That wasn’t me!” he protests.

“No, it was me,” Fett declares, raising his hand.

“Nice one,” Piett tells him.

“Oh, don’t encourage him…”

BLACH!

“That was pathetic,” Vader tells Piett.

“Give me a few minutes…” Piett counters.

BBBUUUUUURRRRPPP!

How on Earth does Grievous do that? Then again, I suppose if his internal organs are still intact, he can still have gas…

“Wow, that was good!” Brandon cheers. “Hey, I can belch my name…”

“Brandon, don’t…” I tell him, but it’s too late. The men enjoy a good laugh as Brandon recites everyone’s name in one long, disgusting emission.

“I can top that,” Fett counters, and he proceeds to belch “Imperial March.”

“The next man who belches cooks lunch!” I threaten. That should stop things.

BBBBBBBRRRRRRRRRUUUUUUUPPPPPP!

Everyone turns to stare at the perpetrator. Who dared… who risks the wrath of Starflight…

It was Vader.

“Whoo hoo!” Brandon whoops. “Go Darth!”

“That was just sick and wrong,” I complain.

“Thank you,” he tells me, standing. “Hot dogs for lunch suit everyone?”

The others mumble assent, and I realize Vader’s strategy – by fixing lunch, he has a perfect excuse to leave the living room and miss the rest of this session of conference.

“How long does this go on?” complains Grievous.

“Two hours in the morning, two hours in the afternoon,” I reply. “Then the same tomorrow. And the men get to attend another session this evening.”

“That’s over eight hours!” Piett exclaims. “How can you stand to sit through this?”

“For one thing, free music by the Mormon Tabernacle Choir,” I point out. Hey, I love all kinds of music – from Three Dog Night to Matchbox 20 to John Denver to, yes, the Mormon Tab. I have a fondness for their majestic, powerfully done choral numbers. Brandon likes the Mormon Tab because it’s about the only music that can put him to sleep at night. He has no taste in music.

“I’d rather sit through a Hutt singing opera than the choir,” complains Fett.

“Look, you guys, I didn’t invite you,” I tell them. “You have no right to complain. If you don’t like it, you can go.”

“This session’s almost over,” Brandon tells them. “Then the TV’s free for Playstation.”

Fett, Grievous, and Piett cheer.

Typical of men. Next conference I think I WILL go to Salt Lake. I think I’d prefer being crammed in a building of people who actually want to see conference than stay in the same house as these goof-offs.