Tevun-Krus #4 - Space Opera

Why Space Opera is Better than A Real Opera

WHY SPACE OPERA IS BETTER THAN A REAL OPERA

So my wife[1] wanted to see an opera last week. Me being the sophisticated, high-browed student of the baroque, I recommended the classic space opera, Star Wars. She, however, requested that we attend the entrée[2] performance of Flight of the Bumblebee—or maybe that was just the name of one song. I agreed, but on one condition: We would make love my way for one passionate week... with the entire Original Trilogy[3] of Star Wars playing on repeat. In a show of love I cannot say I deserve, she conceded to my wishes.

We attended the show and it was, naturally, the sort of bore that somehow managed to make viewing the mating rituals of fungi seem interesting. I fell asleep three minutes into the opera, and woke up three minutes after the opera finished—to my wife[4] pounding my chest with her tiny little fists, screaming that I must have been murdered by the fat lady's horrid singing.

Needless to say, the decrying of the fat lady and her singing was a scandal of the highest order. To make such venomous claims is to insult every red-blooded fan of the opera. Naturally, an all-out skirmish occurred. War had broken out—and not the good kind of war, either. Not the epic space battles of the good[5] kind of opera; no, of course not. This type of war was between suit-clad geezers riddled with cataracts, hip problems and Viagra... and, well, me.

Long story short: I won. Fisticuffs are my specialty. Expressly when I'm up against limp-wristed, pencil-pushing opera buffs whose only show of masculinity lies in their untrimmed beards. And especially when all my moves were taught to me by the Great One himself: Han Solo.[6] I had to replay his fight scenes at least seven hundred and eleven times to get them down pat. My dad always said I was wasting my time. Who's laughing now, old man? HUH!? I SAID WHO'S LAUGHING NOW!?[7]

So there I was. Breathing heavily. Bloodied knuckles. A runner of snot depending precariously from my right nostril. Bodies littered all around my feet. The crazed din of the innocent and the scared sounding in my mind, ringing in my ears like chaos put to music. My wife[8] looked at me like I was some kind of monster. This wasn't the quiet evening she'd had in mind. Sorry, babe. But I'm naughty like that.

I grabbed my woman[9] by the waist, wiped my nose, whipped out my blaster pistol and shot my way out of the opera house. There's another reason why the opera sucks royally: no blasters. The faceless foes—armed with ticket stubs wielded by hairless hands—stood no chance. It was almost too easy.[10]

We found our way out into the cool Martian air. Sandstorms were blowing so hard that if we didn't find shelter soon, our faces would rip open and we'd get blood everywhere. Not a fun job for the janitors of Mars to perform, let me tell you.

A big buffoon of a man barreled out of the opera-house doors, huffing and puffing. He pointed at me and yelled, "Stop, rebel scum!" I shot him full of holes.

"Come on!" I yelled to milady. "The car's this way!"

We ran around to the street corner where our Saturn was illegally parked. I shoved the lady into the passenger seat, slammed the door, and then hopped into the cockpit. Fired up the engine. Heard that baby hum.[11]

Suddenly a squad of police cruisers squealed onto the scene via the street behind us, sirens whining. I threw the Saturn into drive and peeled on out of there.

"THIS IS THE POLICE. PUT DOWN YOUR WEAPON AND PULL OVER."

"Screw off, oinky," I spat at the rearview mirror. I handed my woman the blaster. She accepted it like a boy accepts his dad's lucky hockey stick. "Take this, babe. Catch us some bacon while I get us out of here."

"THIS IS YOUR LAST WARNING. PUT DOWN YOUR WEAPON AND PULL OVER. THIS IS THE POLICE."

"Weeeeeee!" I did my best pig impersonation while my wife leaned out her window and fired a shot that missed by a country mile. I commended her courage and willingness to break the law for me, though. That's how a marriage lasts a lifetime. "Keep shooting, hon."

We made it home soon after.

All in all... none of this would have happened if we had just had sex to Star Wars like I'd wanted in the first place.[12]

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[1] I don't have a wife.

[2] My nonexistent wife later informed me that it's called an "encore." I vehemently denied that such a word even existed. That's what I do when I know I'm wrong. Learned it from my dad.

[3] The Prequel Trilogy can be launched in a spaceship on a one-way trip to the Sun, if you ask me. Anybody who claims to have liked the abomination known as "Jar Jar Binks" can get a free family pass on said spaceship.

[4] Remember, she doesn't really exist. Not yet, anyway. Oh, but she will... someday. Even if I'm old and grey before that day comes.

[5] Space opera, genius.

[6] Han shot first, you numpty. Don't you dare cite the Special Editions as evidence to the contrary. George Lucas doesn't know squat about Star Wars.

[7] I am.

[8] For the last effing time: She isn't real!

[9] For the love of Yoda. Honestly, man! How many bloody times do I need to tell you! No more. I mean it. You can forget about these notes.

[10] Almost. It would have been easier if they hadn't all told me to put the blaster down and leave everyone in peace. If they hadn't done that, then I wouldn't have felt so guilty about blowing holes through their bellies. The humanitarian in me doesn't seem to like blasting word-speakers.

[11] Saturns don't purr, after all.

[12] Like any hyper-nerd, my sex drive runs in congruence with my viewing of Star Wars.