The Empire Strikes, Bitch!
I just had a strange thought:
Imagine being the happy housewife; married to Darth Vader. Anything and everything he should ever want, you would be automatically obligated to comply at fast as you fucking could lest you should fall victim to one of his patented Jedi two-fingered throat chokeholds.
Dinner would be ready the second he’s hungry, you'd play the accordion while he takes a dump, you'd see that his helmet is spit-shined and his cowl is properly pressed, you'd perform lap dances for him during episodes of ‘Monster Garage’, always vacuum the Death Star in high-heels and fishnets, and maybe even a little swinging with the Emperor’s Guards…you’d have no choice! Bitch, complain, or moan and he’d simply crush your throat like a crusty marshmallow.
And it’s not like you could ever seek a divorce, now could you? The moment you raised any objections at all over your treatment and he’d simply snap your neck like a chicken bone from across the court room without raising so much as a thumb and forefinger.
You be his eternal bitch! You’d be just like the Tina to his Ike Turner…except there’d no more hit singles after that break up. Just another shallow grave in a long line of dead, incompetent Imperial Officers.
Imagine being the happy housewife; married to Darth Vader. Anything and everything he should ever want, you would be automatically obligated to comply at fast as you fucking could lest you should fall victim to one of his patented Jedi two-fingered throat chokeholds.
Dinner would be ready the second he’s hungry, you'd play the accordion while he takes a dump, you'd see that his helmet is spit-shined and his cowl is properly pressed, you'd perform lap dances for him during episodes of ‘Monster Garage’, always vacuum the Death Star in high-heels and fishnets, and maybe even a little swinging with the Emperor’s Guards…you’d have no choice! Bitch, complain, or moan and he’d simply crush your throat like a crusty marshmallow.
And it’s not like you could ever seek a divorce, now could you? The moment you raised any objections at all over your treatment and he’d simply snap your neck like a chicken bone from across the court room without raising so much as a thumb and forefinger.
You be his eternal bitch! You’d be just like the Tina to his Ike Turner…except there’d no more hit singles after that break up. Just another shallow grave in a long line of dead, incompetent Imperial Officers.
posted by crazytigerrabbitman at
1:03 AM
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