I once knew this kid who we shall call Steve H., no, that won't work, let's just call him S. Humphreys. Well, S. Humphreys used to be my roommate. He use to come back to the apartment, throw his bag on his bed and then cuss Microsoft for a few hours while listening to the Star Wars songs. I would look at him, shake my head in pity, and then go back to whatever it was I was doing at the time. As the years drove on S. Humphreys moved to a little, unknown hamlet that people know as San Francisco. It was here that S. Humphreys found employment at the local number mill. Day after day S. Humphreys worked to make the world safe for numbers. All was well. Occasionally S. Humphreys would find his way back to the land of the Provo and tell me stories of his adventures in the far off land of San Francisco.
Now, S. Humphreys doesn't write anymore. I can only speculate that he was stolen by a band of rogue Jawas, made to serve aboard a glactic sandcrawler for many months before being sold to the Hutt family where he currently makes and serves pizza to the Hutts and their beloved family pet, the Rancor.
I miss the days when S. Humphreys would post blogs and write emails and chat online. So in tribute to our long lost friend who spends his days in the Hutt family kitchen, sweating over a rotating pizza oven, this song is for you:
Da Da Da Daa DAAAA DaDaDa DAAA DAAA DaDaDa DAAA DAAAA DadumDadaaaaa
Da Da Da Daa DAAAA DaDaDa DAAA DAAA DaDaDa DAAA DAAAA DadumDadaaaaa
(you know the rest...)
