So… Be prepared, short chapter, looooong author's note. Shall we move on to the disclaimer?
Disclaimer: Star Wars, which used to belong to George Lucas, now belongs to Disney, not us. If it did, the movies would be exactly like this. Exactly.
Remember, pictures. We want pictures.
The Therapist sat down on his big bitching chair, waiting for his next appointment. His new patient was not one he was familiar with, though they sometimes ran in the same, well normally the word is circles, but that doesn't really apply so the same Lego blocks? Yeah, that works.
The door opened, and in walked in the best goddamn smuggler in the galaxy, all 7'6" of him. Chewbacca was glorious, covered in thick fur and wearing a stylish bandoiler. He sat down on the couch. "What seems to be the problem?" The therapist asked, clicking his pen.
"Hrhhhhaurrrghhhhhhhhh." The Wookie mused, deep voice reverberating through the office. "Haughhhhhh."
The Therapist nodded. "See, I think the joke is supposed to be that I'm going to react to the outlandish things you're saying by repeating it in a shocked tone, but that violates doctor patient confidentiality. Also, your issues are very serious, please continue."
HB~M.D*M-N*M.D~HB
Han Solo was going Han Solo things (which according to that video I found means dancing in sync with a group of others to a song entitled "I'm Han Solo") in a bar, enjoying his life, thinking fondly about his loving wife and his totally not evil at all son who loved him so much. Then a pink haired man appeared, clutching a deep brown bottle in one fist. "Ey, you, Solololoo. I got a problem with you." He slurred, taking an unsteady seat next to him at the bar.
"Look, if this is about who shot who first I'm not-"
"That joke is sooo old shut up…" The man said, blindly reaching out to pat at Han's face like that would get him to stop talking. "This is about Chewie, that magnificent man beast alien thing."
"Chewie? What's the problem with Chewie? He's great." Han asked, concerned.
"You, you space galavanting bastard and your wife. And blond Superman. You dragged him all over the fucking place, took him to the Death Star, he was there the entire time and only you two pretty boys got a medal. The fuck is up with that? Are you racist? Wookie racist?"
"Ah, no. I wasn't actually in charge of that stuff, you know? I'm an ex-Imperial guy who is now a smuggler, I don't have much political sway."
"But Leia, that cinnamon bunned wonder woman, does. And she was there! She was there! HE DESERVED A MEDAL HE WORKED SO HARD HE CAME FROM SLAVERY AND LOOK AT HIM NOW HE'S A SUCCESS STORY AND IT'S TOUCHING." The Therapist wailed.
"Are you, are you sobbing?" The Therapist was, and Han patted him half heartedly on the back, making shushing noises. It worked for Ben, sometimes.
It was several minutes before the Therapist could speak again. 'Dude, please give him a medal, please show him you love him. He works so hard, he's overcome so much, the struggle with his identity in conservative Wookie society, the whole slavery thing, the heroin thing, and that time with the ducks and a bottle of gin."
"I think you're breaking doctor patient confidentiality here." Han noted, uneasily. "You can get sued for that."
The Therapist bolted upright. "Yer right, yer right. I can't I can't talk about this anymore. I need to get to the TARDIS, the Time And Rubies Doombot Insect Spacemobile."
"I don't think that's what it stands for." But Han threw an arm over the Therapist's shoulder and helped him up, and then to his ship. "Nice setup you got here. What do you do?"
"I'm a therapist." The other man answered, flopping bonelessly down on the couch. "I'm a problem solverererer. And I'm good."
"Really?" He replied, somewhat dubiously. "I'll have to remember that. Do you often hunt down friends of your client while fall down drunk?" He turned to leave, when the Therapist called out again.
"Thank you Indiana Jones ear Harrison Ford, you sexy beast. May you, your kickass wife and whiny yet bangable son have a goood time together."
"What." Han decided he needed to leave right now, because this was getting weird. "Don't talk about Ben like that." He left.
"But the entire cast of that movie is sooo prettyyyyy…" The Therapist yelled to an empty room. "Oscar Isaac, take me away." He drunkenly muttered into the pillow, passing out.
Hello to the cat that accidentally opened this! I'm Honey, in case you're having a hard time remembering what text feature denotes who. which is understandable. All misspellings in the therapist's speech are on purpose because he's hammered. I'm also the writer of this piece, and you can tell because it's a rambling mess instead of something coherent, like what Merry writes. For real though, everyone in TFA was so pretty. I think Mellon will interject with her disclaimer at some point, but until then I'm just going to ramble, like I think the next one might be Dragon Age themed because who doesn't want to punch Solas right in his stupid face? Jessica Jones is such a good show. We're all Canadian and there actually is three of us. Right now we're in a public library and just collectively writing on Google Docs which is why you get the back and forth. I am really surprised Mellon hasn't stopped me yet.
No, I'm just going to let you ramble, build up the word count a little. By all means, continue.
WOO HOO FREE REIGN! I found an infant. Why aren't there tissues in public places anymore? Will the Deadpool movie live up to the hype? Will I get my assignments done? Probably. I'd like to thank Merry and Mellon for letting me make canon pansexual Therapist a thing. This table I'm sitting on is sort of uncomfortable. I don't want to go to school tomorrow. The monkey with the hat is judging me and I don't like it. I'm not judging him. Mellon didn't believe me about the monkey but it's true. Honey out!
To be fair, we're in a library. I had no idea where said monkey was. Now I do.
