Seeing it in this damn cinema, knowing it's the last time I'll see it for the first time, knowing that there probably won't be any mop-headed "Yippee!" fuckers or much Jar-Jar to worry about, the thrill is close to the kinda thing that has a fella smiling the kinda smile that stretches four faces on either side.

Episode III, it says. Revenge Of The Sith.

I would've grabbed the hand of the fella sitting next to me but most likely he'd have stabbed me in the face with a fountain pen.

Around this point, y'see, a momentary melancholy descended 'pon my form. Here it is, man, the last Star Wars flick of all ever, or at least till they realize how much money they'd make from an Episode VII, here it is right here, look, just in front there, you can't miss it. Here it is, and here's The Duke, sat with folks he not only doesn't know, but probably would have trouble even devising some filthy fantasy about, with no hand for to hold or shoulder for to navigate in sneaky pursuit of The Chestal Area. Sat here lovelorn and lust-crazed and yet very obviously alone. You pathetic wretch, I could hear folks thinking about saying, except they couldn't, cause look, "A long time ago, in a galaxy far, far away…"

But fuck it. Who can think about the soul-crushing nature of mandatory masturbation when Episode III's busy introducing itself to the room?

Those words up there have a power, is the truth of the matter. For a certain type, in a certain situation, with certain hopes and notions and dreams, those words soon sweep any amount of mental hubris out the damn road.

"A long time ago, in a galaxy far, far away…"

Even on the third viewing of Phantom Menace in the cinema, I still felt high as a meth-soaked tramp when that fucking blue writing came up. Even though I knew all sortsa horrors were about to unfold, it was worth it, it was worth all the gungans in the universe just to see that shit up there.

The time I went in a couple minutes late, so Obi-Wan and Qui-Gon were already killing a gaggle of lizard-folks, I turned and walked the fuck out. It'd be like expecting to get a smack-rush even though you forgot to stick the needle in your vein.

But in the here and now ain't no thoughts of Phantom Menace for to be plaguing a man. Here and now we've moved on, moved on a couple episodes, in fact, and so this prequel trilogy born so humbly, like Christ in his manger, except the manager was a horrible, dull, fancy-pants sci-fi flick, now reaches a glorious conclusion, like Christ again, granted resonance and meaning and instilling hope and wellbeing in a man's soul even though to do so it needs to get involved in all sortsa horrific violence.