Ever needed to hear about mad dad birds with enormous feet? Try THESE on for size:
What’s that you say? These are clearly the feet of a dinosaur, not a bird? WHY NOT BOTH?
This is Australia’s very own dinosaur, the second-largest bird in the world, the emu. Say hi!
They roam around Australia making ‘wonk-wonk’ noises under their breath and glaring at everything. And the dads take care of the babies! They sit on the eggs…
They look after the tiny stripey adorable things….
They look after the less tiny less adorable things…
And they even look after the great big menacing things that are almost as big as they are.
But here’s the catch. All emus look pretty much alike. Especially when you are a tiny stripey adorable thing. All you can see of your dad is is great big dinosaur feet (see picture #1). So there is one very unrealistic thing about all the adorable terrifying dinosaur family photos above:
I have never seen an emu family in the wild where all the babies are the same size.
Here is the reason!
Emu dad and his emu babies are roaming about wonking and glaring at everyone. Suddenly emu dad sees another emu dad! A threat!
Emu dads do some display threats with dancing and bouncing and fluffing and… look, it’s very serious business, okay?
If this does not work to see off one emu they might progress to actual fighting.
Oops, sorry, you wanted the dignified version. Here, have some ART:
MAGNIFICENT.
Either way, this encounter will end up with one or both adult emus zooming away as fast as he can run. This is very fast.
This is the other thing they do besides wonking and glaring, by the way. They run. Fear the running emu.
Anyway, this leaves all the tiny and medium-sized and semi-large stripey things milling around making confused tiny “cheep? wonk?” noises and basically just following whichever pair of large feet they can find.
HI DAD
And so mostly when you see a male emu with a gaggle of youngsters at heel, they are all different sizes. Who knows whose they are? Not him! But he’s going to look after them anyway.
Fear him.
Progress was made quickly after the team committed to an adult discussion.
‘Ultimately,’ Rogers remarked, ‘I don’t agree. But I get why Tony’s concerned.’
‘Thanks Cap. You raise compelling points yourself.’
‘Sure is complicated,’ sighed Rhodes.
‘A proposal,’ said the Vision, having been quiet. ‘If the accords fail to address the full complexity of our context, might we reply with an alternative?’
Wilson looked up. ‘You’re saying negotiate?’
‘Could work,’ said Stark. Rogers nodded.
‘Well,’ replied Romanov. ‘Thank God that didn’t escalate.’
I had, in retrospect, a really weird Campfire experience.
Let’s start with the fact that I didn’t want to be in Campfire. I was very clear about this. I wanted to be in Boy Scouts. I had my grandfather’s old boy scouts handbook, and I memorized that thing. (Including the sections on personal hygiene that, uh, did not in any potentiality apply to me. In retrospect, that was pretty weird too.) There was exactly one obstacle to me being a boy scout, and it was the obvious one. And hence feminism. (At twelve, I knew and used the phrase “separate but equal is inherently unequal.” To my poor mother, who had no authority over the practices of the Boy Scouts. Gosh I was a difficult child.)
Anyhow, I was eventually convinced that Campfire Girls might be a pale substitute for the Boy Scouts experience of my dreams. So little twelve-year-old me joined up to the nearby troop, run by the mother of my friend down the street. That was my first mistake. Mrs. T loathed me. She made it her hobby to try and get me in trouble with my mother. Again, in retrospect, this was because I was an intensely mathematically gifted child (with no notion of “shutting up” or “not showing off” or “failing to turn something into a competition”) while her daughter my friend was an extraordinarily gifted artist but much less academic. Neither of us cared, but oh, Mrs. T cared. She cared a lot.
The next problem was that Mrs. T was vaguely-neopagan in that new-agey hippie gluten-free way upper-middle-class women are around here. This wasn’t obvious to me at the time, since Campfire has a vaguely-religious aesthetic going on anyway, but I figured it out eventually. This might have gone over fine, except that twelve-year-old me was a budding Serious Catholic and professional rules lawyer. (At six, I had refused to go to church when we were on vacation, because I had read in my catechism that there was One True Church and deduced that it was clearly good old St. So-and-So’s back home, and was ready to be martyred in the service of my convictions.) So you can imagine there were, er, scenes involving tiny me noticing that something we were doing was suspiciously religious and deciding that not walking through a labyrinth in a vaguely-spiritual meditation exercise was a hill to die on.
The big problem, really, was that I was twelve and too smart for my own good and had never heard of the concept of diplomacy, and tended to form abstract principles and then make the mistake of applying them to my life. (Don’t get my parents started on the time I was ten and read about the labor movement and then went to them demanding partial control over the means of production.) Take for instance the time we were supposed to come up with our own “Campfire names.” Mrs. T passed out booklets of Native American words and English translations, and we were supposed to mash them up together and come up with something that “reflected our identity.” Now, at twelve it didn’t occur to me to object to this for any of the reasons I’d object today, but dangnabbit I was clear on how both dictionaries and linguistics worked, and that abbreviation there meant that those words were from completely different Native American languages, and therefore sticking them together and claiming it meant “eagle paintbrush” made literally zero sense at all. I announced this, loudly and repeatedly, until I got told that if I couldn’t behave and take part in the activities I would be sent home, and then I was being persecuted for my beliefs so I doubled down on it and did in fact get sent home (This was something of a common theme in my Campfire experiences.)
Then there was the time we did scrapbooking, which you might recognize as literally the most innocuous activity ever to have been invented by man. It went without incident for about half an hour, cutting and pasting pictures of our year and putting silly captions on them, until I picked out a picture of H., a boy in our troop striking a silly pose and captioned it “boys can do ballet too!” H. for some unaccountable reason took offense to this; tiny me pointed out that it was in fact inoffensive; H. demanded that it be removed; tiny me refused; Mrs. T. backed H. up. And that would have been the end of things if I hadn’t taken offense at this curtailing of my freedom of the press. Drafting a couple of innocent bystanders in to help, I wrote up a statement of protest, collected signatures, and presented it to the assembled parents. Everyone was horrified at this behavior, people started talking in all seriousness about kicking me out of the troop, and my mother came to me in tears saying that she had never been so ashamed as seeing my signature right at the top of that list. Tiny me, secure in the pride of her convictions, puffed up her chest and said “I bet that’s exactly what John Hancock’s mother said to him!”
Or there was the Friendship Song. You might know this one. It went: “Make new friends/But keep the old/One is silver/And the other gold/A circle is round/It has no end/That’s how long I want/To be your friend.” Now, little me might not have been clear on the concept of “moderation,” but she sure knew geometry. I pointed out that a line also had no end, and in a much stronger sense than a circle, since it extended to infinity in both directions. Mrs. T told me that a line did have ends. I told her that no, that was a misconception, perhaps she was thinking of a line segment. She told me I was wrong. I was indignant and proceeded to sing the song as “A line is straight/It has no end” for the rest of my Campfire career. My friend (Mrs. T’s daughter) cried every time I did. (In retrospect, I can see the other reason Mrs. T didn’t like me.)
I think the last straw might have been the Candy Incident. Campfire, like Girl Scouts, funds its activities through sales. The two differences are: (a) Campfire sells candy instead of cookies, and (b) the candy Campfire sells is overpriced and super gross rather than delicious like girl scout cookies. This unfortunately coincided with my learning about truth in advertising laws. Therefore, when a nice elderly lady stopped by our sales table and asked me and Mrs. T’s daughter sweetly if we liked the candy, I cheerfully told her that no, it was gross and I didn’t like it at all.
(Mrs. T suggested strongly that I might want to find another extracurricular activity. My mother took me home and explained the concept of puffery.)
OH GOD NO BUT THAT WOULD BE PERFECT. how did the jedi not think of that?
what is anakin’s biggest weakness? attachments.
you know who needs lots of attachment? babies. small children.
anakin should not have been made to study murder: he should have been put in charge of Small Things. He would have bonded with all of them instantly, and it would have given his life Meaning and Purpose.
He’d bond with the kids, but he’d be able to move on because they are Bigger now and they have to go to the Big Kid Class but he still sees them around all the time, and it finally teaches him how to let go of his attachments??? He’d find a kid that he’s particularly fond of and go to Obi-Wan and say “I have found your newest padawan.”
this could have fixed so. many. things. ;_____;
Heh, and Anakin would keep picking Obi-Wan’s padawans for him, and it would be annoying but damn if he wasn’t right every single time.
BUT CAN YOU
JUST IMAGINE HOW ANNOYED PALPATINE WOULD BE his life would be never-ending
string of trying to get a hold of Anakin (I mean, would Anakin give him a time of day if he can spend it with small kids who absolutely adore him instead?)
he keeps
comming over the years, but it’s always like
BEEP
“Anakin, my
boy, we haven’t seen each other in a while—“
“I’m sorry,
Chancellor, now’s not the best time. I’m tutoring a class.”
BEEP
“My dear
boy, I wonder if we could meet for a chat—“
“Well, it
can’t be this week, we’re going to Ilum, but maybe later…”
BEEP
“Anakin,
I’d like to—“
“I’m
terribly sorry, Chancellor,” Obi-Wan Kenobi answers. The apologetic tone might
be just a tad exaggerated. “Anakin is on a trip with younglings, he
must’ve left his comlink behind accidentally.”
BEEP
“You’ve
reached Anakin Skywalker’s private comlink. Leave the message after the tone.”
BEEP
“It’s such
a shame that Council doesn’t consider sending you on this campaign, considering
the lightsaber skills you demonstrated when I was last visiting the Temple,
Anakin.”
“Thank you,
Chancellor, but this is precisely why I need to stay behind. In fact just the
last week, the Masters decided I should take over some advanced lightsaber
classes, considering senior Padawans accompanying their Masters on the frontlines
need the training. I might take the Bear Clan along, make it a learning
opportunity for the young ones—“
Palpatine
closes his eyes slowly. He knows this from experience; Anakin won’t let himself
be budged from the topic of little monsters for at least another half an hour.
BEEP
“Ah,
Chancellor Palpatine. Anakin left his comlink behind again, he’s in class—“
BEEP
“Anakin, I
hoped you—“
“Oh! Chancellor,”
the voice on the other end is distinctly female, and Palpatine recognizes it after
a second. Kenobi’s second Padawan. He barely restrains the urge to gnash his
teeth. “Um, Skyg—I mean, Master Skywalker can’t pick up now. I can tell him you
called? It’s just that he was helping me with forms, and he forgot his comlink,
and he’s probably already in crèche…”
BEEP
Then there’s
that one time when an actual youngling picks up the call. The less said about his
reaction to that incident, the better.
BEEP
“—fortunately,
they were all right in the end. But in my opinion, this should never happened
in the first place, Chancellor.”
Palpatine
snaps awake. Was that… was that anger? Finally, the hours of listening to
worthless drivel about Jedi younglings paid off.
“My boy, I
absolutely agree,” he begins slyly, but before he can continue, Anakin steamrolls
on.
“I think Jedi
Order is too deeply entwined in the conflict! I honestly don’t think even
senior Padawans should be anywhere near battles, not to mention in command of
GAR, but now even younglings are acceptable targets for Separatists and pirates!
Master Yoda and I were talking about this lately, and—“
Palpatine
swallows a scream of rage with some difficulty.
BEEP
“Forgot his
comlink again, Master Skywalker has. With younglings, he is.”
Slaughtering
younglings moved to the top on the list of things Darth Sidious will do after
taking over galaxy some time ago.
That is what the Council would have done if they were smart. Seriously. Here’s Yoda saying Anakin should not be taught because he senses too much fear in him, and it’s fear for the people he cares about, something everyone present realizes fully because when it comes to his own safety, Anakin couldn’t be more reckless.
Then Qui Gon announces he’s training him anyway, someone points out he might fulfill the prophecy and bring balance to the Force, and nobody, NOBODY, thinks that MAYBE giving him a job that’s more about caring than killing might be an idea. Nope. Okay, we’re training him, let’s foster the loose canon aspect of his personalities, make him a war general and keep pushing him into vicious battles to the death. Sounds perfect for his mental health.
The Jedi Council were a bunch of idiots with their head so far up their own asses even a lightsaber shoved up there to the hilt would not provide them enough light to see further than their own noses.
I think I got lost somewhere in this metaphor. You get the point.
After ten years, Palpatine loses his patience and decides to change his plans. Fuck it, Skywalker has kids now–two adorable little moppets who can be captured, broken, and twisted into twin powerhouses of the Dark Side. Torture one while the other watches, convince them Daddy doesn’t love them, easy-peasy.
Unfortunately, he fails to reckon with the fact that not only is he going up against Anakin Fucking Skywalker, but that Anakin Fucking Skywalker is the surrogate father/big brother/best friend/cool teacher of ninety percent of the current Padawans and young Knights in the Order. And while the Council might make decisions and talk about the Will of the Force and stuff, those Padawans and Knights only care about the fact that the man who scared away the monsters under the bed–made it feel less lonely and frightening to be away from home when they were small–is now hurting and scared for his own children.
Just like Palpatine always wanted, Anakin ends up leading an army. An army of young Jedi who smash the ever-loving shit out of everything “Darth Sidious” can throw at them, rescue the terrified Skywalker twins, and drag the Chancellor hisownself before the Senate with conclusive proof that he’s an evil Dark-Side-wielding bastard who kidnaps adorable kids.
Attachments FTW.
God, YES
Luke and Leia would have grown up with 500 brothers and sisters of assorted species. Whenever you see Anakin there are 10 kids with him, occasionally actively hanging off of his arms or riding on his shoulders. (Anakin looks downright gleeful about this). Padme thinks it’s the most adorable thing ever.
20 years later by the time “A New Hope” would have begun, Anakin is 45. Padme is the new Chancellor. Luke and Leia are finishing their own Jedi training. 90% of the current young Jedi order calls Anakin ‘Dad’. He has amassed the galaxy’s largest collection of refrigerator art. After that incident with Chancellor Palpatine 15 years back, Yoda was forced to admit to Qui Gon’s very smug force-ghost that he was right. Everything is right with the galaxy.
I LOVE NO FIX-IT META AS MUCH AS I LOVE THIS FIX-IT META
Omphaloskeptomai 