Ben’s tantrums could level Cloud City.
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Dear Mr. Solo and General Princess Organa,
It is with zero regret that I tender my resignation.
I will no longer be full-time nanny to your son, Ben Solo. As well you know, I’ve had the distinction of caring for many children across this galactic disc and without prejudice, have taken on the challenge of many Force-sensitive children (including an infamous little green chap who grew up to be omnipotent and for reasons I will never understand, decided to live in a fetid bog).
I’m afraid Ben, however, has driven me to spend my waking hours at the Mos Eisley Cantina. Ben’s tantrums could level Cloud City. I find each day with him to be consistently worse than the time my Tauntaun had amoebic dysentery. From birth, Ben exhibited some unnatural inclinations, for example, when he spontaneously combusted all of his Fisher-Price Baby’s First Blocks or during tummy time, when he used a mind trick to stuff me into an ottoman for three days.
Ben has always had an unhealthy obsession with his late grandfather, but I fear things have deteriorated since he got that calf tattoo of his grandpappy Force-choking some poor, badly rendered Imperial bugger with bulging eyeballs. Lately, he has taken to parading around the place wearing a colander and a Dyson nozzle on his face, enunciating as if he fell into an electric eel tank. Incidentally, for the longest time I thought he was asthmatic and have had him on an Albuterol inhaler forever. My apologies.
Telekinetic Oreo summoning and levitating diapers were manageable, but now that he is in the fifth grade, I feel things have gone too far. For example, during a recent field trip to Tatooine for droid sensitivity training, Ben threw yet another tantrum, pledged allegiance to the Galactic Republic and proceeded to manually amputate the right hand of everyone within a four-mile radius.
When I questioned him about this barbaric behavior and made him write an essay about how he felt, he simply wrote, “Handy.” He mind-reads to assure himself an A in every class and when confronted about his aggression, uses his middle finger to direct a stream of lightning toward his accuser’s genitalia. To be utterly candid, not since baby Palpatine have I dealt with such an entitled little turd biscuit.
My singular hope for him is that he seems to be an environmentally conscious young man. Specifically, I believe he is concerned about energy since he keeps twiddling on about wanting a “light saver.” You should cultivate this. I would, however, not recommend him for Jedi training unless the other Jedis are issued with Phrik-plated helmets and non-conductive jockstraps.
Mr. and Mrs. Princess Leia, please don’t forget that I was a grown woman during the Old Republic era. In essence—I’m too old for this shit. I can no longer keep all twelve of my eyeballs on him.
In short, I would rather raise a rancor.
Sincerely,
Pearlmott Penniproot.
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Photo: Matt Fox/Flickr