That Goes In There, You Go Up There

In the back room of the gas station sat an R2D2 Pepsi display, a little cooler on wheels in the shape of the classic robot. The top of the head was open for soda cans to be displayed and taken from, and when the cooler filled with water, R2 would pee it out out of a small tube by his feet. I saw this thing in the back room and immedietly knew I had to have it. My friend drove it home in his truck, and it subsequently got moved from house to house as each households parent got pissed about it being there. When finally it was time for it to be at my house, I too was cursed at for having it. I never understood the rage the parents seemed to feel for the lovable little bleeping and blooping robot. Is he not a relic, nay, a legend from their very generation? Our generation gets Jar-Jar, but you guys get R2, the huggable droid who warmed the hearts of many throughout his existance. And now you cast him out of your homes. For shame. For that which you do unto the least of my droids, you do unto me. And shit.

So R2 had to go. He had no home. I had no room to bring him back to Chicago with me, and no one would take him. It was sad, but I had to let the little guy go. We had some good times this summer; granted most of them involved me wheeling him from one house to another, but we did put a keg in him once, so he got to fulfill his calling at least once. Of course, it was 3:30 in the morning on the night before I left Minnesota when I realized I hadn't taken him out of my garage yet. So I decided to simply wheel him down to Aldine Park, set him on the swing, and let him contemplate life as he sat and peered on the heavens.

Goodnight, sweet prince, wherever you are.