I went Bore Hunting with Pops, my father in law. We put on the requisite outdoorsy duds — bow ties, horn-rimmed glasses, thick books about trigonometry and a history of railroad gauges. It was a crisp Fall morning. The leaves were ruddening. The curlew was on the wing.
As we stole through the trees, Pops hushed me. Then I heard it; a low mumbling. “Is it a big one?” I whispered. “Hold on, let me judge,” Pops said. He listened.
“so then i totally whacked Luigi on the tenth turn by the jewel boxes…”
Pops shook his head. “He’s rattling on about his prowess at Mario Kart. A juvenile bore, most likely.” “Should we shoot him?” “No, we can bag a bigger one than that.”
Down by the old ravine, we were struck by a brash, loud declamation coming from some bushes.
“AND IN 1204, WHEN THE CRUSADERS SACKED CONSTANTINOPLE, THE LAST STEM-A COPY OF THE RAVENNA CODEX WAS ENTIRELY LOST EXCEPT FOR A PASSAGE THAT WAS EPITOMIZED BY THE DAMASCUS SCOLION AND SCRAWLED IN THE MARGINS OF THE OXFORDIENSIS MANUSCRIPT WHICH WAS IN THE POSSESSION OF THE BODLEIAN UNTIL JUNE OF 1907…”
“What is he on about?” I asked Pops. “Medieval transmission of Classical poetry, by the sound of it,” Pops replied. “A pretty big bore over there. Could look nice over the mantel. But let’s keep looking.”
We didn’t have to look long. It came crashing through the underbrush. It wore thick spectacles and a T-shirt that read “GREEDO SHOT FIRST.” Its huge belly hung over its waist, and its fingers were stained orange from Dorito powder. Its cries were deafening:
“Dude the Jedi Order wasn’t founded to be a intergalactic police force AT ALL — only an IDIOT thinks that. They were formed to keep the sanity-warping mind-force of the Dark Side out. The Jedi fell because they’d begun to forget their true purpose, expanding their political power at the expense of their primary duty of finding and training force sensitives! Now in the year 338 BBY — that’s Before the Battle of Yavin — duh! — there was a small shuttlecraft that departed from Aldebaraan…”
“It’s a Star Wars Bore! The most dangerous kind! Shoot him, quick!” Pops hollered. I raised my shotgun, packed to the barrels with Indifference, and let him have it between the dull, thousand-yard-staring eyes.
Pops mopped his forehead. “Good shot! Whew, that was a close one!” He grinned. “Should we stuff him and put him in the lodge?”
“Yeah!” I said. “He’ll go great next to that Store Accounts Manager you bagged in Poughkeepsie!”