I do not care for this little lurker, this tiny green Nosferatu with ear spears and black eyes of pure death, for whom I’d welcome seeing less of, meaning never again. Arguably, this may coincide with similar complaints against the Kardashians, the rise of kale, and laundry detergent pods (for which we now know complaints were warranted). The difference here is that the aforementioned are real, or at least mostly real, in contrast to Baby Yoda (not real) and Baby Yoda fever (surprisingly too real).
With Baby Yoda, where [insert pronoun here] came from is immaterial. It doesn’t behoove a pin prick to the felt finger, a 23andMe discovery commanding confirmation – more Jabba, less Yoda, or all Lucas? And I don’t know what any of that means, exactly, as I’m not the Star Wars equivalent of a Trekkie.
This meme cloaked in a sack-cloth tunic one minute, academic tweed the next, conceals an electric shade of seaweed while on an erratic-galactic ascension. To put it bluntly, the whole thing freaks me out, which incites fiery behavior from the Force and, of course, Friends of the Force, which I’m finding to be of astronomic proportion.
I’m tired, tired like any over-paraded baby must feel. Beat down with the anger whiplash over some mild disdain of space love and one creepy-ass muppet that is everywhere and nowhere at once. Isn’t love-hate a give and take? A little excess exposure warranting a gripe of enough already?
So, a recommendation for the weary should you encounter Baby Yoda in any form (I’m looking at you cereal toy maker and Happy Meal tchotchke stuffer, GIF creator and TikTok shapeshifter) – swaddle in tweed and sack-cloth, prepare [insert pronoun here] for rest that could go undisturbed for a millennia, maybe two. Tuck baby under a large rock, for safe keeping, next to forgotten Pokémon Go clues. Forego the finger-prick sample ahead of the fossilizing dirt nap, as there will be no gender reveal party. Allow for resurrection on someone else’s watch. If the rock gets rolled away and all that is left is the sack-cloth, then let’s discuss.
Thad DeVassie is a multi-genre writer and painter who creates from the outskirts of Columbus, Ohio. He is the author of three chapbooks, including SPLENDID IRRATIONALITIES, which was awarded the James Tate International Poetry Prize in 2020. Find his words and paintings online @thaddevassie.
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