Dearest Father,

I accidentally went through a rip in the space-time continuum and schlepped the Millennium Falcon to 1900s Prague. I'm taking German lessons and living with the Kafka family. The baked goods here are marvellous.

It is on the advice of my roomie Franz Kafka that I write to you. Franz is so afraid of his father that he gave his own 100-page kvetch to his mother to pass on. Given the poor scope of your presence in my upbringing mine will be somewhat less prolific.

Franz takes issue with his father on account of some unsolicited career advice and “being a bit of a tyrant” (wait until he meets you, not that it's a competition). I told him of our last encounter when you severed my right hand, he was appalled and said that if it were a competition I would definitely win. I am writing this in my own blood with the remaining stump. This was Franz's idea, he's quite intense.

I'm sure it's been difficult for you to witness Obi Wan, the Übermensch who destroyed you, become my ersatz father. But being the bastard son of a man who looks like a filthy German sex toy has its fair share of difficulties too. Franz is weeping in empathy for me.

This brings me to our conflicting Weltanschauung: my refusal to continue the family legacy and your obsession with that creep Palpatine (and you say I'm repressed). This is not an identity crisis, I simply don't like The Dark Side, it's not for me and I think I may actually be Jewish. Franz is nodding fervently between sobs.

And now, about my latent incestuous feelings towards Leia: There were but a handful of humans on Tatooine and only one with hair bagels, why didn't you communicate to us that we were siblings? One look at these mutant Habsburg schmucks is enough to put me off shagging my sister for many light-years to come, but the feelings don't vanish overnight. Franz also suffers from an unconsummated love interest, we cry into each other's laps most nights.

To conclude; you say you are my father, but what do you mean by this? Franz is howling now. I can't hear myself think.

There's a Professor over in Vienna who uses mind-tricks and lines of blow to help people come to terms with their Weltschmerz, he goes by the name of Sigmund. I'm just saying.


Your son,

L. Skywalker

P.S. Franz's mother just returned the letter he wrote, it's unopened. He's sniveling again. I'm not sure how much more of this I can take. Perhaps you could give me a lift back home.