Chewbacca Quotes

I also promise to let you help name any baby your mom and me might have-" "Mistake. We'll have a kid named Chewbacca.

Whatever the reason, first place was always Solo, always, always, always, and second place was usually Chewbacca, because if you weren't the one saving the galaxy, you might as well be eight feet tall and covered with hair.

No one wants to fuck Chewbacca.

Calm down, all right? I gotta get back to this very important argument I'm having with a stranger on the internet about whether Chewbacca is a person.

Kalie, we live in Vegas, not Chewbacca.” I stop what I’m doing and laugh. “Mom, Chewbacca is not a town.

I’ve only ever known one person who could tolerate this who wasn’t a native of Pamarthe.” “Captain Solo?” Joph said, without lifting his face from the table. Leia shook her head. “Chewbacca—a Wookiee friend of ours. Han would never touch this.

I am not Chewbacca. Me think Chewbacca jerk. He no can act. He ride Bigfoot coat tails. he think he cool, but he not. He phoney loser with no class. He all messed up on crack me think. People think me Chewbacca sometimes. No! Me have job. Bad wookie. Bad.

Dylan's friend Linus Millberg appears out of the crowd with a cup of beer and shouts, 'Dorothy is John Lennon, the Scarecrow is Paul McCartney, the Tin Woodman is George Harrison, the Lion's Ringo.' 'Star Trek,' commands Dylan over the lousy twangy country CB's is playing between sets. 'Easy,' Linus shouts back. "Kirk's John, Spock's Paul, Bones is George, Scotty is Ringo. Or Chekov, after the first season. Doesn't matter, it's like a Scotty-Chekov-combination Ringo. Spare parts are always surplus Georges or Ringos.' 'But isn't Spock-lacks-a-heart and McCoy-lacks-a-brain like Woodman and Scarecrow? So Dorothy's Kirk?' 'You don't get it. That's just a superficial coincidence. The Beatle thing is an archetype, it's like the basic human formation. Everything naturally forms into a Beatles, people can't help it.' 'Say the types again.' 'Responsible-parent genius-parent genius-child clown-child.' 'Okay, do Star Wars.' 'Luke Paul, Han Solo John, Chewbacca George, the robots Ringo.' 'Tonight Show.' 'Uh, Johnny Carson Paul, the guest John, Ed McMahon Ringo, whatisname George.' 'Doc Severinson.' 'Yeah, right. See, everything revolves around John, even Paul. That's why John's the guest.' 'And Severinson's quiet but talented, like a Wookie.' 'You begin to understand.

Chewbacca are being applauded for destroying the Death Star. I could almost

Blech! Smells like Chewbacca’s burned butt hair. Where the hell am I?

I can’t even believe what I’m hearing,” I muttered more to myself than to him. It was like Chewbacca speaking Klingon. Does. Not. Compute. Okay. Don’t freak out on him.

Now if you'll excuse me, I have to go out and greet those wonderful creatures and say a few nice words in a language invented by Tolkein. I've practiced, but I sound like Chewbacca making a New Year's speech.

rrrrrrraaaaaaaaaawwwwwwrrrrrrr

Gggggaaaaaaarrrrr. Arrrrhhhn.

As much as I love teamwork, for this game, you all need to fly solo, like Han in Star Wars, although he always had Chewbacca in the copilot seat. But that is neither here nor there, because it is in a galaxy far, far away. Play on, Olympians.

It's just such an odd response to my fiction. Like, okay, follow the thread of thoughts with me: 'I really enjoyed this story about Rey and Chewbacca's romantic adventure scavenging a wrecked Tulgah spaceship on Endor in search of the fame Tulgah patience potion: as a thank-you, I believe I will send the author of that story a photograph of my dick.' How do you get from A to B, Holmesy?

Chewbacca is lovely and all, but he’s a gargantuan pillar of hair who smells not unlike a moist gundark’s undercarriage. And all that nonsensical growling? And the hugging?

And no hope is greater than that of the Wookiees of Kashyyyk. Heroes of the Rebellion Han Solo and Chewbacca have gathered a team of smugglers and scoundrels to free Kashyyyk from its Imperial slavers once and for all.

Chewbacca was thinking of the rustle of leaves as a forest gale swished through the wroshyr trees of Kashyyyk, the chirps and howls of the forest, the warmth of another Wookiee by his side. Family. “You’ll get back one day,” Han said quietly. Ever so slightly, Chewie nodded.

Chewbacca’s back home, looking for his family. Luke’s searching the galaxy for old Jedi teachings. Han Solo’s got nothing to smuggle, nowhere to gamble, no foolish Rebellion to fight for. He’s like the Falcon: retired to a hangar somewhere, waiting for something, anything, to happen.

I used to have this fantasy that in some distant Star Wars sequel, we’d finally stop all the shooting and screaming at each other and would go to a shopping-and-beauty planet, where the stormtroopers would have to get facials, and Chewbacca would have to get pedicures and bikini and eyebrow waxes. I felt at some point that I should get—okay, fine, maybe not equal time—but just a few scenes where we all did a lot of girly things. Imagine the shopping we might have done on Tatooine! Or a little Death Star souvenir shop where you could get T-shirts that said “My parents got the force and jumped to light speed and all I got was this lousy t-shirt!” or “My boyfriend blew Jabba the Hutt and all I got” . . . etc., etc. You get the gist of my drift.

Somehow Luke understood - in a way that Lando never had, that Hand and Leia and Chewbacca had simply never grasped - just how dark a place the universe really was. Lando guessed that was where Luke got his humility. His kindness. His gentle faith that people could change for the better. That must have been why he rarely smiled, and almost never made jokes. Because the goodness was all he rally had. It was his lifeline. The rope to which he clung, dangling over the abyss.

The obvious costs of such a policy became apparent to me as I sat along the back wall of vault V22 at NSA headquarters with two of the more talented infrastructure analysts, whose workspace was decorated with a seven-foot-tall picture of Star Wars’ famous wookie, Chewbacca. I realized, as one of them was explaining to me the details of his targets’ security routines, that intercepted nudes were a kind of informal office currency, because his buddy kept spinning in his chair to interrupt us with a smile, saying, “Check her out,” to which my instructor would invariably reply “Bonus!” or “Nice!” The unspoken transactional rule seemed to be that if you found a naked photo or video of an attractive target—or someone in communication with a target—you had to show the rest of the boys, at least as long as there weren’t any women around. That was how you knew you could trust each other: you had shared in one another’s crimes.

Er, hello, Chewie," he said politely. "Woof," the dog said back. "Chewie is a Newfoundland," Beka explained. "They're great water dogs. They swim better than we do, and even have webbed feet. They're often used for water rescue, and the breed started out as working dogs for fishermen." "Uh-huh... Chewie - I guess you named him for Chewbacca in Star Wars. I can see why; they're both gigantic and furry." Beka giggled. "I never thought of that. Actually, Chewie is short for Chudo-Yudo. Also, he chews on stuff a lot, so it seemed fitting." "Chudo what?" Marcus said. The dog made a snuffling sound that might have been canine laughter. "Chudo-Yudo," Beka repeated. "He's a character out of Russian fairy tales, the dragon that guards the Water of Life and Death. You never heard of him?" Marcus shook his head. "My father used to tell the occasional Irish folk tale when I was a kid, but I'm not familiar with Russian ones at all. Sorry." "Oh, don't be," she said cheerfully. "Most of them were pretty gory, and they hardly ever had happy endings." "Right." Marcus looked at the dog, who gazed alertly back with big brown eyes, as if trying to figure out if the former Marine was edible or not. "So, you named him after a mythical dragon from a depressing Russian story. Does anyone get eaten in that story, just out of curiosity?" Chewie sank down onto the floor with a put-upon sigh, and Beka shook her head at Marcus. "Don't be ridiculous. Of course people got eaten. But don't worry. Chewie hasn't taken a bite out of anyone in years. He's very mellow for a dragon.

Excuse me,” someone said, interrupting a lively discussion about whom they’d each buy a drink for in the cantina. The whole line looked up. There were two women standing on the sidewalk with bakery boxes. One of them cleared her throat. “We heard that people were camping out for Star Wars . . .” “That’s us!” Troy said, only slightly less enthusiastically than he’d said it yesterday. “Where’s everybody else?” she asked. “Are they around the back? Do you do this in shifts?” “It’s just us,” Elena said. “We’re the Cupcake Gals,” the other woman said. “We thought we’d bring Star Wars cupcakes? For the line?” “Great!” Troy said. The Cupcake Gals held on tight to their boxes. “It’s just . . .” the first woman said, “we were going to take a photo of the whole line, and post it on Instagram . . .” “I can help you there!” Elena said. Those cupcakes were not going to just walk away. Not on Elena’s watch. Elena took a selfie of their line, the Cupcake Gals and a theater employee all holding Star Wars cupcakes—it looked like a snapshot from a crowd— and promised to post it across all her channels. The lighting was perfect. Magic hour, no filter necessary. #CupcakeGals #TheForceACAKEns #SalaciousCrumbs The Gals were completely satisfied and left both boxes of cupcakes. “This is the first time I’ve been happy that there were only three of us,” Elena said, helping herself to a second cupcake. It was frosted to look like Chewbacca. “You saved these cupcakes,” Gabe said. “Those women were going to walk away with them.” “I know,” Elena said. “I could see it in their eyes. I would’ve stopped at nothing to change their minds.” “Thank God they were satisfied by a selfie then,” Gabe said. His cupcake looked like Darth Vader, and his tongue was black. “I’m really good at selfies,” Elena said. “Especially for someone with short arms.” “Great job,” Troy said. “You’ll make someone a great provider someday.” “That day is today,” Elena said, leaning back against the theater wall. “You’re both welcome.” “Errrggh,” Troy said, kicking his feet out. “Cupcake coma.” “How many did you eat?” Gabe asked. “Four,” Troy said. “I took down the Jedi Council. Time for a little midday siesta—the Force asleepens.

The weighty sound of Skinripper’s doom metal rose from the basement. The slow, tuned-down heaviness shook the floorboards. Gretchen couldn’t make out all the growled lyrics, but she made out the word “crepuscular.” No idea what it meant, but damn if that wasn’t the metalest word she’d ever heard. She walked into the kitchen, ripped some paper towel off the roll, stuck it in her ears, and opened the door to the basement. The power of the big arena sound almost knocked her backward. Skinripper was a power trio. Amanda “Louder” Lauden on drums. Jose “Pepe” Marrero on bass. Which left Gretchen’s brother Kurt “No Nickname” Ucker on guitar and vocals. One hundred decibels of plodding dread that sounded like Chewbacca in a suit of armor slowly falling down a staircase. In a good way.

Chewbacca woofed in agreement.

You can practice your grumpy face a million times, you can make a dog surf, you can explode in laughter like Chewbacca mom, and still not “go viral”. You can, however, secure incredibly valuable exposure by spending more time on distribution.

A scoundrel may not rise above his place - This is a fact the galaxy doth teach. For e'en though I have join'd rebellion's ranks these many weeks and months, and gain'd respect within their noble band, my scoundrel past doth make its harsh demands upon my life. The bounty hunters sent by Jabba make pursuit to win the price upon my head. So must I go once more unto the depths of my old life, find Jabba of the Hutt and pay his ransom, thus to free my soul. I would not leave my noble rebel friends, I would not leave the cause for which they fight, I would not leave the princess and her charm, I would not leave all these, and yet I must. A life's not well lived under threat of death, especially with men of cruel intent - who for a price shall fill the Hutt's demands - upon the trail of my indebtedness. And so, my mate Chewbacca and I leave upon the instant that the ship is set to go.

Han rolled over, threw up a considerable quantity of water, and said, “I’m getting too old for this.” Chewbacca concurred

Metaverse interoperability s a nuanced concept, and to a certain extent, we don't even need full interoperability. We may be ok with not being able to wear our Chewbacca skins during the virtual Monday meeting with our boss, but when it comes to metaverse interoperability, that's where I draw the line.

R2-D2 was more optimistic about the fate of their friends. For one thing, Lando could take care of himself pretty well. Also, the droid knew that Chewbacca hadn’t even arrived yet at Jabba’s palace, although he didn’t bother mentioning this detail to C-3PO. Sometimes, the less C-3PO knew, the better. The

Vader’s on that ship,” Luke said. “Now don’t get jittery, Luke,” Han told him. “There are a lot of command ships. Keep your distance, though, Chewie, but don’t look like you’re trying to keep your distance.” Wondering how he should accomplish this tactic, Chewbacca barked a question to Han. “I don’t know,” Han replied. “Fly casual.

Even though Leia had already expressed her mistrust for Lando, and heard his talk of deals that would keep the Empire out of Cloud City, it was only upon seeing Lobot with the stormtroopers that she realized…Lando set us up! She looked at Lando, as did Han and Chewbacca. Lando looked Han square in the eye and said grimly, “I had no choice. They arrived right before you did. I’m sorry.

He was struggling also, against her newly discovered ability, as well as the wound inflicted by Chewbacca’s bowcaster. Gritting his teeth, he flung his arm sideways in a single, powerful gesture—and the blaster went flying out of her hand.

The good news was that merchandise had done extremely well the previous year, with Kenner making around $100 million. Of course, Black Falcon collected its percentage from the toymaker and other myriad licensees. There was a cuddly Chewbacca; a remote-controlled R2-D2; Darth Vader piggy banks and pencil sharpeners; do-it-yourself construction kits, molding kits, painting kits, play kits, poster kits, and jigsaw puzzles; a projector for showing slides from the movie; rulers, pens, digital watches, erasers, jewelry, and more.

Another television calamity, broadcast by CBS on November 17, was the Star Wars Holiday Special. The show featured appearances by most of the cast, except Alec Guinness, and took advantage of early McQuarrie artwork for the Wookiee planet (the story has the principals going to Chewbacca’s homeworld to celebrate Life Day). With odd musical numbers; cameos by celebrity TV stars, such as Art Carney, Harvey Korman, and Beatrice Arthur; and a campy, bizarre production décor light-years from the feeling of the first film, the Holiday Special was an example of how Black Falcon and Lucasfilm had yet to hone their approval processes.

No one wants to fuck Chewbacca

The cover shows Chewbacca firing lasers at an army of robots, and the title is printed in giant silver-foil letters: Wookiee Vengeance.

Pero, papá, si pareces un monstruo de La guerra de las galaxias —prosigue el ataque su hijo mayor. —¡Qué va! —y su hermana lo remata aguantándose la risa a duras penas—, estás todavía más feo que Chewbacca...

But I do believe they think I am some sort of god.” Chewbacca and R2-D2 found this extremely amusing. Han and Luke exchanged glances, then Han said sarcastically, “Well, why don’t you use your divine influence and get us out of this?” “I beg your pardon, General Solo,” C-3PO said, “but that just wouldn’t be proper.” Getting angry again, Han asked, “Proper?!” “It’s against my programming to impersonate a deity,” C-3PO explained.

His snoring, the mild sound of Chewbacca, echoed in the back of her mind.

3PO advised, “I suggest a new strategy, Artoo-Detoo. Let the Wookiee win.” R2-D2 answered with a surprised beep. Chewbacca chortled happily. When Ben felt somewhat recovered, he resumed watching Luke’s practice with the remote. Luke’s eyes followed the remote with intense concentration, but his movements were stiff, not relaxed. Ben said,

We just got beat, he thought. They outplanned us. Suckered us in. And we went for it headfirst because we thought we were invincible. We thought the good guys always win. Of all of them, Luke was the only one who had never suffered under that delusion. Well: not never. Han had told him once that something in Luke had changed after Bespin. Somehow Luke understood—in a way that Lando never had, that Han and Leia and Chewbacca had simply never grasped—just how dark a place the universe really was. Lando guessed that was where Luke got his humility. His kindness. His gentle faith that people could change for the better. That must have been why he rarely smiled, and almost never made jokes. Because that goodness was all he really had. It was his lifeline. The rope to which he clung, dangling above the abyss.

So you're Dina," I say. "And you two are ..." "Jacob and Edward," the older one says, and they all start laughing. "Sorry, I meant ... I'm Luke, and he's Han," They stifle smiles this time. I'm pretty sure those are names from Star Wars. "Right, and I'm Chewbacca," I say.

guess living in outer space and cohabitating with a giant fuzzy dude named Chewbacca is realistic, but a Black lead character is somehow out of the realm of possibility?

Could it be that the man over there, gesticulating with a cocktail stick, is screaming on the inside, ‘Why did I start this story? There’s no punchline. How can I bail out? These people must hate me. Make your excuses and leave NOW!’ See that woman over there, passionately describing why she loved the latest Star Wars film? Is she really paddling wildly and thinking, ‘They know I haven’t seen it, I’ve only read the synopsis, but I thought it would help me fit in. I am not even sure Chewbacca is in it.’ See that guy over there, throwing his head back in laughter as he eats a devilled egg? He doesn’t know what he’s laughing about, and he just imagined throwing himself out of that open window. I wonder if the secret of the social human is to tactfully conceal the fact that you’re screaming on the inside. Or am I just projecting my scream onto others?

One hundred decibels of plodding dread that sounded like Chewbacca in a suit of armor slowly falling down a staircase. In a good way.