Jabba Quotes

The one I wore to kill Jabba (my favorite moment in my own personal film history), which I highly recommend your doing: find an equivalent of killing a giant space slug in your head and celebrate that.

Chomsky is a pencil-and-paper theoretician who wouldn't know Jabba the Hutt from the Cookie Monster,

Ladies and gentlemen.” He [Jabba] sighed. “Meet the kamikaze of computer invaders...the worm.

All those times you watched me kill Jabba the Hutt, and you never learned from his example. It doesn’t pay to jerk me around.

Jabba resembled a giant tadpole, like the cinematic creature for whom he was nicknamed, the man was a hairless spheroid. As resident guardian angel of all NSA computer systems, Jabba marched from department to department, tweaking, soldering, and reaffirming his credo that prevention was the best medicine. No NSA computer had ever been infected under Jabba's reign; he intended to keep it that way.

[Han] glared into his mug. Besides, he didn't add, asking Princess Leia for repacement reward credits would mean he'd have to tell her how he'd lost the first batch. Not in gambling or bad investments or even drinking, but to a kriffing pirate. And then she would give him one of those looks. There were, he decided, worse things than being on Jabba's hit list

Brooklyn is a big fat blob with its own ugly shape across from Manhattan; it looks like Jabba the Hutt counting his money.

Jabba the Hutt—the fashionista. Jabba the Hutt—the Coco Chanel of intergalactic style. Trendsetter, fashion maven, leader of women’s looks in his world, on his planet and the next.

Okay, so how, exactly, did I get into this mess—up onstage at a comedy club, baking like a bag of French fries under a hot spotlight that shows off my sweat stains( including one that sort of looks like Jabba the Hutt), with about a thousand beady eyeballs drilling into me?

When they weren’t looking, I turned and winked at Emilia. “I hope you’ve recovered your manners and we aren’t going to see any more Jabba the Hutt imitations,” Emilia

Right now Jabba just said “Boska,” and when the boss says boska, we boska.

Well, if my father comes down out of the stars, I hope he was Luke Skywalker rather than Jabba the Hutt.

The third morning found me re-watching Star Wars XXVII on my HUD. I was just at the point where Jabba's son begins the lightsaber dual with Yoda's son when Big Dog interrupted me.

Everyone else got to wear their regular outfits from the first movie. I had to wear my outfit that Jabba picked out for me. Jabba the Hutt—the fashionista. Jabba the Hutt—the Coco Chanel of intergalactic style. Trendsetter, fashion maven, leader of women’s looks in his world, on his planet and the next. In wax, I would forever be outfitted by outlaw Jabba. In wax and out, I would forever be stone-faced.

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.

The things we love weave themselves into the framework of our being. They are the trellises on which our thoughts grow; we shape ourselves, our habits, our vocabularies, to accommodate them. If someone asks, “Why do you love this?” the question is as impossible to answer as “Why are you?” You cannot isolate the part of you that loves from the rest of you, or mark its beginning and ending. Old couples grow to look like each other. Old ruins blur into their ivy. Star Wars fans name their kids Luke and Leia and show up at conventions dressed as Jabba the Hutt. At first we loved the Millennium Falcon, so we wanted to build a scale replica in our basement. Now we love the Millennium Falcon because of the scale replica in our basement. Every time I watched Star Wars I used to hold my breath to see if it felt the same. But now I know it won’t. It hasn’t moved, but I have. It’s always there. It’s magic, still, but a different magic every time. I turn off all the lights in the house so there’s no reflection or glare, shut all the doors and windows, and settle in a chair with my arms folded over my knees and wait for takeoff.

¿Creen que la gente odia a los gordos? Pues imagínense a un gordo que trata de adelgazar. Provocaba el balrog en cualquiera. Las muchachas más dulces del mundo le decían las cosas más horribles, las señoras mayores farfullaban, Eres repugnante, repugnante, e incluso Melvin, que nunca había demostrado ninguna tendencia anti Óscar, empezó a llamarlo Jabba the Hutt, solo porque le dio la gana. Era pura locura.

I was spitting mad, having just endured a four-hour flight, economy class, on American Airlines where I'd found myself seated between two gigantic specimens of humanity. One of them, a woman of Jabba the Hutt proportions, literally took up half my seat in addition to her own, leaving me balanced on one butt cheek, leaning forward and against the seat back in front of me. I couldn't sleep. I couldn't sit back. I couldn't do anything but fume silently. Neither she nor the flight attendants ever acknowledged my obvious distress. For the duration of the flight, I tried to lull myself into a state of calm by focusing on the in-flight telephone against which my face was mashed, imagining what would happen if I wrapped the cord around my neck, leaned forward with my full body weight, and ended my life. That thought was what got me through.

I attended my first Star Wars convention right after freshman year of college, when the wounds of the prequels were fresh. It was a big milestone for me. “Finally,” I told my roommate, Svetlana, “I’ll get to be myself and go among my people.” “I don’t understand,” Svetlana said. “Who were you before? Literally the first thing you did on arriving at college was unpack your lightsabers. Do you think you’ve been hiding? If this is you concealing your love of Star Wars, what would it look like if you let it hang out? Would you just dress up as Jabba the Hutt all the time?” That wasn’t a bad idea, I thought. Maybe I should.

For a long minute he gazed at her, his eyes searching the features of that face he'd grown to love so deeply over the years, his memory bringing up images of the past as he did so. The young determination in her face as, in the middle of a blazing firefight, she'd grabbed Luke's blaster rifle away from him and shot them an escape route into the Death Star's detention-level garbage chute. The sound of her voice in the middle of deadly danger at Jabba's, helping him through the blindness and tremor and disorientation of hibernation sickness. The wiser, more mature determination visible through the pain in her eyes as, lying wounded outside the Endor bunker, she had nevertheless summoned the skill and control to coolly shoot two stormtroopers off Han's back. And he remembered, too, the wrenching realization he'd had at that same time: that no matter how much he tried, he would never be able to totally protect her from the dangers and risks of the universe. Because no matter how much he might love her--no matter how much he might give of himself to her--she could never be content with that alone. Her vision extended beyond him, just as it extended beyond herself, to all the beings of the galaxy. And to take that away from her, whether by force or even by persuasion, would be to diminish her soul. And to take away part of what he'd fallen in love with in the first place.

Chubby: A regular-size person who could lose a few, for whom you feel affection. Chubster: An overweight, adorable child. That kid from Two and a Half Men for the first couple of years. Fatso: An antiquated term, really. In the 1970s, mean sorority girls would call a pledge this. Probably most often used on people who aren’t even really fat, but who fear being fat. Fatass: Not usually used to describe weight, actually. This deceptive term is more a reflection of one’s laziness. In the writers’ room of The Office, an upper-level writer might get impatient and yell, “Eric, take your fat ass and those six fatasses and go write this B-story! I don’t want to hear any more excuses why the plot doesn’t make sense!” Jabba the Hutt: Star Wars villain. Also, something you can call yourself after a particularly filling Thanksgiving dinner that your aunts and uncles will all laugh really hard at. Obese: A serious, nonpejorative way to describe someone who is unhealthily overweight. Obeseotron: A nickname you give to someone you adore who has just stepped on your foot accidentally, and it hurts. Alternatively, a fat robot. Overweight: When someone is roughly thirty pounds too heavy for his or her frame. Pudgy: See “Chubby.” Pudgo: See “Chubster.” Tub o’ Lard: A huge compliment given by Depression-era people to other, less skinny people. Whale: A really, really mean way that teen boys target teen girls. See the following anecdote.

Hey,” Han said, “Jabba’s a friend of mine. You kill me, he won’t take it kindly.” The Priest laughed wheezily. “Hutts do not have friends,” he said. “Farewell, Solo.” Pointing the blaster at Han, the Priest’s small, stubby finger began to tighten on the trigger.

Meanwhile, at a Tokyo 7-Eleven, someone right now is choosing from a variety of bento boxes and rice bowls, delivered that morning and featuring grilled fish, sushi, mapo tofu, tonkatsu, and a dozen other choices. The lunch philosophy at Japanese 7-Eleven? Actual food. On the day we missed out on fresh soba, Iris had a tonkatsu bento, and I chose a couple of rice balls (onigiri), one filled with pickled plum and the other with spicy fish roe. For $1.50, convenience store onigiri encapsulate everything that is great about Japanese food and packaging. Let's start in the middle and work outward, like were building an onion. The core of an onigiri features a flavorful and usually salty filling. This could be an umeboshi (pickled apricot, but usually translated as pickled plum), as sour as a Sour Patch Kid; flaked salmon; or cod or mullet roe. Next is the rice, packed lightly by machine into a perfect triangle. Japanese rice is unusual among staple rices in Asia because it's good at room temperature or a little colder. Sushi or onigiri made with long-grain rice would be a chalky, crumbly disaster. Oishinbo argues that Japan is the only country in Asia that makes rice balls because of the unique properties of Japanese rice. I doubt this. Medium- and short-grain rices are also popular in parts of southern China, and presumably wherever those rices exist, people squish them into a ball to eat later, kind of like I used to do with a fistful of crustless white bread. (Come on, I can't be the only one.) Next comes a layer of cellophane, followed by a layer of nori and another layer of cellophane. The nori is preserved in a transparent shell for the same reason Han Solo was encased in carbonite: to ensure that he would remain crispy until just before eating. (At least, I assume that's what Jabba the Hutt had in mind.) You pull a red strip on the onigiri packaging, both layers of cellophane part, and a ready-to-eat rice ball tumbles into your hand, encased in crispy seaweed. Not everybody finds the convenience store onigiri packaging to be a triumph. "The seaweed isn't just supposed to be crunchy," says Futaki in Oishinbo: The Joy of Rice. "It tastes best when the seaweed gets moist and comes together as one with the rice." Yamaoka agrees. Jerk. Luckily, you'll find a few moist-nori rice balls right next to the crispy ones.

When I woke up an hour later, something had changed. Maybe it was the sleep…maybe it was the tender moment with Marlboro Man…maybe it was my sister’s tough-love pep talk, or a combination of the three. I got out of bed quietly and made my way to the shower, where I washed and scrubbed and polished my body with every single bath product I could find. By the time I turned off the water, the bathroom smelled like lemongrass and lavender, wisteria and watermelon. The aromatherapy worked; while I didn’t exactly feel beautiful again, I felt less like Jabba the Hut.

I’ve seen these movies at least twenty times, and I’m used to making snarky comments and pointing out filming errors. I haven’t watched Star Wars without a liberal dose of cynicism since I was ten years old. But something funny begins to happen when we start A New Hope. The words scrawl across the screen, and Matteo reads them out loud, and a shiver runs down my spine. This whole universe is about to be opened up to him, and I’m the one who gets to introduce him to the marvels of the Millennium Falcon. And R2-D2. And I’m seriously hoping this is the old cut with the non-remastered Jabba. I realize I’m giddy. It feels magical.

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.

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

The smelting droid lowered the branding irons again on the upside-down power droid’s feet, and again the power droid screeched. R2-D2, who’d visited many inhospitable places in his long lifetime, decided that Jabba’s palace was the absolute worst.

You weak-minded fool!” Jabba scowled. “He’s using an old Jedi mind trick.” Bib yelped as Jabba shoved him off the dais.

While on Jabba’s barge, the astromech droid had penetrated the Hutt’s data system, and alerted the goons who’d remained in Jabba’s palace that the Imperials were coming for them with death warrants. The Imperial ships could hardly ignore the flotilla of smuggler ships, corsair gunboats, and slave transports that lifted off from the Hutt’s compound en masse; and in the battle that followed, they failed to notice the single X-wing starfighter and Corellian freighter that rose away from Tatooine by a more discreet route.

He was like Jabba the Hutt in human form–grotesque and repulsive.

In the past few days I’ve been lard-arse, jelly-tits, jiggle-puffs, porks-a-lot, the gutmeister, flabbington, Jabba, wide-load, Nelly the Elephant—and most bizarrely, Captain Love Handles.

sort of looks like Jabba the Hutt), with about a thousand

lard-arse, jelly-tits, jiggle-puffs, porks-a-lot, the gutmeister, flabbington, Jabba, wide-load, Nelly the Elephant—and most bizarrely, Captain Love Handles. I thought she’d run out of insults mid-week but by first thing Saturday morning she’s still going strong. ‘Come on Mr Plump! Get

But that’s not why they should help us. That’s why I used to do stuff, because it was in my interest. But not anymore. Well, not so much, anyway. Mostly I do things for my friends, now—’cause what else is so important? Money? Power? Jabba had that, and you know what happened to him. Okay, okay, the point is—your friends are … your friends. You know?” This

(as if Jabba would hand over their favorite wall hanging, the carbonite slab with the most punchable face, just because somebody had sent a droid to make demands!).

In wax, I would forever be outfitted by outlaw Jabba. In wax and out, I would forever be stone-faced.

On the face of things, one would imagine that his purpose in infiltrating the lair of the notorious crimelord Jabba the Hutt was a simple one: he wanted to die but lacked the strength of will to kill himself.

ON THE SAIL BARGE, Fett’s fate goes unnoticed by Jabba, who is busy being strangled to death by Leia.

Jabba the Hutt was originally meant to be a small furry creature.

any other crime lord had received a slightly threatening holographic message from someone who claimed to be a Jedi Knight, the crime lord might have prepared to negotiate, flee to another planet, or surrender entirely. But Jabba was not just any other crime lord, so he decided to throw a party. It was a lewd and noisy affair, with semi-clad alien females gyrating to the rhythms of the Max Rebo band. On the bandstand,

The gyrfalcon Dan flew that day was a bird of the year who was just learning to hunt. When he brought her out, I shook my head at the size of her. She was massive; Dan had aptly named her Jabba the Hut. As with all falcons, female gyrfalcons are a third larger than the males. ... She thought that she was a person and treated Dan as her mate.This gave new meaning to the term "henpecked.

People always bitch and moan about ‘body shaming’, but you don’t see them volunteering to be the people in Walmart that look like Jabba’s twin sister.

AH, THE FOREST MOON OF ENDOR! At last! Think what it’s been like for our heroes…. That endless desert on Tatooine, then the stinking lair of Jabba. For Luke there was a brief visit to a swamp: all mud and muck, no sunlight. And the rest of the time has been spent on various rebel spaceships, and let’s face it, the rebels can barely keep those things flying. There is no time or money to spend on interior decorating. And that Imperial shuttle may look nice from the outside, but inside it has been trashed by the countless sweaty stormtroopers it has hauled around. It reeks of stale sweat and every surface is covered in TK numbers1 scratched by bored troopers. So think how wonderful it is for our heroes to tumble out of that junker and breathe in the air of Endor’s moon, air purified by a hundred billion trees. It’s hard for residents of developed worlds to wrap their heads around a planet covered in trees.

They call me Jabba the Hut.