Driving behind a car with the license plate "HOME 1" tonight caused me the desire to pull up next to it, motion to roll down his windows, and shout that I—in my tiny grandma-gold Corolla—am Gold Leader, and that I am "going to start my attack run."
After that I drove directly into the heart of a 280 kilometer wide technological monstrosity of space station.
At which point I wondered why I of all people don't have at least the audio of Star Wars synced onto my iPhone already.
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