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"Hi, I'm Mrs. Han Solo, and I'm an alcoholic. I'm an alcoholic because George Lucas ruined my life. I mean that in the nicest possible way. Fifty-seven years ago, I did his little 'Star Wars' film, a cult film that then went on to redefine what they laughingly refer to as "the face of cinema." And now, sixty-five years later, people are still asking me if I knew it was going to be that big of a hit. Yes, I knew. We all knew. The only one who didn't know was George. We kept it from him, because we wanted to see what his faced looked like when it changed expression. George is a sadist. But, like any abused child wearing a metal bikini chained to a giant slug about to die, I keep coming back for more. Only a man like George could bring us whole new worlds populated by vivid extraordinary characters, and providing Mark and Harrison and myself with enough fan mail, and even a small merry band of stalkers -- it's lovely -– keeping us entertained for the rest of our unnatural lives. George, the fact that you made me into a little doll that my first husband could stick pins into ... a shampoo bottle where people could twist my head off and pour liquid out of my neck – "lather up with Leia and you'll feel like a princess yourself!" ... and yes, the little Pez dispensers so my daughter Billie could pull my head back and pull the wafer out of my neck every time she doesn't want to do her homework ... I suppose I don't mind. And though amongst your many possessions you have owned my likeness lo these many years, so that every time I look in the mirror I have to send you a check for a couple of bucks. Not to mention you had the unmitigated gall to let that chick – the new girl, who plays my mother, Queen Armadillo, or whatever her name is? – she wears a new hairstyle and outfit practically every time she walks through a door! I mean, I bet she even got to wear a bra, even though you told me I couldn't, "because there was no underwear in space!" I'm only slightly bitter, because you, my formerly silent friend, are an extraordinary talent, and let's face it, an artist -- the like of which is seen perhaps once in a generation, who helps define that generation -- and who deserves every award I now spend the latter half of my Leia-laden life helping to hurl your way! And in conclusion, your honor, I hope I slept with you to get the job, because if not, who the Hell was that guy?!?"
