Star Wars Clichés


by Carl Hassler

A cliché is a phrase that is overused to the point of being trite. Ideas expressed in cliches carry little to no weight and show a lack of originality. However, a clever author like Daniel José Older can transport a cliché from our world to a galaxy far, far away. In Last Shot, Older penned the phrase, “The Jawa calls the Ewok short.”

I even got in on the act in Episode 139 of the Unmistakably Star Wars podcast. I came up with, “It’s like dumping your spice at the first sign of Imperial entanglements, only to have the Hutts put a bounty on your head.” I enjoyed these clichés so much, I decided to see how other cliché might sound if they were put into the Star Wars universe.

The Ewok doesn’t fall far from the tree.

Force choking speaks louder than words.

Best thing since sliced Maul.

Better late than after Yavin 4 explodes.

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Better safe than saying sorry to Darth Vader.

Like Chirrut Imwe leading Han Solo with hibernation sickness.

Midichlorians are thicker than water.

Happy as a Gamorrean in mud.

You can lead a Tauntaun past the first marker, but you can’t make it disembowel itself to warm up your frozen friend.

Build a better Death Star and the galaxy will beat a path to your door.

Busy as a one-handed man in a lightsaber duel.

Open up a can of wampas.

Jabba got your tongue?

Caught in my meditation chamber with my helmet off.

Cold enough to freeze the balls off a chrome stormtrooper.

No use crying over spilled blue milk. (Wouldn’t they just say “milk,” too? Do we always go around saying “white milk” every time we talk about milk?)

Dirty deeds done sand cheap.

Does the Emperor have a wrinkled face?

One man’s trash is another man’s way to escape the Empire. (Whether it be a trash chute or just floating away with the rest of the garbage as the Imperial Fleet prepares to enter hyperspace.)

Don’t Force choke the messenger.

Dot the isks and cross the trills.

The early Jedi milks the thala-siren.

Everything's coming up Rose Tico.

An eye for an eye, a hand for a hand.

A face only a mother could love, if mothers ever stayed in the picture.

Few connections short of a working hyperdrive motivator.

Fits like a mechanical hand.

Ask me no questions, I’ll tell you no lies nor use the Jedi Mind Trick to make you believe those lies.

That’s a dewback of a different color.

If you can’t stand the heat, don't attack a Jedi Master on Mustafar when he has the high ground.

If you don’t have anything nice to say, expect to get Force choked.

Well I’ll be the Chosen One’s uncle.

No use crying over spilled green milk. (Okay, I guess this is why they always mention the color of the milk.)

A journey of under twelve parsecs begins with one crazy decision.

Couldn’t hit the broad side of a sandcrawler.

Keeping up with the Antilles.

Know it like what used to be the back of my hand.

Cuts like a hot saber through Maul.

It’s like shooting x-wings in a trench.

Make a Starkiller out of a Death Star.

Not the brightest kyber crystal in the saber.

Not a Force ghost of a chance.

Out of the spice mines and into the Maelstrom.

Hologram it in.

The squeaky droid gets the oil bath.

Wish upon a star destroyer.

You can’t make an empire without breaking a few planets.

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I think the Mon Calamari aquatic ballet company is at the opera house now, because you know the old saying, it ain’t over until the Mon Calamari swim through the bubbles.