Avast, ye salty dogs and space-faring scoundrels! The winds of change be howling through the rigging of the Great Mouse Fleet today, and the scent of salt and sulfur hangs heavy in the air. The news has struck like a double-shotted broadside from a Ghost Ship: Commodore Kathleen Kennedy, the iron-fisted mistress of the Lucasfilm Frigate, has finally struck her colors and prepared to walk the plank into the murky depths of retirement. For over a decade, she’s held the wheel of the most legendary treasure ship in the seven galaxies, steering us through storm-tossed sequels and the doldrums of 'creative differences' that saw many a fine director tossed overboard to the sharks.

'Twas a reign marked by both chests of overflowing gold and the occasional grounding on the jagged reefs of mediocrity. Under her command, we saw the return of the Skywalker clan, though many an old salt grumbled that the map was held upside down and the compass was spinning like a drunken monkey in a gale. One grizzled boatswain, who goes by the name of 'Barnaby Box-Office,' was heard shouting from the crow's nest: 'She brought us the loot, aye, but she traded the soul of the ship for a shiny new coat of paint and a cargo hold full of Porgs!' Even the High Lords of the Disney Archipelago, who demand their tribute in quarterly dividends, seem to be eyeing the horizon for a new navigator—one who knows the difference between a Kessel Run and a sinking schooner.

The consequences of this desertion be dire indeed for the high seas of entertainment. Without a captain at the helm, the Star Wars fleet wanders aimlessly, its cannons silent and its scripts drifting like flotsam. The 'Acolyte' schooner was scuttled before it could even clear the harbor, and the Mandalorian privateers are busy herding babes instead of raiding the box-office banks. Lord Robert of Iger, the Grand Admiral himself, issued a decree from his gilded palace in the clouds: 'We thank the Commodore for her years of service in the trenches of the IP-Wars, but the brand must survive, even if we have to reboot the entire Star-Chart and pretend the last decade was but a rum-induced fever dream.'

Who shall take the cursed cutlass now? The crew is restless, sharpening their social-media harpoons and waiting for a sign. Will it be the Hat-Wearing Hermit, Dave of Filoni, or perhaps the Iron-Chef of Sci-Fi, Jon of Favreau? Some say Kennedy will retreat to a private island paved with residuals, while others whisper she’ll remain a ghost in the machine, haunting the halls of the Jedi Temple like a Force Spirit with a vendetta. Regardless, the era of the 'Sequel Scourge' draws to a close, and the map to the future of the franchise is currently being fought over by a dozen different privateers, each claiming they have the 'true' vision of the Great Creator, George of the Tattooine.

So, raise a glass of blue milk to the departing Commodore. She survived the kraken of fan-fury and the whirlpools of Disney+ subscriptions longer than most mortals could endure. May her retirement be filled with peaceful seas and fewer petitions for her removal. As for the rest of us, keep your eyes on the stars and your hand on your blaster—for when a captain leaves the bridge in the middle of a storm, the real mutiny is only just beginning. Yo-ho-ho, and a bottle of midichlorians!