Captain’s Log. Stardate…something something. Many digits.
I am tired.
Sick and tired of this ship, this crew. Of Riker barking “what the hell was that?” and bellowing “red alert shields-up!” at the drop of a tricorder. Goodness knows, Worf farts and suddenly Number One is calling for evasive manuever Riker-Delta. Well, perhaps that is the proper time to call for it. But I digress.
Worf. What kind of “Security Chief” gets his own arse kicked so easily every time some vagabond beams aboard my ship? Intruder Alert, and Worf is first to be knocked senseless.
I am tired of this supposed cream-of-the-Starfleet-crop. Why do our best-and-brightest so often need saving by a prissy teenaged wanker? Wesley Crusher? Please.
Oh Captain’s Log, I’m telling you, the only thing keeping me going is Troi’s boobs. How a military officer got such a uniform, I do not know. But Momma, me likey! In fact, Poppa could use some lovin’ right now…
Picard slapped the communicator on his chest.
“Picard to Troi. Counselor! To my ready-room!”
Silence. Picard waited.
“Counselor, my ready-room is ready for you!”
“Picard to Crusher. Beverly,” he giggled. “Medical emergency in my ready-room!”
“Wesley?” (Anyone would do in a pinch.)
Picard waited a moment, sighed.
“Computer, location of Wesley Crusher.”
A bleep. The computer said, “Ensign Crusher is no longer aboard the Enterprise.”
“No longer aboard the – ?” Picard furrowed his brows, tugged at his shirt. “Computer, who will save the ship when we encounter the anomaly which the seasoned crew cannot overcome?”
“Ensign Crusher has been replaced by an Ensign Arnold Drummond.”
“Arnold Who? Where are Counselor Troi and Doctor Crusher?”
“Counselor Troi and Doctor Crusher have been replaced by a Doctor Bob Newhart and a Captain Hawkeye Pierce.”
“Oh, this won’t do at all,” said Picard. He stomped towards the door. It whooshed open to the bridge. Scanning the crew, he recognized exactly none of the officers on duty.
At Worf’s security console was a dumb-looking, feather-haired Italian kid.
At Data’s Ops station sat a slightly overweight, mustachioed man in a U.S. Postal uniform.
To his left, where sat the nameless officers in red shirts who usually got killed off, was a skinny, mop-haired boy in a red shirt and white sailors cap.
And in his own captain’s chair sat a dashing man in an impeccable white suit.
Picard was dumbfounded. His eyes darted about the bridge. There was still one missing. He slapped his communicator.
“Picard to Commander LaForge.”
Nothing, of course. That was to be expected.
“Chief Engineer to the bridge,” said Picard. Better get the whole gang together, he thought.
A moment later, the turbolift doors opened and a man in a black leather jacket, white t-shirt, and jeans strutted in. He took one look around, flashed a thumbs-up, and said, “Aaaaay, Mr. P!”
The studio audience erupted with cheers.
The man in Riker’s chair rose to his feet. He waited politely for the studio audience to quiet down, then said, “Good morning, Captain.” He had a Castilian accent. “I am Mr. Rork, your host.” He spread his arms. “Welcome to Fantasy Enterprise.”
Picard stared at the man for a moment, then said what he always said at times like this.
“Computer, freeze program.”
Should have known, thought Picard.
Three quick blips, as if time were up, and the computer stated, “Jean Luc.” This time with a male voice.
“Freeze program,” said Picard.
“Please remember to phrase your commands in the form of a question,” said the voice.
Not knowing what else to do, Picard did what he always did when he didn’t know what to do. He stared straight ahead, letting the camera zoom in and the music swell, and waited for the fade-out.