Stardate, oh wait, that’s pajama boy talk.
It had been a while since I last visited Quark’s Place, and I was definitely overdue for some Guinness and Tribble Sweat.
The crowd on the promenade was larger than usual, and more boisterous. These silly humans were waving signs that read things like “I don’t care for ObamaCare” and “Please don’t take my health care from me.” There were some guys purple shirts yelling at these people, calling them teabaggers, whatever that means. I wondered what happened to the traditional red shirt that Star Fleet security normally wears.
Quark’s was kind of quiet. Weird for it was “happy hour”. Quark looked anything but “happy”.
“Ah, Kahuna,” Quark said as he sidled up to me. Morn was at the other end of the bar looking forlorn. “The usual?”
“Yes, make it a double on the Tribble Sweat.”
“You got it.”
“What’s going on out on the promenade?”
“The President is holding one of his Health Care Town Halls, trying to convince the rabble that the government takeover would be good for them. Most of them aren’t buying it, thus the protests. Tea Party Rallies, they call it. But the Obama goon squad,” he glanced at a purple-shirted guy who came in at that point, “call them a bunch of teabaggers and that they should go back to teabagging.” Quark lowered his voice, “Do you know what teabagging is?”
“Um, no. Earther ways are still a little odd to me.”
“I hear you there. It’s a euphemism for a Monica-job.”
Okay, I know what a Monica-job is. That dates back to Dubya’s predecessor, over 10 years ago, when T.S. Willie was president and got caught with his pants down, literally, with a White House intern. Now, it seems, as Quark explains it, the new administration, some light-weight name of Obama, and his supporters are referring to anyone who opposes his policies as being a bunch of teabaggers. I guess he isn’t getting the same presidential treatment as T.S. Willie did and is jealous.
The guy in the purple shirt sat at the bar near me. He would have been the biggest red-shirt I had ever seen, except he was in purple. I looked at him while Quark got him a Bud Light, and said, “so, I hear that purple is the new red?”
“What’s that supposed to mean.”
“Just a change of color for the uniform. Redshirts are notorious for being easy targets.”
“Uh-huh. You Klingons always think you really tough. Redshirt! Yeah, they are easy. But not us purple shirts! I could kick your but all the way down to the Starbuck’s and back, and leave you crying uncle.” He smiled at me, continued, “Just like I did to that mouthy teabagger a little while ago.”
“We Klingons have a ceremonial duel to decide who is tougher. It is the traditional Nut Kicking Contest. If you think you’re so tough, how about giving it a go.”
“Okay, what is it?”
“We take turns kicking each other in the nuts as hard as we can. First one to quit loses. Want to give it a try?”
“Yeah. I can whoop your butt no problem,” he grinned.
“Winner pays the damages. I’ll go first.”
The purpleshirt stood up, held himself at the ready to receive my spiked boot, all nicely braced. I let loose a kick that sent him flying 10 feet back, smashing atable. He grabbed his groin, wincing mightily, and trying to stifle his scream of pain, which ended up sounding like a childish whimper. Finally, he manged to stand up, and mutter, “Okay, my turn.”
At that point I looked at him and said, “Hey, I quit, you win!”
The purple shirt managed a slight smile as he whimpered a bit more, then he fell flat on his face. He thought he had won. How gullible.
I finished my round, left a couple of quatloos to pay the tab, and left Quark’s Place. I had worked up an appetite with that “contest” and wanted a bite to eat. Tunok’s for steaks sounded good about now.
Kahuna out.
