Captain’s Log, Stardate, oh, wait, that’s pajama boy stuff.
Things were getting dicey in Cell Block NCC-1701. Not only were there stormtroopers to deal with, but the Red Shirts found their masculinity.
“Kamahameha, where’ve you been,” I said. “Wait, just beam us out of here. Better still, load up a Wave Maker 2012 Palinizer and fire it at the star here when you beam us. We’ll need the distraction to get the heck out of here. Four and a droid to beam up.”
We beamed out, the star went poof, waves began to pour across the solar system, and the Mugato howled again.
“Surf’s up!” I echoed.
The space station under the command of Darth Biden (as we learned from Princess Michele), didn’t fair so well. It was tossed about the solar system like a beach ball at the Pipeline.
The Princess looked at the Mugato and asked, “so, who’s the walking fleabag?”
The Mugato howled and groaned an answer. Princess Michele looked at Viterbo and said with a look of surprise, “You’re Rocky-wan Viterbo?”
“Well, yeah,” Viterbo responded, then the gears of thought caught, “hey, who you calling a fleabag?”
“Well, you don’t exactly look like the last of the Jedi Tea Patriots, now do you,” she quipped.
Viterbo looked at me, “I need a drink.”
I had Kamehameha set a course for DS9 and Quark’s. I felt like a few pints of Guinness as well.
Kahuna out.
