|
[28 Oct 2005|02:20pm] |
|
Helmsman Sulu just tried to fuck me!
|
|
| Hollow Pursuits |
[14 May 2003|04:29pm] |
2381-05-14 @ 1440
Stardate 56610.33
I'm getting sick of all the fucking Mozart.
That's all there is in this ship's database. Mozart and Klingon opera. I want to know what's going on in Andorian pop music, or hear whatever the kids on Telleria are listening to (they say it's all transparent-aluminum street drums or something). But the ship's got nothing but fucking fugues.
It's like trying to find something to read on this ship that Shakespeare or Melville or Sarek didn't write. Who the fuck cares? I need to unwind, man. You'd think a military spaceship would have some Tom Clancy in the database. Nope. Shakespeare, Melville, Sarek, and Dave Barry. That's it. Certainly nothing you can beat off to. And I'm certainly not going to get a blowjob in the holodeck if the slightest risk is there that the captain's conciousness could be trapped in there after we get zapped by a googledink or whatever.
Cuz I'd never finish.
|
|
| Skin of Evil |
[24 Feb 2003|02:52pm] |
2381-02-24 @ 1440
Stardate 56398.05
I've been in the brig all week.
I was walking down the hall at the end of my shift, and this Andorian sticks his rabbit ears out the doorway. He spots my "mustard"-colored dickey* and asks me if I had a free minute to step inside and look at his broken replicator.
That is my biggest pet-peeve. Everyone always sees the yellow uniform and thinks, "engineering." They never think of security or tactical. I swear we should get our own color, like green, or white... ooh, ooh, or black! That's really the only benefit of getting into a ship's Elite Force... the uniform. Nothing makes my blood boil more than someone asking me if I can fix his computer terminal or adjust the lights or could I take an extra look at the inertial dampners so the next time the Romulans treat the ship like a giant tennis raquet, so-and-so's ancient Chia Pet collection doesn't get smashed?
So I ripped off his left antenna and shoved it in his ear.
Hey, they can sew them back on. No big deal. But being an Andorian, he got a little grouchy, and yada-yada-yada, I was in the brig for a week, I've got anger-management councilling.
I'm gonna bring up that black turtleneck thing with the boss at the next meeting.
*I bet Andorians have a mustard-colored dickey.
|
|
| Operation: Annhiliate! |
[12 Feb 2003|09:38am] |
2381-02-12 @ 0930
Stardate 56365.46
On my first day here, the guy who showed me to my quarters said to me, "...and remember: S.Y.S.!"
I had no idea what he was talking about, but I found out four days later when a photon torpedo from some defrosted 22nd-Century Klingons knocked the ship sideways. The inertial dampners went offline (they're always the first to go.... everything on this ship has triple-fucking-quadruple redundancies, like the transporters and the artifical gravity, but not the ID system). And my great-grandmother's fine china got pounded to smithereens against my ceiling.
S.Y.S. Scan Your Shit. Make a holographic record of everything you own. Then you can link it to the replicators, feed in your broken shit, and it'll make it just like new.
One of the little secrets of starship survival.
Speaking of which, we haven't made a waste dump in over two months. Even though we all know it's perfectly safe and sanitary for trash to be tossed into the matter block to be replicated into other things (like food), it's policy not to do so with human waste, just for morale's sake. It's usually dumped into open space (or, failing that, Cardassian space), but I swear that port door hasn't opened since 56200 at the very least.
If they're making me eat shit on this starship, I'll shoot the crew.
|
|
| The Naked Now |
[04 Feb 2003|02:59pm] |
2381-02-04 @ 1455
Stardate 56343.26
See, this is the kind of thing that really pisses me off about Starfleet.
I'm on an Away Team yesterday, and two security guys get their brains blasted all over me by some Jem'Hadar who were totally off their shit... like, their White had run out or something after crash landing.
Don't respond to Dominion distress calls. I can't stress this enough. It's really not worth it.
So I have to get me a new uniform, because my last duty threads are covered in brains, right? So I go to the requisitions guy to get a new uniform. Now, normally you can replicate your own clothes, but uniforms have to be replicated and distributed by the req-guy to insure that they conform to regulation, so that paperwork gets filled out, and so that the req-guy has something to do, since he's usually the idiot son of some admiral. I swear, ours is some fucking clone-gone-bad or something.
So he asks me what color turtleneck I need, and I tell him I need a yellow one. So he fucking lays into me! He says that uniform colors are not red, yellow, and blue, but rather "cranberry," "mustard gold," and "dark teal," and every first year cadet knows this, and fucking bla bla bla, right? These middle managers, the ones who always stay on the ship, their brains are going stale in their skulls like a fucking loaf of bread left out in the Vulcan sun. I guess I only exist to get yelled at by rumpswabs like him, or eaten by mutant purple goats.
It's not worth thirty-eight a year, it's really not.
|
|
| Sleeping With The Enemy |
[13 Jan 2003|05:41pm] |
2381-01-13 @ 1741
Stardate 56283.11
So you'll never guess where in the hell I've been.
We're crossing through this system that's mostly rock and debris, right? And the brass want to send some jerk-off to scout for cloaked Romulans or telepathic mindfuck rapists or whatever wrinkly nadface we're going to bang into this week like fucking clockwork.
And I get chosen for the job, lucky me. Because I get paid to get shot at a couple of times a month.
Sure enough, there's some comm interference, and then some ship I've never seen before decloaks and kicks my runabout in the nads with a torpedo or two. I get a couple of smacks off, and we both crashland on this hostile moon. Because they can't be fucking friendly moons, can they?
So I thought we were going to kill other at first, but, over the three days we spent down there, we learned to trust one another, and we developed a simple sign language and learned enough words that the other spoke to signal our ships and get the hell out of there. We became tenative friends, and hopefully this will be the beginning of good relations between our two peoples.
Thankfully, this exact scenario has happened a million billion fucking trillion times since the Federation was founded, so I knew exactly what to do.
And then my douchebag boss, that midget Tellerite Napoleon fuck, threatened to take the crashed shuttlecraft out of my pay! I finally had to remind him that we live in a Socialistic society and there is no such thing as money anymore. Otherwise I would have paid a Naussican to kick his curly-tailed ass by now.
I swear, if Starfleet hadn't paid for my college, I'd quit and become a pirate or something.
|
|
| Who Mourns for Barboza? |
[10 Jan 2003|02:33pm] |
2381-01-10 @ 1434
Stardate 56274.76
Well.
Barboza's dead.
Didn't see that one coming.
It didn't help that he was a complete wreck come wake-up time. All I'll say is that filling up your stomach before hitting the Saurian brandy is good; filling up on live gagh is bad. I guess he was mauled by some kind of orange shiny monkey-thing. Pretty badly, too. In fact, there wasn't enough left to get a transporter lock on... they had to send a couple of the guys who are on K.P. down with some shovels and a pail.
The worst part is that Barboza was the last Italian left. We kind of thought that they'd never put us in harm's way; him, the last Italian, and me, the last Jew. So I'm feeling a little more vulnerable today.
Fucking shiny-ass orange monkey.
|
|
| Circling Uranus |
[09 Jan 2003|02:55pm] |
2381-01-09 @ 1455
Stardate 56273.04
I heard this great joke in Engineering:
Q: What's the most frustrating part of having sex with a Founder?
A: The way it keeps trying to change back into an adult.
Barboza added, "and they don't bleed." That's funny, too. But we had to stop when Lt. Morrison walked by. Morrison told us this story about this transporter accident on his old ship back in the war when he was stuck in the body of a Founder, and vice versa. They found a way to reverse it... but the captain called him in private, and refused to use the cure unless Morrison licked his balls from across the room. I shit you absolutely not. And he was pretty green back then, so he didn't really stick up for himself.
You can imagine how trashed Lt. Morrison was to leak that little tale. In fact, we're all going to go get ripped in a few minutes. I know it's only 1500, but I'm on Gamma Shift, okay? Work from 0100 - 0900, rec from 0900 - 1700, sleep from 1700 - 0100. And we've got to take Barboza out. He's on one of those away missions tomorrow. You know the kind. Planetside. Entire senior staff. And him.
Not really a synthehol occasion.
|
|
| Past Prologue |
[09 Jan 2003|12:51pm] |
2381-01-09 @ 1245
Stardate 56272.45
So I show a couple of the guys around the mess this journal. Are they impressed that I've got this ancient XML system up and running off the LCARS? No. They're all up in arms about my use of the name "redshirt." Yes, I know it's derogatory, and yes, I know we don't wear red shirts anymore, and our collars are gold.
It's called irony, guys.
Jesus Christ.*
*Edit: Yes, I know that no one believes in Jesus Christ anymore. Will you guys get off my fucking ass already?
|
|
| For The Whirlpool Is Shallow And I Have Touched This Guy |
[09 Jan 2003|11:36am] |
2381-01-09 @ 1136
Stardate: 56272.38
So last night was my first holodeck fuck-up.
I'm trying to get a little serious R&R, if you know what I mean. I got that bootleg program off of Drake... the one with the hot-tub and the Vulcan who cracks under desire for you and admits to being a Romulan spy, and offers you depraved sexual favors to keep you quiet? Well, I'm deep in the program, and things are getting to third Parisi Square, when all of a sudden I've got a handful of holographic nutsack.
There was, like, some kind of of a thingy we flew threw, or something... I dunno. Anyway, the EMH got shunted to my holodeck. I played it cool, told him to turn his head and cough for a change... we laughed. But, honestly, I'm pretty fucked up about the whole thing. I had an emergency session with the councillor at 0800, but he couldn't stop laughing. Fucking councillors. Fucking blue-collared motherfuckers. I swear, if we're ever on an away mission together, and we're behind the same mountain, I'm going to shoot him and say it was a Gorn.
|
|
| navigation |
| [ |
viewing |
| |
most recent entries |
] |
|
|
|
|
![[info]](http://l-stat.livejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif){kind=small}
redshirt's journal