You know, if you're going to make the effort to properly type in your username and password to get on this site (or any site requiring such a thing), or make the effort to input the correct mailing address when you're having the newest bubblegum pink ipod sent to you, or when you're searching for a particular type of store on literotica, then fucking make the effort to type correctly everywhere else.  Misspelled words aren't funny, cool, or witty.  Nobody wants to read these.  Teh, roxor, smexy, pwned; nobody wants to read them.  You didn't go to school to learn to spell wrong.  It's bad enough you people abbreviate every single word you can get your hands on.  As if viruses, trojans, malware, spam, popups, hard drive crashes, IE errors, and all the other crap wasn't reason enough to stay the hell away from a computer, now we have people who misspell words...on purpose.

Just stop. 

Please.

(Apologies to all people of the Hispanic persuasion.)

            Riker leaned forward on his couch, shaking his NES controller madly.  "Come on, you fucking bag of shit!  Eat that damn ketchup jellybean!  It makes you catch up!  Ketchup!  It's genius; why won't you eat it?!"

            "O'Brien to Commander Riker."

            "Yeah, what?" he asked, rolling his eyes.  Riker always hated the Irish.

            "The OSHA inspector is ready to beam aboard on your signal."

            "Let me run that through Cappy first.  Before I go, beam my NES into space."

            "Um, okay, you weird fuck."

            Riker waltzed down to the turbolift and headed to the bridge.  The doors opened, and Riker dropped his post-waltz martini and slapped his hands to his face.  "Mama mia!"

            Picard turned in his seat.  "Hello, Number One!  You seem to have dropped your waltz-tini.  I'll have Janitor Worf get that-"

            "You've replaced the whole bridge crew with Mexicans!"

            "Shhh, shhh," said Picard, leading Riker into his rompus room.  "Yes, I admit it."

            "But why?"

            "Well, I found them on Fiestada IV.  They needed work."

            "Fiestada IV?  Part of the Meximelt system?"

            "No, it's in the Chalupa Nebula.  Besides, Number One, they work for very cheap."

            "You haven't told them that we work to better ourselves?  Like, for free?"

            "Of course not," replied Picard, flailing his arms.  "I wouldn't get a lick of work out of those lazy bastards if I said that."

            "This has got to be the zaniest plan you have thought up in the last two months."

Little Riker and Worf toddled hesitantly towards the massive oak chair, adorned with intricate carvings and topped with an impressive eagle's head, which loomed over the chair, casting a shadow on its inhabitant. The captain, dressed as Santa, sat in the chair, his arms outstretched towards the wary visitors.

"Come, sit on my lap, little ones," Santa said, and Riker and Worf both jumped into his lap. The chair creaked under the weight of three full-grown men. Santa struggled to get his arms out from under the two. Finally he situated himself to where he could put both arms around the bouncing, giggling officers.

"What would you like from Santa, my little friends?" boomed Santa in a, well, like a booming voice of sorts, I guess.

"We want to know about Interludes!" chimed in Worf.

"Yeah, tell us how they're made!" squeaked Riker, clapping his hands.

Santa paused for a moment, and then smiled behind his enourmous fake beard. "Well, Interludes are a time-honored treasure of ours. You two have been good for the upcoming Interlude, haven't you?"

Worf and Riker nodded silently, their eyes brightening with every word the slim Santa spoke.

"Good, good. You know, long ago, people once thought that we only had strict and serious adventures. Besides a few jokes here and there, we were perceived as perfect crew members on a perfect ship.

"But, as you may know, there were some who just knew in their hearts that we were no more pefect than your everyday retard. They knew that we were bizarre, psychotic, and ever-so-violent peoples with a lust for foul language and slappings, both of the bitch and pimp persuasions."

"This is my favorite part," whispered Riker to Worf, putting his hand on Worf's thigh. Worf looked down at the hand and frowned. Riker gingerly pulled his hand back.

"And so it became chronicled, our misadventures and shenanigans," said Santa, raising his arms to the sky. "We became more than episodes...we were INTERLUDES!!!!" Lighting tore through the sky as Santa shouted the last word. Riker and Worf hugged each other, terrified.

Santa lowered his arms and smiled on the huddled men. "My small friends, be not afraid. Without interludes, there would be no Jeffries Tube water slide from the Bridge to Engineering. We would have not been able to witness the constant sixty-nining of our resident doctor and counsler. But most importantly..." he trailed off, gesturing to the two.

"Um, I wouldn't have gotten my ass kicked for the past five Saint Patrick's Days?" said Worf.

"And I wouldn't have been reading gay swimsuit magazines during Christmas?" asked Riker.

"No, no. Those are both terrible answers." The pair frowned and lowered their heads.

"No, there would not have been the Super Flying Octopus Kick, the greatest martial art move in the universe!" Santa jumped up, knocking Riker and Worf to the floor, and tore his suit off, revealing, big surprise, Picard in a karate pants outfit. He strolled across the room to a large cardboard cutout of James Kirk.

"Take this, you old fogie!" he cried, super-flying-octopus-kicking the cutout in half.

Riker and Worf beamed. They knew that today was going to be a good day for an interlude.

"Oh, my head," moaned Picard, opening his eyes gingerly. He was lying alone in his Rompus Room, clad in a full He-Man outfit and a long black wig. He held his head in his hands and eyed the empty bottles of Southern Comfort standing in the corner next to his fish tank.

Slowly, he got to his feet, shaking the strands of wig hair from his eyes. The wig smelled of body funk and alcohol, as did Picard's leather loin cloth. He couldn't remember why exactly he was dressed as a barbarian, but he was sure that he was late for his shift. Still groggy, he ambled over to the door and onto the bridge.

Riker was chatting away with Data but stopped suddenly, rolling his eyes when the hung-over captain stumbled across the floor to his chair, falling suddenly into its warm seat. "Man, I don't feel so good," he said, slurring his words. He glanced over at Troi, who looked sad.

"I sense you're hung-over," she said sympathetically. "Let me-"

"BARF!" cried Picard, spewing steaming-hot yellow vomit all over Troi's purple outfit. Her sympathetic expression changed to horror as chunks of whatever the captain ate the night before were blasted into her eyes and hair like so much chum.

Troi ran screaming from the bridge, and Riker walked over, hands on hips in an ever-so-gay pose. "Captain, your shift started forty-five minutes ago!" He made a sad face. "And Worf stole my Game Boy while I was trying to find you. And Geordi poured Pepsi down my pants while I was negotiating a peace treat-"

"BARF!" shouted Picard, again spewing his rancid milk/tomato soup substance all over Riker, who fell back into Data's arms. Picard paused, wiping his mouth with a handkerchief with "Born to Cruise" embroidered on it, and then with a cry of dismay, let loose another torrent of sudsy, syrup-thick lung chowder all over Riker and Data. Riker screamed but threw his hands over his mouth when Picard's forceful firehose-vomit shot into his mouth like so much jism.

Beverly Crusher and three other medical officers ran onto the bridge, hoping to contain the situation. Picard turned, yelled "BARF!" and sprayed all four of them with his acidic, orange juice/alfredo noodles hybrid upchuck-sauce. Data ran up from behind with Wesley, trying to bring him down, but he turned, screamed "BARF!" and heaved like a pitcher or karaffe-full of cookie dough mixed with Super Chunky Mushroom spaghetti sauce all over them, tearing Data's head off and sending it through the sunroof into orbit. Wesley exploded, sending his entrails, skeleton, and flesh splattering onto the walls like so much chunky salsa. Geordi came up on Picard with a glass of Alka-Seltzer, but Picard again said "BARF!" and puked his corn chowder/fifty melted Baby Ruth bars concoction at Geordi, who lost his visor and was thrown into the turbolift, which abruptly shut and sent him back down to Engineering.

Finally, now crying, Picard slumped back down in his chair, the front of his chest drenched in an applesauce/peanut butter mixture. Even his leather boots with the fluffy tops were matted down with his lung butter. "Oh...oh god, no more, please," he said, sobbing softly.

Then, he spied the glass of Alka-Seltzer, which had very convienently landed right-side up on a table next to Picard's chair without spilling a drop or getting any puke in it. He sipped the tasty libation, smacked his vomit-coated lips, and grinned. "Looks like I'm gonna be A-OK!"

Riker, covered in mother of pearl-colored spit-up, weakly sat up and gave a thumbs-up.

Picard winked at him and returned the thumbs-up. He wished he had a hat.

Worf leaned against Tactical, observing the situation before him.  Both the ensigns at the conn wore green armbands, and Data, at the Science station, had green servos exposed.  Although he wasn't completely sure about some of the bizarre rituals of the humans, Worf knew something was definitely different than usual about today.

The turbolift opened, and Picard strolled out, wearing a shiny white coat and a white derby adorned with a green ribbon.  A green bowtie, bigger than his head, hung loosely from his neck.  Big green shoes clomped along the carpet, accompanied with a green cane jauntily draped over his right arm.  "Yo-ho-ho," he announced.

Riker hesitantly followed, wearing a green leaf over Mr. Winky, and a little green bow in his hair, which was done to mimic Pippi Longstocking.  "Do we really have to do this?" asked Riker quietly. 

"Of course," replied Picard, straightening his bowtie.  "It's tradition."

Riker sighed.  "All right."  He sat down, fiddling with his skimpy leaf.

Troi came out of the other turbolift, wearing two halves of a hollow watermelon atop her melons and a pair of skimpy green panties.  Her teeth were also green, though not a good green, more of an Erin's car green. 

Worf frowned.  For some reason he had the sinking feeling that he was going to be molested sometime in the very near future.

Picard began to twirl around stupidly.  "Who's not wearing green today?" he asked, looking from person to person.

Worf's eyes widened.  Now he remembered.  Today was St. Patrick's Day!  "Aaiiieeeee!" he screamed, running for the turbolift.  Picard bent low and chased after him, pinching Worf's buttocks as he gave pursuit.

"It's all in good fun, Mr. Worf," said Picard in a manly voice as he pinched Worf's asshole one too many times.  Turning, Worf grabbed the edges of Picard's derby and shoved it down, blinding Picard.  He kneed his bald superior, and pressed the button for the turbolift.

Riker reached low and pinched Worf's thigh, making him scream.  Worf collapsed to the floor in a fetal position, his body racked with sobs.

Everyone laughed heartily, save for Worf.

"Worf," said Riker, "you so crazy!"

Worf wiped the sweat from his considerable brow with the back of his hand, and fiercely grinned.  "Ramming speed!" he growled.

"Oh shit," Worf muttered.  He inspected the Falcon closely.  Indeed, the plastic had broken.  Now he would have to replicate a new Millennium Falcon model.  But that meant he couldn't play with it now.  And the kiddie pool was nearly empty, too!  No other crewmembers were around.  It just wasn't fair.

He hurled the remnants of the model against a viewport.  It bounced off, causing the forcefield to flicker.  He looked at his remaining toy with a measure of disgust.  Without the Falcon, the Enterprise-B was just a boring piece of crap.  He tossed it aside.

I wonder what the Captain's doing right now? Worf thought.  Perhaps he will play with me.  He glanced at the opposite end of the kiddie pool.

Jean-Luc Picard, captain of the Starship Enterprise, was dressed in Power Rangers swim trunks.  Bright-orange floaties adorned his upper arms.  Even though they were on a starship and the nearest sun was ten light-years away, the captain had an embarrassingly huge gob of sunscreen smeared on his nose.

And a guilty expression was on his face.

Work looked closer and saw the water surrounding Picard had a slight yellow cast to it.

"Did you urinate in the pool, Captain?"

Picard didn't meet Worf's eyes.  "No."

"Are you lying?"

"I told you no," Picard said  "It must be a new futuristic type of chlorine."

Worf's eyes narrowed.  Was the captain telling the truth?  It wasn't entirely in the realm of the impossible.  Work sighed; there was only one way to find out.  He leaned forward and tentatively took a drink of the water.

Worf grabbed his bat'leth from the pool's edge and leaped towards his commanding officer.

Picard, for his part, was thrashing in the water like a retard caught in the throes of a seizure.  "Help!" he screamed.  "I'm about to be raped, in what will probably be a comical fashion!" *

Standing over Picard like a terrible god of vengeance, Worf let loose a bloodthirsty yodel and brought the bat'leth down.  The captain shrieked as the sword plummeted down at his head.

"Damn it, Mister Worf!  That hurt."  Picard rubbed his head, where a red spot was rapidly forming.  "I'm telling Beverly."  He flailed comically in the water for another few moments, then managed to throw himself up onto the side of the pool.  He quickly padded out the exit.

Worf looked down at the bat'leth in his hands.  "Stupid fucking plastic."  He threw the weapon behind him and it landed onto the deck.

Ensign Wesley Crusher happened at that moment to be doing sprints up and down the concrete walkway next to the pool, despite signs being posted advising otherwise.  He didn't see the fierce toy weapon and tripped on it, which immediately dumped him hard on the ground.  His head bounced off the concrete, and again for good measure.  He lay there, twitching.

Worf pursed his lips as he watched the fallen ensign, and pondered what he should do.  There is only one honorable way to handle this, he concluded.

Ten seconds later, he was gone.

ONE WEEK LATER

The bridge of the Enterprise was a hive of activity as everyone prepared to face off against the Borg for what Starfleet Command assured them was the final time.

Geordi strolled in from the turbolift, humming an REO Speedwagon tune.  He abruptly stopped as he glanced at the front of the bridge.

Wesley was drooling at the helm.

Geordi sneered at the ensign.  "Yeah, that's fucking original."

A little bit of goodness is on its way, just hold on to your recliner, rocking chair, computer chair, chair taken from the kitchen table, metal folding chair, outside folding pic-a-nic chair, stool, weird kneeling seat thing, bean bag, or manservant.