Picard broke out of his daze as Riker pushed him from behind. "You're holding up the line, ass," said the commander. The two stood in a long line that lead to a log ride that replaced a turbolift after Wesley and Geordi somehow managed to fit a Herby the Love Bug replica on the ship and then tried to fit it in said turbolift. Needless to say, that's another story for another day.

Picard turned around. Riker, wearing pastel-colored swimming trunks and sporting a pair of "sport goggles" on top of his head, put his hands on his hips and frowned gayily. "What's the problem, sir?"

Picard rubbed his forehead. "I...I had this vision. That something terrible was about to happen." He looked up, his eyes growing wider. "WE HAVE TO GET OUT OF THIS LINE!!!!" He began flailing his arms and pushing back against Riker, who fell back against Worf, who happened to be wearing a speedo. Gross.

The lifeguard came over and placed his manly hands on Picard's shoulder. "What's the problem?" he asked soothingly.

Picard turned. "I"ll tell you what's the problem! This flume ride is broken! I saw it! Everybody...oh god, I can't even explain it!" He ran from the line, jumping the turnstyle and taking off down the hallway. Geordi whistled at Picard's ass as he hurried on by.

Riker finally turned back to the lifeguard. "We good to go here?" asked the lifeguard.

"Yeah."

Riker jumped in the first seat, giggling furiously. Behind him sat Worf, then Wesley, then Deanna and Beverly, because lesbians, especially wet ones, have to sit together.

The ride lurched forward and began its journey towards the first drop. Riker threw his hands up, his head bobbing madly as he continued his giggling.
Suddenly, the log car shot down the first drop. Riker's elbow smashed into his restraint bar. He cried in dismay as his funny bone reverberated in pain.

Behind him, Worf's ponytail got caught around the snorkel Wesley was wearing, but because of the speed and the fact that the snorkel had a strap on the back, neither could move. Worf cried like a baby as Wesley tugged on his mouthpiece.

Troi and Crusher dropped their double-headed dildo and watched it spiral away from the car. Suddenly, it hit a piece of the track and bounced back, wobbling in the air, until it smacked Troi in the head and knocked her out. Crusher shrugged, putting her rufees back in her pocket, and resumed the Hot Carl she was giving Troi.

As the ride came to a stop, Riker, still clutching his somewhat hurt arm, saw Picard standing, hands on hips, wearing only a Nike speedo and a smug grin. "I told you everything was going to go wrong, didn't I?" he said, cocking his head in a demeaning fashion.

Riker scowled. "You know, Captain, since you didn't go on the ride, that means something bad is going to happen to you. Death's design will change. You're next!"

Picard laughed. "I highly doubt that, Number One." Suddenly, he made a surprised face as a midget ran up from behind, climbed a stepstool he had been carrying for just such an occasion, depantsted the captain, and began having his way with Picard's ass.

"NOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!" He screamed.

"Owww," moaned Worf, the snorkel still hanging from his hair. Wesley lay unconsious in a corner.

"Hot-Carl-related noises," said Crusher.

"Ha ha ha," said not-quite-naked Riker, hands on hips.

Picard stood at the end of the table in the observation lounge and clasped his hands together.  "Well now, everyone should be done with their safety worksheets.  Let's go over them together.  Number One, would you read the first one?"

 "God, I guess," said Riker angrily.  He held up his paper dramatically and very loudly read: "The first thing to do in a Red Alert situation is-"

 Suddenly, red lights flashed and the Red Alert siren blared.

 "-FREAK OUT!" Riker jumped up from his seat and ran out of the observation lounge, tripping over a poorly placed Tyco RC car and faceplanting in the hallway.

 "Okay, who left that car there?" said a stern Picard, hands on hips.

 "Who is the goose," said Data, not really understanding why he said it.

 "DATA!" cried everyone.

 "Hey, I've got an idea," said Geordi.  "Maybe we should go to the bridge and see what the Red Alert is about."

 "I've got an even better idea!  How about we go to the bridge and see what that Red Alert is all about!" shouted Picard as he did jumping jacks.  "To the Bridge!" With that, the bridge crew leapt up and raced after him.

 "Motherfucker," said Geordi, not bothering to stand up.

 In the turbolift, Data, Wesley, Beverly, Troi, Picard, Worf, and a frumpy Riker stood compacted together, waiting for the door to open.

 Picard hummed to himself, eventually breaking out into song.  "JOHN JACOB JINGLEHIEMERSCHMIDT!"

 Worf's eyes widened.  "HIS NAME IS MY NAME TOO!"

 Wesley chimed in, flailing his arms.  "WHENEVER WE GO OUT, THE PEOPLE ALWAYS SHOUT…"

 The rest of the crew joined in.  "…JOHN JACOB JINGLEHIEMERSCHMIDT!  LA LA LA LA LA LA LA!!!1!!!"

 Picard hopped and giggled, clapping his hands together.   "Oh, let's do another!  Ist das nicht ein Schniztelbank?"

 Troi replied in a deep tenor: "Ja, das ist eine Schniztelbank."

 Worf jumped in.  "Is das nicht ein kurtz und lang?"

ROUGHLY THREE AND A HALF HOURS LATER

 "…No more bottles of beer on the wall!" Picard shouted, drunk as all get out on song and a pack of Oreos he found in his pants pocket.  "I can't believe we totally did one million bottles!"

 "Me either!" said Wesley.

 "Shut up, Wesley," said Picard.  "Oh, goodness, why aren't we at the bridge yet?  Wait.  Computer, open turbolift door." The door opened, revealing a bridge littered with bodies.  The walls were scorched with phaser fire, and small fires burned everywhere.  Eduardo, completely naked except for a leopard print loincloth, grasped a massive battleaxe, his breathing ragged.  Also, he had a cowboy hat.  I mean, why not.  Geordi was on the floor, still choking a corpse, screaming in his native language of Ebonics.

 "Whoa dudes!  What happened?" asked Picard. 

 "When we issued the Red Alert, nearly four hours ago, it was because a horde of homicidal, flesh-eating mutant cyborg dinosaurs had taken control of the bridge.  I managed to kill them all, though.  I apologize for the…mess," said Eduardo, trying to retain his anger.

 "Oooh, were they anal-raping dinosaurs?!" asked Riker excitedly.

 "No, I would have already mentioned that along with the other adjectives, had they been."

 "Well then," said Riker, straightening the top of his uniform.  "Not my problem."

 "Well then, Mr. Worf, looks like you're on temporary hiatus from Cargo Bay Four!"

 "Um…why?" asked Worf, removing his patchwork janitor's hat from his gross head.

 "Because now you're the janitor of this mess!  Everyone but Worf to Ten Forward for cake and Super Nintendo!"

 "I wish I were dead," said Worf, a little more dejectedly than usual.

 "We all wish you were dead, Worf.  Have fun!" said Picard as the doors closed.

The Enterprise rattled as the Romulan Warbirds unleashed racks of torpedoes from their position inside the turbulent ion storm. The Enterprise's allies, the U.S.S. Stargazer and the U.S.S. Nebula, fired back, dodging the Warbirds lazor beams.

But the Enterprise sat motionless, bearing the brunt of the attacks but returning no fire. On the bridge, inside a large camping tent, Riker and Picard sat in their little rocketship jammies inside their respective Sonic the Hedgehog and Gumby sleeping bags, giggling, surrounded by copies of Cosmo and Teen People.

"So, tell me!" said Picard, biting his lip.

"It's...a...secret..." replied Riker quietly.

"Okay, what is her first name?" Picard squeaked. He dropped his flashlight as five more torpedoes tore through the ship's weakening shields.

"Nope." Riker crossed his arms and made a frowny face.

"Okay, what are her initials?"

"Well...It's E...nope, I can't tell you the rest cause you'll guess it!" Riker pulled on his sleeping bag uncomfortably. He reached over and started tickling Picard.
"Tee-hee Rikie-pants, if you don't tell me, they're ha ha going to stop stop going to kill us!" Picard fell over in a fetal position, crying with hysteria as Riker administered his agile fingers on the captain's tickly-parts. Seeing Picard's butt in a vulnerable position, he raised a hand and began his assault. Picard's eyes shot open as Riker pounded his ass (heh heh) with slap after slap. "Stop! Stop!" he said between his giggles. With each slap, Picard's pants rode more and more down his ass, exposing his Hello Kitty undies.

Suddenly, the zipper door of the tent flew open, and Worf tore open both flaps. He woere a blue bath robe and had his Klingon-dreads up in a towel. His face was coated with blue face cream. "What in the holy FUCK are you two doing?!" he shouted, breathless with anger.

Riker slowly inched Picard's pants back up over his ass, disappointed. "I was going to tell Picky, er, the captain who I liked so the Romulans would stop attacking us."

"It's 3:30 in the FUCKING MORNING! I had to get out of bed and come up three levels to find that you two AREN'T taking care of this Romulan threat? Where is the rest of the night shift bridge crew?!"

Riker stifled a giggle with his hands. Picard raised an eyebrow in an attempt to look professional. "They're in my rompus room."

Worf was about to speak, but caught himself. "Did you just say rompus room?" He asked.

"Yeah, I renamed my 'ready room' the 'rompus room' cause it sounded more appealing. They're in there playing with my activity sets and watching Eureka's Castle on my holo-telo-tele-vision."

"You told them to leave, and then you two set up a tent and just ignored everything?"

"That's right," said Riker, winking and pointing a finger at Worf.

"Jesus Christ you two are worthless!" He threw up his hands and his sillouette could be seen stalking past the tent up to his station. "By the way, I'm launching some torpedoes, CAPTAIN," said Worf in a mocking tone. Within seconds, the Warbirds began retreating under the fire of the Enterprise's death rays and lazor guns and Super Flying Octopus Kick bombs.

"Okay, they're gone, and I'm going to bed now. Think you two can handle the bridge until my shift starts up again?"

Picard pointed at Riker to respond. He shook his head quickly and pointed at Picard. Silently cursing, Picard threw out his hand for Paper-Rock-Scissors. Riker lost because you can't use the dynamite thumbs-up as an option.

Clearing his throat, Riker yelled "Okay, um, Commander. Thanks for the help, and, um, have a good night's rest. We'll see you in the morning." He turned back to Picard, giving the thumbs-up. They high-fived.

Worf scowled and turned from his station to head to the turbolift. Suddenly, the door opened and Wesley, dressed in a giant foam hot dog outfit came stumbling out, reeking of booze.

"Hey, um, Worf! Dude, I just lost my ass virginity in this hot dog suit!"

Worf shook his head. It sure was going to be a long night...

CUE CREDITS

"I just don't understand how they got in there," said Troi, pulling her pants back up as she got off the examination table.

 "Well, it could be your sick fetish with insects in general, or maybe it stems with the look that giant centipede gave you when we toured Bugland, the giant bug planet."

 "That look?  You mean "that cunnilingus," replied Troi, giving Crusher a sly look.  "You haven't had dirty sex till you've had pincers in your shit."

 "I'll pass, thanks," said Crusher, looking back as Picard strolled in.

 Picard threw his hands in the air and smiled.  "Guess what everybody?  We have a new Lieutenant to replace Tasha Yar on the show!"

 Troi raised an eyebrow.  "Who's Tasha Yar?"

 Crusher rolled her eyes.  "Remember?  Armus, Skin of Evil?  Killed Tasha in the first season?  She was our caterer or some shit."

 "No, no!" cried Picard, hands on hips.  He swiveled as he talked.  "She was our security officer!  And she was smokin'!  I think she had relations with Data too.  Anyway, after like six seasons, we've finally found a similarly sexy officer to replace her.  I'd like to introduce Lieutenant Eduardo Ricardo Santiago!"

 From the turbolift strolled a tall, suave Hispanic man with flowing chocolate-brown hair and piercing mocha eyes.  His uniform accentuated every curve, from his muscular pecs to his "holy shit what did you get me for christmas" package.

 "Hello, all.  I am honored to serve amongst such beautiful people," said Eduardo, gesturing among the crowd.  "…Except for that one," he added, pointing at Worf.  "You are all sexy strangers to me, but it is my deepest hope that soon, you will be my sexy comrades." With that, he strode over to Tactical and placed both of his strong, sensual hands on the panel. 

 "Your – your accent, it's beautiful," said Riker, smiling weakly.

 "Thank you," replied Eduardo, winking. 

 "Ahem," said Picard, clearing his throat.  "Worf, you are being demoted to Cargo Bay 4 Watchman.  Sorry."

 "Cargo Bay 4!  But that's where all the crazy shit happens!"

 "What, like plasma fires, subspace anomalies, leaks, explosions, firefights, anal rapings, and unpleasant fisticuffs?" said Riker?

 "Yeah, like those," said Worf in a small voice.

 "Attention everyone!" cried Picard, going all jazz-hands on everybody.  "We have just been informed – by Starfleet, no less – that a visitor from the twenty-FIFTH century is here to study us!"

 "Are you sure it isn't another imposter, like in season four?" asked Wesley.

 "I think that was season five," added Troi.

 "Of course it isn't.  Do you really think we'd fall for that old trick more than once?" asked Picard, a smug look on his face.

 "Yes," said Riker.

 "Of course," said Wesley.

 "Undoubtedly," said Data.

 "Yes," said Worf.

 "Without a doubt," said Crusher.

 "I don't know what we're talking about, but yes," said Geordi.

 "I am all fucked up on this weed we picked up, but yes," said Troi.

 Picard looked sad.  Then, the turbolift opened and a man wandered out, complete with an old crazy man lab coat, oversized pilot's goggles, and crazy wacky hair.  "Wow, it's like you guys live in pig shit compared to what we have now, in the twenty-FIFTH century," he said.

 "We like our pig shit very much, Mister…?" said Troi, stumbling.

 "It's Doctor, Doctor Bavarius Crème." Dr. Crème looked around the bridge, muttering to himself and shaking his head.

 "How do we know you're from the twenty-fifth century?" said Eduardo, turning around.  "My sexy comrades had already mentioned a similar imposter from an earlier season.  For all we know, you could be yet another one in a relatively long line of fakes." He gestured very sensually.

 "Yes, well I saw that episode already." Dr. Crème pulled at his coat collar very aristocratically.

 "Yeah, well I bet you saw it on reruns," accused Wesley, pointing, um, accusingly, so as to go with his statement.  Like a matching shirt and tie.

 "Reruns…" Dr Crème said, removing his goggles and dusting them off.  He paused for more dramatic effect, then looked back at the group sharply.  "…Schmeruns."

 "Holy god, he's brilliant!" said Picard, flailing his arms wildly.  "How can we hope to stand up to that kind of wit?!"

 "Fuck off," said Worf.  "How about that?"

 Dr. Crème laughed.  "That's all you got?  You're a douche."

 The group was silent, jaws open wide.  Eduardo raised an eyebrow from the back of the crowd, suspicious.

 Picard flung his hands up, staring at the ceiling.  "We're finished!  This effulgent charlatan from the far reaches of time will send us to our doom, surely!" With that, he fell to the ground and began walking in circles on his side, like in the Simpsons (or in my computer room, if you're Trixie.)

 Eduardo brushed past the group, a determined expression on his face.  "Good sir, have you come here for any reason other than reducing our gorgeous captain to insanity and our bridge crew to a state of slack-jawed wonder?  You are a troublemaker, and I will not stand for it.  This ship's security is my life, and I will guard her as such.  I challenge you to a game of Tiger Woods 2006 for the Xbox 360, system link."

 Dr. Crème stifled a laugh.   "Let's do this."

   THIRTY-SEVEN MINUTES LATER

 "Damn!" cried Dr. Crème.  "I've been had!"

 "You are finished.  Return to the time from which you came!"

 "I came from Dayton, Ohio."

 "Well, go back there!"

 "I am gone!" With that, Dr. Crème was gone.

 "How did you beat him?" said a curious young Wesley.

 "Well, my curious young Wesley, I used Galoob's new invention, the Game Genie, now available for all major home consoles!"

 "You cheated!"

 "I didn't cheat, young curious Wesley.  I used…THE POWER OF THE CODE!!!!!!!!!!1111!!!!!11"

"Well, I guess I'll go to Cargo Bay 4," said a dejected Worf, hands not on hips.

 "The end," said Geordi.

"You should get rid of the naked girl license plate frame," said Riker.  "It looks gaudy."
 Picard laughed.  "Shut up, man.  If I did that, then how would I get the bitches?  Except for the other thousand awesome parts of this car." Picard snickered and looked around, adjusting his denim headband on his flowing black mullet.  His faded matching denim sleeveless workshirt with the embroidered name "STAN" was stained with grease and mud. 
 Picard stroked his sweet handlebar mustache, looking off into the sun.  "I bet we could do a buck-twenty before we hit Old Man Robinson's shack down the way."
 "You're on," said Riker, pulling a sweaty wad of twenties from his one-size-too-small Levis.  He flipped through them, smiling slightly.
 "Let's ride," said Picard, pulling himself through the open window of his cherry '86 Trans Am.  Riker ran around giddily and got in.  He reached for his seatbelt but Picard stopped him.
 "Man, seatbelts are for suckers, man.  You gotta let the car-" he gestured around the interior, and then pointed at Riker, "-take care of you."  Picard hit the gas and they were off, tearing down the country road.  Picard reached for a tape and managed to get it in the player, despite the car's violent shaking.  "It's the newest tape from my favorite band, the Delicious AIDS Victims!"
 "YEEEHAW!" yelled Riker as they came up on a hill.  "GIT-R-DONE!"
 Picard smacked Riker with his free hand as they approached the hill's crest.  "Don't ever say that travesty of a phrase ever again, Number One." He glared at Riker.
 Riker's eyes widened and he pointed out the front window.  "Captain!  Stop!"
 Picard turned, but it was too late.

   *   *   *

 "I can't believe you ran over old man Robinson," muttered Riker, crouching over the battered corpse.  The Trans Am sat on the side of the road.  Picard sat in the driver's seat with the door open, his feet on the road.  He shook his head and took another puff from his Marlboro.
 "Man, my dad is gonna kill me, man," he said.  "What are we going to do?"
 Riker ran his fingers through his gericurls and licked his lips.  "Wait, I got it." He popped the trunk of the Trans Am and hefted old man Robinson's lifeless body into the trunk.  Slamming it, he reached for his communicator and slapped it hard.  "Ow.  Riker to Enterprise."
 "Go ahead."
 "Three to beam up."

   *   *   *

 "Good work, Number One," said Picard with a wink.  "Nobody will be the wiser."
 Riker smiled and looked at Geordi who manned the right side of Con.  He nervously glanced over at the massive Trans Am parked on top of the left Con, its front end raised in the air.  A photo of a communicator badge was crudely taped to the door.
 "Thank you sir."
 Worf slammed his hands above them at Ops.  "Captain!  There's five Warbirds decloaking off the starboard bow!"
 "Shields up, go to Red Alert." Picard's smile vanished as he again stroked his sweet handlebar mustache.
 "They are hailing us," Worf said.
 "Onscreen," said Riker, his gericurls bobbing with his flapping mouth.
 On the viewer, a Romulan High Commander appeared, his face in a snarl.  "Captain Picard, I am T'Pee, and you are in violation of the Romulan-Federation Tre-"
 The Romulan's eyes drifted ever so slowly to the car parked on top of the left Con.  "Is that…is that an automobile at your Con?"
 The Trans Am wobbled from its place atop the Con.
 Picard's eyes widened and he stood up.  "No, no.  That's, um, Ensign, um, Car, uh, Carolator.  Yes, that's it," he said, eyes narrowing.  "Car-o-lator."
 T'Pee made a quizzical look.  "And now you're violating a treaty AND you're a liar."
 Picard pouted.  "Nu-uh!  Shut up," he said, waving his arms violently at the viewer.  "You're a stupid gay-head."
 "Gay-head?  You're a fucking moron." T'Pee crossed his arms.
 "Indeed," said Data from his chair at the Science Station.
 "Why are we in violation of your stupid treaty anyway?" Picard ran his hands through his mullet nonchalantly.
 "Um, because this is Romulus, and you've been shooting at us with what looks to be UNICEF boxes from your torpedo bays."
 "Well, High Commander," said Picard, making the quotation mark gesture very sarcastically, "We were out of torpedoes, and you're still a gay-head." He dropped his arms, frowning.
 Riker reached over for his datapad and fired up Tetris.  "Looks like it's going to be a while.  Again."

"You're fired, Amelia Bedelia!" shouted Picard.

"You can't fire me!  I'm the best maid you've ever had!"

"It was funny when I had you take roll call in the ship's classroom and you rolled a muffin across the floor and had the children call for it.  It was somewhat charming when I asked you to trim the Thanksgiving turkey and you dressed it in a tuxedo.  However," said Picard, placing his stove pipe hat on the hook and removing his waders, "it was less amusing when I asked you to warm my bed up and then I find you've shit in it."

                "But, I didn't know how else to…" Amelia Bedelia drifted off.  "I'll start packing, sir."

                "Start packing?  Heavens no.  I've had O'Brian beam your things into space.  Clean out your locker; you'll be dropped off at the next Starbase or asteroid we pass."

                Amelia Bedelia slumped out of the captain's quarters, sad as all get out.  She couldn't believe that she was being fired after what she thought had been the best man she'd ever worked for. 

                The stench of the locker room assaulted Amelia Bedelia as she sulked inside and opened her lock.  Worf came around the row of lockers, mop and bucket in hand.

                "Oh, hello," said Amelia Bedelia, somewhat cautious.

                "You may not remember me, I am Chief of Cleaning Up Worf."

                "Are you the negro, or the Klingon?"

                Worf sighed.  "Both," he said seethingly.  "Why are you emptying your locker?"

                "Captain Picard has fired me.  I shit in his bed."

                "We've all left a steamer in the captain's bed; I wonder what could have made him so angry about it this time."

                "I don't know, but he's salty beyond the highest levels of saltiosity, so I must leave."

                Amelia Bedelia bid Worf farewell and headed for Transporter Room 69. 

            *                                              *                                              *

                "Captain, there's an angry Romulan on the viewscreen, wanting to know why we're in the Neutral Zone," said Riker over Picard's badge thing.

                "Right, I'm on my way," he replied, leaping to his feet, turning off his pilates VHS tape, straightening his uniform, making sure what little hair he had left was in order, making sure his shoes were tied, and then exiting the Rompus Room.

                The Romulan looked angry, as promised.  "I am T'Vomit.  Who are you and why are you in the Neutral Zone?"

                Picard raised an eyebrow.  "You can call me JLP.  C…JLP."

                Riker stood up.  "And I'm WTR."

                "More like 'WTF'," remarked someone in the background, snickering.

                "Stop it guys," whined Riker, sitting down.  "You're being mean."

                T'Vomit raised a fist just close enough to his face that you could see it on the screen quite clearly.  "I ask again; why are you here?  You are in violation of our treaty, JLP!"

                "We got lost on our way to Denny's," retorted Picard, looking around for complimenting nods.  The two ensigns at Con and Ops gave him the thumbs up.

                "Denny's?  Everyone knows all the Denny's are gone from the Alpha Quadrant!  You will leave now or I will –" T'Vomit paused, glancing back at the unintelligible barking of a second officer.  He looked back, now smiling.  "…Or I will execute our hostage." Amelia Bedelia appeared onscreen, a look of alarm present on her face.

                "AMELIA BEDELIA!" screamed Picard.  "NOOOO!" he wailed, running full tilt back into his Rompus Room.  Loud sobbing could be heard.

                Riker stood up again.  "How did you get your dirty hands on our captain's ex-maid?"

                "We used a Romulan, posing as Chief O'Brien, to capture her."

                Riker shrugged.  "Who the hell is Chief O'Brien?"

                T'Vomit made a look of disbelief.  "Really?  The curly-headed guy?  Looks like he escaped from a bad Irish Spring soap commercial?"

                "Doesn't ring a bell," said Riker, shaking his head.

                "No matter, for now we have your…er, wait, did you say ex-maid?"

                "Yeah, she got sacked like not even twenty minutes ago." Riker rolled his eyes.

                "Oh.  Shit.  So I guess you'll not be wanting her back."

                "Nah, we were just going to have beamed into space." Riker and T'Vomit laughed.

                "Hey!" cried Amelia Bedelia. 

                "Shut up, bitch," replied the second officer.

                "Good one, T'Barf," said T'Vomit, high-fiving his second-in-command.

                "Can we finish this?  We're missing an important dinner date, with the Borg, at Denny's.  We'll just be taking Amelia Bedelia back now."

                "Sure, we'll – WAIT A MINUTE!" scowled T'Vomit.  "I know when I'm being bamboozled!  And this is one of those times!  GUARDS, KILL AMELIA BEDELIA!"

                Suddenly, Chief O'Brien appeared on the Romulan ship, poorly disguised as a Transporter Chief of some kind.  "Lay your hands off her!  Hyah!" O'Brien promptly Judo Chopped the entire crew, and then reappeared onscreen.  "Commander Riker!  ..Mission accomplished!  Beam us back now!"

                "And you are…?" asked Riker, gesturing.

          *                                              *                                              *

                "We're glad to have you back," said Geordi, patting Amelia Bedelia on the back as they mingled in the huge "RESCUE WITH ZERO CASUALTIES" party in Ten Forward.

                "Thanks, Negro Number Two," she said, winking.  Geordi blushed.

                "Yes indeed, it's good to have you on our ship again, fucking things up regularly.  But you won't be doing it for me," said Picard with a mighty laugh.  "You're still fired!"  He chuckled, waltzing away with a martini.

                "Ha ha," said Worf, mopping up some vomit.

"Captain, your Cakes Borne of the Pan certainly are delicious," said Thor, Norse god of lightning, reaching for the Mrs. Butterworth.

"Why thank you, Thor, Norse God of Lightning, we replicated them from scratch," replied Picard, wearing his "Fuck You I'm the Chef" apron and his still slightly singed hat.

"Man, I'm so glad Thor is here, he is like fifty times better than when Anus, Greek god of Ass-raping came by last week.  He raped Geordi for like three days straight!" said Riker.

"What a weekend that was," said Geordi dreamily.

Thor set his fork down.  "So, Captain, I understand that you're from Labarre, France.  Is that correct?"

"Yes, that is my hometown," replied Picard, making smiley faces with the powdered sugar on the pancakes and then serving the plate to Chief Usher Worf, who had to sit at the little kid's table with Alexander.

"Tell me this: If you're from France, why do you have a British accent?"

Everyone stopped eating immediately and turned to look at the captain, who was frozen, a loose piece of pancake flapping from his fork in the windy silence.

"Um.  Well." Picard's eyes flashed wildly about, searching for an answer.  His career was at stake.  He thought briefly, then spoke: "My family moved there from Britian and raised me in France.  I learned to speak proper English from them, and am also fluent in French.  In my earlier days..." Picard spoke, hoping to distract the audience enough to make them forget what they'd been talking about.  In his mind, all he could think of was the horrible truth, the real reason he was a limey in frog's clothing.

THIRTY-THREE YEARS AGO...

Little Jean-Luc Picard sat on the yellowed bench, waiting for the bus to take him to school.  Clad in a yellow and red-striped outfit complete with a propellor beanie, Jean-Luc knew that he'd be the most popular kid by the end of his first day at school.

He checked his holo-watch.  Only five minutes until the holo-bus was scheduled to arrive.  In the distance, an approaching group of boys caught his eye.  They wore suits, but did not look particularly dressed up.  They looked like common hoodlums with their crazy hair, their striped ties, and their crossaints.

"'Ello, gents," chirped Jean-Luc.  "Would you care to have a sit with me?  This bench is certainly large enough for us all to rest comfortably."

"Get up," said the tallest kid in a rough French accent.

"I was here first," replied Jean-Luc, smiling nervously.  "Can't we share?"

"No.  Get lost.  We don't want fucking limeys in our country."

"I am not a limey!  I'm a British citizen!  You're a bunch of surrender monkeys!  Name one war that you haven't surrendered in."

"French civil war," replied the fat one in the back.

"That doesn't count.  Let me tell you-" Suddenly, the middle one grabbed Jean-Luc's holo-lunch box and ripped it open, spilling its contents all over the sidewalk. 

"Look at that!  The little limey baby's got Preperation H!"

Picard stood, helpless, as the French boys mercilessly examined his holo-lunch box's contents. 

"GO GO SUPER PICARD FLYING OCTOPUS KICK!" Without thinking, Jean-Luc executed his signature move, the same move that would defeat Dr. Soren, erase the Borg from existence, and do some other stuff in two other movies. 

However, this time, it just happened to rend three hoodlums asunder.  Jean-Luc landed amidst a cloud of red and a pool of gibs. 

Just then, the holo-bus pulled up.  Quickly, Jean-Luc acquired the tallest boy's identification and stepped aboard.

"I'm, um, French.  I go to the Senior school."

"Whatever, get the fuck on the bus," said the gross busdriver lady.

"...And that's how I became a Frenchman," said Picard, leaning back and crossing his arms, a child molestor smile on his face.

Riker raised a brow.  "And what is how you became a Frenchman?  That's all you said."

Picard hesitated.  He only had one trick left up his sleeve.

"JOHN JACOB JINGLEHIEMERSCHMIDT!  HIS NAME IS MY NAME TOO!"

As the rest of the lunchroom joined in, Picard's brain high-fived his balls.

"Good job, guys."

"Good job, brain," said his balls.

DAS ENDE

An X-men X-mas

Rewritten from scratch, no less

            "It takes a very steady hand!  Watch the sides!" cried Cyclops, much to Jean Grey's frustration, as she attempted to pull the Butterflies in the Stomach for $500. 

            "Bzzt!  You lose!  Ha ha!" Cyclops giggled furiously, slapping Jean's hand, knocking the tweezers from her hand.

            "You fuck!" Jean stared for a moment at Cyclops, and suddenly he fell backwards out the open window next to him.  She grinned in victory, and then took $500 from the 'bank pile' and added it to her pile.

            "Damn, you are a total bitch," said Wolverine, picking up the tweezers and reaching gingerly for the Water on the Knee.  "Hey, did you hear Springsteen's coming to town?"

            "The Boss?  Shit, I bet he still sucks," said Professor Charles Xavier, rolling his eyes as he puffed on his joint.  "Anyway, so what are we doing after this?  I mean, I used to know, but then I found this big-ass joint in my glove compartment," he finished, laughing quietly. 

            "You are a goddamn stoner, you know that?" said Beast, setting down his copy of Wall Street.  "Besides, we are accepting the new set of X-men trainees that Storm and Colossus have ready in the Subbasement.  I think there's three of them, but I can't fucking remember their names."

            "Who fucking cares what their names are?  I got this joint, and I am fucking stoned off my crippled ass, and I mean damn, I got it going on, bitches," Xavier finished, fingering his dollar sign necklace with his free hand.

            Wolverine set Water on the Knee aside, and took his $200 payment.  "I think one of them is Shaka Khan, but I don't know about the other two."

            "Shaka Khan!  No fucking way!" Xavier was astonished.

            "What, are you a fan of hers?" Wolverine replied.

            "Whoa, I didn't know it was a girl!"

            "Wow dude, you need to stop smoking pot." Wolverine waved his finger at Professor X cautiously.  "I heard that she came to the Academy because she has supported us throughout the eighties, even when we had lame haircuts and really crappy costumes, and she wants to see what she can do for us, since, you know, no one listens to her music anymore."

            "Heh, yeah," muttered Beast.

"What are you talking about, our eighties costumes were sweet!" said Cyclops, reentering the room.  His hair had rose bush tangles in it, and his red sunglasses were off-kilter on his bruised and dirtied face.  "I had so much glitter on mine that this homeless guy told me it made him hard."

"Jesus, don't bring up the homeless guy again, Scott," said Jean.  "It's not a good thing that he wanted to fuck you.  You looked like a gigolo."

"Yeah, well-" Scott started, but noticed the back of Beast's newspaper.  "Wait a second, what is that on the back of the paper?"

Beast turned the page around, and glanced at the back.  "It's a report on the 9/11 commission.  So what?"

"What…is…nine eleven?!" Cyclops cried.

"You know, September 11, when terrorists drove planes into the Pentagon and the Trade Center?"

Cyclops' eyes bulged.  He stared at his watch.  "It's December twelfth right now!  We have to stop them!"

"Stop who?  What are you talking about?" said Wolverine, throwing his hands up.

"The terrorists!  We have to go back in time and stop them!  I have a time machine in the X-Jet hangar!" Cyclops cried, running to the elevator.  The other X-men followed him.

"Did no one tell him that this happened three years ago?" said Beast.

"Aww, who cares, a shitty plot is better than no plot," replied Wolverine.

Soon, Beast, Wolverine, Jean Grey, and Professor X all stood (except for Professor X, he sat cause he is a cripple) in the hangar, waiting, as Cyclops fished his purported time machine out of a neglected wooden tool bin in the corner.  After a few minutes, he turned around, holding what looking like two can openers rubber-banded to an alarm clock upward in both hands, as if offering it to the gods.  His eyes shined and his smile was one of utter stupidity. 

"I told you guys!  This is the answer!  We can go back in time and save those buildings, and all those people!" Cyclops rattled as he giggled with glee.

"Does anyone really miss all those fucking people?" asked Wolverine.  Everyone turned to look at him.

"Seriously, you have to think about it.  Natural selection obviously is a little slow, so you have these guys that clear out about three thousand people and take care of it for us.  I mean, yeah, it was sad and all, but I didn't know anyone involved.  It's hard to care about someone you never knew."

Cyclops' mouth hung open.  "So what you're saying is…"

"That I have a better plot than that."

"And that would be?" asked Jean, gesturing.

"Santa's been kidnapped by terrorists who plan on driving his sleigh, with him in it, into the White House!"

"Aww shit, that is like the same plot we had three seconds ago, you fuckstick," said Beast, rolling his eyes.

"Yeah, but it's Christmas!  Let's get those recruits and get to the X-Jet!"

*          *          *

            Storm stood with the three recruits, reading the newest issue of Ebony.  The  recruits giggled softly to each other.

            "So what is it that you do, like with your powers and stuff?" said the first, a young man dressed in a silver body suit with large silver sunglasses, like what old people wear when the sun is going to kill them.

            "Well, I was an eighties' rock star, but now I want to fight for the X-men.  Because I am a child of the eighties, I have the power of manipulating things from that time period.  Like jean jackets and Chevettes.  I can make them do whatever I want," replied the second trainee, a female who wore jeans, a black leather coat, and a headband.

            "Wow, that's pretty badass," said the silver-suited trainee.  "And you're who again?"

            "Chaka Khan."

            "Can I…?"

            "Just do it already, Dildor." (Dildor is the guy's name in the silver suit.)

            The boy in the silver suit paused for a second.  Then, he shouted "Khan!!!!!"

            Storm looked up from her magazine.  "What did you yell that for?"

            Dildor threw his hands up, shocked.  "Has no one seen Star Trek V: Wrath of Khan?"

            "What the hell is Star Trek?" asked Storm.

                                                STAR TREK INTERLUDE!!!!

            "What the hell is 'X-men'?" asked Picard, sitting in the captain's chair with his pants down.

            Wesley Crusher stopped what he was doing and looked up at Picard.  "Fuck if I know."

            "I didn't say you could stop."

            "Sorry, sir."

                                                *          *          *

            Meanwhile, in the Brotherhood of Mutants' evil lair, Mystique and Blob stood at a monitor connected to the video camera outside their totally evil lair. 

            "Damn, this sucks," said Blob.

            "What, not having Magneto around anymore?  Yeah, it was your fault he got busted by the Sentinels.  You were supposed to be guarding him, dipshit," replied Mystique.  "And not only that, but you lost the only key we had to Asteroid M's front door, so we can't even get in there.  So what do you do?  You found us a new lair, in the women's' bathroom at Denny's.  Jesus, you are stupid."

            Blob frowned at Mystique.  "Hey, you know what?"

            "What?"

            "You are an ass slut."

            "Fuck you."

            "Also, my uncle is an assistant manager here, so he said we could have this bathroom on weeknights, as long as we don't make a mess or kill any customers.  I think this is a perfect lair.  I mean, who the fuck goes to Denny's?  Not me.  'Moon Over My Hammys' is some nasty shit." Blob pulled out a piece of crumpled paper and glanced at it.  "Plus, we got all these new mutants coming to join our gang, so we'll be even stronger than before.  I mean, look at this.  We got The Kid that looks like Todd!  He is a master of disguise, because he kind of looks like this one kid, but he isn't!" Blob threw his hands up in gesture.

            Mystique looked at him and shook her head.  "Big fucking deal, you stupid asshole.  Who the fuck else did you get, Mr. Arbagi?"

            Blob looked down.  "Well, yes, we did.  But we also have Evil Jesus Man, Undead Dean Martin Man, and the best of all, our new leader.  Now that Magneto's being held by the Sentinels and we're just too goddamned lazy to get him out, his nephew, whose identity is a scaaary secret," Blob made wavy ghost hands, "has come to take his place."

            "And who might this be, you fat gas-huffing child-molesting ugly fuckchode?"

            Blob was about to speak but turned his head.  "Damn, you are a fucking bitch.  I hope you get cancer really soon." Mystique shrugged and gave him the finger.  "His name is Fagneato.  He has the, well, less interesting power to attract anything gay, like gay people, Volkswagons, and movies starring Crispin Glover."

            "That's it?" Mystique sighed.  "Fine, when do they get here?"

            "In the next few minutes," Blob answered, reaching for the door to the bathroom when an old lady entered before he could get ahold of the handle.

            "Oh, hello, young friends," said a few small, very short black lady who looked to be about ninety.  "I'm just here to drop some friends off at the pool.  I hope you can stand the smell." She rattled as she giggled at the last remark.

            "We were just leaving, actually," said Blob quickly, again reaching for the door.

            "Well, I hope you're going to the Y or something, because you look a bit too chubby, little man," she said playfully.  Mystique stifled a laugh.

            "And I hope you are going to get some respectable clothes, miss.  Nobody wants a whore walking around town, much less a blue whore," she finished, stepping into the first stall.  Blob chuckled.

            "Let's just fucking go," said Mystique, kicking the door open.

            *                                  *                                  *

Storm rested in her Lazy Boy, watching the tv blankly.  "Man, this show blows my anus," she said as Trading Spaces went to a commercial break.  A McDonalds commercial came up.

            Did you like our Chicken Selects?  Enjoy our Barbecue Sauce?  Well, you're in for a treat with our new BVD Selects!  We take thick, tender slices of soiled underpants and deep fry them in a decadent light batter, and serve them piping hot with a side order of shit sauce!  That's right, actual shit in a little serving cup!  Try our shit sauce in three flavors: Tangy Taco Shits, Delicious Diarrhea, and Peanutty-Shit Spectacular!  And just so you know for a fact that it's going to taste good, here's Vanessa Carlton to promote it:

            "I can honestly say, without hesitation, that McDonalds' BVD Selects are totally full of shit, just like my albums."

            That was Vanessa Carlton, promoting our tasty underpants food!  So wipe that shit-eating grin off of your face!  Better use a toothpick, those peanuts don't come out that easy!

            Inside Storm's head, her emotions raged.  How could someone sell trash like that and call it food?  People shouldn't have to settle for that!  People should stand up for their rights! 

Outside Storm's head, her mouth became slightly agape, and drool began to seep out as the thought of a tasty BVD Select filled her mind. 

            Suddenly, Cyclops rushed in.  "Storm, get the recruits!  We're going to the Stone Age!"

            "What?  Oh god, not that time machine bullshit again," she mumbled, gesturing to the recruits. 

            As they ran to the hangar, Storm asked what was going on. 

            "What's going on?" Storm asked (see, I told you.)

            "Can't…explain…must…get…to…hang…a…r…" huffed Cyclops, whose idea of exercise was obviously eating Fig Newtons in a baby pool.

            As they arrived in the hangar, Wolverine put his hand up.  "Hold on a second, Cyclops," he said.  "Now, while you were gone, we had a vote, and we decided that you, and only you, are going back in time.  We are staying because Christmas shopping is really more important than saving the stupid World Trade Center.  But, if you want, you can take one of the three recruits with you.  Who knows, maybe it'll be funnier that way."

            "Wait!  We never introduced the third recruit!" shouted Professor X.

            "Um, okay," said Beast, rolling his eyes.  "His name is Awkwardo, and his amazing ability-" he flailed his arms for effect, "-is to make situations far more awkward than they need to be.  Sometimes twice, sometimes ten, sometimes thousands of times more awkward!"

            "We got the point, you blue fuck," said Jean Grey.

            "Awkwardo; what are you, fucking black?  That sounds like Shaniqua or Lashanta, or some shit," said Wolverine."

            "And what the fuck is that supposed to mean?!" said Storm. 

            "Sorry, blackie," said Wolverine.  "And what does Dildor do again?"

            "I, uh, I make dildoes out of thin air.  Any size, any shape, any texture."

            "Wow, that sucks," said Xavier.

            "Yeah, tell me about it."

            "Well, I guess I'll take Dildor, since he's only slightly more interesting than the other two guys," said Cyclops, shrugging.

            Suddenly, the door to the hangar opened. 

            "May I come too?" 

            Everyone turned to look, but all that lay in the doorway was a large log that looked to be made of chocolate.

            "What the fuck is that?" said Wolverine.

            "Looks like some kind of chocolate log," replied Storm.

            "I am the Chocolate Sex Log, to be exact," replied the inanimate log on the cement floor.  "And I must go with the loser Cyclops to the past to stop Al-Queida from destroying the Towers.  You see, they killed my brothers, the Vanilla Abstinence Wedges, and the Butterscotch Dry Hump Patties.  For this they must be denied their greatest crime to humanity, and I will do this by removing them from existence!" The log jumped slightly in the air.

            "How do you plan to do that?" said Beast.

            "Wait, wait, wait," said Xavier, waving his hands in the air.  "First of all, how the fuck do you talk with no mouth, see with no eyes, and move with no body parts?"

            "I move by way of the machine called Segway.  I left it out front.  The other two questions, please disregard them."

            "What the fuck," said Professor X, puffing his joint.

            "Well, time's a-wasting; let's do this!" yelled Cyclops.  He held his time machine in the air, and began to mumble, quiet at first, but then louder and louder until it was clearly audible.

            Beast whispered to Jean Grey.  "Is that…?"

            "Yeah, it's the 'Facts of Life' theme song.  It's his favorite show."

            "Wow, that's just sad."

            "Tell me about it.  When we fuck, he calls me Rooty!" Jean threw her hands up in the air to emphasize whatever point she may have been trying to make.

            Cyclops began to spin in circles, now screaming his beloved theme song.

            Slowly, one by one, every X-man had left the hangar, until only CSL and Dildor remained.  About twenty minutes later, Cyclops fell to the floor, completely passed out. 

            Dildor and CSL approached his prone form.

            "What do we do?" said Dildor, producing a ten-foot dildo and prodding Cyclops's temple with it.

            "Well, first, we use a real time machine," said CSL, who suddenly had a headset on.  He spoke quickly, and moments later, the Segway rolled in to a halt.  With a short, bizarre hop, CSL was aboard.  "Okay, place these poles around you and Cyclops to form a circle.  When you're ready, we're going to the…what time period did he say he wanted to go to?"

            "Stone Age," said Dildor, shrugging.

            "Well, whatever.  Let's do this."

                                    *                                  *                                  *

            Mystique and Blob stood by Blob's ratty Honda Civic in the Denny's parking lot, waiting for the recruits and new leader to arrive. 

            "Goddamn, when are these motherfuckers going to get here?  My legs hurt," whined Mystique.

            "Maybe if you didn't let your yeast infection turn into full blown 'nasty dirty pussy' that sort of thing wouldn't happen." Blob smiled.

            Mystique gave Blob the finger, and turned to see a bright green four door Accord roll into the parking lot.  Fagneato was the first to get out, his pink and green cape flapping in the evening breeze.  "Hey bitches," he said in a high-pitched voice.  "I'm here to get this party going with a little help from…" he reached into the car and turned his stereo up, "…KC and the Sunshine Band!" The Accord's subs rattled the trunk, and the back window shattered, showing two recruits looking very timid.  An old man stepped out from the passenger seat, dressed in a grey suit, holding an 8-ball. 

            "I am Mr. Arbagi," he said plainly, tossing the 8-ball to himself.

            The two other recruits stepped out, and the Accord dropped on its hydraulics. 

            The first recruit looked like Dean Martin.  "I am Undead Dean Martin Man!" he declared, while the other one, dressed like Jesus with grossly oversized vampire fangs and a black Quiet Riot t-shirt over his white gown, stepped out.

            Fagneato pulled a microphone from his car, and spoke.  "Here, we have Evil Jesus man, sporting a lovely white gown with a black t-shirt over it.  Very modern!"

            "What is this, a fashion show?" whispered Mystique to Blob.

            "Looks more like the Lilith Fair," replied Blob.

            The music ended and the three villians shook hands with Blob and Mystique.

            "Where's The Kid Who Looks like Todd?" asked Mystique.

            "Dead," replied Undead Dean Martin.

            "Oh."

            "So, what's the master plan?" asked Fagneato.  "Cause, whatever it is, my ass is running it now."

            "Well, really, all we're trying to do is buy enough Christmas presents for everyone.  Everyone in our group.  You know, Secret Santa, all that.  But it's hard, because we don't have any money, any lair, or any good ideas," said Mystique.

            "Why not steal Santa's sleigh and keep all of the presents to ourselves?" said Evil Jesus Man, snickering and rubbing his hands together.  Mystique, instead of answering, looked at his hands.

            "Where are the nails?" she asked plainly.

            "Excuse me?" EJM replied, pausing mid-rub.

            "You know, Jesus got crucified, did Evil Jesus not get crucified?" Mystique rolled her eyes.

Evil Jesus Man looked down at his hands for a few seconds, obviously searching for a clever answer.  "Well," he said at last, "Evil Jesus was wearing gloves at the time, expensive gloves; and his persecutors did not want to pierce the fancy leather, so, um, they just threw him in a well and did the 'Silence of the Lambs' thing for a while and then dropped him off at a Stuckey's in Idaho."Mystique stared, and then quietly closed her mouth in a smug expression. 

She opened her mouth as if to say something, but all she could manage was "You fucking shithead."

Friends, there will be a new Interlude coming soon, called "Harry Picarder and the Lucky Hat-lows", so keep an eye out for that.

Ha ha.  I made you think that something important happened.  I am getting a physical tomorrow, so you know, put that in your pipe and smoke it, you fucking hippies.