Fifth birthday coming up. I'll throw a party hat on
Bender, raise a glass of
arsenic flavored rice milk, and toast
those who have an appreciation for history, such as it is on the web. But then, the author of that post
is an archaeologist.
Captain's Log, stardate the Ides of March. Starfleet Command requests a survey of yet another planet. Ensigns Lyon, Tinman, and Scarecrow are beamed to their doom. In the autopsies Bones discovers they're all missing something. I warned them not to wear red. Spock offers to complete the mission. Once in the field he goes native, his logic bent by the prism of expedience. His rescue will have to wait for the sequel. I order Sulu to warp us the hell out of there. "Where to?" he asks. "Don't ask, don't tell," I tell him. He closes his eyes and throws a dart at his star chart (a good helmsman knows his captain). We may not be going anywhere in particular, but I'll be damned if we won't do it boldly.