Angry Seafood

It is inevitable that there will be Star Trek films made well into in the future. I think even if we all blew each other up with nukes, the humans in 2130 would then act them out using sticks and stones. Einstein said we would be fighting in this way in World War Four. He never dreamed we would put on a rendition of a Star Trek sequel instead.

So I figure at some point I will get to write a Star Trek script. I must be prepared. Not only should I have a plotline in mind, but I have to be sure to cover ground my predecessors have not walked upon.

I give you ‘Star Trek XXXVI: The Search for and Wrath of Chekhov’

Catchy isn’t it? The name rolls off your tongue like the finest box wine.

The movie opens at the Interstellar Space Retirement Mobile Home Park. The crew of the Enterprise is sitting around on the bridge discussing something important.

Picard: “What is your favorite cover song? Number One your answer?”
Number One: “I think we should bat this around with the crew first.”
Worf: “The Klingon Code requires that I do not answer that question.”
Picard:” Code? I don’t understand.”
Worf: “It is a long-standing tradition….”

Twenty minutes later he finishes rambling and the question comes to Data.

Data: “I have processed the various frequencies and variations of the minutia as well as the minutiae and have determined the subsequent coaxial of the variables…”
Picard: “Your point?”
Data: “I believe I can remake any song as the ultimate musical masterpiece.”
Picard: “Show me.”

So they load Neo up and everyone runs in to the control room to see him fight Morpheus…hold on wrong movie sorry.

Data plays his remake of Anita Ward’s ‘Ring My Bell’. Horrific screeching and banging fill the air. The crew’s ears are bleeding.

Chekhov suddenly jumps up and yells “They have creatures…in our ears!” and runs out the bridge door screaming and clutching his ears. He arrives at an unguarded airlock and proceeds to jump out into space, perishing instantly. While doing so, some very expensive computer hardware got sucked out as well. This was at the worst time because the starship payment was due next week. The last thing the crew needed was to shell out more money. Their social security checks barely cover the bills as it is.

To make matters worse, the transporter was one of the pieces of equipment and everyone knows how much of a pain in the ass it is to land a starship. If the bathrooms were to fail, for example, they would be screwed.

Chekhov’s remains land on the Genesis planet, where he regenerates and grows up all over again. This time however he is subjected to non-stop repeats of ‘Umbrella’ and the chorus of ‘Big Girls Don’t Cry’ sung in French by an off-key tenor. This drives him mad causing him to head up an evil reign of terror in the universe.

Meanwhile, the crew of the Enterprise gets wind of this news and heads to the Genesis planet. They want their money back and are one pissed-off crew. Starfleet also hears about it and sends a ragtag bumbling group of misfit cadets to investigate the situation.

The cadets get to the Genesis planet but being that they always screw things up, get taken hostage by Chekhov and his not-so merry band of followers, Bavarian midgets angry at Da Man.

Chekhov makes it a point to put grub worms in their ears. He wanted scary ones that would dig in their ears and possess their mind but the local conditions are not good for that kind of species. He did however grow the grubs to be four feet long.

Of course this would cause the host to explode instantly once it burrowed into the ear canal, which isn’t good for Chekhov’s cause. Killing the hostages doesn’t help leverage. But Starfleet doesn’t know this and he takes advantage of their ignorance.

The Starfleet Hostage Reclamation Team shows up and engages Chekhov in a starship battle. In the middle of all this the Enterprise shows up with all kinds of police and lawyers.

During the climactic finale, Chekhov sneaks onto the Enterprise after eating Taco Bell and clogs every toilet on the starship. He is caught and arrested after an epic gunfight.

The battle then moves to the courtroom where it drags on and on for centuries.

In the end the lawyers have all the money, Starfleet files for bankruptcy, the case is dropped by reason of insanity and the Enterprise is still waiting for their insurance claim on the lost equipment and the transporter to be processed. They also have to pee really really bad.

The End

(Reprinted from former blog)

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While I have an open mind that there is potential for life on other planets, it creates a paradox for us. If there are sentient beings out there, how does anyone go faster then the universe’s speed limit of light? We can not get to them and they cannot get to us. Perhaps we can send each other messages but how reliable would that be seeing that we are not always successful with a cell phone call to someone a town over?

Us: “We are going to bomb the crap out of you. Ha ha! We are such jokers on planet Earth. People always say a great way to start a conversation with a stranger is a good joke. So hello there Planet Z from Planet Earth!”

The message never makes it there in its entirety. Planet Z only received the first sentence and now they are on their way over to bomb the crap out of us with their super high-tech jet fighters and spaceships. Then it gets worse as they try to contact us just in case it is a miscommunication and not really a threat.

Planet Z: “Why did you say that?”
Us: “It was a joke!”
Planet Z: “We did not get joke part!”
Us: “You guys have no sense of humor!”
Planet Z: “No seriously, we did not receive the joke part. Man, we are idiots! Boy, you sure got us, trekking all the way over here like this. Are we on camera anywhere? I know there’s a hidden camera somewhere! Oh man you Earthlings are funny people. We want to share our vast wealth of technology, including the cure for all of your diseases and ailments, interstellar spaceflight, alternative clean fuel sources as powerful as oil, how to build societies underwater. There is so much we can teach you…”

Ka-Boom!!

Unfortunately, once again Planet Z’s cell phone dropped the call and Earth never heard any of that last paragraph of the transmission. Instead we aimed our nukes at the ships and blew them all up, thus eradicating an entire alien species.

With our luck that will be the only other sentient humanoid race in the universe besides us.

(Reprinted from the former blog)

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One of the best things I liked about being in the fraternity I was in was that we were very good at messing with our recruits in time-honored and classic tests of their trust in us. One of these methods is affectionately known as the ‘Corn Flakes’ game.

The funny thing was, the pledges bought into it. Not because they were drunk, but rather that we were aware of the notion that sleep deprivation is very helpful to messing with people. We were fun like that. We would call them up at all hours, just to wake them up for no reason. We would round them up at three am to do something stupid like run around the fraternity house naked six times then send them back to their dorm rooms.

The game began with the customary lining up of the pledges along the ‘wall’ after a heavy night of drinking by us. Not them, just us. By limiting the pledges to alcohol we not only insured minimal problems but had designated drivers for the weekends. When we did get in trouble it was for parties that were too big, never abuse to a future member.

We once got suspended. Was it for recruiting violations? Nope. Was it for hazing? Nope. We had 1,000 people in a club that was allowed to max out at 800. We got in trouble for breaking the fire code. Thankfully, Great White wasn’t there.

Practical jokes on recruits that teach lessons are the way to go every time. Hell, one time we played one on our recruits on initiation night. We got them thinking they weren’t getting in because of information they don’t find until the formal initiation. That is a story for another time of course, just one of the many examples of how to do things right.

The plebes would spend many a night in front of the concrete foundation of our basement, sometimes standing, sometimes doing push ups. Some of them even gave the wall a name. We had weird recruits.

So we got angry, fake angry of course and started yelling at them because of something stupid, much like a dysfunctional relationship. We began smashing bottles on the floor and making a scene. Then we led all the pledges to the second floor and blindfolded them.

If someone ever walked in at that moment, they would have thought it was some kind of a hostage situation. There was screaming and yelling in the basement, and a bunch of people blindfolded on the first and second floors. Did I mention this was all taking place about 5 am EST? I have no idea why I included the time zone, consider me being thorough.

One at a time, we marched them down to the basement, made them take off their shoes and stand on a chair. We asked them about trust and if they trusted us. Eventually we got them to jump off the chair into the broken glass. Actually we ‘asked’ in the form of yelling.

Wow were we twisted or what? Of course not, this was a fraternity, not some kind of secret underground kung fu operation.

What the plebes did not know is that while they were upstairs, we swept all the glass up (we even bought one of those really coarse push brooms to make sure we got all the pieces) and replaced it with cornflakes and water. We moved them initially to the second floor for this reason, so they would not hear the clean-up. We also made sure to take the people who went through it to the first floor, away from the ones who hadn’t yet experienced the ritual.

Of course, once they jumped, they realized it wasn’t really broken glass and that they fell for a really obvious trick. I am sure some faked it, and others really believed it. But every time there was at least one person that bought into it hook line and sinker.

That guy always ended up being the one most eager to do the trick to the next pledge class. I think we were less a fraternity and more a reality show on messing with people in a harmless way.

Good times, good times.

(Reprinted from former blog)

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Back in 2001, I tried out the business world for six months. The job I held was a sales position at a company in New Jersey that sold Irish products to stores in America. I learned two lessons there.

The first is that there are two types of Irish products: gifts Americans think Irish people want for gifts, and Irish goods and products Irish people actually want.

I don’t mean to offend anyone; my relatives are of that nationality. I am also part as well. So then it is ok to give a person from Canada a shot glass from Niagara Falls? Of course not but a lot of people would. Shamrock socks are not a great Christmas gift for someone from Ireland.

Anyways, throughout the year, we would pack up a van with our products and schlep to a sales show, usually at a big hotel. Once there, store owners from across the country would peruse our products and place orders while there.

This time we were headed to Illinois, a sixteen-hour trip. It was also the day after 9/11. That was eerie because we brought along one of those little portable televisions and watched the news the whole way there.

The surreal-ness would not end with the trip itself, but rather the time warp that is the Midwest. It is like another world out there, as if you stumbled into a real-life Pleasantville. That was lesson two.

An encounter with a person interested in our products set the tone for what I am talking about. It was a well-meaning woman who wanted a gift for someone.

Lady: “Do you have any gym shoes?”
Me: “Gym shoes?”
Lady: “Yes, gym shoes, you know for the gym, or tennis.”
Me: “Oh you mean sneakers.”
Lady: “Yes, that is what we call sneakers here, gym shoes. Or tennis shoes.”
Me: “Last time I heard sneakers called gym shoes people did the twist and went to sock hops.”
Lady: “As a matter of fact…”
Me: “I didn’t think you guys were that far back in time here.”
Lady: “We prefer to call it retro.”
Me: “Fair enough. You play a lot of classic rock here and I like it, so who am I to judge. So tell me, what do you call sneakers you don’t wear at the gym?”
Lady: “Tennis shoes.”
Me: “Are you playing tennis?”
Lady: “No. But the word sneaker does imply some form of stealth movement. Are you to infer that people who wear sneakers are bandying about like modern-day ninjas?”
Me: “Touché ma’am. What size are you looking for?”

I will never forget that trip.

(Reprinted from former blog)

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