Personal Log 004

Posted on 30 Sep 2015 @ 6:08pm by Chief Warrant Officer 2 Vasily Sokolov Ph.D.

533 words; about a 3 minute read

Computer, begin personal log.

Ship hits one small anomaly, suddenly all hell breaks loose on ship. Soft, weak little Starfleet boys and girls cannot rough it for week without precious sonic shower and replicator. This is why Starfleet loses fights with Borgs and Dominion, because they are soft. They forget frontier spirit. They forget self-sufficiency. They need Tholian silk sheets on bed and pretty music and big lavish meals always, all the time.

With so much damage to decks three and four, now ship is like homeless shelter because quarters are closed for repair. Everyone is displaced person. In section seven I see line of laundry hanging across corridor, like corridor is alleyway between Moscow apartment buildings. Hello? This is still Starfleet ship. Vasily does not want to see enormous grandmother panties of Dr. Alethea Coleman stretched out like parachute flapping in corridor breeze. So sorry that replicator sterilization cycle is offline to conserve energy for real repairs but do not punish whole ship with exposed undergarments, okay? They can dry inside quarters just as well as outside quarters. It is common courtesy.

Ship is also now like damn barnyard with animals running everywhere. People cannot contain pets. Okay, door to your quarters is broken, I know. But maybe put up something to keep dog in quarters, what do you think? Vasily sees dog shit in corner on deck four. Whose dog is this, shitting in corridor? This is 18th-century Krakow or 24th-century modern starship? Come on. Take dog to shit in arboretum, not in corridor next to planetary development lab. If Vasily is in charge then no pets. Why do you need pet? This is Nova-class ship, not floating dog park for bourgeoisie Starfleet officers. You do science, like grown up, don't worry about cuddling dog. Little girls in pretty dresses back on Earth, they will cuddle all dogs for you.

Also, mess hall looks like f--king soup kitchen from Hell when Vasily goes for meal. Hungry, tired, disheveled looking weaklings shuffling in line for ration bar, like condemned men at gallows. 'Oh, ration bar taste so bad, I wish I had jumja stick.' Shut up, okay? There is no jumja stick on asteroid. Besides, Starfleet ration bar is pinnacle of nutritional science. You eat ration bar and be happy for it. What about starving little spoonheaded boys and girls in Cardassian space, hm? Don’t you think they wish they had Starfleet ration bar? Of course. Everyone wants Starfleet ration bar, except hoity toity Starfleet personnel. It will keep you alive and put hair on chest, like man. Eat it, be happy, do science.

Finally, sense of entitlement is driving Vasily crazy. ‘Oh, Dr. Sokolov, light on my sink doesn’t work, could you fix?’ Oh, sure, yes, no problem. Let me drop everything so you can put on makeup better. Realigning magnetic constrictors on warp core is secondary to covering up hideous face of random Andorian crewmember, absolutely. Don’t worry about following procedure and filing work request, there is no queue of more important tasks. In fact, there is nothing more important on ship than you, ugly Andorian with ass for face. Nothing at all.

Computer, end log.

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