Command Squabble only half-baked

In the second conflict of President Larry "James A." Garfield's administration, much is at stake: dignity, humanity, and a nickname. The nickname in question belongs to Engineering Department personality Israel "Izzy" Harris; "Captain Toke" is a name that Harris has used on many a design spec throughout his infamous STF career. Only now has Dockmaster (and, coincidentally, President) Larry "Odie" Garfield raised opposition to the nickname, which implies un-STFian activities. "I think we all know what it means," said Garfield with a wink. "You know what he's referring to." In fact, an eighty-page report authored by the OC Committee on Un-STFian Activities discovered twenty-five entomological suggestions for the meaning of "Toke," only a few of which are actually bad in any kind of way. "You know," noted OCUSTFA chairman Josephine McCarthy, "in the Masai language it's actually a compliment." Garfield had asked Harris to stop using that name, and Harris politely replied that he would not. Harris then brought the issue to Command, most likely to garner positive PR for himself, even though it was clearly an ED issue.

But perhaps the problem goes deeper than that. Harris has been known to make overt references to the kinds of activities enjoyed by his fictional (or not) Captain. Ship specs authored by him indicate large areas devoted to plant-growth. "He's just a botanist!" said friend Alice B. Toklas. "Can't you people leave him alone?! Hey, want a brownie?" Many defenders of Harris were quick to point out that there was still some doubt about the real occupation of Captain Toke, since Izzy has never explicitly stated what he does, and it is this ambiguity that keeps descriptions of Toke nice and legal. "Come on," noted former Constellation CO Mike "The Shark" Ballway, "do you really think J.R. Stevenson was 'all there', if you know what I mean?" He then proceeded to make a gesture that, due to its un-STFian nature, cannot be described in this family publication.

Fewer weirdos again

For STFians, the Census is like a second Christmas, a second Birthday, or a second opening day of Hudson Hawk. And yet, every time we see the Census, we are horrified to see that numbers are dwindling, populations are decreasing, and it's only a matter of time before we must all resort to cannibalism to survive.

The STF Census Report of 01 January 2002, authored by Censusmaster and President Larry "President" Garfield, shows a membership decrease since the last Census, dated 02 March 2001, of 28 people (or 12%). Character numbers have declined at a slightly greater rate: 78 characters, or 14.7%. Mercifully, the introduction of Fleet 7 has brought the number of characters per fleet down from 88 to 64.3 (a decline that is not completely explained by a reduction in overall characters; if characters per fleet declined with the declination in characters, we would have 75.064 characters per fleet). Perhaps the most surprising news from the latest Census is that Lieutenant has overtaken both Lieutenant (j.g.) and Ensign as the most popular rank; in past Censuses, Lieutenant and Lieutenant (j.g.) held tenuously to a near-tie for "most popular rank," with each one overtaking the other by a few numbers in each census. The meaning of all this is obvious to secret agent Jack Stone, who reported, "I'm not saying I believe it. I'm just saying that, after all we've learned, we can't afford to dismiss it."

Many meter-maids and normally calm therapists took issue with the Census, noting that it does not take into account AWOL people or people who haven't joined STF yet. It is also based on the antiquated notion of a round Earth whose "day" is one rotation long. "The real population is in the thousands!" said world-renowned scientist Gene Ray. "The thought police want you to believe that there's only one rotation in a day; in fact, there are four! If you describe a cube about the sphere of the Earth, you find that there are no fewer than four days; this is what I call "Time Cube." The establishment has been lying to us since the beginning of civilization, probably longer. It's difficult to tell." Gene Ray will be speaking at MIT on January 30 to discuss his Time Cube theories with real scientists (unfortunately, it's only open to MIT staff and students. And while we're here, we swear we're not making this up).

He's no longer anyone's 'Lackie'

For the time being, the lame jokes like the one above will have to be stopped. AFComm-7, former President, and Governor of North Dakota Nick "Woo hoo! Freedom from being someone's" Lackie retired from STF last week, ending a career that included, among other things, getting Gilligan's autograph ... and then whomping him with his hat. STF Mike Larry I was also sad to see him go; so sad, in fact, that he titled Edict #4 "Oh No, More Lemmings!" Claudette "Sir Francis" Drake was named Lackie's successor as Chief Orangutan of Fleet Seven's USS Brandywine. In another bizarre twist of fate, Scott Dale "Crusoe" Robison was promoted to the rank of Fleet Captain, given a Christmas goose, and put in charge of the USS Revelation following the so-called "resignation" of Seamus "R." Hughes (in fact, it was an LOA). Garfield ended his Edict by asking that "may The Sisko have mercy on his soul." Representatives from the Angolian Cartographers' Liberation Union were quick to point out that his use of the name "Sisko" is a violation of the separation between Sisko and State. Said ACLU marketing representative Ralph Waldo McBain, "In the STF Constitution, it describes as a ten-foot high concrete barrier with barbed wire on top -- with a moat! -- between Sisko and State. This, clearly, takes a big tank and rams it through that barrier, although I'm not sure how the tank would get across the moat, assuming it's a big moat. I'll get back to you on that." Instead of getting back to us, McBain went to a local deli, bought a sandwich, then climbed into a mailbox to eat it. Experts predict that he's still there now, though it is unknown whether or not he has finished the sandwich.

Unknown assailant detonates Jell-O bomb on Starbase 93

The day began like most other days for the hard-working folks at Starbase 93, the Great White Fleet's command center. NEs went to get killed in the most horrible ways, commodores and admirals went to their offices to nap the day away, and the shrine to Grace "Julie" Larsen remained the most visited sight on the base, next to the bathroom (not only was it geographically next to the bathroom, but the bathroom had slightly more visitors). Then, at twenty-two minutes past 1100 hours, a bomb exploded on the starbase's promenade, killing 155 NEs who were on their way to make intergalactic peace. "We will not tolerate this sort of thing," said FComm-2 Chris "Kataan" Ashley. "Incendiary devices, though sometimes spectacular in the hands of expert pyrotechnicians, are not permissible for detonation on promenades." Investigators sifted through the wreckage, which was negligible, since the bomb exploded in the middle of an empty hallway, strangely occupied by only the NEs. Lieutenant Frank Drebin of Police Squad, in his report, noted that the explosive device had "cherry-flavored characteristics." Lab tests discovered that the bomb was a type A-47 gelatin-based explosive. "The existence of 'cherry' and 'gelatin' and 'bomb' in the same sentence points to only one place: Fleet One!" remarked Drebin. Representatives for The Foremost Fleet were shocked and appalled that such charges could be directed at them. "These [blank] charges are [blank] outrageous!" noted FComm-1 Greg "Give 'till it" Hertzsch. "This is the most [blank] attack on our Fleet One style of living since the [blank] of '72!" Authorities wanted to question one John Fund, listed on official Fleet One payrolls as a "spy" (the record-keepers at Fleet One's secret agency, MI-24, aren't bright people), but were unable to find him. It is believed that he is hiding out somewhere in Fleet 4. The case remains unsolved, unless readers can offer any information to Police Squad.

Every year at about this time, the inhabitants of Rigel VII celebrate a bizarre holiday called the Rigelian Special Sauce festival. All the planet's native and naturalized citizens are required to dive into a huge pool of Special Sauce; this has something to do with celebrating their independence from their old military dictator, Mayor Ayatollah "Sparky" McCheese (Mayor McCheese for short). I had often heard about the Special Sauce festival, which is only one component of Big Mac Week, a week-long celebration that commemorates the War for Independence fifty years ago. As I said before, at the time Rigel VII was under the brutal control of Mayor McCheese, and that was about all I knew. So, when I was asked to report on this year's Big Mac Week and Special Sauce festival, I was a little intrigued. I was also a little disgusted. I hoped they wouldn't make me dive into the Special Sauce.

When I finally arrived on Rigel VII, the air was infected with a smell I couldn't quite place. Then it came to me: onions. Lots of onions. I mentioned this fact to my guide, Hildebrandt. He was a young man, perhaps twenty-five, who had lived here all his life and made it his job to show people around and tell them stories. "Oh, yes," he said in Rigelian (which just happens to be exactly the same as English), "we burn onions for power. By utilizing them in an advanced fusion reactor, we have invented a power source that is 99.44% efficient."

"That's amazing!" I said. "Why haven't other civilizations done this? It would save the entire galaxy millions in fuel costs!"

"Well," said Hildebrandt, "when we told them we used onions, they just laughed at us. Their loss, I guess."

Rigel VII is divided into five regions - called "franchises" (a holdover from the Mayor McCheese reign) - that roughly equate to countries. Sort of. Each franchise is independent, but derives its authority from a central office, called "Corporate Headquarters." Citizens can even start their own franchises with support from Corporate Headquarters, if they so choose. Once a year, the leaders of each franchise, called "Regional Directors," meet at Corporate Headquarters to discuss what they've done over the current year, what they hope to accomplish, and generally to communicate with one-another about what works and what doesn't.

I asked Hildebrandt about the history of the Mayor McCheese reign. It's quite a story.

"Fifty years ago, the economy of Rigel VII was in deep trouble," he began. "We had just suffered a huge loss in the Sector 24 fried ice cream market; things were going downhill fast. My grandfather had to resort to odd jobs at various pizza parlors, barber shops, and furniture superstores just to make ends meet. Then, from seemingly nowhere, arrived in town this man who was not a man. He was a hamburger. His name was Ayatollah McCheese; some people called him 'Sparky,' while others simply called him 'Mayor McCheese,' since 'Mayor' was the title we bestowed upon the leader of the planet. No one could explain why or how this hamburger-man walked or talked or even existed. No one dared explain it, for one of our ancient books, called Professor Frink's Handy Guide to Theology, prophesied that a great leader would come to us in the form of a hamburger. Everyone was overjoyed; they assumed he would solve the planet's problems.

"The first thing he did was institute the franchise system. Everyone loved that, and his support grew. Then things got bad. Money disappeared from the treasury. All at once, the eating of hamburgers was forbidden, punishable by death! Next came chicken nuggets, then French fries, and finally milkshakes. The people didn't understand - our great hamburgeresque leader had turned on us; it was horrible! We began to take an economic slide greater than the one we experienced before. My grandfather was tying to speak out against the tyranny of Mayor McCheese, trying to make people aware of what was going on, but they were too afraid to respond to the events happening around them. The McCheese Guard arrested him one night and threw him in prison. All he had to eat there was sesame seeds; it was a horrible irony!

"Then, one day, in the middle of the night, one of McCheese's own men turned on him. The scene they described in the papers the next day was horrendous: there was ketchup everywhere, shards of iceberg lettuce strewn about the room. The person responsible for McCheese's death had himself died as a result of the spatula fight they had. But people looked beyond that and saw, like the Phoenix, something hopeful out of this death: we were free! The people of Rigel VII had thrown off the yoke of oppression imposed by the evil Mayor McCheese. A new government, based around the successful franchise system, was created, and we have been prosperous ever since. My grandfather was, much to everyone's surprise, also venerated as a hero. He wore a black fedora and black-and-white striped suit with a black cape; because of this, The McCheese government's internal name for him was 'The Hamburglar.' So, this was the name we gave to the new symbol of our new country. It makes me proud to see the 220-foot statue of The Hamburglar in front of Corporate Headquarters and know that he was my grandfather."

When I arrived at my hotel, final preparations were being made for the Special Sauce festival, to be held later that evening. "What is that Special Sauce made of, exactly?"

Hildebrandt's eyes grew wide with childlike wonder. "No one knows. It is a top-level government secret, passed down through thousands of years. Only five people in the entire galaxy know the complete recipe. Many have tried to reverse-engineer Special Sauce, but it is never quite correct."

That night was the Special Sauce festival. Beginning at sundown, it opened with fireworks, a parade, and then the big announcement: sauce-jumping would begin alphabetically in eight giant pools they had prepared especially for this occasion. They looked like pools: they had diving boards, but were filled with hundreds of gallons of Special Sauce. From my vantage point, it looked like people muttered prayers of some kind before diving in. No doubt in the religion here on Rigel VII this is almost like a baptism, except with Special Sauce. It's also like a New Year's celebration: a change, for the better, symbolized by diving into Special Sauce. I never said it made sense to me.

Though I would have liked to stay longer, SNN could only afford to keep me on Rigel VII so long (and they wouldn't have given me the column-inches for any more reporting, either, the cheapskates). Back at the shuttle port, I bid a fond farewell to my guide, Hildebrandt. As the grandson of The Hamburglar, he is no doubt destined for great things. He was quite excited about me leaving: hollering, pointing, shouting something that sounded like "You forgot your pants!" Ah, good old Hildebrandt: in the tradition of the symbolism of the previous night, he was indicating that I had forgotten my old ways. You see, I too, made a pledge as I watched 54 million Rigelians dive into eight pools of Special Sauce: I vowed that I, too, would change. I marveled at how Rigel VII had changed in just fifty years, going from one polar opposite to the other. Hildebrandt must have seen this change - was it so quick and so obvious? - and wondered where my "pants" were, where the symbol of my old life was.

"Don't worry," I yelled. "I--" And I looked down. He was right: I really wasn't wearing any pants.

Where's your Messiah now, Flanders?

Thankfully, STF's political atmosphere has kept a low-profile at the beginning of this third month of the Garfield administration (and it has remained so through the middle of December). Although, this could also be due to the startling increase in LOAs that accompany the holiday season, so maybe we're speaking too soon (that well-intentioned Challenger discussion, though, could turn into a food-fight fairly quickly). In any case, we've resorted to making up news to satiate STFians' desire for inane gobbledygook (for more inane gobbledygook, refer to Rush Limbaugh).

But be sure that any goobledygook you read here will adhere very strictly to only the highest standards: those of our Journalistic Motto of "Quick, Informative, Totally Biased Reporting" of STF Events.

It's been a blast here in yet another one of our prime-numbered issue (it seems like forever since out last one, II.69), but never fear: II.73 is just around the corner with more indivisible fun! Plus, we'll hear another story in the travelogue of H. Simon Gregory, as well as more from Your Friends at Starfleet Command, assuming anything happens over there (and usually, nothing ever does).