AUTHOR'S NOTE: Last time we parodied some classic moments in Star Trek. Now it's time to widen the net a little bit. Believe it or not, there are other shows on TV.

Author: Alan Decker, Anthony Butler
Copyright: 2004

Star Traks: Waystation in…

Lisa The Vampire Slayer


The screams of panicked patrons in Starfleet Square Mall grew louder and louder as a horde of beings raced toward where Captain Lisa Beck stood, flanked by Yeoman Tina Jones and Lieutenant Commander Craig Porter.

“Must be a sale at Dillon’s,” Craig remarked dodging a fleeing Tellarite.

“I don’t think that’s cause for quite this much wigging,” Lisa replied. “And this is mucho wigging.”

“Um…er…maybe it’s that,” Tina said nervously pointing at the humanoid figure stalking their way, its face a grotesque mask of evil as it hissed, revealing a set of protruding fangs.

The creature suddenly leapt with surprising speed at a Betazoid man running by it, sinking its teeth roughly into man’s neck. Tina quickly covered her eyes as Craig gagged slightly.

“That is now officially at the top of the list of things I never want to see again,” Craig said.

“What is up with this guy?” Lisa asked.

“Offhand, I’d guess he was a vampire.”

At the mention of the word, the creature dropped its lunch, glaring at Lisa, Craig, and Tina with fresh blood dripping from its mouth.

“Vampire, huh? Like Earth fairy tale, ‘mommy, there’s a monster under by bed,’ icky creepiness vampire?”

“Looks like it.”

“Queerness. So what do we do about him…besides get him a napkin?”

Tina, who at this point had backed up behind Lisa and Craig, piped up. “I think you can put a wooden stake through its heart.”

“This is a 24th century space station. There’s not exactly a lot of wood laying around,” Lisa said.

Craig, meanwhile, raced over to a nearby potted tree decorating the mall concourse. “I’m all over it!” He yanked on a branch, which was quite content to stay where it was.

“I don’t think that’s real,” Tina called.

“Bad fake tree! Bad!” Craig said, running quickly back over to Lisa as the vampire began to move. It made a dash toward Craig, then quickly changed direction as a more appetizing portly Vulcan trotted by.

“Oooh. Bad call,” Lisa said as the vampire chomped down on the stoic Vulcan’s neck. All in all, Lisa was impressed that the Vulcan managed to keep the whole emotionless thing going while being attacked by a raging monster.

“Why bad?” Tina asked.

The vampire suddenly screamed in disgust and shoved the Vulcan man violently away, sending him smashing through the window of the Andorian Restaurant. It immediately began spitting green liquid out as quickly as possible.

“Copper-based blood,” Lisa said. “Not too tasty, huh, ugly?”

The vampire hissed angrily, turning its full attention on Lisa.

“Okay. Wooden stakes are out. What else?”

“Um…,” Tina said, thinking frantically. “Cut its head off. Catch him on fire. I don’t think they like garlic. Sunlight works, but we don’t have any of that around either.”

Lisa whipped out her phaser and fired. The vampire abruptly ignited into a ball of flame, which quickly burnt out, leaving only a pile of ash on the deck.

“Or you could do that,” Tina said as Lisa smiled and reholstered her weapon.


The Original Star Traks in…

Friends


“So…,” Captain Alexander Rydell said as he sat on the sofa with the world’s largest coffee mug in his hand. “This place is…quaint.”

“F***ing waste of time,” Commander Scott Baird muttered from the nearby arm chair.

“No no no. You’re supposed to be more endearing than that,” Counselor Claire Webber scolded from another chair across the way. “Try saying this. ‘How YOU doin’?”

“What the f*** was that?”

“Scott! Be good!” Webber snapped. “We’re doing a show here.”

“Hip young people in a coffee shop, right?” Rydell said.

“Exactly.”

“See. I do read memos occasionally.” He looked at the mug in his hand. “Okay. Could this mug BE any bigger?”

“Don’t they have anything besides coffee?” Commander Patricia Hawkins asked as she walked over from the counter.

“It is a coffee shop,” Rydell observed.

“Okay. But what about that freaky white-haired guy behind the counter who keeps staring at me?”

“I think you pretty much nailed that one with freak.”

“Back,” Karina Durham, hopping onto the sofa beside Rydell. “Sorry about that. Coffee really runs through me.”

“Not just you. The mens’ room has more urinals than Jaroch has past lives.”

“Can we get on with this?” Baird asked testily.

“We need one more person,” Counselor Webber said. “We’re a group of six. Three men. Three women. Once the last man gets here, we’re supposed to engage in witty banter full of sexual innuendos.”

“Then we can leave?” Baird said.

“Yes, Mister Anxious.”

“Good. Now where the hell is this…oh hell.” Baird trailed off as he spotted Commander Travis Dillon plodding mournfully through the door of the coffee shop.

“Maybe he’s here for another show,” Webber offered.

Dillon stepped over to the sofa. “Hi,” he said sadly.

“Whatever it is, we don’t want to know,” Baird said.

“I think my wife’s a lesbian,” Dillon replied, plopping down on the sofa next to Rydell.

“You aren’t married,” Hawkins said.

“It’s in the script,” Webber said.

“Okay. Can this BE any more ridiculous?” Rydell said.

“Fine. We’ll move on to the sexual innuendo now,” Webber said. “Who wants to go first?”

Silence.

More silence.

Even more silence.

“PENIS!” Baird screamed finally.

“SCOTT!” Webber cried.

“What? It was sexual!”

“Yeah, but it totally missed innuendo and went straight on to blatant,” Rydell said.

“Excuse the f*** out of me,” Baird said, storming out of the coffee shop.

“This isn’t working at all,” Webber said annoyed. “Cut!”

“Wait!” Dillon said. “Does this mean I’m not married to the lesbian anymore?”

Rydell was already halfway out the door.

“Could this skit BE any more over?”


Star Traks: The Vexed Generation in…

ER


Doctor Janice Browning was only two-thirds of the way through her 6-foot Italian sub when the doors to Sickbay burst open as Doctor Holly Wilcox charged into the operating area alongside a hover-stretcher carrying a moaning patient.

Wilcox immediately began barking orders out to the nurses standing by. “Get me a CCG, EEG, Head CT, Blood HG, Kidney TTGH, and a Spleen ZZD, PDQ!”

“BP 120 over 80!”

“Blood ox nominal!”

“BAC normal!”

“OOOOOOOOOWWWWWW!”

<Munch> <Munch> “So what’s going on out here?” Dr. Browning asked, strolling out of her office to check on all the hubbub.

“The Captain’s been injured,” Wilcox exclaimed.

Browning peered over Wilcox’s shoulder, dripping a bit of mustard in the process, and looked down at the biobed where Captain Andy Baxter now lay, moaning.

“May I?” Browning asked.

“Please,” Wilcox stepped back. “Where’s that ZZD!”

“Checking his spleen now!”

Dr. Browning, still clutching a section of sub in one hand, picked up a small device from the prep table and ran it over Baxter’s index finger. “Is that better?”

“Much!” Baxter said happily, cradling his repaired finger. “That was one bastard of a splinter.”

“Do I even want to know how you managed to get a splinter in the 24th century?”

“Wooden stake.”

“What were you doing…never mind. I don’t want to know,” Browning said, turning on her heel and heading back to her office as she left a trail of condiments and sandwich debris in her wake.


The Traks Files in…

The X-Files


“Do we not believe in lights?” Starfleet Intelligence Agent Batyn groused as he and his partner, Agent Samantha Dallas stumbled through the darkness of a dank basement with only a couple of flashlights to illuminate their way.

“It’s atmosphere,” Dallas replied.

“What about this annoying long coat you stuck me in?”

“It’s what FBI agents are supposed to wear. Just go with it, Batyn.”

“This whole thing is pointless.”

Dallas turned on her partner angrily. “Look, we’re supposed to be parodying some old Earth television show where a couple of government agents investigate strange monsters and bizarre occurrences, okay?”

“And just how is that different from what we do normally?”

“Hmm…you’ve got a point. Let’s get the hell out of here.”

“Right in front of you,” Batyn said, charging back toward the exit.


Star Traks: Waystation in…

Win Bradley Dillon’s Credits


“Welcome back to ‘Win Bradley Dillon’s Credits,” galactic multi-billionaire Bradley Dillon said, standing just to the side of the podium where his co-host and personal assistant, Gisele, was now positioned.

Bradley, hands clasped behind his back and dressed in an impeccably tailored suit, continued to address the audience. “In round one, Craig Porter managed to weasel away 50 of my credits, while Lisa Beck took 125 of MY credits. Now I shall defend the rest of my 5000 credits by engaging them both in a battle of intellects!”

“Why am I starting to think that Doctor Brady purposely lost round one just so she could get out of here?” Porter whispered to Beck as Bradley Dillon took his place at Brady’s recently vacated position.

“I think she just proved she was smarter than all of us,” Beck remarked.

“From this point forward,” Gisele announced, “Mister Dillon has no advanced knowledge of the questions. Isn’t that right, sir?”

“That is correct,” Bradley replied with a sage nod. “Not that it matters.”

“Well, maybe if you asked us about something other than classical music and gourmet food, we’d make things more challenging for you,” Beck said.

“Why would I want to do that?” Bradley replied. “Carry on, Gisele.”

“This round’s categories are…I’m Filthy Stinking Rich…Did Anyone Get The License Number Of That Iceberg…Opera-ation…Dillons for Dollars…and It Was A Very Good Year. Captain Beck, you’re in the lead, so you select the first category.”

“Oh could I? Please?” Beck said sarcastically. “I’m probably going to regret this, but It Was A Very Good Year.”

“A one hundred fifty credit question. What is the ideal vintage for a Chateau de Centauri?”

Beck barely managed to shout “Oh, come on!” before Bradley’s finger had pressed down on his signaling button.

“Mister Dillon?” Gisele said, ignoring Beck’s outburst.

“2187.”

“That is correct.”

“I’ve got an idea,” Beck said, leaning over to Porter. “I’ll bash him in the head. You grab the credits, and we’ll make a run for it.”

“Awwww. I want to bash him in the head.”

“Rank has its privileges,” Beck replied. “Go!”

Bradley, blissfully unaware of this exchange, prepared to select the next category. “I’ll take Opera-ation for…”

BONK!

“Unnnhh…”

THUD!

“Steal Bradley Dillon’s Credits sounds catchier anyway,” Porter said as he and Captain Beck raced for the exit.


Star Traks: BorgSpace in…

Friends


Captain, more properly known as 4 of 8, sat stiffly on the sofa inside of Central Perk, his optical implant focused on the receptacle of steaming liquid in his hand.

Off to Captain’s left, his second-in-command, appropriately called Second, tentatively raised an identical mug of black liquid to his lips and took a sip. Second immediately gagged and spat the liquid back out.

“Is the coffee unpleasant?” Captain asked.

“I didn’t think we had functioning taste buds anymore,” Second replied in disgust.

“Maybe it was some sort of weapon,” Weapons, the third and final male member of their group (not that gender mattered in the Borg Collective) said. “We should attack immediately.”

“Or perhaps you could add some sugar,” Captain suggested to Second.

“No. I’m just going to go assimilate that strange blond man behind the counter before we leave. For some reason I find him exceptionally…creepy.”

From a pair of chairs adjacent to the sofa, both bodies of Cube #347’s Chief Engineer, Delta, shifted boredly. “Captain, do we have mission parameters yet?” she asked in stereo.

“Sensors would like to know that as well,” the insectoid Sensors added. “This coffee is very battery acid, plumbing cleanser.”

“I see,” Captain replied, unsure whether Sensors had just leapt until one of her normal unexplained comparisons or if the coffee did indeed resemble battery acid. “We are to remain in this location for approximate half of one Earth hour. During this time, we are to spout inanities about sexual intercourse while behaving as though we feel affection for each other as comrades.”

“Friends?” Seconds asked.

“Affirmative.”

“Friendship is irrelevant,” Delta A said.

“We are Borg,” Delta B added. “Sex is irrelevant.”

“And this coffee is horrible,” Second said.

“Then why do you continue drinking it?” Captain asked.

“Sensors believes we have reached inanity, but Sensors does not detect any sexual references,” Sensors said.

“How much more time do we have to stay here?” Weapons asked.

“Twenty-five minutes twenty seconds,” Captain replied.

“I am SO going to blow this place up!”


Star Traks: The Vexed Generation in…

The Osbournes


Captain Baxter stumbled slowly out of his bedroom, yawning and looking at the chronometer on the wall. “For f***’s sake, Kelly, it’s not even oh-seven hundred yet. What is all the noise about?”

“Fritz pissed on the f***ing carpet again, Andy, that’s what the noise is about!” Counselor Kelly Peterman replied, kneeling on the carpet in the captain’s living room, rubbing the wet spot with a rag.

“Oh, f*** it all. Why don’t you just leave him down in your cabin with the other animals. He’s not house trained. F***’s sakes, he never will be!”

“Stop taking that f***ing tone with me, Andy,” Kelly said, standing up to face Baxter. “You’re going to wake the baby!”

As if on cue, from her room next door, Steffie Baxter began to whine. “WHAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH! F****ING WHAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!”

“F*** off, I’ll see to her,” Baxter said, and shuffled into the other room. Suddenly, the doors to Baxter and Peterman’s quarters slid open, and Plato, Doctor Browning’s half-changeling, half-human, adolescent son, roared in on a jet-powered hoverboard, flipping over Baxter’s couch and doing a somersault in mid-air, only to land atop the board and stay, hovering, above the coffee table.

“F***ING WHAAAAAAAAAH! SH***! WHAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!”

Plato grinned, obviously impressed at his own hoverboarding talents.

“Holy f***ing sh**! Did you see that Uncle Andy?”

“Shut your f***ing trap and go bother your mother,” Baxter said, and walked into the other room. Shortly thereafter, Steffie’s crying stopped.

“So what the f*** are you up to, Aunt Kelly?” Plato asked, hovering down from above the coffee table to land next to Peterman and the pee stain.

“Cleaning this f***ing dirty place. Andy’s the captain of this ship. You’d think we’d be able to live in something other than filth!”

“He’s crazy,” Plato agreed.

“Well, that’s how it goes,” Peterman sighed.

Just then, Baxter walked out of Steffie’s bedroom, clapping his hands together victoriously.

“How the f*** did you get her to stop crying, Andy?” Peterman asked.

“I gave her a f***ing beer!” Baxter chortled, slapping his thigh amusedly.

Just then, the doors to the Baxter quarters opened again, to reveal Commander Chris Richards. “Hey, guys, I was wondering if I could borrow your “

“Oh, F*** OFF!” Peterman cried, throwing her pee-covered rag at Richards, who quickly ducked out of the doorway and ran down the corridor. “F***. I miss the days when we lived next door to Pat Boone.”

“F***ing A,” said Baxter.


Star Traks: Waystation in…

Baywatch


“This thing is riding up something awful,” Captain Lisa Beck said of her one-piece red bathing suit, as she walked out of the lifeguard shack, holding her orange lifesaving tube.

“At least it covers your whole body,” Lt. Commander Craig Porter said, standing beside her, arms folded. “I’m not comfortable showing my chest in public. I have weird chest hair patterns.”

Beck looked at him and laughed. “Yes, you do.”

“Jeeze,” Porter said. “So, what, we just stand out here and wait to rescue people?”

“Pretty much,” Beck said.

“And that’s all?”

“Well, not all…”

“Oh my gosh, look at that hot girl over there!” Lt. Commander Sean Russell said, standing on the other side of the shack’s small balcony, holding binoculars to his eyes. “She looks really cute thrashing about like that. I think she’s waving to me!”

“Give me those, Sean,” Porter said, snatching the binoculars and looking through them.

“I told you, call me Russ. We’re all supposed to have weird- sounding short names, since we’re hunky guys. Okay, Port?”

“Whatever,” Porter mumbled.

“You should really have your chest waxed, man,” Russell said.

Porter’s eyes went wide as he finally found the thrashing woman in his field of vision. “Damn it, Sean, that woman’s drowning! She’s waving to you because she’s drowning!”

“Oh,” Russell said sullenly. “Well, cue the music and the slow-mo.”

“Just go out there, guys,” Beck said, throwing her life- saving tube at Porter.

“And what will you do in the meantime?” Russell asked as he and Porter shimmied down the ladder to the beach.

“Call in back-up, and stand here and look pretty,” Beck said, tossing her long red hair back over her shoulders.

“Excellent,” Russell grinned, as Porter dragged him toward the water.

Beck grabbed her walkie-talkie off a nearby shelf and clicked it. “Beck to Morales.”

“Morales here,” crackled the reply.

“We need you over at the west beach. Looks like a…life- saving type deal.”

“I’m headed that way now. Just one problem.”

“What’s that?” It was then that Beck heard the roar of a powerful engine, and turned to see a yellow beach patrol pickup tearing across the sand, zigging and zagging, fish-tailing and narrowly avoiding rolling over beachgoers.

“I’M FROM THE 24th CENTURY! I CAN’T DRIVE!”

Beck sighed as the truck veered off toward the water and plunged into the surf.

“Oh, hell. We are SO fired.”


The Original Star Traks in…

M*A*S*H


The door to Thomas Wagner’s office at the M*A*S*H 4077 burst open, completely destroying his concentration and the perfectly good nightcrawler he was trying to pierce with a fishhook.

He put the hook and slashed insect aside with a sigh as he looked up at the horde of officers that had just barged into his sanctuary. “Is there something I can help you all with?” he said resignedly.

“Have you looked at this, Admiral?” Captain Alexander Rydell demanded, slamming a stack of paper down on the desk as Commander Travis Dillon, Commander Jaroch, Commander Scott Baird, and Lieutenant Commander Patricia Hawkins stood behind him. Wagner winced as the nightcrawler was further decimated with a muffled squish.

“We’re in the army now, Rydell. It’s Colonel Wagner. And I have no idea if I’ve looked at that, since I don’t know what it is that you just slapped down on my desk and my bait!”

“It’s our f***ing contracts!” Commander Baird spat.

“What’s wrong with them?”

“Eleven years! That’s what’s wrong,” Rydell said. “I’m supposed to be retired, and now you’re trying to get me to spend eleven years in the Korean War.”

“Which only lasted for three,” Commander Dillon added. “I remember that very clearly from my history classes.”

“Good for you,” Wagner muttered.

“And I’ve read a few of these so-called scripts,” Dillon continued. “The amount of abuse I’m supposed to take preposterous.”

“Actually, that was one of the high points, as far as I was concerned,” Commander Jaroch remarked.

“I’m not wearing a f***ing dress!” Baird shouted.

“And if someone calls me ‘Hot Lips,’ they’re losing theirs,” Hawkins threatened. “Their lips, I mean.”

“I get the point,” Wagner said, rubbing his temples. “Any other complaints?”

“To be honest, I do not relish the notion of sharing a tent with Dillon and Captain Rydell for the next eleven years. No offense, sir,” Jaroch said.

“None taken,” Dillon replied.

“That was directed toward Captain Rydell. I meant to offend you.”

“Look,” Wagner said, standing up with his full military bearing to address the group. “I don’t make the rules here. Do you think I want to be stuck with you psychos for eleven years? I’m halfway tempted to go get myself killed off. But this is the way it is, people. Deal with it. Now is there anything else?”

Rydell glanced at his officers, then turned back to Wagner. “Well, don’t you think we at least ought to be, you know, doctors?”

“Ohhhhh,” Wagner said, deflating. “You’ve got a point. Er…um…I did hear there were some openings on Baywatch.”

Rydell grinned. “I know CPR. Let’s go.” The stampede toward the exit commenced.

“But I get ear infections in the ocean,” Dillon whined as Wagner pushed past him.

A mortar shell exploded outside, dangerously close to Wagner’s office.

“I’ll buy ear plugs,” Dillon said quickly, chasing after the group.


The Traks Files in…

Everybody Loves Batyn


Where was he? And why was Agent Dallas standing in front of device preparing what appeared to be food?

Batyn looked around quickly. Bright lights. Linoleum floor. A kitchen?

He heard the sounds of children playing in the next room. Loud, obnoxious children.

BANG BANG BANG.

Batyn and Dallas whirled toward the door where two older Antideans stood knocking and gesturing to be let in.

“My parents!” Batyn said in horror.

“Mommy!” one of the kids cried from the other direction.

“Our kids?” Dallas cried in equal terror.

The two agents turned to each other and said stated the obvious.

“AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!”


Star Traks: BorgSpace in…

Who Wants To Be A Millionaire?


“Joining us in the Hot Seat is 4 of 8,” Regis Philbin said congenially as he extended his hand toward the Borg for it to shake. 4 of 8 did not move. “All right then,” Regis said somewhat flustered as he turned back to his prompter. “I see that you’re a collector.”

“This drone is part of the Borg Collective.”

“You collect Borg? Are those like ceramics?”

“No,” 4 of 8 said flatly.

“So what do you do, 4?”

“This drone travels the galaxy assimilating the technological and biological distinctiveness of other species into the Collective.”

“Wow. I didn’t know ceramics were that popular.”

“What is this obsession with ceramics?” 4 of 8 asked.

Regis ignored him. “Let’s play Who Wants To Be A Millionaire? The first question for $100.”

“This method is inefficient,” 4 of 8 said before Regis could even begin reciting the question. Two tubules snaked out from 4 of 8’s wrist into the computer console in front of him. “A, C, D, B, B, C, A, D, D, B. Those are my final answers, you can keep your Life Lines, and send the million dollar check to my cube.”


Star Traks: The Vexed Generation in…

Friends


“Do something, Andy!” Counselor Kelly Peterman insisted as she, Captain Andy Baxter, Commander Chris Richards, Doctor Janice Browning, and Lieutenant Commander Kristen Larkin lay cowering under the coffee table of Central Perk while chaos reigned above them.

“Espresso beans!” Commander David Conway’s voice cried triumphantly. This was soon followed by the sound of glass breaking, then loud crunching.

“No way. I am not going out there,” Baxter said firmly. “You saw what Conway did to that freaky blond guy behind the counter. As far as I’m concerned, he can have all the coffee he wants.”

“But the customers…”

“Can fend for themselves,” Baxter said.

“Andy!”

“Oh all right. Any ideas, Doctor?”

“I managed to grab my scone before things went completely to hell, but I think the muffins may be too far away to reach safely,” Doctor Browning said.

“Oookay. Richards?”

“We need to move somewhere with more protection…like a bomb shelter.”

“Agreed, but it’s not happening right now,” Baxter replied. He turned to Larkin. “I hate to do this, but you’re going to have to go out there and stop Conway.”

The android looked back at him coldly. “If I were human, I believe my response would be ‘Go to Hell.’”

“Dammit, Larkin, don’t start mixing parodies on me now!”

“My apologies, but the fact remains that I am not attempting to subdue Commander Conway in his present condition.”

“COFFEE!” Conway bellowed, just before dunking his head straight into the industrial-sized pot behind the counter.

Baxter looked around, trying to develop some sort of plan. “Now where did I leave that wooden stake?”


The End