Today I had to attend a federation funded 'Negociating in the Workplace' seminar.

What a load of mindless space garbage.

The course blurb was something about treating your enemies like your colleagues to create a happier working envirnoment. The guy who was running it (Chad) was a jumped up, blue flame, quarterback punk.

He kept warbling on about 'self actualisation' and 'negociating with a can-do mentality'. Everyone else seemed to be buying into this tripe except me.

He asked me to participate in a roleplay with him.

He was to be a klingon leader and I was to be me.

"Okay lets begin" he said. "I'm not very happy about your violation of the neutral zone, and I would like you to apologise. I feel affronted by your disrespect for our mutual boundaries."

I responded by forward rolling towards him and landing a karate chop on his arm. Luckily, my shirt got torn in the attack, which added to the authenticity of the scenario. He fell to the ground, whining like a ferengi. I was pleased with my performance, so I got up and punched the air.

There was silence as Chad quietly sobbed on the floor.

I was mystified. I had quelled the attack, and no-one had been hurt except the enemy.
Later, Chad explained that my response was 'reactionary' instead of 'pro-active', whatever that means.

My frustration peaked during a group logic exercise.

We had to get a fox, a chicken and some grain across a river in a boat. Everyone else presented silly answers that revolved around ferrying them across. In my presentation, I highlighted that the boat may well be a klingon decoy filled with explosives. I drew complex diagrams to indicate how a tractor beam could be used to move the fox, the chicken and the grain over the river. This would free up crucial defensive time to retaliate against a klingon assault on the colony.

Chad was not impressed.

He said that whilst he appreciated my 'thinking outside the box', I was missing the point and I should be using 'only the resources to hand'. I told him that a small wooden boat and handfulls of grain were no defence against a klingon battlefleet.

He told me to sit down.

I threw a chair at him.

Spock bought his sister on board today.

I didn't even know he had one.

She was hot, hot, hot.

Spock gave me the dirtiest look when I kissed her hand and offered her a tour of the ship. She readily accepted and eyed me like she was going to eat me for dinner. After I had showed her the usual suspects, I asked her if she would would like to see the inside of my quarters.

I stole a moment to myself and asked the ships computer to set my room to 'mating ambience.'

We got to my quarters and sure enough, Marvin Gayes 'lets get it on' was oozing out of my custom made speakers. (they're in the shape of my face.) We sat down on my officer class Sofa. I elected to use my subtlest tactics and my smoothest moves to seduce and carouse this classy alien lady.

"Would you like to mate?"

"I would."

"Excellent."

I found out that Vulcans only mate once every 7 years. I also found out that Vulcan ladies like having their ears pleasured by federation manhood, especially 'custom shop models'. Looks like my modifications were worthwhile after all. She said her last time was rubbish and she ended up with a baby. She had to give it up for adoption due to tragic circumstances; She didn't want it. Needless to say, I promised her no such mistakes would occur on my watch and our time together would be strictly recreational.

I spent another few days in sick bay.

She got quite positionally creative. I forgot that vulcans are 3 times as strong as humans due to the gravity on their planet. That's why they rarely mate outside of their own kind.

Spock is embarrased and is not talking to me now because rumours of my performance have spread throughout the ship.

Haa ha!

Today I tried increasing the size of my manhood in the transporter.

I read in 'Self Diasgnostic' magazine that you could make subtle alterations to your transporter signature to increase or decrease(?) the size of your member.

I sneaked down to the transporter room on my lunch break and had a fiddle with the controls. It had been a while since I had used them myself, so I had to wing it.

I made a few adjustments, set the timer, and quickly hopped on the platform. Sure enough, after beaming to transporter room 2, my girth had encreased three fold, and my length had doubled.

I was extremely happy. However, just as I was checking to make sure everything was still in working order, Scotty walked in.

"What are ye doin' Captain?"

I quickly fumbled my tractor beam back into its housing.

"Uh, just checking everything is in working order. With the transporter, I mean. Nothing else. As you were."

"oh. erm.. Right Captain. I hope ye did nae encounter any problems."

"Far from it Scotty, far from it"

I caught him glance at my nether regions for a moment. Disbelief momentarily flickered across his face, but he quickly composed himself.

"Do ye feel alright Captain? You look a little pale?"

I was feeling quite faint. I had developed an enormous erection, mainly due to the embarrasment of the situation. This always happened, and tended to cause a viscious cycle which I rarely escaped from. The massive increase in size meant that a lot more blood was needed to maintain 'Red Alert', as it were.

"I errrr.... ahhh. ooooh"

I woke up in sick bay.

Again.

My head hurts. I have a crease in my face that makes me look like Ernst Blofeld.

I went to a christmas party last night on Picards ship. It must have been fantastic, because I woke up this morning in a cell.

That's always the sign of a good party.

At first I thought I had been slashed, but it seems I acquired the marking from sleeping face down on the floor.

Some vaguelly familiar bearded hot shot came down to see me and outlined my 'unacceptable behaviour' from the previous evening.

His face was bright red.

He yelled something about my terrible singing and his indifference to my stage dive. He seemed to expect an apology or an admission of shame or something. I wearily told him that he should have read up on his starfleet history before inviting me. Some of my more public misdemeanors were well documented in the starfleet logs. God knows enough of them were published in 'Self Diagnostic' magazine.

His face turned purple.

He exploded with rage, yelling obscenities and pointing to the dishevelled figure slumped on the floor across the cell from me, her pretty uniform torn in all the right places.

A memory picked itself up from the dark corner of my mind, dropped it's bottle and danced wildly before my eyes.

It's all coming back to me now...

Fly boy over there and the tasty young morsel in my cell had been slow dancing to 10cc's 'I'm not in love'. I recall that she was quite wobbly, singing loudly and pointing to Beard Master in an overly emphatic manner. He looked rather awkward, and his face was red. Must be his favourite colour.

Anyway, to save him any more embarassment I asked the band to play something a little more upbeat, and I cut in on him. She seemed to like the insistant funk of 'Stayin Alive' and we got down to it big style.

Man, she moved like a Nebula class starship at maximum warp.

I remember that I had my hand on her perfect little buns and I was just about to reach round to stroke her Tribble, but then everything went black. I was nowhere near my limit so my away mission must have been cancelled without my say so by the hairy cornflake here, probably with a well placed phaser blast.

Number 1 my ass. He's more like a number 2.