Watch Me Boldly Go Where No Man Has Gone Before

Mankind is, by its very nature, inquisitive. From the time we descended from the trees, we have asked ourselves the big questions: Who are we? What are those strange lights in the sky? When are they going to invent beer? As mankind began to understand and manipulate its environment, we discovered that each answer we found led to new, and more fundamental questions: What is the sun made out of? What is this force that moves the Earth around it? And seriously, can someone invent beer already? My wife is fucking nagging me to buy her a new loom, and I could really go for a cold one. Now, of course, with the benefit of modern technology, we are able to answer more questions than we have at any time in our past, and still we find that there are more to be answered, such as whether or not they still have crabs onboard the USS Enterprise.

I came up with this question as a result of blunt force trauma to the head as a child a long meeting at the office today, and it’s a pretty good question, if you think about it (which I don’t recommend). I mean, everyone in Star Trek looks happy, healthy, and in great shape, so your first instinct is to say, “No, you filthy deviant, the crew of the USS Enterprise is not ridden with pubic lice.”

But think about the fact that they’re a coed crew, they’re on a five year mission, and their Captain is banging green chicks like they’re going out of style (which, for all I know about green chicks, they might be). You don’t think Captain Kirk hasn’t brought home a few unwanted visitors?

No, I’m pretty sure there are crabs onboard the Enterprise, and probably some pretty goddamn fierce ones at that. So why don’t you see crew members going to town on their Very Personal Regions? I mean, given Scotty’s whiskey intake, I’m pretty sure he’s not too particular where he puts his junk. He’s probably balls deep in some serious space-skank. (“I’m giving ‘er all I can, but it’s jus’ not gonna be enough!”)

I bet if you were to sneak into Scotty’s quarters late at night, you’d find him doing a little fine marksmanship, blasting the vermin off his balls with a phaser.

“Now hold still, lassie, and I’ll burn the wee buggers off your fur-pie too!”

And I don’t think sick bay is going to be any help, because sick bay is complete and total bullshit. What happens every time someone gets sick and goes down to sick bay? McCoy runs a machine over the guy, red lights twinkle on and off, and McCoy makes up some crazy sounding disease. “Ensign, I’m afraid you’ve got Venusian scropula.”

But then he takes the same machine and runs it over the patient and he’s cured! Just like that! So why the fuck do they need McCoy in the first place? Just give everyone one of those magic devices and fire McCoy’s cranky ass out of the airlock already. Nobody likes that angry prick.

McCoy: Dammit, Jim, I’m a doctor, not a piece of space trash!

Kirk: I beg to differ. (pushes airlock button)

Those machines are fake, and McCoy couldn’t cure a ham because he’s a total impostor. So nothing they’re doing in the sick bay is going to get rid of a bad case of crabs. What about the transporter? In one episode, everyone caught some kind of virus that McCoy couldn’t cure (surprise, surprise). But then they figured out that they could use the transporter to remove the foreign virus from people’s bodies, which holy shit, somehow makes the transporter even better than it already is. It’s already a machine that instantly sends you wherever you want to go, now it can cure all known diseases as well! You could fuck Lindsay Lohan, beam home immediately afterwards (avoiding the Walk of Shame), and get cured of the wicked strain of Ebola Herpes she just gave to you. That’s a win/win/win if you ask me! Actually a lose/win/win, because you have to fuck Lindsay Lohan. Look, the point I’m trying to make is that Lindsay Lohan is a disease-ridden whore. She’d probably be really popular on the USS Enterprise.

“Um, attention Enterprise! If I don’t have, like, five of you inside me really soon, I’m going to board the Millenium Falcon and 69 a wookie. So let’s get a move on! Chop-chop!”

So I guess the transporter might be what they’re using to get rid of the space-crabs, which would make for some pretty funny episodes. Kirk and Spock would race down to the transporter room, ready to beam down to some alien world, only to find half of the crew standing in line for the transporter, furiously scratching their junk. There’d be a little Disneyland-like sign there informing them that their wait from this point would be 90 minutes, and Kirk would turn to Spock and say, “I really gotta stop banging those green chicks.”

Now that I think about it, why does anyone walk down to the transporter room at all? Why don’t they just ask to be beamed there, then beamed to wherever they need to go? I’d be like, “It is the motherfucking 23rd century, goddammit! Why the fuck should I have to walk like a chump when you can beam me wherever I need to go? Now beam me on top of Lieutenant Uhura before I lose my space-temper!“

And yes, I’d call it my space-temper because that gag would never get old.

Space-Greg: Hey, can you pass the space-salt?

Chekov: You know, it’s just regular salt.

Space-Greg: Uh-huh. Oh, and can you pass me the space-ketchup while you’re at it?

Chekov: Again, just regular ketchup.

Space-Greg: (glares at Chekov)

Chekov: Just saying.

Space-Greg: (continues glaring)

Chekov: I mean, adding the word “space” to the front of every word doesn’t really do anyone any good…

Space-Greg: (continues glaring)

Chekov: Space-ketchup is just ketchup, so what’s the point in adding the word “space” to it?

Space-Greg: (continues glaring)

Chekov: It’s…. Just… Um, you know… Unnecessary.

Space-Greg: Thanks for the tip, Noah Webster. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to ask Scotty to beam me on top of your mom so I can nail her in right in the space-dirt hole.

Chekov looks like a retarded, Russian version of Davy Jones, doesn’t he?

Where was I? Oh yes, space-crabs. I guess in the later incarnations of Star Trek they had replicators which could make anything you want, and one supposes that they could make you a tube of prescription shampoo to take care of those crabs. But those replicators are total bullshit too, because no one, and I mean no one, would ever leave the house if those things existed. “Replicator! Make me a case of beer, a pound of weed, and a rich, nymphomaniac, mute girl who owns a space-liquor store!”

Of course, there’s always the possibility that by the time the USS Enterprise is exploring the universe that crabs (space-crabs) have evolved to the point where they’re now intelligent beings, and that through bargaining, negotiation, and reason we’ve managed to convince them to stop latching onto our genitals and seek employment elsewhere. They’d feel right at home in Congress, for example.

Frankly, we just don’t have enough data to be able to answer the question definitively, which is why I am urging all thinking Americans (and people in Arkansas too) to contact their elected representative and demand that I be named the head of a large government institution dedicated to the study of space-faring pubic lice. Or barring that, just sending over some space-beer and green chicks.

(Insert Jolly Green Giant/Ho ho ho joke here)