Take my Worf, Please

by Steve Rehrauer   23 August 1989

"Captain's Log, Stardate 3666.6. Very little to report. The Enterprise, enroute from Point A to Point B, continues, ah, continues enroute. Cmdr. Riker continues to recover from his near-fatal encounter with our former Chief Medical Officer Pulaski, who we recently discovered was not really an accredited surgeon at all, but was in fact the ex- Assistant Cabinet- Maker and transsexual-at-large aboard the U.S.S. Endtable, one Norman Finkwater, who had been presumed Missing For a Really Long Time. This explains the absense of a drill-press, carbide-tipped bits and power chisels from our ship's metal-working shop, as well as the recent rash of obscure ancient Japanese animation references we've been finding carved throughout the ship."

"Captain?" Unnoticed until now, Geordi LaForge had sidled alongside the captain's station. "Have you noticed anything," asked LaForge in a stage whisper, "Well, ODD about Worf lately?"

Picard glanced over at the Klingon security officer, who stood brooding at his station. A vivisected Terran squirrel was stapled spread-eagled to a nearby bulkhead. A whimpering colony of Fluvian lacewings fluttered about the deck on ragged stumps of wings. The bloody wreck of a nameless dead ensign lay crumpled among them. Several "Grateful Dead" posters were nailed to the adjoining science station, along with an upside-down black-velvet painting of Elvis besmirched with Klingon battle icons written with drippy excrement. Aside from a rather strong facial tick, Worf looked fine.

Picard sighed. "Please do get to the point, Mr. LaForge."

"Well, I ..." He spread his hands and looked helplessly at Dianna Troi, who was seated near Picard — actually, he just looked at Troi; helpless expressions must be inferred in someone who wears a silver hair dealie over their eyes. "Maybe Councilor Troi would be better at this."

Troi, who had been covertly eavesdropping on some interesting emotions radiating from a whirlpool tub several decks below, gave a guilty start at hearing her name.

"Ah, yes. Well. Geordi and I did some investigating. It seems that, when a Klingon male reaches a certain age, he undergoes a ... complex, ah, psychological and physiological transformation, the net result of which is (pause for a breath) that every year, at that time on his home planet when the winter snows retreat and the warm rains of spring (deeper breath) bring new life forth under the triple pink moons of that planet's skies and the (another deep breath) ..."

Picard, mesmerized by watching Troi breathe, finally came to his senses and realized that he hadn't the foggiest idea of what the hell she was trying to say. He raised a hand to interrupt, smiling the "Oh god, I'm surrounded by retarded throwbacks to primeval life" smile he was so justly famous for.

"Look, you both obviously have something important to say. Apparently it concerns my Chief Security Officer. Possibly it may be of a deeply sensitive and private nature that demands staff meetings and a Gallup Poll to resolve. But if you feel that Worf (or any of my officers, but especially the ones with obvious cranial protrusions, borderline schizophrenic behaviour, access to lethal weapons and a duty station behind my back), for whatever reason, is unable to perform his duties with complete efficiency and safety to those who sit in front of him, then by all means, please relate your concerns to me at once. So, again, in simple, grammatically-correct sentences without excessive punctuation: What's wrong with Worf?"

Troi, somewhat reassured by being spoken to as though she were 4 years old, resumed a normal and less distracting breathing pattern. Still, she was obviously not comfortable with what she was about to say.

"Well, it seems that Worf needs, ah, something that only his planet can supply. Something, ah, that all Klingon males his age, um, need at this time every year. Something, um, that we in our nice culture might consider, ah, 'dirty' ..."

"My god," said Picard with a look of shock. "Councilor, are you suggesting that Worf needs to ... 'have sexual congress' with a female of his species?"

"Get laid? No!" said Troi, drawing back with a look of annoyance. "Jeez, you're dense. What, does he have pointed ears? No, what Worf needs is, is ... Ugh!" She shuddered and shook her head. Finally, marshalling her courage she leaned forward and whispered in Picard's ear.

"'Lawn and garden implements'??" echoed Picard with great bewilderment.

"Ohhh!" groaned Troi with revulsion, hands over ears.

"Hmmblbplt?" drooled Riker, who had fallen over in his seat and needed to be propped back up.

"K'mmarrrt!" Worf, having overheard this last exchange, now had a rather evil gleam in his eyes. And a mondo bad facial tick. And little strings of sticky drool hanging from his lower lip. Brrr. "P'wah tuhlz! Kor'blotten und kutten zie shtuff chop-chop! Blakn'Dekr! Haaaa!"

"Interesting," remarked Data as he translated to Terran, "Oh, for a shiny new 8.0 horsepower rear-tine tiller with front-mounted brush-cutter attachment!"

"Aaaigh!" moaned Troi. Assaulted by this powerfully menial and anti- social imagery, she instinctively assumed the Betazoid defensive posture: curled in a fetal ball, thumb in mouth, Strawberry Shortcake doll clenched in other fist. And you wondered why Star Fleet has no Betazoid Security officers, didn't you.

"Belchin' smoakk! Haaaa! Krunch'n krush'n!" agreed Worf, pounding the panel in front of him, in the process launching a few photon torpedoes which would wander about aimlessly for billions of light-years and eventually obliterate some hapless civilization. In a rare display of self-preservation instinct, a pair of nearby (still living) nameless ensigns scuttled away and cowered behind a ventilation grille.

"To feel the gentle earth, to savor its rich smells!" translated Data, a bit inaccurately. (Unbeknownst to all, Data's creator, Dr. Soong, had been a great fan of 20th century British comedy. As a result, Data's translation dictionaries contained more than several unfortunate quirks. To his chagrin, Data would discover this in a future episode: "The Naked Chicken", in which he would incorrectly translate Picard's conciliatory greeting to the Klingon Grand Poobah as, "My nipples erupt with delight; let's go to bed now, bouncy, bouncy!" Alas for Picard, the Poobah would accept.)

At this point, Worf really began to get a tad overenthusiastic. In the interests of good taste, I have deleted copious graphic descriptions of the sheer carnage, and shed bodily fluids, and punctured body cavities, and gobbets of sticky warm flesh that clung where they landed, that followed.

Suffice it to say that fortunately Wesley walked onto the bridge before the available supply of nameless ensigns was exhausted. Instantly sizing up the situation, as he turned to run back into the turbolift he slipped on a stray gobbet of sticky warm flesh. Falling to the floor with a sickening but somehow gratifying crunch! of fractured bones, he dropped his science project, which thus being severely jarred, launched a thin but energetic beam of cosmic radiation at Worf's head, thereby removing enough tissue to render him temporarily puzzled, at which point several brawny nameless Security ensigns stepped in, and with deft and vigorous application of Big Blunt Objects, rendered the Klingon officer Completely Horizontal.

Really, it happened that way. No kidding. Would I lie?

With Worf safely on ice and the episode's dose of action applied, Picard surprised everyone by calling a conference in his quarters. And so it was revealed in excrutiatingly long and patronizing detail that Worf had reached the so-called Age of Desire for Landscaping, that inexplicable period in a Klingon male's life when every spring he is seized by a fierce urge to go out and putter around in the yard. Naturally, Klingon society developed a set of complex social rites designed to ease one's passage through this tumultuous time, with colorful names such as: "First Dead Mole", "Damn This Rock", "Spider Mites Have No Honor", and so forth.

Troi reminded them that it would be Really Awful of them not to help poor Worfie. Geordi, looking a bit miffed with both legs in casts, pointed out that the Klingon homeworld was a bazillion miles away, so tough potatoes. Riker dribbled in his beard, but the others were too civilized to comment. Dr. Crusher, late in arriving from her quarters where she had been primping for the past season, looked smug but said nothing worth mentioning. Wesley said he was sorry for dropping his science project, at which point everyone smiled and said kind things and wished him well while his spine healed for the remainder of the episode. The Transporter Chief stepped in to volunteer his services to beam Worf into vaccuum, but he said it with a kind of smirky snort, so (unfortunately) no one took him seriously. Everyone was at a loss. The meeting was a total bummer.

Finally, like any good leader when presented with a Tough Decision, Picard retreated to Ten Forward for intoxicants. Amazingly enough, Guinan the Chief Bartender had an answer for his problem: they could use the Holodeck to recreate a typical Klingon backyard, in which Worf would be able wreak rejuvenating havoc on mock shrubberies. Instantly recognizing this for the perfect solution which it was, Picard stumbled foggily back to the bridge to relate his new plan. With a bemused smile, Guinan watched him exit, shaking her head and muttering unflattering racial slurs under her breath.

In short order, the ship's computer had the Holodeck properly programmed. Moved onto the simulated landscape, the unconscious Worf was slowly revived via careful application of old-fashioned electric cattle-prods to sensitive portions of his lower anatomy. Scurrying to safety, the others watched from outside as Worf awoke to find himself amid a plethora of gleaming, sharp- bladed garden tools. Grinning fiercely, he rose and in quick succession planted three red Kringan saplings; sprayed noxious chemicals on an honorless hive of striped Kroogers; uprooted a parasitic K'uk'uk'uk vine; mulched many plants whose names had "K" in them; Damned A Rock with high explosives; and mowed the lawn.

At long last, sweaty, dusty and stained by plant juices, Worf emerged slowly from the Holodeck. Everyone held their breath. Had the experiment worked? Was Worf cured? Could Wesley and Riker be shoved up front while everyone else ran away?

Worf turned and glowered meaningfully at them. Geordi nudged Wesley forward a bit. Though the Klingon officer moved his lips about as though to speak, he said not a word, whether overcome by his emotions or simply due to the writer's strike, we shall never know. In the end, he just straightened his shoulders proudly and headed for the showers.

As the closing music swelled, everyone cheered and danced and pounded eachother on the back in what TV writers consider a great display of emotion, and incidentally refractured Wesley's spine in the process. Dr. Crusher dragged Wesley to Sick Bay, lecturing him in a motherly tone about the hazards of spinal infections. Geordi hobbled back to Engineering, going in a direction diametrically opposite to that taken by Worf. Picard went back to Ten Forward to drown his brain. Troi wandered in search of more conjugal hot-tubbing. Riker bounced aimlessly off the corridor walls until he met an open man-hole, after which he lay quietly at the bottom of a 20 foot drop, where he would be discovered in a future episode.

What, you expected a satisfying conclusion? Ha! Watch a different show.

Stay tuned next week, as Riker's brain begins to leak out, and only after 40 minutes of ineffective action does Dr. Crusher think of using bathroom caulking to save him.