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Leave some for the rest of us!

Hey, you can only buy 15 of these.

Somewhere, in a room smelling of cigarette smoke and body odor…

3rd place in Derby #228: Double-Take Derby 15, with 755 votes!

Alright kid, you got an eye for space drama. I’ll give you that.

“Wow, really? Thank you so much, Mr. Rodden-”

Gino. Call me Gino, kid. But listen, I’ve got a few, eh, “edits” to talk about. Just punching it up, y’know?

“Yeah, sure. I defer to your genius, sir. Gino, sir. You made this entire universe, after all!”

Right you are. Anyway, I notice you’ve got characters eating and drinking quite a bit of stuff.

“Yeah, one thing that always irked me about TNG was-”

Did you just call it, “TNG?”

“Yeah. Was that bad?”

It’s THE NEXT GENERATION. Respect the brand, kid.

“Sorry. One of the things that always irk- er, intrigued me about Star Trek: The Next Generation was that the characters didn’t seem entirely relatable. I thought showing them in more relatable situations, like eating, would help humanize them more.”

But they’re not all humans.

“Well, you’re right of course, but I meant it more as a scriptwriting term.”

Look, we can talk circles around each other all day, so I’m just gonna cut to the crap: this script won’t see the light of day without some funny-sounding alien adjectives in front of the food.

“What?”

You’ve got the Captain eating a croissant. Make it a Cardassian Croissant.

“Oh…kay?”

It sounds more exotic. People eat that &%^$ up. Ditto for this whiskey the Lieutenant has. Now it’s something alien…hmm. Maybe Weimaranerian Whiskey?

“I think Weimaraners are dogs, Gino. Sir.”

Whatever. Waldovian Whiskey, then. The cake should be Claptonian Cake, the orange juice should be Octopod Juice, just do a Find:Replace thing in your word processor and knock those out.

“And you’ll use my script?”

Yeah, sure. Now get that tiny scissors. I’ve got some Skultonian Skin Tags that need addressing.

“Skultonian?”

It was either that or “Gino’s Rotten Berries.” Get to scissorin’.

Wear this shirt: While cursing your stupid, replicator-less kitchen.

Don’t wear this shirt: To Risa. Who KNOWS what you’re going to spill on it while you’re on Risa.

This shirt tells the world: “Oh sure, they SAY it’s a welcoming community, but post ONE piece of Cake Boss/Star Trek slashfic and all the judgmental types come out of the woodwork.”

We call this color: Earl Brown. Hot.

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