FIRST OFFICER'S LOG

        Oh friends. Dear friends. As a sadness of the
most overwhelming variety enshrouds my very being I
must gather all that I am for the task that lays before
me. That task grows ever more daunting as DS9 grows
more and more discursive. Perhaps I should explain why
I gone from commentator to vilifier.
          For all I know Norman was correct. Norman,
although he is only a semi-imaginary, frightfully
petite elf, warned me. Unto me he said, "Its gonna
suck." But did I listen? No. I had to dismiss the
advice of my own dellusional psyche in order to satisfy
the my seemingly masochistic longing for ST.
         At least Norman, being even more sadistic than
most of my nonexsistent friends, enjoyed himself. As I
winced while Quark and Gaila exchanged words of a most
predictable variety he laughed and reveled in my pain.
As I recovered from the Regent indulging in a poor
impersonation of Don Corleon Norman went to great
lengthes to remind me that the reset button, Trek's
most horrific faults, was being built, and depressed,
before my terrifed eyes as Quark dreamnt most guiltily.
        My stomach churned, my mind wobbled all in
response to the assault on whatever remained of my
nervous system. I dropped to my knees and prayed to a
god I don't believe in with faith I don't have. I asked
her to forgive me for the horrible things I had done. I
confessed all. From when I first got my learners permit
and hit that little old lady to when I left that cherry
bomb in the confessional at my local church but all to
no avail. I am cursed I tell you. Cursed. There is no
other way to explain "Business as Usual" and "A Simple
Investigation".

Capt. Cronan Thompson
maliki@worldnet.att.net
"Those wizened prognosticators of old foretold what was destined
to be using techniques thought lost in the mists of antiquity. They
spoke of a man, a man plain and simple yet with the potential to
safeguard mankind from the coming dangers. He is Cronan, our only
hope." -- Wisened Old Guy wearing no pants by the freeway