Starship Josh: The Aftermath

I'm exhausted, thirsty, cranky, out of sorts, and the only thing my brain is urge me to do is write.  The.  Fuck.  What.  Damn my Muse.  Damn her for steering me to:

Starship Josh:  The Aftermath

[The bridge is a wreck.  Intellect is passed out on a rail wearing a lampshade, Emotion is naked with party hat covering her business, unconscious on the bridge floor, Intuition is propped up against a wall, staring straight ahead and blinking, and Ego is asleep in the Commander's chair, with his shirt off and wrapped around his head like a ninja hoodie.]

[Id walks in.]

Id:  Hey, guys, I'm getting all kind of weird readings and I was wond...

[Looks around, blinks]

Id:  Whoa.  What the fuck?  [Seeing Intuition, crosses to him]  Hey, man!  Innie!  What the hell happened?

Intuition:  [stares straight ahead]  Too much...too much...

Id:  Well, that's nice and coherent.  What...

[The door to the bridge bursts open.  Commander SuperEgo comes in, wearing the bottom half of a bear costume, and enormous polka-dot bow tie, and wielding a 3 Iron.]

SuperEgo: Я разобью язычников!

Id: Holy toes of Moses!  [Ducks as SuperEgo swings at him.]

SE: Я поражу Вас со сладкими рассолами, пока Вы не смягчаетесь! Кто послал Вам? Действительно ли это были белки? Я ненавижу белок!

Id:  Right!  Time to use my head!

[Headbutts SuperEgo, who falls down unconscious.]

Id:  OK...can ANYONE hear me?

Memory:  Good...well, morning, technically.  What's up?

Id:  [Looks up, blinks.]  Wait, we're not drunk?

Memory:  If we were, don't you think you would have been involved?

[Pause]

Id:  Ok, that's a good point.  But, Member-me, why's everyone passed out?  What's with Starey McMumble over there?  And why the FUCK is the Commander screaming in...what, I don't know, Klingon?

Memory:  I think it's Russian, Id.

Id:  Same thing.  So what happened?

Memory:  Well, we worked a 17 hour day yesterday, which consisted of our normal job, and then working a Phil Lesh concert from 6 to 1:30.

Id:  Who's Phil Lesh?  Some kind of polka accordian player?

Memory:  Not so much, no.  Phil Lesh was the bass guitarist of "The Grateful Dead."

Id:  [Looks around, whistles]  A few things begin to become clear.

Memory:  Right.  We basically spent seven and a half exhausting hours earning almost a hundred bucks in cash by running around the theater, handing out flyers in the heat, stopping a total of seven people from getting stoned in the bathroom, helping burn about 900 CD's, having three middle aged men begging for some of the "little red pills" from our Excedrin bottle, staring at a large number of women with a staggeringly few number of supportive female undergarments, getting sloppily kissed on the neck twice by a drunk, hairy old man in a wheelchair, inhaling the scents of over 2,000 unwashed hippies smoking god knows what in a packed auditorium, moving and loading a truck with thousands of dollars worth of very, very heavy sound recording equipment, and having a seventy year old man stopping us repeatedly from putting eye drops in our dry, contect-lens-wearing eyes, telling us, "No, no, son, don't do that, that shit will fuck you up!"

Id: [Takes out a Sharpie marker, walks over to Ego]  So, basically, after long hours, intense physical labor, hilarious situations, extreme arousal followed by extreme repulsion, no sleep, and what I can only assume is a massive contact buzz, we have had all our reserves drain, rendered exhausted, strung out, brittle, and altered by the most dedicated, disciplined, responsible, and hardworking parts of this ship.

Memory:  C'est vrai, Id.

Id:  [Blinks]  And we're drinking?  But I didn't...

[Sees SuperEgo whispering into a console.  Steps over and punches him out.]

Id:  AND we've been driven to drink!  This is awesome!  [Finishes drawing a penis on Ego's chest and neck and shoves him out of the chair onto the floor.]

Memory: Impressionnant, Id?

Id:  Hell yes, whatever you said!  We're tired, starving, horny, in an altered state mind, and we've got cash!  [Plops in command chair]  And no one else is here to dispute my command!  Navigation, plot a course to the nearest strip club!

[There's a dull thud, and Id, still grinning, slumps out of the chair, falling face-first onto the ground.  Commander SuperEgo is standing behind him with a dented 3 iron.]

SE:  Отменить...[cough]...uh...Cancel that order, Navigation.  Set a course for bed.  No, first the bathroom.  I want the hippie spit washed of our neck, then bed.

Memory:  Bon avoir vous soutient...[Cough]...um...good to have you back, Sir.

SE:  Thank you, Memory.

Memory:  [Hiccup]  Bonne nuit, Commandant.

SE:  [As he is passing out] Хорошая ночь, Memory...