Wednesday, September 5, 2012

Shit Hits the Fan... Fiction

So I've been really busy being a lazy turd lately (which can be extremely fucking exhausting), but I didn't want either of my fecally faithful readers to think I'd gone to the great sewer in the sky or some crap like that. So, as opposed to taking the time to poop out some new nonsensical rant that no one gives two shits about, I've decided to post some old thing I wrote that no one will give two shits about.

There are two things I'm extremely nerdy about: Star Trek and the NFL. As for everything else I'm just a dork--socially inept and generally awkward without any sort of quirky intelligence to fall back on. Way back last winter when I was still enrolled in college, before I gave up hope that my cranial cavity was filled with anything other than dung droppings, I had the assignment of writing a piece using a character's voice other than my own. The assignment happened to fall in the two week window between the end of playoffs and the actual Superbowl, so logically there was only one way to approach it.

Please keep in mind that this was written while drunk (as are most standard blog posts, at least that part remains consistent) and was not proofread before posting, as that would take valuable time and totally defeat the purpose of posting this old crap so that I can return to the Dee-shaped indent on my couch.

Plus, what better way to kick off the 2012 NFL Season (tonight!!!) than with what is probably the most poorly written piece of fan fiction ever? Don't answer that. Asshole.

Anyway, without further Adoo-doo, here it is, in all its horribly corny glory.


Kicking It With Captain Kirk


               “Captain’s Log: Stardate, 9522.6. We have traveled back in time to Earth date 2.5.12 after receiving a distress call from Belichick, a Federation Patriot from Earth’s glorious past. He claims to be from England... when it was... new. He fears the second major defeat is imminent for his army… which is courageously battling the Giants from York, also apparently a recently established territory. It seems these mighty Giants sent them reeling four years ago, and the Federation Patriots have been rebuilding their tattered army. But now, a second battle is looming and Belichick fears that… if defeated again… the Federation is in serious danger of total collapse. I must now report to the Enterprise control room to prepare for Mission: Defeat the Giants.
                This is Captain James T. Kirk, signing off for now.”
* * *

                I enter the command room at the same time as my first officer, Spock.
                “Captain, we’ve been researching these Patriots and Giants,” he says, nodding at Sulu. “These battles aren’t logical.”
                I perch myself behind my mighty Captain’s chair and direct my attention to the video screen, where ancient footage shows what appears to be a violent skirmish between two gaudily decorated armies, on an antiquated grassy battlefield painted with white numbers and parallel lines. On both ends of this strange battlefield stand bright yellow posts, looming like obnoxious Y’s. The men on the screen fight over some oblong object that's difficult to make out. Our WiFi's been on the fritz ever since we emerged from the time warp. I keep forgetting to call Mr. Scott about that. On the screen thousands of observers surround the battlefield-- painted even more ridiculously bright than the warriors-- waving towels and chanting obscenities.
                “It’s even worse than I thought!” I mutter as I slam my fist on the back of my chair.  Some say I have a penchant for the overdramatic. “These primitive beings may be hard to communicate with. They don’t even possess weapons! Other than those yellow flags, and only the striped men are garnished with those.”
                “With all due respect Captain,” Spock says, “This appears to be some sort of game. There is too much visual data stored on Federation servers to assume these are a primitive race of humans.”
                I shake my head. “No, this Belichick said he is a Federation Patriot and he needs our help. Starfleet Command has ordered us, and we will see to it that these Giants are destroyed. The future of the Federation may depend upon it.”
                “But Captain,” Sulu begins, “We’ve studied these Giants. They’re most formidable opponents only wore cheese as protective headgear.”
                “Well then, we will be sure to bring extra crackers,” I say, and begin my signature stare-into-the- cosmos-until-everyone-gets-bored-and-walks-away trick. Works every time.
* * *

                “Beam us down, Scotty,” I order as we bump the primitive shack known as the International Space Station out of orbit. Spock, Sulu and I sit poised and ready for whatever challenge the Giants would present.
                We are beamed in front of the battlefield in Indianapolis, Indiana. I can’t believe the seemingly positive attention given to what would most surely be a bloody, gruesome battle. There are flashing lights, colorful confetti… and the smell of beer and grilled meat is unlike any war scene I have ever encountered, on any planet. The excitement surrounding this looming war is so thick no one seems to notice three men from the future materializing out of nowhere. As we try to enter the battlefield arena a citizen hassles us for some sort of ticket, but Spock gives him the Vulcan nerve pinch and we begin sifting through the crowd.
                Using an advanced sweat detector, Sulu leads us discretely through a back hallway until we arrive at a door labeled “Patriots Locker Room.” We enter and immediately I am taken aback by the stench of body odor that seems to seep from the cold, stone walls.  But soon I recognize the gray hooded sweatshirt of our distress signaler.
                I approach and extend my hand, “Patriot Belichick, Captain Kirk of the Starship Enterprise. We have come from the future to help you beat these….” I pause as I look around, noticing all the men dressing for battle around me are enormous in stature. “Giants."
                “Great! I added you to the roster. I wasn’t sure if you were coming or not, but I like to keep those fuckers at ESPN on their toes!” Belichick says, slapping me on the back. “Now suit up.”
                As he tosses me one of those silly battle jerseys, I brave a glance back at Spock and Sulu. They are both shaking their heads at me... Sulu mouthing the words “no way.” But, who was I to judge the customs of an archaic society? It was Federation rules to not attempt to alter the culture of any race we encountered. I begin to disrobe from my Captain’s uniform and suit up in our forefather’s battle gear.
* * *

                The battle became at times intense, and then lulled during what was referred to as a “TV time out”. I found it odd that they decided who attacked first based on the flip of a coin, but it’s not my place to pass judgments. The magical object of everyone’s desire turned out to be an oblong brown leathery device that turned to a useless rock whenever the striped men blew their whistles. Very strange battle customs, indeed.
                The noise of the spectators became deafening at times. A giant neon board showed the “score” of the battle, and sometimes what they called a Kiss-Cam. While unfamiliar with such barbaric, and quite frankly unproductive, war tactics I found myself consumed by the roar of the crowd and the smell of sweat and nacho cheese swirling all around me.
                Battle was divided into four quarters, and after three the Giants were rated two points higher than my Patriots. Now as the fourth quarter winds down, a stunned silence fills the arena as our team hero, Rob Gronkowski, goes down hard. While not dead, he has hurt his ankle, which is apparently a big deal for this kind of combat.
                “GROOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOONK!!!!!!” I cry out emphatically. I see Spock and Sulu exchange a glance and roll their eyes.
                Suddenly Belichick turns toward me. “It’s 4th and 13 from their 30. Our field goal kicker took a hard one to the nuts earlier when I threw him in on a punt return. Can you kick this field goal?”
                I stare at the Y-shaped yellow post. He needs me to kick the mystical oval between the arches; it will win the battle. I find myself consumed with a longing to take part in this ritualistic combat… to be a hero…. to beat the Giants. I want--
                Suddenly Belichick punches me hard in the arm. “Can you do it or not, fuck nuts?”
                “Only if Sulu spikes, and Spock holds.” I reply. And then, for effect: “Only... if... Spock.... holds.”
                “No prob,” Belichick says and slaps me again, this time on the back. I lurch forward. “He’s not on the roster, but no one will notice his pointy ears under a helmet.” He sends a demanding glare to his sidekick Brady, who lowers his head as he removes his helmet and jersey and hands them to Spock. Sulu emerges with gear of his own and we gaily march onto the battlefield.
                It’s time.
                Everything seems to be happening in slow motion. First I hear Sulu mutter, “Ohhh myyyyy” as he snaps the... ball, I guess they call it. I watch Spock pluck it from the air and carefully lower it to the ground, laces out—he said later that was the only logical way. I run toward him, using advanced meditation techniques to allow myself to only see the ball and the goal posts… effectively ignoring the bloodthirsty Giants sprinting at me. I let my foot connect with the mystical entity just as I had been instructed. Its flight is long and magical; end over end, right through the center of the goal posts.
                It…. was…. good.
                I hear the spectators erupt with ear-shattering cheers and jeers. I stand proudly in the field, receiving accolades from my fellow Patriots as they trot away. I stay behind, smiling at the yellow posts and admiring my own foot strength,  as a striped man saunters up and tells me to “get the hell off the field.” As I walk off the fake grass I realize I am leaving a hero. The Patriots would end up victorious that night, and my foot was destined to receive a prestigious award they call MVP.  
* * *     


“Captain’s Log: Star Date, same--only much later. Scotty beamed us back and our cool foam fingers survived the journey. The Federation Patriots reigned victorious; although that rascal Belichick admitted later he had sent distress signals all over the galaxy and space-time continuum, in the hopes that someone would show up to save his doomed team. But I believe we changed the course of the universe forever tonight, with one strike of the foot.
                This is Captain James T. Kirk of the Starship Enterprise... and Superbowl XLVI MVP... signing off.”



Credits:
**Spock/Belichick image via The Sports Hero
Blame Kimmy Dee for the rest of this atrocity.

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