Big Bill's Star Trek Stuff, submitted by R-Lo. Rich, in his never ending battle to make me commit suicide, turned up this gem of a web site. I hate Star Trek fans. Yeah, not exactly setting a trend for bold statements, but these bastards continually piss me off. I don't particularly hate the show, I used to watch the original and Next Generation when I was a kid, but I never found myself in a conversation about how they make transporter pads wheelchair accessible.
Q; How does Jameson get his wheelchair down from the transporter pad?
A; My theory is that his wheelchair was lifted off the transporter pad by a couple of hefty young Ensigns. Easy, innit? Mind you, it does make me wonder why he wasn't beamed onto a level surface in the first place.
I don't even know who the living fuck this guy is talking about. With a little contextual detective work I managed to come up with some facts. His name is Jameson, he is confined to a wheelchair and he spends a lot of time using the transporter. I have a question for you "Big Bill". If they have the power to travel faster than light why the hell can't they get this bitch out of his wheelchair? Couldn't they saw his legs off and put him onto android legs or maybe make him hover on a disc or something, Jesus Christ. As usual, the disabled takin' one for the team. Suuuure pour some more research money into your goofy little chirping tit radios, leave me in my fucking wheelchair with legs that look like pipe-cleaners. I'll just make my Prime Directive kicking your sorry asses once I have my hydraulic stompin' legs.
The lesson here is that when dealing with loopy sci-fi like Star Trek lazy really is better. I always watched it assuming that any plot holes could be easily filled in by robots. Handicapable transporter? Robots. Holodeck? Robots. The Robots? Robots. It makes watching this crap a whole lot more fun.
Simply put, if I had Johnny Manziel’s physical gifts, you better believe I would be there in the Weight Room, getting to bed early, doing whatever I had to do to be the best possible athlete I could be. I wouldn't be posting on social media about sucking titties. I wouldn't even look at a titty, buddy. I'd look at a titty and see two big footballs.
A real friend doesn't move until the middle of August, ensuring temperatures in the 90s and a humidity that turns boxers into moist balls of ruined cotton.
Expendable? You must be joking.
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