Hydrogen: 'Admiral Rogers, sir? We have a problem. We lost contact with one of the rotisseries over an hour ago, and we're afraid the chicken might not be getting toasty golden brown on the outside while remaining mouth-wateringly juicy on the inside, sir.'
Trillaphon: '...My God. Get me the president.'
Hydrogen: 'Sir, the Space White House was just destroyed, we watched it live, right here in this room, don't you remember?'
Trillaphon: 'I always knew this day would come. Lieutenant Schaeffer, I believe I'll take my 4 piece dinner with two sides and flaky buttermilk biscuits in the state room tonight, and I'm not to be disturbed. Once you've seen to my bib & mustache comb, I want you to sound general quarters and give the order to abandon ship.'
Trillaphon: 'That's an order Lieutenant, not a request. The silent countdown has already been set, and by the time I have finished my new Kennylicious Sizzlin Ranch-Dipped Roast Pork Quesodeala combo meal - complete with spaghetti muffin - and the last bittersweet chords of what will surely be the most hickory-smoked honey-spun tenor rendition of Islands in the Stream ever performed on ornate pipe organ, this ship and any who remain on it will vanish with me into the cold indifferent silence of space.'
Are you concerned that you may be a character trapped in a Tom Waits song? Be smart and learn the warning signs before it's too late. Also, it's too late. It has always been too late.
I'm haunted by a recurring vision of a skeleton flipping me off. To avoid seeing this terrifying image in bumper sticker form, I pay someone with a blank bumper to drive in front of me at all times.
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