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Reciprocal time there was a cosmic dust bunny flittering through the universe, sweeping up white hot plasma star stuff and converting it into composted manure. Alas, the galactic frenzy for cultured stinkweed (apologies to Datura stramonium) grew dim and it looked like Star Trek: Voyager would die. Please.
It came to pass that five years of shows were desirous for syndication. As with Medusa growing two snake heads for every one sundered, critical disgust and audience ennui less killed the monster than abetted its grotesqueries. Notable among hideous suspensions of disbelief was the endless supply of shuttle craft crunched in feeding tiresome special effects-enriched disasters. (Perhaps there was a storage bay filled with big aluminized mylar envelopes bearing the legend: "Jiffy-Pop Dehadronized Shuttle Craft. Tear open, add neutronium, mix well, cool.") Unless habitues suckling the glass teat saw something to make their eyes grow wide or at least raise the occasional woody, it was over. Violence had been milked dry. All that remained was sex or hiring a talented writer.
Some duct tape (gaffer's tape! - union shop) and a BimBorg ultra-bikini bottom lent mounting tension to a collectively curvaceous blonde vociferously denouncing being incrementally carved out of her BimBorg leathers by the holographic doctor. Chelsea the BimBorg, 7 of 39DD, was threatening severe tease amidst gobs of unctuous interpersonal gibberish and interdigitated advertisements for chewing gum. Who knows how steel stirrups and cyberspecula will evolve by the twenty-umpteenth century?
In the meanwhile superannuated ex-bimbette Kes was doing the best she could to ooze out of her molecular structure and meet the competition on its own ground, to nobody's advantage or interest. Captain "Butch" Janeway was all hot and bothered in the dugout, twitching with expectations of coming up to bat, hoping to hit a home run deep into BimBorg center field. We weathered a flurry of pop flies and fouls until she sauntered down to the brig, dumped the security field, and stroked a bunt to first base. This author was ravaged by anomie and bent a trifle peckish for chicharones.
I awaited with fluttering pulse CNN notice that Janeway plants a lip lock on Chelsea the BimBorg to haul her back into humanity's bosom.
"Star Trek: Voyeur tonight presents a breakthrough in bad network TV as Captain "Butch" Janeway personally goes after the last Borg implant with her tongue."
Where is the politically correct Feminazi mass hysteria in counterpoint? Imperialist White Protestant historic patriarchal European oppressors of BimbBorgs with Spandex-shrinkwrapped bodacious cyberboobies are fomenting racial atrocities and surgical cosmetic mutilations on Chelsea the BimBorg who is insistent upon celebrating her assimilated ethnic diversities! Do we detect subtle echoes of Chinese foot binding and sub-Saharan female circumcision? Andrea cyberDworkin, where are you? I would have optioned a heavy metal or techno actress with major facial piercings: "SFX this, weenies."
Coming attractions featured the heretofore heterosexual heavy hitter Hispano-Klingon engineeress proclaiming genital hunger for a diversity hire male officer, both being clad in separate spacesuits and immersed in vacuum as their oxygen ran low. You'd think they would be more concerned about the aesthetics of their suits' honeydippers. My scientific curiosity sought the sources of light illuminating lovers' (agape, pending some emergency airlock rigging) faces from two angles.
How awful is this romp through universal merchandising space? The opening sequence shows the starship zooming through stuff - a dust cloud. On the one hand it might have been doing a mere 100 mph or so, which would have only sandblasted the windshields and the paint job. As clouds of cosmic stuff tend to be lightyears in extent, that is an extrapolated whole lot of sandblasting. On the other hand the intrepid starship Voyager might have been really smoking under impulse power at a few hundred miles per second. That would give each dust mote the impact energy of a large caliber rifle bullet over the surface area of a pinprick. I admit that a ship full of pinhead pricks is consonant with the apparent mission statement, but it adds nothing to the weekly exposition.
What can we expect in the future? BimBorg in danger, BimBorg needs an implant mechanic, BimBorg longs for her Borg Collective, BimBorg discovers the Nordstroms button on the uniform replicator, BimBorg suffers severe uniform erosion a la James T. Kirk and his waxed chest, BimBorg pumps iron on the holodeck, BimBorg offers new hope for the crew going home, and
Chelsea the BimBorg, "Captain Janeway, I'm getting these cramps..."
You watch it and take notes. When you have a goodly collection call me and we will light the fireplace with them.
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