I am not telling you what I want for Christmas.

I am not telling you what I want for Christmas. You should already know. You shouldn't have to ask. Nope, not telling you. The joy of giving a gift is lost on you, I suppose.

Of course, as you remind me almost daily, you cannot read my mind. I can tell right now by the look on your face that you are still clueless about what to get me for Christmas. How

do you manage to forget every year that I'd like a couple of crates of beer or maybe 3 for Christmas? A gold plated nose hair clipper is no substitute. It's not the thought that co

unts, it's the amount that counts. Think quantity, not quality. I want to get blitzed on Blatz. Shnockered on Shlitz. Buzzed on Bud. C'mon fat man, beer me!

Beer me up, Scotty! Drink a 12 pack at the love shack then hit the sack cuz I can't drive back when I'm blowing chunks cuz I'm drunk as a skunk. C'mon fat man, beer me!

Scotty was the portly bar tender at the "Starboard Bow"where the beer was dispensed via transporter controls. When I choked on some trible nuts, Bones said "It's worse than that,

if you talk too loudly it hisses at you loudl-" "SSSSSSSS," it interrupted him, spilling beer all over the counter. Scotty apologised profusely as Bones quickly cleared up the mess

Dumbed down masses graduating college who dreamed about Vulcan.

We work in our small cubicles, hunched over our glowing boxes, waiting for the spaceships to rip off the roofs and pull us up into interstellar adventures.