Chief Medical Officer's Log
Stardate 98006215
Well I'm really all over the place following this talent competition thing.
About two or three days before the competition, all these rumours started flying about saying that Deanna was going to lead a dance troupe of holograms she had programmed and choreographed herself in a stomping electro-synth routine fusing 22nd century neo-ballroom and old school disco, while singing the 21st century classic "Poker Face" across a range of EIGHT FUCKING OCTAVES, ending on a glory note that she'd hold for 46 seconds while making a Rizan Chomping Hound jump through a flaming hoop balanced on her nose. Something that audacious was pure Deanna and I knew I didn't stand a chance. So... an anonymous tipster informed Starfleet Health and Safety that the appropriate form (Clearance Form Eight-Theta) making permissable the participation of a gathering of more than six holograms who have been programmed extensively enough as to be near-sentience, for use in a public spectacle, variety show or any form of entertainment held under a marquee larger than 8 quatrats had not been submitted.
Unfortunately, the anonymous tipster's assumption proved incorrect when she was informed by Starfleet Bureacracy Station Six that Form Eight-Theta had been received SIX CUNTING MONTHS AGO. Meaning bitch-face-trollop-labia had been preparing for the talent contest for over half a year. And leaving anonymous tipster with just 3 days to come up with a routine that'd outshine that empathic cum-stain and win the heart of a certain virile commanding officer. Well not even the heart. I'd make do with an index finger at this point. Jean-Luc has such long, elegant fingers. And he looks after them so well, too. I love a man who looks after his phalanges.
With less than seventy-two hours to go until the big night, I settled upon a ventriloquism act. I've always been good at throwing my voice. Especially when using a short wave transmitter and a miniature holographic mouthpiece that makes it look like my mouth is closed. I hit upon the genius idea of using my routine to poke fun at Deanna's, thus undermining her before the voting. Of course, I couldn't spend the entire routine mocking that fuckwit, so I also decided to make some rather risque jokes at the expense of Admiral Janeway and the recent revelations about her sexual proclivities.
The night came. Alexander was at his high-camp best, and I was actually feeling pretty confident. And then I learned who the guest judge was, whose vote would carry the same weight as the audience. Kathryn fucking Janeway. I had two choices. I could simply concede defeat and not take part, or I could soldier on and maintain my artistic integrity in the face of social awkwardness and career suicide. I chose to soldier on. With half a bottle of vodka in me, I took to the stage and began my routine. It was not my greatest moment. I don't think the masturbatory gestures and orgasm faces I made went down particularly well with Jean-Luc. I heard him apologise to Janeway when I brought up the Borg children thing. So it was probably a mistake to do the routine in that sense, but fuck it, everyone's still talking about it now, several days later, so I guess it was a little victory in that regard. The most galling thing about it all is that Deanna didn't even win, despite her spectacular routine. Instead, it was a bunch of niggers from South London who took the spoils. Never saw that one coming.
