Shakedown #154"
By: Favor, Medic / Morale Officer, [PST]
Stardate: 58202.28 1600
To: Zion crew
From: Ensign Favor
Subject: Welcome To The Jungle
Good afternoon. I am Ensign Favor, your new MWR (Morale, Welfare and Recreation) Officer.
Ma always worried that I wouldn't find my niche. She said, "Favor, all you want to do is goof off," and since I'm at least half Raisan, Ma was absolutely right.
But believe it or not, someone at High Command actually gave me a job that entails... goofing out! I couldn't believe it myself, yet it seems that's what's happened! That's what they put on my orders: MWR Officer/Medic.
What were they thinking at Starfleet Command? Who's in charge of these wacky decisions, anyway? It's not my fault. Don't blame me, I voted for Bev Peabody! (I actually saw that on a bumper sticker on the back of a Moon Cruiser in downtown DC. It made me laugh out loud).
My goal as MWR Officer is to inject a little levity into the dynamic of the crew, and to give you people something to take your minds off the present, serious situation. Think of me as a comic strip. Think of me as your martini at the end of the day. We MWR officers do far more than just hand out dodgeballs and swab the showers.
But I digress.
My primary duty is that of your Ship Medic. In absence of a Ship Doctor, I've been FAPPED into Sick Bay.
It's a fun place, Sick Bay is. It's a happening billet, let me tell you. No sick people, but lots of neat little gadgets and doo-dads. Don't ask me what half of them are. I accidentally lobotomized the Ship Mascot by pushing the wrong button on something the other day. (Just kidding, we don't really have a Ship Mascot! What do you people think this is, an Earth football team for God's sake?)
When they gave me this assignment, they explained that at present, there is no Doctor aboard the Zion. They took me to the Medical Supply Depot on Earth, and the Quartermaster told me to select whichever medical instruments I thought I'd require. Well let me tell you, the warehouse was crammed full of everything you could think of, and some things you couldn't imagine. My jaw gaped! My eyes boggled! Have you ever seen someone's eyes actually boggle? Mine did.
So I walked around, and looked at all the neat little things they had. And I kept saying, "You're kidding, right? You mean I can have anything I want?"
For some reason, the Quartermaster asked at that time to see my Medical Levels paperwork. Then he went and punched a bunch of things into a computer and compared his screen with my authorization forms. He said, "Hmm, well, it all seems to be in order here..." and his voice trailed off, and he looked a little puzzled. Then he wanted my StarFleet ID card, and kept scanning and scanning. Every time, it scanned green--authorization approved.
"I don't understand why this doesn't scan red," I heard him mutter to one of his lackeys, and their faces sort of bunched up around their noses. Sour pickles, I thought!
Well, anyway, I just ignored them and went shopping in that fabulous StarFleet Supply Depot warehouse, and I finally selected an instrument that was the shiniest, and that had the most buttons.
That was seriously my first thought when I saw it: "Wow! Look at all the buttons on this thing! That *must* mean it's good."
It also has this little Velcro strap so I can attach it to my belt and carry it with me wherever I go. I couldn't resist it. You wouldn't have been able to, either.
So I have this particular instrument, and I like to carry it around on my belt. I don't like others touching it, so don't do that. I'll get hostile. I may slap your hand, and it may hurt. I don't think it's a violation of my Hippocratic Oath to slap your hand if you're richly deserving of it. So just take this warning as a gift--do not touch my instrument.
My instrument makes me feel authoritative and important. I practice looking in the holo-mirror in my quarters, and dispensing stern, doctorly advice: "You need to lose a few pounds, Crewman," I say, brandishing my lovely new tool of the medical trade.
Or, "You can't imagine what all that glint you inhaled on Planet Raisa did to your innards, Bo'sun. Next time you're on leave, lay off the glint." Things like that. Just in case someone on the Zion ever gets sick, my bedside manner needs to be sharp. It's good to keep in practice when you're in garrison, so that when you're in the fleet, you'll know what to do.
I also practice saying, "Tut tut," and clucking my tongue in a disapproving fashion, and shaking my head in a sorrowful way. "Tsk tsk."
Isn't that what doctors do? That's what mine did at my final physical. "Tut tut", he said. "What the hell did you do to yourself, Favor?" He peered into my bloodshot eyes. He examined the mystery bruises on my shins. "Tsk tsk," and he pinched his nose and shook his head at me.
"Just give me the painkiller," I moaned. (I drank too much the night before--it was my going away party before they transferred me aboard this ship. The party was a blast, even if I did bogart the hooch and run naked through a bingo parlor.)
Since I like to think of myself as a medical professional, if you come to see me, you can expect a lecture about how you need to take better care of yourself, and a lot of tsking and tutting.
Now the pamphlet and directions that came with my instrument are written in Japanese congi, an Earth language that I don't speak. But that's OK. I like to point my gadget up at the ceiling at night, and watch the colors spin, just before I go to sleep.
Don't get sick, is what I'm saying here, people. For the love of God, DON'T GET SICK. If you come down to see me, I can do my best. I can point my little gadget at you and try to figure out what's ailing you. But I make no guarantees, and I carry no malpractice insurance.
In any event, I'm just getting settled into my quarters, and I was reviewing the Ship Roster, and noticed that the Personnel Officer hasn't yet added my profile. So you people may well think that I'm just some nut who has hijacked Sick Bay. I assure you that nothing could be further from the truth. Honest!
Ensign Favor
PS: I'm seriously your medic, and your MWR officer. All joking aside, I'm fully trained and qualified to conduct medical procedures ranging from pregnancy tests on Vulcans to neurosurgery on Betazoids. I have at my disposal, instant trans-universal consultations available for every species and known disease associated with said species, currently in the Federation of Planets. But don't touch the instrument. I wasn't joking about that. I keep it strapped to my belt and I want you to keep your grubby mitts off. Seriously. I'm not afraid to slap.
From the wisdom of the Peking Noodle Company, I give you my motto: A little madness, a little kindness, makes for happiness.
End Transmission