Desservo #12: Suburbia: The Final Frontier

Many people know me as the slightly shy, yet thoughtful and funny young man. By day, I am a pizza delivery driver. By night, I am also a pizza delivery driver. But that's beside the point.

What many don't know is that I have an occupation only few across space and time know about, or are given the honor to join and participate in. I am a Starfleet Captain.

Every day, aboard the starship U.S.S. 89 Ford Tempo, I embark on a five-hour mission, to explore strange new neighborhoods, to seek out new customers and new complaints, and to boldly grow in a way no pizza delivery man has grown before.

I explore and deliver precious pizza cargo to millions of federation citizens across the galaxy, particularly in the "East County" region of space. When we receive a distress call at Starbase made in the name of crying, ugly, and hungry children, I rush out and save the day aboard my loyal ship (which has a maximum crew compliment of me, and Mr. Fogjacket, my imaginary copilot).

Traveling at ridiculous speeds of up to warp factor 85 miles per hour, I fly my precious cargo of diamond-studded pizzas to those in need of relief from a terrible sickness that has spread across the galaxy: hunger. However, there is a price for this cure: stupidity.

I am sure to push my ship to the limit: the faster the cargo is delivered, the higher the gratuity, and the more people smile, which is payment in itself. Sometimes I am known to exceed the limits of my warp drive engine. Ensign Fogjacket calls me insane, but what does he know? At the age 0f 5,233, he has a lot to learn, but I'm convinced that someday Lt. Comdr.. Fogjacket will make a fine Starfleet captain.

However, every great Starfleet captain has a foe. Kirk had the Klingons. Picard had the Borg. Sisko had the Dominion. Janeway had yeast infections. I have the Suburban Crusaders.

The Crusaders are a race of Neanderthal-like ape creatures, who are usually balding, middle-aged, weak, p-whipped males who live for the sole purpose of being used by corporations and defending their useless, ugly children against the evils of the world (like sex, rated 'R' movies and the truth).

Relations between Starfleet and the Suburban Crusaders aren't too cozy right now, so naturally I am a prime target as a slightly reckless and highly adventurous Starfleet captain. These primitive creatures, when angered, are known to yell, make ape-like gestures and display jock-like posturing to appear intimidating. It is not hard to anger this primate race. Simply fly at anything above Warp 25 mph, dock in a reserved or red landing zone or play your subspace radio too loud and you will find an entire detachment of Suburban Crusaders on your tail and locking phasers. I find that the best way to fight this menace is to smile and speed off as quickly as possible (the dreaded middle-finger torpedo is also a highly effective weapon, but a last resort...well, for me, the first).

You may be wondering, why the risk? If I'm trying to perform a simple job of delivering cargo to the homeworlds of useless, materialistic souls, why put up with the added risk? Well, gentlemen, risk is why we're aboard her...RISK is our game. Not CLUE or MONOPOLY, but RISK.

Every starship commander must withstand the trials of space and time - you must constantly think on your toes, and depend on your fine, fine crew of homo midgets to get you through. Just last week the warp manifold wasn't receiving the proper amount of oxygen, so my chief engineer, Right Foot, quickly investigated and with a loud "bang" (and for some reason a bit of pain in my lower leg and related extremity), the problem was fixed and the proud Starship Tempo was under way once again.

But flying across the galaxy as Captain Desservo does is not without its own risk. There is an Evil Galactic Empire, who controls the better part of this quadrant. They are totalitarian, abusive and just plain evil. They are a race known as, in short, Hamapigalopophie. The proto-matter neutrons and electrons that make up this race's molecular structure thrives on feelings of power and control - this is the only way this race survives. However, the opposite also has an adverse affect on this species. Feelings of good times, having fun and free-thinking work in emphatic ways to tear down the cellular structures of these beings...so for this reason alone, they forbid all fun activities and punish those who disobey. Exceeding the warp limit on the Galactic Skyways is considered "fun," so the Evil Galactic Empire, known as the El Cajon Police Department, forbids this. They keep me on my heels, I tell you what. I've had to outrun my share of black-and-white Death Cruisers to avoid galactic punishment. Even with all of my experience in Starfleet, in space, at the academy, these Space Nazis still scare this old Captain.

Between the Death Cruisers, Suburban Commandos, and the hostile species known as the Jocks, I have a lot to look out for. But if you want in a deep, dark secret, my real nemesis - my true enemy - reaches me in ways that no other enemy can reach me.

They don't fire photon torpedoes at me, or phasers, and they don't threaten to lock on with their tractor beams and take me prisoner. No, this enemy is different. They attack through soundwaves, and assault the mind. They attack through the subspace radios, on certain 70s and 80s rock channels (and if you have one of these in your car, you could fall victim at any time). I suppose it is fitting; for the evil ones I speak of are known only as JEFFERSON STARSHIP. Sometimes I fear volume control will revolt against me and serve the dreaded Jefferson Starship to orchestrate my horrible death. All those who fly the Galactic Rim, beware: The Jefferson Starship is flying for you at warp speed, and she's closing fast and she's powering up her terrible music.

I guess in the end, all that holds this crazy universe together is an energy that surrounds us, binds us and brings us together: Love, the new brand of Elmer's double-strength adhesive. What, did you think everything stayed where it is on it's own? For the love of God, man, Paris wasn't built in a day!

The Future Sucks. Trust me, I've been there.

"Boldly grow..."

Burn in Hell,
Desservo