Subject: Dear Saint Nick
Summary: Letter to Saint Nick

Here's another little creative endeavour I thought you folks might like to 
peruse:

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Dear Saint Nick:

I am writing to you on behalf of myself and my senior officers. We could
all use a lift this Christmas, as we have been under intense pressure
during the last few months, what with the mediocre scripts, numerous
inconsistencies, and general lack of direction under which we have been
suffering.

I'd like to take this time to put in a few requests. There are some items
that I know would make my officers and myself quite happy indeed, should
they appear under our tree (Guinan has obligingly had one installed in
Ten-Forward). I hope you will be able to provide us with at least some of
them.

First of all, I would like to have new shields for the Enterprise. This
has been on my mind for some time now, but that last altercation with the
Ferengi, during the short time I was in the form of a twelve-year-old,
quite clinched it for me. If a band of large-eared runts in antiquated
Klingon cruisers can cripple a Galaxy-class starship in under two
minutes, the situation warrants serious attention. By the way, while I
was in that twelve-year-old form, I found the experience of having hair
quite pleasant. Perhaps you could arrange . . . No, scratch that. It
would probably seriously undermine my credibility.

On to specifics: I have found my first officer, Commander Will Riker, to
be quite testy of late. He can be quite a bully when he gets miffed, and
that seems to be happening rather a lot. The smirk was bad enough. This
is becoming intolerable. Perhaps you bring him a new mood. I don't really
care which one. Anything at all would be preferable to the smirking and
the bullying. While you're at it, you might drop off a few low-cal
programs for the food replicators. And a truss might not be such a bad
idea either.

My ship's Counsellor, Deanna Troi, is in serious need of a man. Perhaps
you could find someone for her. My specifications are relatively
straightforward: He must not be inherently evil and must not practise
mind-control techniques of any sort whatsover. He must also have an
actual physical body and must promise not to impregnate her on the first
date. Beyond that, a personality would be nice, and a diversified gene
pool is a must. The poor girl could also use a new wardrobe, if you can
manage it.

My chief engineer, Geordi LaForge, is also having some problems in the
romance department. It's gotten to the point where he is starting to ask
Mister Barclay for copies of his holodeck programs. If you can arrange to
have a gorgeous, unmarried, genius-level warp systems designer pay us a
visit, I think that would fit the bill nicely. A few bottles of Windex
would be a great help as well, I think, as Geordi has started bumping
into things the last several weeks.

For my chief of security, Lieutenant Worf, I have but one request: Bran.
Lots of it. By the tonne, if possible. Ever since he started drinking
prune juice, he's had to leave his post suddenly more often than I say
"engage." And . . . well, I needn't get into the olfactory aspect of
things. Let's just leave it at that.

My chief medical officer, Beverly Crusher, misses her son Wesley
terribly. I know she would like to be with him for the holidays. I'd ask
you to bring him here, but it seems that no one else on the ship save for
myself and Mister Data can even tolerate the boy, so you'd best send
Beverly to see him. Something else I know she'd like is to encounter a
disease that she can actually cure. Well, see what you can do. Oh, yes,
and some throat lozenges for that terrible barking cough she's developed
recently.

For Lieutenant Commander Data, my request is quite simple. He is still
intent on becoming more human, so if you were to deliver to him some
videotapes of the PTL club, a few Harlequin Romances, and a copy of
Leonard Nimoy's record album, I think that would cure him of that desire
once and for all. And, for heaven's sake, bring him some real cat food.
That vile concoction he's developed for poor Spot lingers in the air for
days at a time.

For my senior transporter officer, Miles O'Brien, I would like to request
a rank. He's wandering around in a fog most of the time now, because he
doesn't know whether to wear one pip or two, whether he's an enlisted man
or a commissioned officer, whether "Chief" is his position or his rank.
It's really quite pathetic to see the man these days. He mumbles to
himself and shakes his head for no reason. By the way, we'd all like to
thank you profusely for the great gift you gave Miles a couple of years
ago. We had hoped desperately that you would give him a first name, but
the added bonus of a middle name far exceeded any of our expectations. We
were truly in awe of your generosity. I hope you'll come through for the
poor man again this year. He needs your help.

For myself, I would ask that you keep Vash wherever it is Q has stashed
her, and provide me with some new expressions. I and everyone around me
is getting quite weary of hearing "Engage," "Make it so," "Come," and
"Tea, Earl Grey, hot." Perhaps you could provide me with a basket of
international teas and coffees so that I might choose a new beverage to
go with that last expression. Oh yes, and a pair of earplugs for the next
time Lwaxanna Troi decides to drop by. And I would very much appreciate a
visit from Phillipa Louvois.

Thank you for your time, Saint Nick. From myself and my crew, I would
like to wish you and yours a very merry Christmas, and a properous and
adventurous New Year.

Yours Truly,
 
Jean-Luc Picard, 
Commanding Officer, 
U.S.S. Enterprise, NCC-1701-D

P.S. I don't suppose you could arrange to nudge that space station into
that wormhole? No, that's petty.
			
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Copyright 1992, Eric R. Rountree

This work may be freely distributed, provided the copyright notice above and 
this message are included intact.

