Ralph

Mantis : 

If I touch someone, 

I can feel their feelings.

Peter Quill : 

You read minds?

Mantis :

Noooooo — Telepaths 

know thoughts;

Empaths feel feelings. Emotions.

Mantis : 

[to Peter]  May I?

Peter Quill : 

All right.

Mantis : 

[Mantis touches Peter's hand]  

You feel... love.

Peter Quill : 

Yeah. I guess, yeah, 

I feel a general, 

unselfish love for just 

about everybody...

Mantis : 

No! Romantic, sexual love.

Peter Quill : 

No. No, I don't.

Mantis : [points to Gamora]  

For HER!

Peter Quill : 

No, no. No, I don't.

Mantis : [points to Gamora]  

For HER!

Peter Quill : 

No! That is not...

[Drax starts laughing hysterically] 

Peter Quill : 

Okay... That's...

Drax : [still laughing]  

She just told everyone 

your deepest, darkest secret!

Peter Quill : 

Dude, come on, I think 

you're overreacting a little bit.

Drax : [still laughing]  

You must be SO embarrassed!

Drax : [to Mantis]  

Do me! Do me! Do me!

[Mantis touches Drax and 

she starts laughing hysterically] 

Mantis : 

I've never felt such humor!

Peter Quill : 

So unbelievably uncool.

Drax : 

Oh, Quill...

[Mantis walks over to Gamora to touch her] 

Gamora : 

Touch me, and the only thing 

you're gonna feel is a broken jaw.

Visiting

The Dead Zone (1983) - Death Under the Ice | Scream Factory Blu-ray

Johnny Smith : 

I've been tutoring this boy named Stuart.

 In The Vision, I saw him drown. 

But that's not 

The Point. 

In The Vision, something 

was missing.

Dr. Sam Weizak : 

How - how do you mean?

Johnny Smith : 

It was like... a blank 

spot, a DEAD Zone.

Dr. Sam Weizak : 

First of all, tell me, did 

the boy, in fact, drown?

Johnny Smith : 

His Father wanted 

him to play hockey. 

I talked him out of it. 

The boy's alive.

Dr. Sam Weizak: 

Ah. Yes. Don't you 

see how clear it is? 

Not only can you see 

The Future, you can...

Johnny Smith: 

I can change it.

Dr. Sam Weizak: 

You can change it, exactly. Here. 

Yes, John. That is your... your 

"Dead Zone." The possibility of... 

of altering the outcome 

of your premonitions. 

It's fascinating. Let me 

make a note….

Splitting : A Borderline Personality Disorder Defense Mechanism

Splitting : A Borderline Personality Disorder Defense Mechanism

Made from Scratch

Do Androids Grieve For Electric Children?

Data is famous for being an emotionless machine. 

So, let’s take a look at that...is he really devoid of all emotions? 

Or, does he have some emotional capacity when it really counts? 

Data :

Sir -- The Purpose of 

this gathering confuses me; 

Picard :

How so? 

Data :

My Thoughts are not for Tasha but for myself; 

I keep thinking how empty it will be 

without her presence -- 

Did I miss The Point ...? 

Picard :

.....no you didn't 

Data, you got it. 

[Music] there is a word in Mandarin she do it is a word used to describe the parents of a single child who has died there is no word like that in the English language we have widowed widower and orphan but not a word to describe the parents themselves as someone who has lost an only child she do losing a child is arguably one of the most impactful and unrecoverable pains in life there is no greater blow to the fundamental way one lives their life than to lose a person you uniquely brought into the world it is the opposite of the great joy one feels to know that they've had a hand in creating life one may not always decide to conceive a child but one always makes the deliberate choice to be a parent and there are all kinds of parents for example let's consider data my positronic brain has several layers of shielding to protect me from power surges it would be possible for you to remove my cranial unit and take it with you you want me to take off your head yes sir unauthorized use of Department resources is blind yeah like Mary Poppins is custard the scary left Lieutenant Commander data is an Android just ask him he'll tell you you're not quite human are you no sir I am an Android I'm an Android I'm an Android I am an Android well then have you seen any good looking computers lately I am an Android mistress though anatomically I am a male he is presented as a humanoid male programmed in multiple techniques I am programmed in multiple techniques data is also a curious being he is curious about music painting interesting thank you cosplay ain't in the mood for games Sheriff science this is indicated that I am damaged in some fashion I must find the malfunction teakettles Shakespeare I think the king is not a man as I am comedy I come from a town so small we had a fraction for a zip code this Lee [Music] beards did you damage your face data it is a beard Geordi dancing you get the idea data is also curious about humanity in general he's like a pale Pinocchio looking at being human as something you achieve something to reasonably aspire to but Dana also knows he is a machine a sentient Android with human characteristics he breathed he blinks his hair grows he can eat and drink walk and talk but he'll creator went to a lot of trouble to make you seem human he's batting pretty high with meeting or excelling at things most humans can do and while we did end up seeing the complete and total end of his character the reasons for such to be debated in another arena it is reasonable to think that data could have gone on living forever contrast to that it is not also unreasonable to think that data was aware of his own mortal an awareness of one's mortality is not unconnected to the act of becoming a parent so you believe that having children gives humans a sense of immortality it is a reasonable explanation to your query sir one day data was curious about something else something beyond painting pictures or playing the violin he yearned so to speak to extend his existence beyond what he was to himself meaning that data wanted perhaps on some level needed to create life to become a parent so he created a daughter Wow he did everything by the book he studied hard even went to a vocational seminar to learn all he could 

According to Dr. Spock -- The Child psychologist, 

not the guy with the pointy ears -- quote, 

"The more people have studied different methods of bringing up children 

the more they've come to the conclusion that what good mothers and 

fathers instinctively feel like doing for their babies is best after all --"

-- Dr. Benjamin Spock

Data concluded that by combing through multiple methods of parenting, 

he could create a method or algorithm to successfully 

parent his child to maturity. 

Parenting is A Science to Data at first, 

Questions that need answering 

Picard :

You have taken on quite a responsibility, Data --

Data :

To prepare I have scanned all available 

literature on parenting --

the child needs instructions so data provides them explaining along the way how to interact how to use proper etiquette how to play catch and creating reasonable boundaries data also establishes himself as a progressive parent allowing for loud to choose her gender and aesthetic appearance this was a choice denied to him in his design so by allowing Lal to choose data is already providing law with more opportunities than he had as a new Android himself by using the scientific approach data molds the parameters of laws overall worldview when she believes herself to have mastered humor data bluntly corrects her the children were not laughing with you they were laughing at you explain one is meant kindly the other is not he plainly spells out the sometimes irrational responses humans have two things they do not fully understand according to data's own design his sensory input patterns become accustomed to the presence of certain people the input is eventually anticipated and even missed when absent 

The continued input of Lal's presence enriches Data's existence;  

she provides a fulfillment Data did not know as possible --

Data :

Until now, I have been 

the last of my kind; 

if I were to be damaged or destroyed, 

I would be lost forever --

but if I am successful 

with the creation of Lal, 

my continuance is assured --

Data may have begun with The Science 

but he comes to appreciate 

The Art of Parenting --

Data :

It is The Struggle itself t

hat is most important; 

We must strive to be more than we are Lal; 

it does not matter that we will 

never reach our ultimate goal -- 

......Then, Lal dies --

Data is no stranger to the loss of life; 

he has watched people die before --

His Lover his father.... 

he even had to kill his 

own brother [several times]

sort of when the wounded doctor soon is taking his last breath he tells his son that data will grieve for him in his own way who else would know better he had a distant and troubled brother and in a way a mother with an idealized view of what her sons and husband were all this to say that data should understand loss in the absence of key people in his life data also understands that life is precious even volunteering himself for dangerous missions to communicate that to others in a very real sense data should clearly understand the stakes of loss birth and eventual death when law begins to malfunction data uses science to try to stop what is happening his hand while moving faster than I could see trying to stay ahead of each breakdown he'll refuse to give up he was remarkable yet he is unable to stop the inevitable so data abandons the science and the focus is back on the art he simply comforts his daughter as she goes I feel do you feel long I Love You Father we know that data mourns the dead he has keepsakes and does miss people when they're gone mourning is a process but grief is what precedes it dr. Alan D Wolfe help describes morning as grief gone public mourning is acclimating in his reflection introspection which we know data does he even has the Dead in mind when making certain choices Tasha Yar and their intimate relationship is a prime example I would prefer not to answer that question sir I gave my word no circumstances I don't think Tasha would mind she was special to me sir we were and perhaps he is the dead in mind by hesitating to make another Android after law during an important time of personal discovery for data data's mother Juliana flat-out asks do you think you will ever try to create an Android again perhaps I created law because I wish to procreate despite what happened to her I still have that wish then Juliana tells them of how much it hurt to lose the prototype androids before lure the ones that data had not been aware of and indeed data would later meet one of these prototype androids b4 perhaps he could see the limitations of dr. soon's designs limitations of his own design is this data finding evidence of his programming being inherently flawed is he weighing the meaning of passing on bad DNA as it were to his offspring we'll come back to this in a moment first there is the famous model of the five stages of grief by Elisabeth kubler-ross and david kessler denial anger bargaining depression and acceptance not to disagree with the collective but these five stages were originally applied to ones responding to the news that they have a terminal illness these stages were later given to grieving people as the two processes were similar lull had a terminal illness her programming replicated off her father's design had a flaw that data could not foresee by the time the cascade failure was an inevitability Lal had come to accept what was happening to her perhaps she did indeed cycle through the five stages when data transferred allows memories and experiences into his own neural net perhaps a bit of that understanding found its way into data's programming do you remember how we all felt Tasha died I do not sense the same feelings of absence that I associate with lieutenant yar although I cannot say precisely why just human nature dinner human nature sir we feel a loss more intensely but it's a friend if data's grief is what keeps him from trying again is he aware of that grief or is it one of those programs that goes unnoticed if he is aware of a kind of electric grief then maybe data is responding to this profound loss by resigning to the notion that he may be the last of his kind does that mean he is giving up everything we've come to know about data up to this point and beyond suggests otherwise data is determined to reach every goal he set whether it be acting whistling were simply uncovering a Romulan conspiracy he does not seem the type to resign himself when things get tough or has data put his parental ambitions on hold due to his family history is he hesitant because he does not want to see another child die so quickly or repeat his father's mistakes and inadvertently create another lure or another before dr. Sims attempts to create artificial life didn't always go according to plan that can't be an easy family history to live with even for an Android before she deactivated Wow branched out of the confines of her programming and felt genuine human emotions perhaps some of that sudden development that sudden evolution was imparted to data when he transferred Laos memories and experiences into his own programming perhaps those experiences braced data for his own emotional journey years later and maybe having the extra human ability to store the essence of your own child in your head just maybe that made coping with the grief the Shi do a little easier in a way while never really died which could be another reason why data never felt compelled to create again crew is saddened by a loss I thank you for your sympathy but she is here thank you for watching if you like this and other essays on this channel then subscribe you can get notified directly when the next essay goes up by turning on notifications or by signing up for our email list more importantly consider supporting us through patreon patreon is the best way to help create more better to expertise you can find all the relevant links in the Subspace below and while your way out here at the end of yet another youtube video maybe consider watching our strange little video postcard from New Zealand thanks see you soon [Music] boy shot I hope come back Emilio

There were Laws against Pointing, Once Upon a Time.

“This conversation is over,” she said with chilling calm. “Change the sheets on your bed, they’re practically crawling, and pick those dirty clothes up off the floor before they fester. Panties are not carpets.” 

“Later,” I said, pushing the limit. “I’ve got homework.”

“Don’t make me point!” She lifted one hand out of the bowl : it was covered with niblets of raw flesh, and pink with blood. I felt a chill. I certainly didn’t want any pointing going on; pointing was how you directed a spell. 

People used to get hanged for pointing back in the old days, my mother had told me — or else they were barbecued. Death by burning at the stake was very painful, she could testify to that. There were laws against pointing, once upon a time. If you pointed at a cow and it got sick, everyone knew you were neck-deep in the Black Arts. 

I flounced out of the kitchen with as much defiance as I dared. I’m not sure I’d remember now how to flounce — it’s an accomplishment, though not one you hear of teenage girls practising nowadays. They still pout and sneer, however, just as I did. I moped off to my room, where I made the bed as sloppily as I could, then gathered up several days’ worth of my shed clothes and stuffed them into the laundry hamper. We had a new automatic washing machine, so at least I wouldn’t be put to work at the old wringer-washer tub. 

I did collect the hair from my hairbrush and set fire to it in a red glass ashtray I kept for that purpose. My mother would be sure to conduct a hairbrush inspection, which would include the wastebasket, to check that I hadn’t shirked. Until a year ago my mother had worn her long, red-gold hair in an elegant French roll, but then she’d cut it off with the poultry shears — the Kim Novak look, she’d said. There had been a conflagration in the kitchen sink — she did practise what she preached, unlike some parents — and the house had stunk like a singed cat for days. Singed cat was her term. I’d never smelled a singed cat, but she had. Cats regularly got singed in the old days along with their owners, according to her. 

There was no sense in going toe-to-toe with my mother. Nor could I try sneaking around : she had eyes in the back of her head, and little birds told her things. Brian would have to be given up. I had a weep about that : goodbye, Old Spice shaving-lotion aroma and the scents of cigarettes and freshly washed white T-shirts; goodbye, heavy breathing in movie theatres during the dance numbers in musicals; goodbye, feeding Brian the extra fries from my hamburger, followed by greasy, potato-flavoured kisses … He was such a good kisser, he was so solid to hug, and he loved me — though he didn’t say so, which was admirable. 

Saying it would have been soft. 

Later that evening, I phoned to tell him our Saturday-night date was cancelled. He wasn’t pleased. 

“Why?” he said. I could hardly tell him that my mother had consulted some old cards with weird pictures on them and predicted he would die in a car crash if he went out with me. I didn’t need to fuel any more school rumours about her; there were more than enough as it was. 

“I just can’t go out with you,” I said. “I need us to break up.” “Is there another guy?” he asked in a menacing tone. “I’ll punch his face in!” “No,” I said. I started to cry. “I really like you. I can’t explain. It’s for your own good.” “I bet it’s your crazy mother,” he said. I cried harder. That night I crept out into our backyard, buried Brian’s picture under a lilac bush, and made a wish. My wish was that I would somehow get him back. But wishes made out of earshot of my mother did not come true. According to her, I lacked the talent. Perhaps I might develop it later—grow into it, as it were—but it could skip a generation, or even two. I hadn’t been born with a caul, unlike her. Luck of the draw. The next day at school there were whisperings. I tried to ignore them, though I couldn’t help hearing the odd phrase: Cuckoo as a clock. Addled as an egg. Crazy as a box of hair. Mad as a sack of hammers. And the worst: No man in the house, so what can you expect? Within a week, Brian was going out with a girl called Suzie, though he still shot reproachful glances in my direction. I comforted myself with versions of my own saintly unselfishness: because of me, Brian’s heart was still beating. I’m not saying I didn’t suffer. Several years later, Brian became a drug dealer and ended up on a sidewalk with nine bullets in him. So maybe my mother had got the main event right, but the time and the method wrong. She said that could happen. It was like a radio: nothing amiss with the broadcast end, but the reception could be faulty. No man in the house described our situation. Of course, everyone has a father—or, as they would say nowadays, a sperm provider, fatherhood in the old sense of paternity having fallen into disrepute—and I had one too, though at that date I wasn’t sure this father was still what you’d call “alive.” When I was four or five, my mother told me she’d changed him into the garden gnome that sat beside our front steps; he was happier that way, she said. As a garden gnome he didn’t need to do anything, such as mow the lawn—he was bad at it anyway—or make any decisions, a thing he hated. He could just enjoy the weather. When I was wheedling her over something she’d initially denied me, she’d say, “Ask your father,” and I’d trot out and hunker down beside the garden gnome—hunker just a little, as he wasn’t much shorter than me—and stare into his jovial stone face. He appeared to be winking. “Can I have an ice-cream cone?” I’d plead. I was sure that he and I had a pact of sorts—that he would always be on my side, as opposed to my mother, who was on her own side. It gave me a warm feeling to be with him. It was comforting. “What did he say?” my mother would ask when I went back in. “He said I can.” I was almost sure I’d heard a gruff voice mumbling from within his grinning, bearded stone face. “Very well, then. Did you give him a hug?” “Yes.” I always hugged my father when he’d allowed something marginally forbidden. “Well done. It’s nice to say thank you.” This fantasy had to be given up, naturally. Well before the time I was fifteen, I’d heard the other, supposedly real version: my father had deserted us. According to my mother he’d had urgent business elsewhere, though at school they said he’d run away, unable to tolerate my mother’s craziness, and who could blame him? I was jeered at for his absence; it wasn’t usual in that decade for fathers to be missing, not unless they’d been killed in the war. “Where’s your father?” was annoying, but “Who’s your father?” was insulting. It implied my mother had generated me with someone she didn’t even know. I brooded. Why had my father abandoned me? If he was still alive, why didn’t he at least write to me? Hadn’t he loved me even a little? Though I no longer believed that my father was a garden gnome, I did suspect my mother of having transformed him in some other way. I’m ashamed to say that I went through a period of wondering if she’d done him in—with mushrooms or something ground in a mortar—and had buried him in the cellar. I could almost see her lugging his inert body down the stairs, digging the hole—she’d have had to use a jackhammer to get through the cement—then dumping him in and plastering him over. I inspected the cellar floor for clues and found none. But that proved nothing. My mother was very clever: she’d have taken care to leave no traces. Then, when I was twenty-three, my father suddenly turned up. By that time, I’d finished university and left my mother’s house. My departure was not amicable: she was bossy, she was spying on me, she was treating me like a child! Those were my parting words. “Suit yourself, my pet,” she’d said. “When you need help, I’ll be here. Shall I donate your old stuffed animals to charity?” A pang shot through me. “No!” I cried. In our clashes I inevitably lost my cool, and a shard of dignity along with it. I was determined not to need help. I’d found a job at an insurance company, on a low rung, and was sharing a cheap rented house west of the university with two roommates who had similar peasant-level jobs. 

My father made contact by sending me a letter. He must have got my address from my mother, I realised later, but since I was in one of my phases of not speaking to her I didn’t ask her about that. It seemed to me she’d been getting crazier. Her latest thing — before I’d put her on hold — had been a scheme to kill her next-door neighbour’s weeping willow tree. I wasn’t to worry, she’d said : she’d do it by pointing, at night, so no one would see her. This would be in revenge for something about running over a toad on a driveway, and anyway, the willow roots were getting into the drains. 

Avenging a toad. 

Pointing at a tree. 

Who could handle that kind of thing, in a mother? 

At first I was surprised to get my father’s letter. Then I found that I was angry : Where had he been? What had taken him so long? 

I answered with a note of three lines that included the house phone number. We spoke, a terse, embarrassed exchange, and arranged to meet. I was on the edge of cutting him off, telling him I had no interest in seeing him—but this would not have been true.

We Need Your Support

‘Psychopaths say there are predators and prey,’ Bob said. ‘When they say that, take it as factual.’ 

‘It’s funny you should mention predators,’ I said. ‘Try and guess what his house was filled with.’ 

‘Eagles,’ said Bob. ‘Bears . . .’ 

‘Yes!’ I said. ‘Panthers. Tigers. A whole menagerie. Not stuffed. Statues. How would you know that?’ 

‘I have a few insights here,’ he said, pointing at his skull. ‘I’m a researcher but I have clinical insights.’ 

Then I frowned. ‘But he did tell me he cried when his dog died,’ I said. 

‘Yeah?’ said Bob. 

‘Yes,’ I said. ‘We had just had a conversation about shallow affect. He said he didn’t allow himself to be weighed down by nonsense emotions. But then I was admiring an oil painting of his dog Brit and he said he cried his eyes out when it died. He said he cried and cried and cried and that meant he couldn’t be a psychopath.’ 

I realized I was admitting this to Bob in an almost apologetic manner, as if it was sort of my fault, like I was a casting agent who had put forward an imperfect actor for a job. 

‘Oh, that’s quite common,’ said Bob. 

‘Really?’ I said, brightening. 

‘Dogs are a possession,’ Bob explained. ‘Dogs – if you have the right dog – are extremely loyal. 

They’re like a slave, right? They do everything you want them to.

So, yeah, he cried his eyes out when his dog died. Would he cry his eyes out if his cat died?’ 

I narrowed my eyes. ‘I don’t think he has a cat,’ I said, nodding slowly. 

‘He’d probably cry his eyes out if he got a dent in his car,’ said Bob. ‘If he had a Ferrari or a Porsche – and he probably does – and someone scratched it and kicked it he’d probably go out of his mind and want to kill the guy. 

So, yeah, the psychopath might cry when his dog dies and you think that’s misplaced because he doesn’t cry when his daughter dies.’ 

I was about to say, ‘Al Dunlap doesn’t have a daughter,’ but Bob was continuing. ‘When my daughter was dying it was killing me inside. 

She was dying of MS. I put myself inside her skin so many times and tried to experience what she was going through. 

And many times I said to my wife, “Boy, what an advantage to be a psychopath.” 

A psychopath would look at His Daughter and say, “This is really bad luck,” and then go out and gamble and . . .’ 

Bob trailed off. 

We ordered coffee. ‘With corporate psychopathy it’s a mistake to look at them as neurologically impaired,’ he said. 

‘It’s a lot easier to look at them from a Darwinian slant. 

It all makes sense from the evolutionary perspective. The strategy is to pass on the gene pool for the next generation. Now, they don’t consciously think that. 

They don’t think, “I’m going to go out and impregnate as many women as I can,” but that’s the genetic imperative. 

So what do they do? They’ve got to attract women. 

They like women a lot. 

So they’ve got to misrepresent their resources. They’ve got to manipulate and con and deceive and be ready to move on as soon as things get hot.’ 

‘Ah,’ I said, frowning again. ‘With Al Dunlap that really doesn’t hold up. He’s been married for forty-one years. There’s no evidence of affairs. None at all. He’s been a loyal husband. And a lot of journalists have dug around—’ 

‘It doesn’t matter,’ interrupted Bob. ‘We’re talking in generalities. There are lots of exceptions. What happens outside the marriage? Do you know? Do you have any idea?’ 

‘Um,’ I said. 

‘Does his wife have any idea what goes on outside the marriage?’ Bob said. ‘A lot of these serial killers are married to the same person for thirty years. They have no idea what goes on outside the marriage.’

Strangers

It's like..... Frozen!  

(....it's A Movie ( grins ))

You CAN'T get engaged to

somebody you JUST Met 

THAT Day --

Didn't your parents ever warn 

you about Strangers....?

Doctor Who: The Shepherd's Boy (Regency/Rogue Edition) - DRAFT

"I know I've attracted the ire of the anti-mob yet again who are likely to downvote this release (and the other two) because they don't like my 'woke' opinions or that I like all of Doctor Who, but YOLO.

Anyway, after watching Rogue, my heart broke for the Doctor as he encountered another kindred spirit, another person who he resonated with, 'gelled' with, someone who he got on with, 'clicked' with even. Only for them to be taken away from him - like the first time he met River Song. I think many of us who are neurodivergent can relate to this - meeting someone who seems to be on our wavelength, a rarity in itself, who disappears from our life just as suddenly as they entered it.

And, as I've been going through a bit of an ordeal myself over the past year, I found myself feeling really upset about this scene and decided to express it with another version of The Shepherd's Boy in a regency style - one that wouldn't sound out of place in 1813 - the year this episode took place.

It’s also almost a year since my first retro remix - The Shepherd’s Boy 1986, so it’s a timely release. 

It's not a final release, but it's one I spent about four hours working on after watching the episode. I wanted to include the sounds of the regency era (lots of strings, a few woodwind instruments, and a piano) while evoking that feeling of absolute heartbreak and devastation, that I imagine the Doctor felt in that episode.

So it's a draft, but it's one I wanted to share regardless.

Many of my releases lately have been about goodbye's - not sure what that says about me and where I'm at in my life but c'est la vie!

MIDI by dKmps"

PICARD: 

Open hailing frequencies.

WORF: 

Hailing frequencies open.

PICARD: 

On viewer. This is the USS Enterprise. 

Captain Jean Luc Picard.

OKONA [on viewscreen]: 

(bending over, bottom towards us) 

And this is the cargo carrier Erstwhile. 

Captain Okona at your service, sir. 

There's no need for your phasers, Captain. 

I'm harmless and not quite 

yet ready for mercy killing.

PICARD: 

You were never considered 

a danger to us, Captain.

OKONA [on viewscreen]: 

Oh, that's a shame. 

I can remember when I was 

at least considered a risk.

(Okona is a handsome, long-haired 

pirate of a man, and he sits down to face us)

OKONA [on viewscreen]: 

I'm the owner and operator of this craft and 

since we both know that you've already scanned it, 

you know I'm alone and empty, which is 

truly a rare occasion for a man 

of my charm and talent.

PICARD: 

Mute main viewer. 

Counsellor?

TROI: 

His emotions suggest that 

he's mischievous, irreverent 

and somewhat brazen. 

The word that seems to best 

describe him is "rogue".

DATA: 

"Rogue"? Ah. Cad, knave, rake, 

rascal, villain, wild element.

TROI: 

Yes, Data, but there is 

no malevolence or ill will.

PICARD: 

Audio on. You have a burn-out 

in your guidance system, Captain.

OKONA: 

Whoa. Since you're able to diagnose 

my problems, how about 

helping me fix them?

WESLEY: 

Captain, we could easily repair 

the type of system he uses.

PICARD: 

We can accommodate you, Captain.

RIKER: 

This is the First Officer, sir. 

If you prepare to shut down your engines, 

we can lock on the tractor and beam you over here.

WORF: 

Sir, recommend limited 

access to our ship.

PICARD: 

Agreed.

RIKER: Data, lock on the tractor beam. Transporter Chief, prepare to him beam aboard.

ROBINSON [OC]: Ready on your command, sir.

OKONA [on viewscreen]: Excuse me, Commander. Is that a woman's voice I hear?

PICARD: Yes. Now please follow Commander Riker's instructions so our ship can get back to its normal routine.

OKONA [on viewscreen]: Whatever you say, Captain.

PICARD: Something funny?

RIKER: Well, the unexpected is our normal routine. 

Hold it steady, Wesley. Ready to link up on my command

WESLEY: Aye, sir.

RIKER: Easy. Easy. Engage. Captain Okona, shut down your engines.

OKONA [OC]: Understood.

RIKER: Transporter room, prepare for the beaming operation. 

We're on our way. Wesley, Data, let's go.

[Transporter room]

(The lady transporter chief has very long hair, and will eventually achieve fame as Lois Lane in the TV show. She beams Okona aboard with his broken guidance module)

WORF: Your weapons, please.

OKONA: A Klingon Security officer.

WORF: Yes.

OKONA: No wars available, eh?

(He hands over his gun belt, and Worf holds his hand out for the rest. The knife is down the back of Okona's thigh boots)

OKONA: It's more of a piece of jewellry than a weapon. A remembrance.

RIKER: Welcome aboard, Captain Okona. I'm Commander Riker. If you'll turn over the inoperative part to Commander Data, we can begin repairs.

OKONA: I'd be most happy to do the work myself, Commander. I'm sort of the hands-on type.

RIKER: I think you'd find the tools we use rather unusual, sir.

OKONA: I can believe that. May I at least watch?

RIKER: That can be arranged.

OKONA: Good then. Commander, I leave this in your capable hands.

(And gives the module to Wesley)

WESLEY: Sir, this is Commander Data. I'm just an acting ensign.

OKONA: Well, acting ensigns have names, don't they?

WESLEY: Wesley. Wesley Crusher.

OKONA: Nice to meet you Acting Ensign Wesley Wesley Crusher. (to Robinson) And thank you for beaming me here and enabling me to see a truly beautiful woman. You have the majestic carriage and loveliness that could surely be traced back to the noblest of families.

ROBINSON: Well, I'm sure that you've said that to many ladies before, and it was no more true then than it is now.

OKONA: But it's how I say it that's really important. The warmth, the attraction that I have for you. The attraction that we share.

RIKER: Mister Okona seems to have excellent vision as well as a healthy libido.

ROBINSON: (quietly) It's eight oh six.

RIKER: Captain Okona, if you follow Commander Data, you can get started right away.

[Corridor]

OKONA: Now, that's sex appeal.

DATA: Sexual attraction in this context is not a part of my programming. I am an android.

OKONA: Well, then. Have you seen any good looking computers lately? That's a joke. It's funny.

DATA: Ah. Of course it is.

[Engineering]

(Geordi is working on the module in his private alcove)

OKONA: Will that do what the original did?

LAFORGE: Sure will, and better. Let me show you. On your old one, the zelebium contacts that wore down and then fused. What I've done is replace them with tricellite.

OKONA: Tricellite isn't available in this system. If I ever had to replace it.

LAFORGE: Don't worry, you won't. Your ship will never outlast this part.

OKONA: Because of the part or the way I fly my ship?

LAFORGE: Well, this part, but the stress test did show that you tend to push your ship a little beyond its design capabilities.

OKONA: Blame the pattern of my life, Lieutenant La Forge. 

Because it relegates me to cargo carrying rather than the grand explorations you enjoy, I'm forced to add a measure of flamboyancy and a zest to the doldrum of my existence.

[Corridor]

OKONA: Have you ever been cold?

DATA: No.

OKONA: Warm, then?

DATA: No.

OKONA: What about drunk? Ever do that?

DATA: From alcohol? That is not possible for me, sir.

OKONA: Pity. What about love?

DATA: The act or the emotion?

OKONA: They're both the same.

DATA: I believe that statement to be inaccurate, sir.

OKONA: Maybe. Life is like loading twice your cargo weight onto your spacecraft. If it's canaries and you can keep half of them flying all the time, you're all right.

DATA: I doubt that statement is entirely accurate either, sir.

OKONA: Accurate? That was a joke I just told you.

DATA: I do not understand.

OKONA: 

You don't know what a joke is?

DATA: 

Of course I do. It is a witticism, a gag, a bon mot, a fluctuation of words concluding with a trick ending.

OKONA: 

That's the dictionary meaning. 

I'm talking about humour, fun. 

Do you know what funny is? 

(blank) Where is eight oh six?

DATA: 

Right over there, sir. Why?

OKONA: 

You probably wouldn't understand that either.

(The door opens to reveal Robinson in 

a slinky dress, waiting for Okona)

ROBINSON: 

Hello, there.

[Engineering]

RIKER: 

Status on the repair?

LAFORGE: 

Working on it.

WESLEY: 

Commander, what do you 

think of Captain Okona?

RIKER: 

Well, Okona is an interesting man, certainly. 

We've seen how he handles his ship. 

Apparently he knows how to 

handle people as well.

WESLEY: 

Then why does he work alone?

RIKER: 

He's a man who lives his life by his own rules. 

He does what he does by choice. By his choice.

 Someday you'll make yours.

WESLEY: 

I already have.

[Ten Forward]

DATA: 

So you agree with Okona that I am missing 

a very important human factor.

GUINAN: 

I never said that. I simply said that 

I've never seen you laugh.

DATA: 

I am capable of that function 

when it is expected of me.

GUINAN: 

Data, do you even know what a joke is?

DATA: 

Of course I do. It is a witticism, a gag, 

a bon mot, a fluctuation of --

GUINAN: 

Stop -- Look, it's just you and I here. 

We're talking, we're having an intimate conversation. 

Why? Because you're a 'droid and I'm a 'noid.

DATA: 

But why?

GUINAN: 

Because that's 

what I am.

DATA: 

Have I said something 

to offend you?

GUINAN: 

No.

DATA: 

Then why are you annoyed?

GUINAN: 

Because you're a 'droid 

and I'm a 'noid.

DATA: Humanoid.

GUINAN: 

Yes.

DATA: 

You told a joke.

GUINAN: 

Yes.

DATA: 

I am not laughing.

GUINAN: 

Yes.

DATA: 

Perhaps the joke 

was not funny.

GUINAN: 

No, the joke was funny. 

It's you, Data.

DATA: 

Are you sure?

GUINAN: 

Yes.

DATA: 

I agree. What do I do?

GUINAN: 

Well, under normal circumstances, 

I'd say seek a higher power. 

But in your case, probably 

a smarter computer is in order.