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cross-posted on comicsnarkathon, the community for celebrating the cracktastic dopeyness of the Buffyverse comics:
Issue 34: Where No Vamp Has Gone Before
"Captain, I'm picking up two unidentified life forms approaching the port side of the ship, moving at warp speed."
“Thank you, Saavik. Deflector shields up as a precaution, Mr. Scott. They could be Klingons.”
“Oh, they’re clingin’ on, all right…an’ leavin’ a snail trail across our bow that’s going to take all hands and the cook to clean off! It’s ruinin’ her new paint job!”
“Sensors report that the trail is glowing; however, it’s still pretty gross.”
“Sir, we’re now receiving word that the Enterprise was just rocked by a massive sonic boom, due to one of the creatures having farted.”
“Hmm, that takes me back to the time I boinked that green dancing girl from Planet Flatulence...”
“Planet Pylea, Sir.”
“Eh? Oh, well, whatever. Numfar, her name was. Big-boned gal. Open all hailing frequencies, Lieutenant Uhura.”
“Hailing frequencies open, Sir. The life forms are emitting sounds that the computer has tentatively identified as whale songs…or possibly the grunts of dying hippos.”
“They’re vithin wisual range now, Kiptin.”
“Interesting. Put them on viewscreen, Ensign; perhaps we ca- OH MY GOD, TURN IT OFF! TURN IT OFF! MY EYESSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS!”
“MY STOMACH!”
“KHAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAN!”
“Must…smash…viewscreen. Only…way…to…end…horror…”
“Fascinating. He appears to have bitten her nipple off.”
“Sir, we can’t just leave them out there. Those gaping asses and monkey feet are in direct violation of the Prime Directive.”
“We could try beamin’ ‘em aboard, but I dinna know if the crew will mutiny in disgust and abandon ship.”
“Bones, is there a chance we could separate them surgically?”
“SURGERY? Dammit, Jim, I’m a doctor, not a doctor! I can’t perform miracles; that couple is wadded up worse than the time the transporter beam reassembled two crewmembers’ bodies inside out.”
“I’m afraid that leaves us with no other choice, then. Ready the photon torpedoes, Mr. Sulu.”
“Torpedoes locked on target, Sir.”
“Mr. Chekov, fire main phaser banks!”
*FWEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE* (sound effect in word balloon)
“Captain’s Log, stardate 0505.10. We have been informed by Starfleet that our defensive actions have prevented a “really gnarly apocalypse” of galactic proportions. The bits of splatter on our grill and windshield, now identified as “Twuffel,” have been collected and taken to Starfleet Command for further analysis and quarantine, and the party responsible - an obscure comic book company in North America - has been taken into custody and transported to a penal colony at the far end of the Crab Nebula…where, as Mr. Scott so astutely put it, ‘They’ll be no twuffel at all.’”
~end~
Issue 34: Where No Vamp Has Gone Before
"Captain, I'm picking up two unidentified life forms approaching the port side of the ship, moving at warp speed."
“Thank you, Saavik. Deflector shields up as a precaution, Mr. Scott. They could be Klingons.”
“Oh, they’re clingin’ on, all right…an’ leavin’ a snail trail across our bow that’s going to take all hands and the cook to clean off! It’s ruinin’ her new paint job!”
“Sensors report that the trail is glowing; however, it’s still pretty gross.”
“Sir, we’re now receiving word that the Enterprise was just rocked by a massive sonic boom, due to one of the creatures having farted.”
“Hmm, that takes me back to the time I boinked that green dancing girl from Planet Flatulence...”
“Planet Pylea, Sir.”
“Eh? Oh, well, whatever. Numfar, her name was. Big-boned gal. Open all hailing frequencies, Lieutenant Uhura.”
“Hailing frequencies open, Sir. The life forms are emitting sounds that the computer has tentatively identified as whale songs…or possibly the grunts of dying hippos.”
“They’re vithin wisual range now, Kiptin.”
“Interesting. Put them on viewscreen, Ensign; perhaps we ca- OH MY GOD, TURN IT OFF! TURN IT OFF! MY EYESSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS!”
“MY STOMACH!”
“KHAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAN!”
“Must…smash…viewscreen. Only…way…to…end…horror…”
“Fascinating. He appears to have bitten her nipple off.”
“Sir, we can’t just leave them out there. Those gaping asses and monkey feet are in direct violation of the Prime Directive.”
“We could try beamin’ ‘em aboard, but I dinna know if the crew will mutiny in disgust and abandon ship.”
“Bones, is there a chance we could separate them surgically?”
“SURGERY? Dammit, Jim, I’m a doctor, not a doctor! I can’t perform miracles; that couple is wadded up worse than the time the transporter beam reassembled two crewmembers’ bodies inside out.”
“I’m afraid that leaves us with no other choice, then. Ready the photon torpedoes, Mr. Sulu.”
“Torpedoes locked on target, Sir.”
“Mr. Chekov, fire main phaser banks!”
*FWEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE* (sound effect in word balloon)
“Captain’s Log, stardate 0505.10. We have been informed by Starfleet that our defensive actions have prevented a “really gnarly apocalypse” of galactic proportions. The bits of splatter on our grill and windshield, now identified as “Twuffel,” have been collected and taken to Starfleet Command for further analysis and quarantine, and the party responsible - an obscure comic book company in North America - has been taken into custody and transported to a penal colony at the far end of the Crab Nebula…where, as Mr. Scott so astutely put it, ‘They’ll be no twuffel at all.’”
~end~